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redroomreflections · 5 days

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II HANDS II HEAVEN 5

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff and Reader reluctantly team up for a couples retreat mission. Despite initial resistance, they find themselves drawn together by unexpected circumstances and shared experiences.

W/c: 3.2k

“Red or Blue?” You asked Natasha as you sifted through one of your many suitcases. Clothes were strewn about on the floor around you as you debated what to wear. It wasn’t exactly a tough choice but first impressions mattered. Even if the first impressions you were banking on weren’t the other hotel guests.

“What?” She glanced up from her phone, confusion evident in her furrowed brow. “Why are you asking me?”

She was busy debriefing Steve and the team on a few minor details. Small things she picked up about the resort from your time in the lobby. So far, as expected, everything seemed normal.

You glanced over, noticing her distraction, and rolled your eyes. "Just trying to involve you in the decision-making process. You know, team effort. Don’t you have girlfriends that you discuss outfit choices with?”

"Not really my style," She replied dryly, before resuming her conversation with Steve and the team, seamlessly slipping back into her professional demeanor.

“I can see,” You muttered as you slipped into the bathroom. You took your time changing into the black suit, tying it as best you could behind your neck before you snapped the straps of the bottoms on your waistline. You walk back over to your suitcase, squatting to find your favorite lotion-sunscreen combo that always has your skin looking lovely and sparkly. “I guess it’s not okay to ask you if I should wear my hair up or down?” You tilted your head, a playful smirk dancing on your lips as you applied generous amounts of lotion to your legs. With one knee bent, you glanced over to Natasha, waiting for her response.

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching with amusement as she glanced up from her phone. "I suppose you can ask," she replied. "But don't expect any expert advice from me."

You shook your head. What a shame. "Fair enough," you conceded, finishing up with the lotion before returning to your suitcase. "Looks like it's just me and my questionable fashion sense then."

It’s then Natasha truly looked at you. This bikini was wow. In every sense of the word. It was very little, borderline inappropriate, but also somehow still tasteful. Natasha's gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary as she took in the sight, a subtle appreciation glinting in her eyes.

"Um, Natasha?" You prompted, noticing her prolonged scrutiny.

Natasha blinked, snapping out of her reverie. "Oh, uh, sorry," she replied, clearing her throat. "Wear your hair down. It suits the look."

You didn't catch her response at first, too engrossed in adjusting the straps of your bikini top. "What was that?" you asked, looking up to meet her gaze.

Natasha repeated herself, her tone more decisive this time. "I said, wear it down. It looks good."

You grinned in response, nodding in agreement before turning your attention back to your reflection in the mirror. Natasha's subtle compliment brought warmth to your cheeks and a little more pep in your step.

“Are you wearing that?” You gestured to her as you made eye contact in the mirror across from the bed. It's an interesting choice on the resort’s part. Natasha’s outfit was homely but not in an insulting kind of way. A comfy set since the both of you had spent hours in the car. With this blonde hair, she resembled the everyday girl next door.

“Of course not,” Natasha shook her head. She grabbed her bikini from the luggage she’d unpacked already at this point. “Don’t turn around.” She warned you.

You turned your gaze toward the mirror, only to witness a blur of motion behind you. Clothes flew through the air as Natasha swiftly shed her sweatpants and t-shirt and stepped into her one-piece swimsuit with practiced efficiency.

The speed and fluidity of her movements left you momentarily speechless, your mouth suddenly feeling dry as you watched in awe. You attempted to distract yourself with the jewelry in front of you. Diamond hoop earrings and a small heart-shaped necklace.

Natasha looked up from fastening her sandals. "Are you ready?"

You raised an eyebrow in mock indignation. "You just got dressed and you’re already rushing me?"

Natasha chuckled, her smirk widening as she shook her head. "I like to stay ahead of schedule," she replied, her tone teasing.

You rolled your eyes with a grin. "Alright, alright," you conceded, reaching for your sandals. "I'm ready when you are."

“You’re wearing jewelry to the pool?” She questioned, pushing the Fendi sunglasses over her hair.

Natasha's question caught you off guard as you adjusted your jewelry, a puzzled expression on your face.

You glanced down at your accessories, contemplating her observation for a moment before shrugging nonchalantly. "Why not?" you replied, your fingers deftly arranging the delicate pieces. "A little extra never hurt anyone."

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “ If you say so," she conceded."Just don't come crying to me if you lose something in the water."

“Don’t worry I’ll find some hot pool boy to find it for me,” You shrugged.

Natasha arched an eyebrow, a smirk playing on her lips as she shot back with equal snarkiness, "Just make sure he's qualified for the job."

***********

The pool area stirred with activity, a lively mix of people young and old enjoying the serene surroundings. The crystal-clear water sparkled under the sun's gentle rays, creating a picturesque scene that called to you.

Finding a few empty seats nearby, you and Natasha made your way over, the soft chatter of voices and the occasional splash of water filling the air. There was some reggae mix on the stereo as the bartender called out names for drinks. Dropping your bags and book onto the nearest chair, you settled down with a contented sigh, sinking into the welcoming embrace of the cushioned seat.

“Joan, sweetie,” You said with a mischievous grin, turning to Natasha. “I left my towel back in the room. Won’t you be a dear and grab me one?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes at your request, having just settled into her seat. She tilted her head slightly, a hint of annoyance in her gaze as she considered your cheeky demeanor. With a low growl, Natasha stood and walked over to the shelf where the spare towels were. She grabbed a few, walking back over to you with a frown.

“Here,” She gently passed a towel to you. “Anything else?”

“Hmm,” You thought long and hard. “I’d love a strawberry-lemon mojito.”

Natasha's eyes narrowed further at your response."Keep dreaming," she wanted to say, but for the sake of appearances, she sighed and walked over to the bartender.

You watched her walk away, your eyes lingering on certain assets longer than necessary. You could admit that Natasha had an amazing physique. Something you had always admired from a distance.

A subtle flush crept up your cheeks as you realized the direction of your thoughts. Despite your professionalism, you couldn't deny the admiration you held for Natasha's physical prowess. It was a quality you had always respected, even if you had never openly acknowledged it before.

She’d probably kill you if you did it anyway.

Turning your attention back to the pool, you made a conscious effort to focus on the task at hand, pushing aside any lingering distractions. Beside you, you noticed an older woman with graying hair casting a curious glance in your direction. Her eyes flashed with interest as she leaned closer, a warm smile gracing her lips.

“Newlyweds?” she ventured, her voice tinged with a hint of curiosity.

"Yeah, how'd you know?" you replied, feigning innocence as you awaited her response.

The older lady chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement at your response. "Oh, it's just something about the way you two carry yourselves," she explained with a knowing smile. "There's a certain glow of happiness and togetherness that newlyweds often have. It's unmistakable."

“Wow, you got all that in the five minutes you saw us together?” You questioned. “Are you a psychic or something?”

"Only in a past life," She laughed lightly. "I'm Leslie. And this is my husband Frank. “She referred to the sleeping man with a slight sunburn next to her. You are?" she introduced herself, extending her hand in a gesture of greeting.

"Alexis," you replied with a warm smile, accepting her handshake. "Nice to meet you, Leslie. My lovely wife over there is Joan."

"Oh, I love this newer generation of out and proud love," Leslie smiled wistfully. "It’s so beautiful to see. Such a beautiful couple too. Is this your first time at the resort?"

"Thank you, Leslie," you replied sincerely, touched by her kindness. "Yes, it's our first time here. We heard wonderful things about the resort and couldn't resist experiencing it for ourselves."

“And how do you like it?” Her eyes sparkled with interest.

"It's been quite lovely so far," You added. “It’s been a while since we’ve taken a proper vacation together. I’m so excited for the week we’re here.”

Leslie's excitement was contagious as she spoke about the upcoming events at the resort. "You’re going to be blown away by all of the events this week," she grinned. "There’s a special bonfire tomorrow night that’s simply fabulous. It’s intimate and cozy. Allows you to make friends on vacation."

Your interest was piqued at the mention of the bonfire, as it hadn’t been mentioned in any of the research you’d done. Maybe it was a new development."That sounds wonderful," you replied with genuine enthusiasm, masking any hint of suspicion behind your smile. "We'll definitely have to check it out."

“You absolutely should,” Leslie began to stand. “It would be wonderful for a lovely couple like you to grace us with your presence.” Leslie’s aching bones limited her mobility as she shuffled around the chairs. “I’m going to the bathroom. If Frank wakes up, which I doubt he will, be a dear and tell him I’ll be back.”

“Will do, Leslie,” You nodded, offering a warm smile. She seemed nice enough. You returned your gaze to Natasha to see that she was engaged in a conversation of her own. Seems that people naturally gravitated to both of you.

*******************

For the first time in days, Natasha found a moment of peace at the bar. She settled onto one of the stools, swaying gently to the rhythm of the music as she signaled to the bartender. As he approached Natasha did a quick once over of his body. Something someone of his attractiveness would be used to. His dark, mahogany skin glowed with a natural warmth, complemented by a smile that seemed to light up the entire bar.

His hair, a messy of glossy curls, framed his face in a wild and untamed mane, adding to his charm.

He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and black pants that appeared to be the uniform for all of the staff.

"Hello," Natasha greeted him with a warm smile, her tone playful yet composed. "I'll take a strawberry and lemon mojito, and hmm," she paused, pressing a finger to her chin in contemplation. She was completely in character at the moment. "Surprise me. Something fruity."

"Coming right up," he replied with a nod, before stepping over to his work area.

Natasha watched him for a few moments longer before her eyes trailed over the pool area, she couldn't help but notice the diverse display of people and their lively parties. Briefly, her gaze flickered in your direction, a silent acknowledgment of your presence. You managed to look so relaxed already. Though she could see the subtle ways your eyes would flick over the pool area whenever you laughed or spoke to the older woman sitting beside you.

“Hey, Henry, that couple’s here again.” A short woman with bone-straight brunette hair and botox lips informed him as she stepped behind the counter. She did quick work of washing her hands and gathering abandoned dishes on the bar. Natasha squinted to see her name tag. Blanca. A fitting name.

“Which one?” Henry, the bartender Natasha had spoken to moments earlier, briefly glanced over to her.

“The one with the dog,” Blanca sighed. “Don’t know why Jorge keeps allowing them to bring it. He’s anxious and it’s too hot out here for him anyway.”

Henry furrowed his brow in concern, glancing briefly in the direction of the couple with the dog approaching. "That doesn't sound good," he remarked."Have they caused any trouble?"

Blanca shook her head, her lips pursed in disapproval. "Not yet, but it's only a matter of time. You know how Jorge is, always bending the rules for certain guests."

Natasha's mind raced with possibilities as she listened to their conversation. The mention of Jorge and his leniency towards certain guests hinted at a potential breach in security or protocol.

“Here you are ma’am,” Henry passed Natasha both drinks before she stood to walk back to her seat.

As she passed the couple, the dog in question moved over to sniff Natasha in greeting.

“Oh, hello there,” Natasha smiled warmly, reaching out a hand to give the dog a gentle pat on the head. This certainly wasn’t a service dog based on his relaxed demeanor.

“Oh, Ozzy is so friendly, I’m so sorry,” The woman with platinum blonde hair and several tattoos attached to the leash apologized to Natasha, a hint of concern in her voice.

Natasha waved off the apology with a gracious smile. "No need to apologize, he's quite adorable," she reassured the woman, her tone friendly and welcoming.

As Natasha continued interacting with the dog, she noted the couple's appearance and demeanor. Something about them didn't quite fit the typical resort guest profile of this caliber, and Natasha's instincts told her there might be more to their presence than meets the eye. They both seemed so uptight and frazzled.

Natasha gave them another smile and walked back over to you.

“Took you long enough my drink is probably watered-down liquor,” You pouted. “Eh, this is wow.” You coughed. It wasn’t nasty. It was strong and certainly had more alcohol than fruit somehow.

Natasha arched an eyebrow at your remark.

"Well, perhaps next time you can come behind the bar and make it yourself," she quipped, her tone laced with playful sarcasm. "Then you can ensure it meets your exacting standards."

“My existing standards led me to you,” You said through your teeth.

Natasha's lips curved into a smirk as she settled into the seat beside you, her gaze locking with yours in a silent exchange of understanding.

"Well, lucky me," she retorted. "I'll make sure to keep living up to those standards then."

"Does it ever end?" You fake whispered, turning your head towards Leslie, attempting to convey your thoughts discreetly.

Leslie caught your gaze and smiled kindly, her eyes reflecting understanding. At least she had the decency to pretend she wasn’t listening. "Oh, dear," she replied with a chuckle. "Sometimes it feels like it never does, but there's always a light at the end of the tunnel."

"J, this is Leslie," You introduced Natasha smoothly, seamlessly slipping into your cover story. "She’s my new best friend."

"It's lovely to meet you, Leslie," Natasha added with a friendly smile, her tone warm and genuine.

“Well, aren't you two just the sweetest pair," she remarked, her voice tinged with affection. "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance, Joan. I was telling your wife here about the bonfire tomorrow. It’s something special. You have to see it."

You nodded in agreement, your smile genuine as you responded. "We wouldn't miss it for the world, Leslie. Thank you for the recommendation. It sounds like a wonderful way to spend the evening."

As the conversation dwindled, eventually Leslie drifted over to the poolside and began to make conversation with a few older women. Natasha began to go through the bag she’d brought to the pool and found a small bottle of sunscreen.

"Here, rub this on me," She instructed you, handing you a bottle of sunscreen.

"Why?" you asked, a hint of confusion in your voice as you eyed her pale skin. "Didn’t you already put some on before?"

Natasha gave you a pointed look, her expression conveying a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "Don’t question the logic, just do it," she replied firmly, holding out her arm expectantly.

As you began applying sunscreen to Natasha's exposed skin, you couldn't help but feel a sense of resignation wash over you. Silently, you wondered why you had taken on this job in the first place. It wasn't that you were truly angry; in fact, you were the complete opposite.

This part of the mission had never been difficult before. Playing the part of a fake doting wife had practically become second nature to you. But being here with Natasha felt different. There was something about her presence that stirred emotions within you, emotions you hadn't expected to surface during the mission.

Natasha turned her back to you, dropping the straps of her swimsuit lower on her arms so you could reach her shoulders. The intimacy of the moment caught you off guard, and for a brief moment, you found yourself lost in the sensation of her warm skin beneath your fingertips.

As you rubbed the warm cream into Natasha's skin, the muscles of her back flexed slightly beneath your touch. You couldn't help but notice the way her body responded to your ministrations, and a rush of thoughts flooded your mind. They weren't entirely pure thoughts, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt at the direction your mind was wandering.

But then, a small comfort washed over you - at least Natasha couldn't read minds. You silently thanked whatever higher power existed for that small mercy, grateful that your innermost thoughts remained your own.

"I think we could hang out by the pool for a few hours and then call it a night," Natasha suggested, her voice breaking the comfortable silence between you. "Maybe go over some things."

"Sounds like a plan," you replied, masking any hint of hesitation with a casual tone. "A bit of relaxation by the pool is exactly what I’m here for.”

“Only that?” Natasha looked over her shoulder to you. “And the beautiful women,” You muttered under your breath.

Natasha's expression shifted slightly, a flicker of annoyance crossing her features as she turned to face you fully. "Really?" she questioned, her voice carrying a note of exasperation.

You chuckled, recognizing her annoyance but unable to resist pushing her buttons just a little. "Hey, just stating the obvious," You replied with a shrug.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Well, try to keep your eyes open okay?" she retorted, a touch of teasing in her tone despite her annoyance. “Don’t sleep with anyone behind my back.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” You pressed a hand to your chest, faking scandilization. “How dare you insinuate I would ever cheat on my beautiful, intelligent, and hot wife.”

“That drink was stronger than you’re letting on,” Natasha smirked knowingly.

“Maybe,” You shrugged. “I guess we’ll never know.” You sighed as you lounged in the chair, your head pointed towards the sun. Natasha turned in her chair to watch you for a few seconds longer before she laid back in her chair.

So far, there was nothing out of the ordinary about this place. It seemed like a typical resort, with sun-drenched pool areas, lush tropical foliage, and guests lounging lazily in the warm afternoon sun.

Everything appeared to be just as it should be, with no signs of the covert operations or clandestine activities that you had been tasked with uncovering.

Despite the lack of immediate danger or suspicious behavior, you remained vigilant, knowing that appearances could be deceiving.

#natasha romanoff #natasha x reader #black reader #black widow x female reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanov #natasha x you

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kairismess · 4 months

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❝HIS HEART IS ALL YOURS❞

🏐 genre: fluff ~

✒️ word count: 1,198

💭 summary: it had never dawned on you that the great king of the court, tooru oikawa, would ever have a crush on you: a mere background character in the greater scheme of things. if only you knew just how much he adored you–maybe then you'd realize you're more than a side character in the plot of your (and his) life.

💗 special mention: @moonswolfie for requesting this on my @kairiscorner acc !!

🍧 request: "Beg and you shall recieve, make oikawa fall for the nerd girl😈😈😈"

the concept of being in a relationship was foreign to you. you had never really had a proper relationship with anybody in regards to romance; it was like all and every thought of romance was something you never truly experienced, if you didn't count otome games and dating sims that you always pored over, spent all your time playing and devoting your allowances to new costumes and dialogues from your favorite love interests that made you feel pretty, wanted, and loved.

you never really stood out to anybody, that much you believed was true. you found it hard to see anybody liking you, who avidly wore anime shirts and collected expensive figurines and hung up posters of your favorite game series, cartoons, animes, movies, and shows all over your room. and you don't even wanna bring up the fact that you casually play rpgs whenever you can, wearing the cutest set of headphones that made you stand out in... a rather awkward way–a way you just wish you never got attention from, through stares and stifled chuckles of amusement from others.

you did all you could to ignore the stares, the laughter, the snide comments from girls who thought they were better than you–and you had grown quite used to being alone, to finding solace in games and the internet. and though it wasn't healthy, this was a place you called home; and those characters on your screen that always smiled whenever you chose a good interaction choice, whenever you held them in the right places, they made you feel happy.

but there was another boy who wanted to make you feel happy, a boy who appeared and acted like he came right out of a fairy tale; the male lead in a shoujo manga you never thought you'd live out to be female lead in.

tooru oikawa–the great king of the court, the boy every girl in your year had the hots for. you never really paid that much attention to him because, of course, why would you waste your valuable time and energy on a boy you never knew well, nor would even take an interest in you?

sure, he was your classmate and occasional partner for activities and group works, but his personality always seemed so fake. you knew he was acting like a kind of host boy in a host club, and though you knew guys like that were totally your type, you always kept your guard up around him.

it wasn't like he was going to hurt you, anyway, he was too gallant for that, it seemed. the way a boy like this would only hurt you would be through getting your hopes up that he'd ever like you, and ultimately thank you for being a mere fan and forget your name, maybe laugh about your silly headphones and the way your eyes shone whenever your favorite character called you cute in a dating sim.

but... it was these very qualities that drew oikawa to you.

oikawa had only known you existed for a few months now, since he saw you so often during class as his new seatmate. he knew you weren't anything like the girls that vied for his attention, and it felt like a breath of fresh air for him, not having someone breathe down his neck every few seconds at every little thing he does.

sure, you were a little messy sometimes, a little quiet, a little awkward–a little in your own head most of the time, but it was, in your own unique way, charming. oikawa would instinctively smile to himself whenever you'd get flustered at him asking you for a pencil while you were sneaking to play your otome games on your phone in class, and he'd feel a little proud of you whenever you'd recite in class.

he knew it was hard for you sometimes to show confidence, though he always encouraged you to stand up straight, "you look pretty when you hold your chin up high," he'd always say. of course, you'd sometimes side eye him, and it'd make him a little worried he said something wrong, but it's the fact that you keep oikawa on his toes about how he makes you feel around you that allures him to you even more.

from talking to you during class, he'd bring the conversations outside of class. of course, he'd always carry the conversation while you were trying to beat a really hard boss in your rpgs. he'd cheer you on while he had no idea what was going on–and even the rest of the third years were worried oikawa had some ulterior motives with you, but when they saw how different that usually plastic smile of his was whenever he'd look at you, talk to you, try to get closer with you... it was like there was something out of place there, that got replaced with something purer.

shocking, they know.

"alright, out with it." iwaizumi spat out, hitting oikawa lightly on the shoulder. oikawa looked at iwaizumi curiously. "out with what, iwa-chan?" "are you stupid? you know you can't make her a victim of your charms." when iwaizumi said that, he knew exactly who the her he was referring to was. it was you.

oikawa looked at iwaizumi all pouty, his eyebrows furrowed. "how low do you think of me? i'm not charming her for anything malicious..." "so you're admitting you are making her like you." "i-i never said that!" oikawa retorted, his face getting redder and hotter, his voice getting higher as he was on the brink of admitting the truth.

iwaizumi furrowed his eyebrows and pursed his lips. "so why are you doing this, it's clear she has no interest in you." oikawa couldn't argue with iwaizumi's statement, it was true, you didn't look like you had fully trusted oikawa, and that hurt him to a degree nobody, not even he could bear.

"...because i like her. and i want her to trust me." oikawa muttered, looking away from iwaizumi. it was hard for him to admit, but there was no other way to express it without getting totally crushed by his own half truths and half lies. this was the whole, unadulterated truth–tooru oikawa, the great king of the court, liked you.

he liked the way you got flustered whenever your favorite character would say they love you, he liked the way you glared at him when you'd catch on to his flirting, he liked the way you were so knowledgeable on such nerdy things that... he had watched all your favorite movies and animes, and was planning to gift you merch this coming holiday season.

"...well, you have a lot of work to do to prove to her you like her." "no kidding..." oikawa replied with a sigh, at least his best friend supported his crush on you. he knew it might take a while, a very long while–maybe a whole lifetime to prove how much he loved you. but he'd prove it to you, somehow, and he won't ever stop until he shows his little nerdy girl just how much he's serious about her; how much he loves you.

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websterss · 1 year

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𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃𝐒 — 𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑𝐘

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓: highkey just wanna go on a lil date with ethan. i'm guessing he doesn't have much experience with girls but him being nervous would be so 🤭you would've asked him out to satisfy your friends considering you talked about him a lot, not realising he'd say yes. that made you incredibly nervous but i feel like the date would either be a movie (cliche ik) or bowling. maybe a group date? but the rest of group would let you sit alone with ethan to talk to him about star wars or something nerdy. just kissing his cheek before getting off the subway and thanking him for a fun night. crying

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒): Umm, lots of cussing, fluff. SPOILERS?? I don’t know if this has spoilers honestly.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2,867

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Ethan Landry x fem!Reader

𝐀/𝐍: Hope you enjoy it! Char’s gonna give me shit cause I don’t know much about star wars. Also I didn’t do the subway scene. Ugh I hope you like it love!😭

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

“You’re gonna join us for bowling tonight right?” You snapped your head up at Chad who threw a knowing smirk your way. You roll your eyes, fixating your attention back onto your term paper.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.” You let out a laugh at his bluntness.

“Great!” You emit a laugh of amusement.

“Find a date yet?” This shook your core as your paper was now long forgotten. Your jaw slacked open in shock.

“Date? What do you mean date?” You sat up straighter in your chair. “No one said anything about dates!”

“Are you fucking with me?” Chad’s shoulder fell in disbelief. “I got Tara. Sam’s bringing Danny. Mindy and Anika are coming together. Quinn’s bound to bring along some new arm candy. That just leaves you...” He trailed off in a wince. “And Ethan.”

“But I’m not- Wait he’s going, what the fuck why wasn’t I informed about this?” You quirk an eyebrow at him.

“Cause we know how you get when he’s around. We wanted to ease you into it tonight.” He laughed at you as you grew all flustered. You looked back down at your paper. “Would it kill you to ask him out? Put him out of his misery.” You glance up with a timid glint in your eyes. You find interest in fiddling with the rings on your fingers. Spinning them in a circle to relieve you of this specific conversation you try to avoid. “Mindy still has her obvious suspicions about him. But after rooming with the nerd for months. He checks out okay. I think he’d be good for you.” He reached out to place a comforting hand over your own. “I think it’s time you let yourself have some fun. I know you should...” Then came the dreaded words he hesitated to say. “Wes would too.”

Your eyes meet him for a brief moment. The odds of a repeat from those last ten months were odd. Yet upon losing Wes, you put off any sort of dating. Especially with guy’s you hardly met, yet still conjured up a crush on. Who was to say that this wouldn’t turn out to be a good thing though. Maybe letting loose for once would be good. Just maybe. You weighed your options as you bit your bottom lip.

“Come on...I see those knobs turning. You know you want to...” He sing songed.

“You don’t know what I want.” You pushed his hand away playfully.

“Don’t have to. You’re doing that thing-” He gestured to his lips. “It’s your tell.”

“My tell...Okay!” You raised your hands up in defense.

“So you’re gonna ask him. Before tonight.”

“Well I-”

“Great because he’s coming this way right now...Hey Ethan over here!” Your eyes grew as Chad waved him down.

“Are you fucking kidding me!” You ducked, trying to hide your flustered state.

“Hey guys...” Ethan's charming smile graced you. God that fucking smile did things to you.

“That’s my cue-” Chad pointed in the opposite direction and stood up from his chair. “Hey buddy, what’s up? How about you take my seat, yeah. I gotta run anyway.” Chad gestured over his thumb, then made Ethan plop down right in right of you. He huffed from the firm hand on his shoulder.

“Chad-” You begin to pull at his sleeve.

“Y/n has a very important question to ask you by the way. Okay, you two have a wonderful rest of your remaining classes, alright. See you tonight bud!” Chad pointed at Ethan in his dismissal.

“Tonight? What’s tonight?” Ethan questioned with confusion written over his face.

“You didn’t fucking invite him- Chad! Son of a bitch...” You call after him, as he throws a shit eating grin your way. His thumbs up doing nothing to comfort you in any shape or form. You close your eyes, then glance back at Ethan, who seemed too pure for this world as the corners up his lips lifted into a faint smile. You breathed out a nervous laugh as you sat up tall again. You placed your elbows on the table as you tapped your fingers in a rhythmic pattern on the tabletop.

“You wanted to- ask me something?” He nodded, recalling Chad’s words.

“Yeah I did...” You daze off not wanting to meet his gaze just yet. “I do!” You exclaim quickly. “God I’m not good at this...” You throw your head back as if the ceiling was going to provide you with some answers...and hopefully even the strength. Rather more...have the balls to ask Chad’s cute ass roomate out on a date because heavens know you didn’t have them.

“You think I’m cute?” Your heart and soul freeze up. Your head moves back down, shock didn’t even begin to describe what you were feeling.

“Did I say that out loud?” Your chest rises and falls.

“I could lie and say no...” He shrugs. He shrugged, he fucking shrugged. He wasn’t teasing you or giving you shit. He just fucking shrugged, offering to lie to save your remaining dignity. At this point you either went all in, or you grabbed your things and got the hell out of there. Sadly you were glued to your chair.

“I do think you’re cute- hot actually. Like in that nerdy attractive type of way, and you’re fucking tall, which is honestly an added bonus to be honest. Holy fuck okay-” Your palms now laid flat on the table. “I’m honestly not surprised Chad hasn't invited you yet. I think this was his plan...to finally have me ask you out on a date.”

“You-” Ethan begins. His eyes soften.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while now, yeah!” You answer his question. “Were going bowling tonight in case you were wondering.” You inquire. “I’m not that great, but I magically get a strike every once and a while, are you any good at bowling?” Your question catches him off guard. He’s still trying to process the fact that the girl he likes just asked him out, and you have yet to let him say yes.

“I think I’m okay.” He laughs out.

“Okay great you’re on my team then.” You nod. You tap and tap and tap your fingers on the tabletop. Hoping the silence that weighed over you like pressure fated, but you both didn’t know what to do. You poured out inner most thoughts out of impulse. No self control, just flat out admitted to your consciousness thought. Good thing you didn’t blurt out the fact you like to imagine it was him as you touched-

“Holy shit, okay!” Ethan readjusted himself in his seat. Mouth agape. His face was beet red at this point.

“Did I say that out lo-”

“Yup, you did!” He chewed on his lips, as he shook his head with his eyes closed shut. “That’s an image I will not be able to get out of my head...” He mutters out slowly.

“I’m gonna shut up now.” You facepalm yourself.

Ethan couldn’t believe this was happening. Let alone half the shit you just admitted to him. Yet as his eyes fell on your embarrassed state. He couldn’t help the beaming smile on his face. He shook his head in amusement. He leaned closer. Placing his elbows on the table as he leaned over half the table now. “Yes...my answers yes by the way.”

You pull down your hands. The slightest peek of your eyes meeting his coy smirk and the mischievous glint in his eyes. “Wait really? I thought I totally just blew it.” You breathe a laugh out.

“No, not with me. Though I don’t think you should tell the next guy after me that you like to touch yo-”

“Yeah, yeah okay! Point taken.” You waved him off. You meet in the middle, with beaming chuckles and giggles. “Though you got one thing wrong...”

“What’s that?”

“There’s no one else- after you that is, if this doesn’t work. Just you...” You shrug nonchalantly.

“Just me?” He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t miss the obvious glance at his arms.

“Just you.” You nod. You both glance away from each other. Growing timid under the others lingering gaze. Though it’s not till Ethan gently brushes his finger against the top of your fingertip, just faintly enough you can’t miss it, that you slowly follow the buttons of his shirt, up to his awaiting gaze.

“You wanna get lunch with me?” He lets out softly. An awaiting lapse of hope falls behind those two brown eyes of his. Your mind was already made up at this point.

“Yeah, I’d loved to.” You give a firm nod, then begin to gather up your things. Your paper would have to be finished later on in the evening, or during the weekend. As you place your laptop back into your bag, and zip it up, Ethan stands up and offers to carry it.

“Here let me...” His signature grin decorated his face again.

“Sure you can carry two bags?” You tease, as he swings your book bag over his left shoulder.

“You did not just say that.” He mocks hurt as you walk out of the study room you requested to be in.

Night came around quicker than you would have expected. You and the group had taken the subway to head on over to the bowling alley many classmates suggested to go to. Seeing as you had never done atomic bowling. The group decided to head on around 9 to let you have the experience of bowling in the dark. You thought it had been a sweet gesture on their part. Your eyes grew with excitement seeing the lights turned off, and the monitors playing music videos. The glow in the dark theme satisfied your inner child.

Now you were seated in a booth, laughing about something Ethan was whispering in your ear, well at least from what Chad could tell. His staring caught the others attention, they too now engrossed in the happy pair on a date.

“Okay when did that happen?” Tara scoffed in disbelief, but the smile painted on his face told the group she wasn’t anything other than happy for you two.

“That would be my doing.” Chad bowed for his friends.

“You did that, when?” Tara slapped his shoulder.

“Mmm...Today.” He shrugged then flinched back to avoid another smack from her. “Look, she was hesitant to ask him out. I just gave her that extra push.” He raised his hand up in surrender. Then gestured at the two of you with open palms. “Come on...you can’t tell me that they don’t look good together.” You had thrown your head back in fits of giggles. Ethan watches you with admiration and a longing gaze.

“They do look cute together.” Sam chimed in, then glanced down at Danny, whose lap she sat in. Mindy’s scoff fell through the air though, all eyes fell onto her now.

“I still don’t trust the guy.”

“I course you don’t.” Chad shook his head. “You and your rules.”

“Hello! It’s basic horror movies 101 shit. Never trust the love interest.” Mindy gestured to Ethan resting his arm over the back of your head of the booth. “We’ve only known him for how long? Trust me there’s something about him.”

“Yeah...my roommate likes our friend!” Chad gestured to you. “When’s the last time you’ve seen her smile like that. Heard her laugh. It’s been too fucking long. She’s happy, she’s letting go. Moving on from Wes!” He reminded her with a frown. “Let her have this Mindy. Can we leave the two lovebirds alone now and enjoy this wonderful time tonight. Danny, your turn, my man.” He picked up a ball and gestured it to him. Danny patted Sam’s thigh to let him get up. He took a swig of his beer then took the ball from his hands. “That’s what I’m talking about!” He slapped Danny’s back. The others chimed in with cheers and woops.

“Are those two ever gonna play?” Mindy gestured to you with the rim of her beer.

“Mindy, you added their names in last. There’s ten of us!” He jabbed at her. Then pointed to the screen on the overhead of their lane. The group turned to the monitor screen. Their eyes started from the top and trailed down all the way to the bottom. Yours and Ethan’s name mocking her. She winced.

Quinn Paul. Mindy Anika Chad Tara Danny Sam Y/n Ethan

“I don’t think they seem to mind it though. Look.” Quinn looked off from the monitor then gestured to Ethan, who leaned into your side further. His face hidden as he whispered in your ear.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Sam asked with a laugh.

“You wanna get out of here?” Tara chimed with a deep voice.

“Oh yes, Ethan. I’d love to!” Quinn said in a pitched tone.

“That is not what they’re saying.” Sam rolled her eyes but couldn’t contain her laugh.

“That is exactly what they’re saying!” Tara laughed.

“They’re staring at us.” He chuckled softly into your ear. Your smile only widened as you slowly turned towards him. Your eyes cast over to your friends then back to him.

“I know. They’ve been doing that since we sat down.”

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Ethan looked at his arm resting in front of you on the table.

“Probably trying to meddle their way into my love life.” You sigh as you lean back against the arm behind you. You glance over to them, and catch Mindy being the last to avert her eyes. “Though knowing Mindy, she’s still trying to scope you out.” Your heart feels wounded seeing his happy demeanor shift into one of doubt.

“She doesn’t like me very much does she?” He emits a nervous chuckle.

“No, it’s not that. She’s just a bit cautious about letting in new party members. Trust me, she’ll get over it once you get to know her. Once she gets to know you. Trust me okay. You have nothing to worry about.” You reassure him. He dips his head then picks it right back up. His eyes flicker down to your lips then your eyes.

“I trust you.”

“Good, I’d worry if you didn’t.” You hum, taking the opening to let your fingers caress over his lightly, just like he’d done so back in the study room. He chuckles then initiates your hands holding. Your right thumb and his left begin the ultimate thumb war. You both fight to the finish not wanting to lose.

“You’re cheating!”

“Gross...” Mindy takes a sip of her beer.

“What? It’s cute.” Tara slacks her jaw in shock.

“What are they five? A thumb war, really?” Mindy evaluates and gives her opinion as though this was a scary movie she was critiquing for the poor acting of the clueless character who couldn’t clearly sense the presence of the killer creeping up behind her.

“Mindy!” Chad sucks his teeth.

“Hey!” She pouts. “I’m just saying. Shouldn’t they be kissing instead of a thumb war or something? I can’t give my two cents now, but fine, it’s none of my business. To each their own I guess.”

“You’re unbelievable you know that, and quit fucking staring.” Chad greets his teeth as he calls her out.

“Like you fuckers weren’t all doing it earlier.”

“Well, we’re not anymore...so quit it. Alright, who's next? There will be a victor tonight and I’m making sure of it.” Chad clasped his hands together.

“That would be the love birds...who are about to kiss, holy shit. I knew it!” Mindy pointed to the cheesy movie scene happening a booth down from the group. They all whipped their heads around in time to watch a love story in the making. Their hearts warming as a nervous Ethan leaned in, gently planting a slow kiss on you. Chad whistled low enough so you wouldn’t hear him. He placed a hand over where his heart lay.

“That’s what I’m talking about people. Thank you god! I knew that kid had fucking game. Am I a matchmaker in the making or what?”

“Or something...” Mindy snickered. Chad frowned and flipped her off.

“Fuck you, Mindy!”

“Fuck you, Chad!”

“So who’s gonna go break them up...” Anika gave her two seconds of still being present in the moment. All heads looked back, watching as you and Ethan were too engrossed in each other's arms...and mouths. One hand locked into Ethan’s curls as he cupped one side of your face. Chad looked away, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Not it!”

“Not it!” “Not it!” “Not it!” “Not it!”

“Not it!” “Not it!”

“Shit!” Chad cursed. He looked back to your heavy but slow make out session, then to the monitor. A flash present over your name to indicate that it was your turn. “Anyone want an extra turn?” He clasped his hands. Two hands, Tara’s and Sam’s flew up, willing to fill in for the two clearly horny teenagers a booth down.

#ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry imagine #ethan landry imagines #ethan landry oneshot #ethan landry x fem!reader #my gif #writings by juls

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undiscovered-horizon · 6 months

Text

[Old love never rusts. Shanks has to face that truth when he meets again the husband of the girl he almost had.]

Shanks's version | Enjoying my work? You can leave me a tip on Ko-Fi | Have a request?

Shanks knows he has no right to ask this question. Not when he's the one that up and left in the middle of the night, without even a word of warning that could soothe your aching heart. Nevertheless, he can't help but indulge his yearning:

"How is she?"

Mihawk raises his eyebrows barely noticeably. He seems surprised that after Shanks's disappearing act and a decade of dead silence, he's still interested in you, even if motivated by pure courtesy. But before Mihawk answers the question, he notices something strange in the red-haired captain's eyes, a sensation he's rarely seen in them before - sadness.

Interesting, how some things never quite change.

"Well," Mihawk answers laconically. Instead of indulging Shanks's lovesick longing, he wishes the man would finally accept his utter failure and move on. You're married to Dracule and this isn't going to change anytime soon. If ever.

"Wells tend to be cold and musty," Shanks jokes but his tone is far from lighthearted. In fact, his voice sounds strained like he's holding back tears. "I hope she fared better with you."

The Red-Hair pirates laugh at their captain's joke but quickly turn quiet again. Something about the tense confrontation makes their good humour virtually nonexistent. Especially when Mihawk gives them a curt, cold glare. He doesn't find his past rivalry with Shank to be funny in any way.

"She has everything she could ask for," he says with a sense of finality to his words. Mihawk feels himself growing irritated.

"Good, good..." Shanks nods, lost in thought for a moment. He clenches his hand, giving away the unpleasant tension inside his chest. The captain has promised himself to let go of you. Alas, here we are. "Is she happy?" he suddenly asks.

Mihawk furrows his thick eyebrows in an angry frown. It's almost insulting for Shanks to have any doubts regarding your well-being under the Warlord's care. "What sort of question is this?"

"A 'yes or no' sort."

"Then yes," he drones his words.

Shanks forces a wide, playful smile. There's agony hiding in his eyes and as though Mihawk is a blind man, he's trying to play it cool and appear unaffected. The truth is, the red-haired man is holding on by a thread.

"I bet she talks about me all the time," Shanks says in faux amusement. His voice almost doesn't shake. "We both know I've always been her favourite."

"And you'd lose." Mihawk begins to feel an insidious satisfaction from the distress of the other man. "In fact, I doubt she thinks about you at all."

"You keep telling yourself that, hawk-eyes."

"This misguided flattery is much unwarranted," Mihawk warns him. "No one bets on losing dogs."

But she would, Shanks thinks to himself. She always did.

Short fingernails leave bruising marks on the inside of Shanks's palm as he's clenching his fist. Once again he's reminded that when it mattered, he was a coward and fled from the overwhelming, crippling love he feels for you. Only know there's no hope, there's no ifs - you belong to another man.

Afternoon sunlight reflects off of Mihawk's gold ring. Shanks glares at it for a moment too long to pass off his intense stare as circumstantial. He can almost hear the mocking laughter of the universe as the consequence of the amalgamation of his bad choices is merely two meters away from him. There is nothing he wouldn't give up to turn back the time and make sure that things go differently, that he never became afraid of being too deep in love.

But time, like the seas, has no master.

_____

I was so torn about this one, I couldn't decide until the very end, so if you want to read a version where the scenario is flipped and Shanks is the 'lucky guy', just hit me up.

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imagines-for-the-fangirls-soul · 27 days

Text

Enchanted to Meet You - Colin Bridgerton

A/N: I am so hype for the new season, and Colin isn't even my favorite Bridgerton sibling. When I was thinking of who should get Enchanted, I knew the story had to happen at a beautiful ball, so really this was one of the only choices. (There may be more Enchanted inspired fics, who's to say!) Hope you enjoy!

TS Prompt #6: Enchanted

Pairing: Colin Bridgerton x Reader Word Count: 3.0k Synopsis: After years of knowing, and not liking each other, Colin and the reader meet again at a ball, and share a magical evening together.

"Isn't that your second glass?" Eloise asks, a glass of champagne in her own gloved hand.

"No. It's my third," you say. She doesn't even try to hide the un-ladylike snort she lets out.

"I thought your mother said one."

"She did," you say, peering about the crowded ballroom for her deep red dress. "But, as this is my third ball of the season, I thought it only fitting."

"I'm sure she'll see it that way, too," Eloise says sarcastically.

It was true, this was your third ball, but the three glasses of champagne didn't really have anything to do with that. The matching numbers did add some kind of magic to the night, but truly, you just needed them to get through the evening.

It was your first year out, and after three balls, you weren't sure you would ever find someone to marry. It wasn't like you hadn't had callers. You had blossomed in the last year. So much so, that people often did a double take when they looked upon you. It wasn't so much that they weren't interested in you, but that you weren't in them.

This evening was looking to be another night of forcing laughter and faking smiles with men you had no interest in. The thought of another glass of champagne was too enthralling.

"I don't believe it," Eloise says, leaving your side. You watch her nearly run across the ballroom, and run into the arms of a man. When they break away, you see it is Colin, returned from his travels around the world.

It is hard to believe, but he has become more handsome, in his travels. You spent years and years at the Bridgerton household, and never found Colin anything other than annoying. He was the brother closest in age to Eloise, and he spent most of his time picking on the two of you.

But walking towards you now is a man. A very handsome man, whose smile seems to make your insides melt. You think you might melt, too, as he walks up to you.

"Have we met?" he says, taking your hand in his.

"Are you joking?" you ask, watching as he places a soft kiss to your gloved hand. "Colin, it's me."

"Y/N?" he asks quietly, his brow furrowed as he studies your face.

"Of course it's Y/N, you idiot," Eloise says, slapping his arm.

"You . . . you look completely different," he says.

"Bad different?"

"No, no, not bad at all," he says. He stares at you for a moment longer, seemingly speechless.

"Oh cut it out, will you?" Eloise says, "Both of you are staring like you've never seen the other before."

"Well, he looks different, too," you say, "A good different," you add, looking to him. He smiles, his mouth turned up to one end in playful amusement.

"Eloise, I hope you do not mind if I ask Miss Y/L/N to dance," he says. Eloise begins to say she does mind, but your mind is only on Colin as you drop your hand into his.

You are trembling as he leads you out onto the dancefloor. You have danced this dance hundreds of times before, and have done so to this exact song at the previous two balls. But now, the man in front of you is Colin, and that makes it completely new.

When he pulls you into his arms, your chests a touch closer than societally acceptable, you aren't breathing.

"Hello," he says softly.

"Hello," you say, as the music begins around you. Your moves are instinctual, as you let him lead you into the dance. He is still studying you, his eyes on every angle of your face. You laugh at his ministrations.

"What?" he asks.

"You act as if you don't know me."

"Well, I don't."

"I've spent nearly every summer at the Bridgerton household."

"No, that was Eloise's annoying childhood friend, that wasn't you," he says, his eyes locking on yours.

"Well, it has been a while since we've seen each other. And I have changed."

"I can tell," he says deeply. Goosebumps appear along your neck, and you watch his eyes track them.

"You've changed, too," you say, "Traveling agrees with you."

"Thank you," he says. He spins you out of his arms and back in. "How are you enjoying your first season?"

"Truthfully, it has been pretty boring so far."

"Boring?" he asks in surprise. "Don't tell me you've been a wallflower."

"Oh, on the contrary, everyone seems to notice how much I've changed," you say with a grin, making him laugh, "It's just, I haven't found their company as agreeable."

"And how about my company?" he asks, his voice quiet again.

"I'm not sure yet," you say thoughtfully, studying his face. "But so far, you are certainly a far better dancer than any of the other men I've danced with."

"Really? I'm honored."

The music comes to an end, and both of your hands linger for a moment longer on the other. The dancefloor starts to shift as couples enter and leave. You are supposed to be dancing with Lord Charmbord for the polka.

"Care to have some more fun?" Colin asks.

"What?"

"If you don't mind leaving Lord . . ." he trails off as he touches your wrist again, glancing at your dance card. "Lord Charmbord in the lurch, I'd be happy to prove that my company is much more enjoyable," he says. There is mischief in his eyes, and you know you will go wherever he wants you to.

"Where to?" you ask.

"Meet me at the fork in the gardens," he whispers in your ear, as he walks past you casually. Again, the goosebumps appear.

You walk off the dancefloor, keeping your head down so that no one, especially Lord Charmbord or your mother, see you slip out onto the terrace.

There are a few couples lingering out on the balcony, but they are too involved in their conversations to notice you move down the steps to the garden. You move silently as you look around for Colin, or anyone else.

Scandal would be sure to follow you if anyone were to catch you out here, but you can't bring yourself to care right now. This is the first time all season that you have felt anything, and you aren't going to let it go.

As you round a bend in the gardens, hands grab your waist and you nearly scream out. Quickly, though, Colin turns you around and reveals himself. You clutch a hand to your pounding heart.

"You frightened me," you say.

"I'm sorry," he says, laughter still in his eyes.

"No, you aren't," you say with a laugh.

"No, I'm not. But I am glad you met me here."

"Well, I was promised good company,” you say. Colin straightens, a smirk on his face, as he extends his arm to you.

“A promise I intend to make good on.” He leads you deeper into the maze like garden, as if he has explored it before. Before you can ask, he says, "You know, I used to play with the lord's son when we were kids. He knew where all of the hiding spots were in here, and challenged me to hunt him down. It took a few years, but I was eventually able to find all of his spots, and a few of my own."

"So if I asked you to hide right now . . ."

"You would not find me."

"You assume so little about my seeking skills?" you joke.

"No, just that my hiding ones are much more polished."

"Ah. Well, I should hate for us to have to split up, anyhow."

"As would I. You know, I still can't truly believe that you're you."

"I really haven't change, Mr. Bridgerton," you say.

"No?" he asks, looking you over thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps I have."

"You have."

"How so?" he asks, a small smile on his face. You look him over for a long moment before smiling back.

"You've gotten taller," you say. Colin lets out a tut of laughter.

"Indeed."

"But, I'm sure it's also your travels that are to blame for the man I met tonight."

"I would agree with that estimate," he says, "I learned a lot during my journeys that I am not sure I would have ever discovered at home."

"I can't help but feel envious," you say, "I've always wanted to travel, too."

"Really? Where to?" he asks.

"Anywhere, truthfully. But I've always been fascinated by Florence."

"It is truly gorgeous," he says with a nod.

"You've been?"

"I have. They have absolutely the best food of any of the places I've been. But what's more is they even have the best dances."

"The best dances?"

"Yes, they've taken our plain old quadrille and changed it into something magical," he says. He seems to notice the excitement in your eyes, because his smile only grows. "I couldn't help but notice that you're an accomplished dancer."

"Oh, please," you say, self-depreciatingly, "I'm passable, but certainly wouldn't call myself accomplished."

"I had no complaints," he says softly. He waits for you to give him a smile before continuing. "And if you spent one day in Florence, I know you would out dance every woman in there."

"They are truly that good?" you ask.

"Would you like me to show you?" he asks. He has come to a stop in the center of the gardens. A large fountain trickles softly behind him, the air moist with the shooting spouts. You study him for a moment, waiting for him to say he was joking, to turn back to the Colin you had known.

"Are you serious?" you ask.

"Of course," he says, holding out his hand.

"There's no music."

"You don't need to hear the music to feel it," he says, taking your hand in his and pulling you in close. "Just follow along. It's got the same steps as the quadrille you know, but with a little more movement."

You nod your head and focus on the moves. Without music playing, it is a little harder to get into the rhythm, but he is correct, after a few steps, you can feel the music echoing inside of you.

His hand on your waist presses slightly, making your hips move more fluidly. You are certain if anyone were to see, it would mean scandal, but you cannot fight the smile growing on your face. Again, he shows you how to add more movement into a step, bringing the two of you closer again.

You have danced through one whole song in your head, and you don't want to stop anytime soon. Never in your life before have you danced like this. You feel so free, so graceful. And it is at this feeling, that you trip on an upturned stone and crash into Colin's arms.

The music has stopped playing in your mind. There is only the soft sound of water, the trill of crickets, and your pounding heart.

You have never been this close to a man. Your chest is flush against his. You can feel his breath, and watch as he looks down, too, at your bodies pressed together.

His eyes catch yours and everything seems to slow. There is only his warm brown eyes, locked onto your own, and the hand on your back that moves softly, comfortingly.

"Colin," you whisper. He smiles widely.

"I like when you say my name."

"I've said it a million times before," you say with a laugh.

"You've never said it like that."

"We should be heading back," you say. The hand on your back grows firmer, like he would do anything to keep you against him.

"No one knows we're out here," he says.

"My mother will come looking soon."

"Y/N," he whispers, his head ducking so that his words dance over your neck. You shiver slightly, and his smile only grows.

"I see what you mean," you say, looking back up at him, "I like the way you say my name, too." The look on his face is purely prideful.

"Don't go back inside," he says.

"We'll both be ruined."

"What if I don't care?" he asks.

"You do care," you say gently, "And so do I."

"Perhaps you're right."

"I am right, Colin," you say, beginning to pull away. He pulls you back in and your lips are a breath from his. His eyes flicker between your own and your lips, that are practically begging to be kissed. Your eyes close, against your better instinct, and you lean in.

Snap!

In an impossibly quick moment, Colin has pushed you out of his arms and ducked into an alcove of the garden. You wait for someone to appear, for your reputation to be ruined, but no one comes. Another minute passes and Colin comes out.

"Perhaps, you should get back inside, Y/N."

"Where did you run off to?" you ask, jumping again at his appearance. Before he can answer, you sigh. "Right," you say with a laugh.

"Let's get you back inside," he says. "That was too close."

Colin does get you back into the ball without scandal falling on you.

When you find your mother again, her face is nearly as red as her dress. Clearly, she has not followed her own rule regarding glasses of champagne. She says that Lord Charmbord had been searching for you, but you can't even begin to pretend to care.

For the rest of the ball, your eyes are always on Colin. Unfortunately, you don't get to spend any more of the evening with him. The closest you get is a moment on the dancefloor where you briefly switch partners.

His hand meets yours at the same time his eyes do, and once again, the world around you is gone. There is only the music and his face, looking at you in a way you can't precisely name, but that you're dying to know.

But just as soon as it happens, it is over, and you are back in the arms of a man you have absolutely no interest in.

As the night comes to a close, you bid Eloise and Lady Bridgerton goodnight. You can't help peering around the both of them for Colin, but just when it appears he is not coming and you have turned towards the exit, he calls your name.

"Miss Y/L/N," he says dashingly, "I would be remiss if I didn't bid you a goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mr. Bridgerton," you say, watching as he bends down to kiss your hand. Quietly, so that only you can hear, he says, "Say it just once more, please."

"Goodnight, Colin," you whisper. When he stands up straight, he is fighting off a smile. He bids your mother goodbye, and then you are getting handed off into your carriage, and ripped away from what feels like the first real night of your life.

The ride home is quiet. You answer your mother's few questions, but when she can see you're in no mood to talk, she sinks into her own thoughts.

The countryside is dark, but as you look out upon it, you can't help but wish. Wish that this was the very first page of your story with Colin, not where your story line will end. That he was as enchanted by you as much as you were by him. And pray that he is not in love with someone else.

At home, when you finally get into bed, you are restless. You toss and turn well into the early hours, questions rolling about your mind, all about Colin.

Too early the next morning, you are awoken by a lady's maid. The day after a ball is always busy. Gentleman callers all morning, and mothers and daughters in the afternoon, to get caught up on the morning callers.

While your handmaidens go about getting you dressed and pinning your hair up, you can't help but relieve the night before. It sparkles in your mind - truly the most perfect night you could have imagined.

You pray that it is not the last, but you know that you have to remain practical. Besides the looks and smiles he gave you, Colin did not lead on that he was interested in marriage anytime soon. You, on the other hand, were very interested in getting wed off this season.

As you walk down the steps to your sitting room, you assure yourself that it will be okay, if Colin does not feel the same.

"It is too early for callers!"

At the foot of the stairs, you hear your doorman arguing in hushed tones. You can hear another voice, but not clearly enough to match the sound to its owner. Before you can open the door and find out, your mother comes bustling down the staircase and passes you.

"Who could it be at this hour!" she says, ripping open the door.

Colin Bridgerton is standing in your doorway, a bouquet of orange tulips in hand. His eyes are wide when they circle to meet yours, but then they soften.

"Y/N," he says gently. The doorman stutters a response at this lack of formality, so Colin corrects himself. "I mean, Miss Y/L/N. Mrs. Y/L/N," he says, turning to look at your mother.

"I apologize for the early arrival, but I wanted to be the first here," he says.

"The first here for what?" your mother asks in shock.

"To call upon Miss Y/L/N, of course. You see, I shared quite an exquisite time with her last night, and hope that I may spend more time in her good company."

"Really?" you and your mother ask in unison. You laugh, and feeling bold, walk towards Colin. Still keeping a respectful distance from him, knowing that your doorman was watching closely, you take the tulips from him.

"Really," he says. "I was enchanted to meet you again, Y/N. Please don't have someone waiting on you."

"Not at all," you say. "Would you like to come in for tea, Colin?"

"I would love to," he says with a grin that nearly takes your breath away.

#colin bridgerton #colin bridgerton x reader #colin bridgerton x you #colin bridgerton imagine #bridgerton #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton fanfic #ts prompts #colin bridgerton fanfic #colin bridgerton fanfiction

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heizlut · 2 months

Text

Hidden In The Sand

cw: none, very fluffy, kinda angsty?

tags: fem!reader, canon!rafayel, pining

m!list here

The gentle sea breeze and the sound of waves rushing up to the shoreline filled your senses. Rafayel insisted on taking you to Whitesand Bay by his home, stating that he wanted to avoid the unfinished paintings that were scattered about his place. He claims that if he can’t see them, they disappear from his mind and he can have a break from the constant self pressure. After rolling your eyes at his statement, you relented and joined him. It’s not like he was going to give you much of a choice anyways, especially with the childish pouting he tends to resort to when he doesn’t get his way.

The two of you walked along the shoreline, shoes in hand, as Rafayel rambled on about anything and everything. You listened half-heartedly, more immersed in the relaxing sensations that came with being by the water. You stop without telling him, your eyes lingering on a pink-white shining clam stuck in the sand.

“And then you know what I said next? I-”, Rafayel stops, finally noticing you weren’t right beside him anymore. He turns around and sees you kneeling down in the sand, retrieving the clam you had spotted and he pouts, “Hey, I was in the middle of a very important story and you’re more interested in some clam?” You raise an eyebrow at him and chuckle, “Jealous of a clam now?” “Hmph…”, Rafayel crosses his arms and deepens his pout, looking away from you.

You go back to studying the clam then bring it close to your face and whisper an apology to it before opening it. Inside is a small beautiful pearl and you smile at your find, softly thanking the clam. Rafayel finally looks back to you and his expression melts when he sees the way you look at the little pearl, not missing the way you had apologized to it and thanked it. Everything you were doing was like a tug in his heart. Why were you always so kind, especially to things that could not return the appreciation?

Also, why couldn’t you look at him with such adoration…? When you straighten up and hold out the open clam for him to see the pearl, he pouts again, “It’s just a pearl. What’s so special about it?” Now it’s your turn to pout, “It’s nice that a clam can produce something so beautiful.” When you bring your find back closer to you, Rafayel huffs out a breath and hold out his hand, “Fine let me see it. Maybe I’ll see it in the way you do.”

Stubborn as you are, you refuse, “Nope, you lost your chance! Find one for yourself.” He huffs again and looks away, “Nevermind then. I didn’t want it anyways.” You glance at him. Rafayel’s purple locks gently ruffle in the sea breeze and he looks to you from the corner of his eyes. He looks slightly startled when he catches you already looking at him, “What?” You smile a little, “If you don’t want the pearl, then what do you want?” The question throws him off guard. He blushes to his ears and turns his head from your view, “I’m perfectly fine without anything.” You just shrug and tuck the clam and pearl into your bag, “Should we continue then?”

Rafayel only nods, not exactly wanting to speak as you two continue down the shoreline. The answer he really wanted to give to the question of what he wanted was ‘You’. But how could he say that? What if you didn’t return the sentiment? He pauses. Why wouldn’t you return the sentiment? He was the most handsome man, there was no way you could turn him down.

Rafayel laughs to himself at the battling thoughts in his head, earning him an amused but slightly confused look from you, “What’s so funny, Raf?” The nickname makes his heart flutter and he fumbles over his next words, “I-it’s nothing..” He clears his throat awkwardly and puts on a smile, “Let’s just head back, I’m bored now.” You roll your eyes as you laugh, “Typical. But do you really want to go back where you’re forced to face your unfinished works”, you tease. “Ugh. Don’t remind me. I’ll be up all night trying to finish which means you have to join me and make sure I don’t fall asleep”, Rafayel plays right back with a smirk. You raise an eyebrow, “Oh is that so? And what if I fall asleep?” He gives you playful look, “Then you wouldn’t be a very good bodyguard, would you?”

Hours passed and it was late into the night. You tried so hard to stay awake as Rafayel did his best to finish his art pieces, but ultimately you had fallen asleep on his couch; your hand lightly holding onto the little clam. “Suddenly so quiet… You’re never this quiet. What are you-”, he cuts himself off when he faces you, taking in your sleeping form. He smiles softly to himself and lets out a breath, crouching down by your face.

Rafayel gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear as he admires you. His eyes fall to the clam and he feels an ache in his heart. His smile falls a little as he remembers the way you admired such a silly little thing. Why couldn’t you look at him that way? Have you ever looked at him that way? Rafayel sighs, running his fingers through his wavy hair as he straightens back up. He turns to the piece he was working on, now losing touch with it and his eyes laze over to a blank canvas.

There’s another tug in his heart when he feels newly inspired to create something different. The brush glides against the canvas as various yellows, blues, whites, and browns cover the canvas. Several hours later, he steps back and admires the first finished painting he’d completed in a long time. The ache in his heart is back as he studies it, but he does his best to ignore it and goes to his own room to sleep.

It’s not much later when you finally wake up, fingers grazing the clam that holds the beautiful pearl. When you sit up and rub the sleep from your eyes, the first thing that greets you is the new painting.

It’s you. On the beach, with your painted hair blown softly back in the gentle breeze as you look at your open clam and pearl with the most beautiful, adoring expression on your face. In the corner of the painting, there is an outstretched hand that reaches for you, as if it was begging for the attention of the painted version of you…

#rafayel x reader #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel fluff #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel x you #love and deepspace #l&ds #l&ds x reader #l&ds rafayel #l&ds fluff #rafayel l&ds

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berriweb · 10 months

Note

Hey! If it’s okay, may I request Hobie Brown, Miguel O’hara, and Miles Morales headcanons where they find out from Miguel and Layla (of in Miguel’s case, finds out himself) that this s/o is the only variant of themselves the exists im the multiverse (like America Chavez)? I’m very interested in seeing how you’d think the boys would react to this kind of information and maybe what Miguel would do since there is only one other person (America) that is in the readers situation where there is no other version of them.

╰┈➤ ❝ one of a kind ❞

: ̗̀➛ ft. miguel o’hara, hobie brown, miles morales

: ̗̀➛ synopsis. miguel, hobie and miles finding out that their s/o has no other variants

: ̗̀➛ a/n. i LOVE this idea it’s so original, also trying out headcanons to see if I fw writing like this we’ll see, and a little side note: i had the s/o NOT being a spider-person in mind when i wrote this so keep that in mind

— MILES MORALES

in an fictional world where miguel isn’t a psycho and miles actually joins the spider society, I imagine he finds out about your situation through miguel one day during a meeting

miguel wouldn’t even intentionally share the information, if anything i feel like he’d avoid telling miles anything he didn’t need to know

it was lyla who spilled the not-so-secret secret by making an off hand joke during their conversation about his lover being one of a kind

miguel tries to brush her off and act like she was talking crazy but by then it’s too late and the way lyla worded it now has his interest piqued so miguel pretty much has no choice to either tell now or tell later when he gets tired of miles bringing it up

he explains to miles how he found out that unlike every spider-man, gwen stacy, etc. you have no other versions of yourself in any other universe, you’re the only variant

miles is absolutely FASCINATED by that idea, and while he promises not to go blabbing about it to every per miguel’s request, the next time he sees you it’s the first thing he brings up

whether or not you already knew about this, you enjoy listening to his interest in the fact as he talks about it, going on and on about how crazy it is that in the infinite amount of dimensions and universes there are, there’s no other person like you

he feels incredibly lucky and grateful that you ended up in his universe and doesn’t stop telling you that

miles also enjoys theorizing with you in random moments where you both have nothing to say about what other versions of you would be like if you did have variants

his favorite theory was a universe where you became spider-man instead of him

you both enjoyed imagining that reality for two completely different reasons (he just wanted to see you in the suit)

— HOBIE BROWN

unlike miles i don’t think hobie would find out directly from miguel because i’m a firm believer that he’s hellbent on being a nuisance whenever he can

he found out by snooping through miguel’s database when he was away from the spider base

hobie hadn’t been looking for anything on you in particular, but when he saw his s/o’s name he couldn’t help but be just a little nosy

who wouldn’t want to know what other versions of their lover was like?? and at the moment he realized that like other prominent figures in every other spider-man universe, he’s never seen any of your variants

so imagine his surprise when he wasn’t able to find anything on you

he ends up nonchalantly fessing up to Miguel when he returns wanting to know what’s up and about the other versions of you, and after sitting though Miguel cursing him out for getting into his database (and him fussing at Lyla for letting him do it) he breaks the news to hobie that there are no other versions of you

Oh???

he’d be more amused by this than anything

after learning this his compliments will change to him constantly making comments about how he’s the luckiest guy in the world multiverse to have the only y/n

will make sly jokes about keeping you safe because if he loses you there’s no replacement, which earns him a nice smack on the head

he’ll ask about how you feel about knowing you’re the only version of you, since as cool as it is being able to see other visions of how you could’ve turned out would be something you’d have to miss on

— MIGUEL O’HARA

in my eyes miguel wouldn’t react as chill or as positive as either of the other two would’ve

he finds out when he’s regularly checking up on the universes and starts to notice a small detail that no matter where he searches he’s never seen another you, which was likely unusual considering the amount of repeats and variants of every other person

when he asks lyla to go through the database to see what she can find, she confirms his suspicions that the only pattern in every other universe aside from your own is that there is no other version of you, not a single person even remotely close to your looks or personality in fact

i don’t think miguel would bother telling you this after he finds out and wouldn’t let you know unless you ever came to the realization yourself and asked him about it since of course he of all people would know

he’d appreciate the fact that he still ended up with the only version of you to exist, but due to what happened with his daughter during that absolute disaster a little voice in the back of his mind would be worried that if he lost you you’d truly be gone forever

one day after he finds out you two would be relaxing somewhere by yourselves and miguel would casually bring up what you think your variants would be like, just to hear you voice your thoughts on the matter

he’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t cross his mind once he found out there was no way to confirm it because there’s only one y/n

miguel would ever in his dreams think of just going to another universe to replace you with another variant of you if something happened (or would he? that’d be such a good fanfic idea i’d so write that for the angst), it was a cruel thought, but know that’s not an option makes him appreciate and treasure being with you way more often that he did before, so expect him to be more clingy for no apparent reason for a while once he finds out

#across the spiderverse #spiderman atsv #atsv #atsv fanfiction #atsv x reader #spider man #miles morales #miles morales x reader #miguel spiderverse #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara #miguel o’hara x reader #hobie headcanons #hobie brown #hobie brown x reader #spider punk

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silverameco · 18 days

Text

Bookshop AU - @wolfstarmicrofic - 763 words

Sirius loved Tuesdays, because he didn't work the afternoon, and could go annoy his brother. Regulus had been working at Lily's bookshop for a few years now. It was striking how well he fitted in the place. When Lily openned her shop, Sirius never thought he would ever see his brother in it. And now, he couldn't imagine it without him.

Sirius was leaning against the counter, bickering with Regulus who kept rolling his eyes, pretending to be bother by it. Sirius knew he was enjoying his presence every Tuesday. They never thought they could have this, after all.

Regulus left him alone to fetch something at the back of the store. Suddendly, the bell of the door tinkled and Sirius turned his head to face the stranger. It might be the best thing he ever did, because the man standing before him was the most beautiful sight. He had sun bleached curls, tiny freckles on the bridge of his nose, and a scar crossing his face. Most of all, he had amber eyes glinting in the sun that filtered through the glass door. Sirius felt like he himself was glowing under his gaze.

"Hi, I'm looking for-", the stranger began.

"A book ?" Sirius interrupted with a cheeky grin. "I think you might be in the right place. A bookstore, that is."

The man sent him an amused smile. "Er, actually-"

"Sirius stop being rude to my customers, and my friends." Regulus said with an annoyed tone and his usual frown, coming back from the backstore. "Hi, Remus, ignore my stupid brother." he added to the stranger's attention.

Sirius couldn't process the information that this beautiful man was friend with his brother of all people. His mind was just a litany of Remus, Remus, Remus.

"Err- hey ! I'm not being rude." he said after a beat. "In fact, Remus, maybe I could help you find this book we were talking about-"

"No, you can't, you don't work here, Sirius." cutted his annoying shit of a little brother. "Come on, Remus, I'll show you the books we were discussing the other day."

He took Remus' arm, dragging him away, between the book shelves. Remus followed, but Sirius noticed his gaze lingering on him, a glint of something in his eyes, and the ghost of a smile on his lips.

So he waited patiently - maybe not so much - for them to come back at the front of the shop. When they did, Remus was holding three books. Sirius looked at the books while he payed for them. He could feel Remus very close to him, because Sirius was still against the counter. He didn't intend to move one bit.

Two of the books he didn't know, but the third one was Les Fleurs du Mal, by Charles Baudelaire. Poetry, then. With a flash of inspiration, he snatched the book from his brother's hand, ignoring his exasperated sigh.

"This one," he said, "is a very good choice."

Remus raised an interested eyebrow at him. "You like Baudelaire ?"

"Nah, I'm more of a Rimbaud kind of guy." answered Sirius with a knowing smile. "But this one is a very special edition."

"Oh, is it ?" Remus asked with an amused smile, seemingly waiting to see where he was going with this.

Sirius took a pen laying on the counter, openned the front page and began writing. He took his time, letting Remus pay meanwhile.

"Yes." he said finally, handing the book back to Remus. "It has my number on it. Call me, if you want."

Sirius said it with what he hoped looked like a confident smile, but really he was shaking a bit.

"You don't have to. He's annoying." Regulus said.

But Remus kept looking at him and smiled. "Yeah, but I think I will." he answered finally. Sirius felt his heart roared.

"You're both hopeless." commented Regulus.

"Bye Sirius." Remus said with a wink and then he was gone already.

Sirius looked at his brother with a huge grin, to which he answered with a glare.

"Do you really have to flirt with my friends ?"

Sirius gasped in offense. "You're literally dating my best friend and his girlfriend who is also my friend !"

This particular Tuesday would become one of Sirius' favorite days ever.

#throwing french poets in there for my own personal enjoyement #also jegulily crumbs bc i felt like it #and black brothers banter bc i love them #silv writes things #wolfstar microfic #wolfstar #sirius black #remus lupin #regulus black #marauders #marauders era #dead gay wizards

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white-wolf-buckaroo · 3 months

Text

In his own twisted way: Prologue

So here it is! First part of my new daughter of Ares fic! I hope you love it as much as I do <3

Word count: 2100 ish words

Warnings: mention of character death

Fic masterlist here!

Ares hated children.

He hated their whining, their crying, their clinging. He didn’t care for the drawings they did, or their “cuteness” or their wonder for everything new around them, and he hated when they cried like babies because of a scrape on their knee, or when they had nightmares and wanted to be held.

He didn’t like them, not even his own.

He hated how they reminded him of his own weaknesses. He hated how they made him feel something other than anger, something he couldn't name.

But he couldn't hate her. Not entirely. Not when she looked at him with those big eyes, so much like her mother's, and a grin every time she saw him at her doorstep. Not when she smiled at him with that gap-toothed grin, so innocent and trusting, a polar opposite as to how everyone else looked at him. Not when she held his hand with her tiny fingers, so warm and soft, completely trusting him to lead the way.

She was his youngest daughter. Her name was Emily, and just as his other children, he hoped she would grow up to be a troublemaker, a rebel, and a fighter. Someone like him. He had hoped she would make him proud, or, maybe more fitting for him, at least amused. Useful for his battles.

And at barely six years old, she was a true daughter of Ares: she loved adventures, exploring the wild, she didn’t mind getting messy or dirty, and she stood up to whoever opposed to her. However, she was also gentle, kind, curious. She loved nature, and stories, and the stars, and learning. Her little soul was still pure… something Ares bewondered, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

But she was a mistake. A mistake he had made with a mortal woman, which he had tried to ignore, and he almost succeeded at it; he had visited her very few times, enough for her to know who he was, but not sufficient for him to get attached.

Until the day he found out she was dead.

Her mother, not the girl. The woman he had once loved… or, more like, had had a relationship with, was dead. The woman who had birthed and raised their daughter alone, without his help, without his care. She was now gone, leaving their daughter orphaned, alone, and unprotected.

Ares had been fond of her. He hadn’t loved her, no, not really, or at least, not in the romantical way. She had been someone he shared interests with, with whom he formed a connection with, and as a result of that, came Emily. As an immortal being, he was more than accustomed to death (it kind of came in the job description for being the god of war), and especially the death of mortals; their lives were brief, like the blink of an eye, and it rarely affected him anymore, if ever.

But Emily was alone now, without any family left, and even if he was the god of war, and all the brutality and horrors that came with it, he wasn’t exempt of having feelings (on the contrary of what he said about himself). They were the reasons why he found new lovers from time to time, and had children with them every once in a while.

Even the god of war longs for some sort of connection and human emotion.

So he had no choice. He couldn’t have Emily live with him, for obvious reasons, and he also didn’t want that. No, he’d take her to the only place where she would be safe from the monsters that would end up eventually finding her: camp Half-Blood. The camp for demigods, where his other children were. The children he hated, and who hated him back.

He was sure Emily would end up hating him as well. They all did… it was only a matter of time.

So there he was, driving a car towards Long Island, with little Emily sleeping in the backseat, her head leaning against her teddy bear, breaths even and rhythmic. He tried to not pay attention to her wet cheeks, still glistening with tears shed for her mother, or how she had raised her arms up at him upon seeing him when he picked her up, wanting to be comforted by her father; Ares tried to not think about how much she trusted him, with his rough exterior, and without really knowing him, and most importantly, he tried to not think much about how moved it made him feel.

The car stopped in the middle of the road, not too far away from the entrance to camp, hidden in the heart of the forest. Ares reluctantly turned off the engine, and silence followed, only broken by Emily’s breathing, and the faint sound of morning rain falling on the roof of the car.

Ares took a deep breath, pushing back the conflicting emotions that surged within him.

He didn’t know why he was feeling like this. It made him extremely uncomfortable in his own skin, and that was something he didn’t experience often. Perhaps Aphrodite had played some trick on him… making him actually feel something at the prospect of leaving his young daughter all alone at camp half-blood. Something like… dread, and pain, and not the one he was used to. This was pain that came from other feelings he had, that usually blossomed in his chest the few times he visited Emily, or when he looked at her from the rearview inside that car, watching her sleep soundly.

But he didn’t know how to do it. He didn’t know how to be a father, he’d never really had good role models to learn from. He didn’t know how to comfort children, talk to them… or hell, love them. And he didn’t want to even try to… because that wasn’t like him. He hated children. Why even care about his own? He was an Olympian, and Olympians didn’t do that.

When the rain stopped, Ares stepped out of the car, and went to the backseat; Emily only stirred in her sleep when he fumbled with the seatbelt, the unfamiliar task more challenging than he’d like to admit, and she kept on sleeping when he took her into his arms out of the car.

She had with her only her teddy and a small backpack filled with her essentials; Ares hadn’t grabbed more of her stuff when retrieving her.

On top of the hill, where the whole expanse of Camp Half-Blood could be seen for those who had divine heritage, Ares stood, listening: it was very early in the morning, the sun hadn’t risen yet, and the few people at camp were still sleeping; in a few weeks, most of the cabins would be full of demigod children, running around, training, and relishing in the beginning of summer. Emily would have settled until then, and she’d be ready to begin her training alongside her half-siblings to become a warrior, just as every Ares kid did.

His daughter woke up before sunrise, while he was still standing at the same spot. She mumbled something, her little eyes fluttering open, cheeks warm against the skin of his neck. She clutched her bear tighter, tired.

“Daddy?”

Ares hummed, not used to a small child talking to him in such tender voice. Like everything involving Emily, it made him feel that unfamiliar warmth he was uncomfortable with… but that he longed for when he didn’t have it, missing it.

Emily raised her head, slowly starting to look around, and at Camp Half-Blood. Her new home.

“This is where you’ll be staying from now on” he said, watching her. Her little eyebrows frowned, and then she looked at him, directly in the eyes.

“With you?”

“With people like you” he clarified, making sure she understood it “Demigods. Half-bloods. Remember what I taught you about the gods?”

“You are one. It’s your job”

She didn’t really get it, that was obvious. But she was still very young, and he didn’t really expect her to do so. Compared to him… well, his life had been already so long, that her presence in it was like a single grain of sand in the beach: small and imperceptible.

And yet, she was the only one of his children he had brought to camp himself. The only one who he had stayed around enough time for her to call him daddy to his face. The only, and first one, for many things.

At sunrise, a centaur emerged from the big house at camp, and noticed pretty quickly the silhouette of the god on top of the hill, and the small child in his arms.

Ares watched Chiron make his way slowly up to them, and he set then Emily down to the ground, helping her put her backpack on (which looked comically enormous on her little form); she grabbed his hand when she spotted the centaur, tiny fingers clutching his own, nervous. He couldn’t really blame her: she was facing many changes in a very short period of time.

“Ares” greeted Chiron, reaching them. The god acknowledged him with a nod, watching the centaur shift his gaze from him to the little girl by his side, trying to hide behind his leather coat “Hello there, young lady” Emily shyly waved back at him, and introduced herself after Chiron did “I assume… she is yours?”

“My flesh and blood” answered Ares “She will be staying at camp from now on, permanently”

Chiron nodded, and stretched out a hand for her; Emily, encouraged by a nod from her father when she looked up at him, went to the centaur, still uncertain.

“She will be taken care of here”

“I sure hope so”

Chiron looked down at Emily again, smiling at her, trying to ease up her nerves.

“Let’s go to your cabin then, young lady”

He gently guided her to the pathway that led to camp, Ares still standing there, watching them go. But Emily turned back around before leaving, searching for his eyes.

“Daddy?” she asked, with the same small voice from minutes before when she woke up “Aren’t you coming with us?”

He wouldn’t. He knew it from the beginning, of course, and Chiron also knew it. The pain in his chest, however, was unknown.

Ares told her no, and he bit the inside of his cheek when he saw sadness invading her gaze. She ran up to him, raising her arms up again, reaching for him with tears in her eyes. She was all alone, and he was abandoning her as well.

Chiron looked away, his heart breaking silently for the young demigod, while Ares stood there, conflicted by his feelings (those damn feelings he couldn’t handle).

“Listen kid” Emily still had her arms raised up, not budging, and he gave in, picking her up “You’re gonna stay here, you like it or not. Don’t go soft on me now”

Emily pouted at her dad, sniffling.

“But I want to stay with you”

“Yeah, but you can’t. You’ll stay here. That’s final”

She made a mad face at him (which made her look more like an angry kitten in his eyes, actually cute, but he wouldn’t admit that), frowning.

“You’re a meanie, Daddy”

There it was. She was starting to hate him too. Yep… All of them did.

“Sorry to break it to you, kid, but life isn’t fair”

He set her down, but she didn’t move, instead looking up at him with her big eyes. She looked like him, he noticed then, very much so in her way of staring at his face: she was fierce, but also vulnerable.

“Will you come visit me?”

Ares sighed, waving his hand as if to shrug it off.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Maybe sometimes. Now go”

Emily sighed, mirroring him perfectly, and obeyed, going back to the centaur. She did look back at him one time before leaving, though, waving at him.

“Bye Daddy. Love you”

Ares felt that uncomfortable pressure in his chest as a response to her words, feeling like his insides tightened, constricted, twisted and turned all over. He watched her go in silence down the hill alongside Chiron, and he dared to take one last look at her before leaving for good, having completed his self-imposed task of taking his daughter to camp.

“Goodbye, little warrior”

Tough exterior be damned, Ares cared for his daughter.

In the quiet of the moment, where no one was watching him, being completely alone, he allowed himself to hope: He hoped she would be happy. He hoped she would be safe. He hoped she would forgive him for leaving her there.

And he also hoped he would someday be able to forgive himself for doing so too.

***

Taglist: @strawberryys-stuff @ladysybilchronicles

#percy pjo #percy jackson fanfiction #daughter of ares #ares #percy jackson #ares x reader #ares god of war #adam copeland #walker scobell #leah sava jeffries #annabeth chase #aryan simhadri #grover underwood #clarisse la rue #dior goodjohn #charlie bushnell #luke castellan #percy series

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writer-komaru · 10 months

Text

˚.* ꒰ঌ✦໒꒱ *.˚ Sin Soaked Silk .ೋ .ೃ˚, ੈ ׂׂ ೄ’

✧Rating: Smut

✧Characters: Simeon

✧Word Count: 4k

✧Summary: On one faithful evening while you and Simeon are hanging out in his room like normal, you notice the revealing clothes this supposed angel of has on. How ironic, you think. It would be a shame if… someone were to, well, run a hand over his exposed sides… maybe a finger down his lovely back… if he didn’t want to get touched, why does he keep everything out in the open, huh? Simeon has to just sit there and use all his strength he has to fight back against these impulses. What kind of angel would he be if he gave into sin? But… it’s just so tempting… Why must you be so alluring….?

Times like this really made you appreciate the life you were blessed with. You, a normal human, were sitting in the bedroom of an Angel. Not metaphorically, a literal, real-life angel. But you were pretty used to it at this point. Ever since you discovered the worlds of Devildom and the Celestial Realm, you’ve been met with otherworldly encounters with strange beings one after the other, beings humans don’t even have the mental capacity to understand. But, as Solomon always told you, you were special. Your attention suddenly snapped back to Simeon as he gently tapped your thigh.

“Is everything alright, MC?” He asks kindly.

“Yeah I'm fine, just kinda got distracted. Anyways, what were we doing?” You turn your body to the right to face him.

He chuckles, “We weren’t doing anything in particular, but I can find something for us to do if you'd like,” He stands up and walks over to the large darkwood bookcase over in the corner of his dimly lit room. As he examines them, your eyes unintentionally fall on the exposed state of his back, just barely covered by the see-through material of his robe. His muscles were so defined, like an intricately sculpted marble statue. For an angel, you would have thought he’d do his best to cover up and look presentable in a formal sense, not wear the most scanty outfit known to mankind. You giggled to yourself as he returned carrying two identical books.

“You seem rather happy about something. Wanna tell me about it?” He smiled at you while laying one of the books on your lap.

“On, it’s nothing,” you stifle another giggle and pick up the hardcover book. The title reads, If the Orchid Petals Fall, in fancy, shiny letters. The cover is decorated with numerous ivory petals, surrounding the hunched figure of an angel, its wings seemingly transforming into the flurry of petals. It was quite a beautiful cover.

“What’s this book about?” You flip it over and admire the back.

“It’s something Micheal gifted me a while back. He told me it reminded him of me for some reason, but even after reading it on my own, I still can't quite understand his reasoning,” Simeon hums as he glances over the first few pages, “I thought maybe if we read it together I could get a second opinion and decipher what he was trying to tell me.”

“I see. Reading isn’t really my thing, but this book does sound pretty interesting. I’ll give it a shot,” You flash him a smile.

“Thank you kindly, MC. I do have to warn you, Micheal has a very… Interesting choice in books, and that doesn’t exclude this one. I think it would be best if I just wait here while you read,” He scratches the back of his neck shyly.

You raise an eyebrow, “What do you mean by interesting?”

“You'll soon discover for yourself,” A faint blush dusts his cheeks. You cock your head at him and continue reading. It isn't long before you discover what Simeon was hinting at. This book seems to be dealing with some very sinful topics for having such an innocent looking cover. The angel next to you peeks over at the page you’re on and immediately looks away, his blush only getting deeper. It’s almost amusing. Could this be Micheal’s plan all along; give Simeon an inappropriate book and tell him it has some special meaning so he has no choice but to read it over and over again? What a trickster…

“Maybe it would be best if we do something else, something we both can do together?” He laughs nervously and stands up, reaching out a hand to take back the book. You quickly finish the page you were on and give it back to him. As he puts it back on the shelf, a rather exciting idea comes to you. If Micheal really was doing this to prank Simeon, it wouldn’t hurt taking part, would it? He reaches up to the top shelf to insert the books in their rightful place, unknowingly flexing his back muscles all for your enjoyment. With a devious smirk, you slowly stalk up to him and run a light finger down the middle of his spine. A large shiver runs down his back as he releases a small gasp.

His head whips around to face you, “W-What was that for?”

“Hehehe, my bad. It was an accident,” you shrug it off.

“That didn’t seem like an accident,” he narrows his eyes and turns around to face you, “Are you playing some sort of prank on me?”

“Of course not, who do you take me for? Mammon?” You cross your arms confidently. Your eyes wander over his body, soon locking onto the small side windows his shirt can’t seem to cover up. He follows your eyes and tilts his head curiously.

“I gotta question, Simeon…” you slowly inch closer, causing him to inch back and lean against the bookcase, “Why do angels like to wear such immodest clothes?”

“That seems rather inappropriate, don’t you think?” He chuckles softly and looks away, unable to meet your determined gaze. He felt almost helpless.

“It’s an honest question. You and Raphael both seem to wear clothes that I thought were unbefitting of an Angel. Don’t you get in trouble or is it normal for an Angel to wear very little?” You lean closer to his ear, making his body twitch slightly.

“Well uh… it’s kind of a sign of purity for us angels to wear outfits that might be seen as… um… revealing. It’s not something I usually mind, to be honest, it’s a lot more comfortable than wearing large amounts of bulky clothes,” he smiles, sweating nervously.

“I see… I guess that makes sense. But it kinda leaves you a bit vulnerable, doesn’t it? What if someone came around and… did something like this,” you finally rest your hands on his tantalizing waist, causing him to let out a small, surprised gasp. He tried to flinch away from your touch, but you stayed persistent. That’s as until he peeled your soft hands off of him and held them on his own.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you but I can’t really allow you to t-touch me there,” he looks at you apologetically.

“And why not?” You whine, looking back to his gorgeously exposed skin.

“Because I’m an Angel. I’m not really allowed to engage in such private acts like that. It’s… uh…” his voice trails off as your hands slip out of his grasp and cup his face. It feels very warm, obviously caused by the wide blush on his cheeks.

“Come on, Simeon. Do you think I don’t see the blush you’re trying to ignore? You like this, don’t you?” You tease and rub your thumbs over his cheeks.

“I-it doesn’t really matter if I like it or not, it’s not allowed. In order to represent the goodwills of the celestial realm, all angels, no matter their rank, have to abide by the same rules. It’s our law,” his voice almost makes it sound like he’s begging you.

“But it’s just a small touch to your waist. Why is that so prohibited?” Your hands somehow find their way back to his sensitive sides, making him shiver yet again, “I’ve hugged you here many times before, why is this any different?”

“B-because this obviously is way different than a hug, this is… this is… this is dangerous,” he bites his lip and grabs your wrists to pull your hands away yet again.

“Why is it so dangerous? It’s just a touch~,” you whisper teasingly in his ear.

“You know what you’re doing. I told you, you can’t do this, it’s… ah…” he freezes as a small moan leaves him. Did he… did he really just? You smirk sinisterly, “Oh?~ what was that noise for?”

“I-it was nothing, now please, let go of me,” he tries even harder to get your teasing hands off his body, but it’s clearly unsuccessful. He gets more and more frantic as your fingers inch up his body.

“Ah! P-please, you can’t do this, if the higher ups find out I gave into something frivolous like this, I’ll get in so much trouble,” he begs and squirms under your touch. It felt so wrong, so clearly wrong. A pure angel like him being touched in such a risqué way like this, he had to do something before he made an even worse mistake.

Suddenly, you feel your hands yanked off his body as he darts out from the vulnerable position against the bookcase in a symphony of fluttering feathers. You look over to your left to see a very flustered Simeon racing for the door.

“Simeon, I wouldn't do that if I were you. If anyone else sees you like that, you’ll ask questions. And besides, I know you’ve got to be at least curious,” you state quickly in hopes to catch him in time before he escapes. He freezes yet again, you were clearly right. His breathing was ragged, his cheeks were stained wine red, his pupils were dilated. The only thing he could do was try to escape but risk bumping into someone else, or stay here with you and risk falling into your advances. But… your advances… Even though he knew it’s dangerous, he seemed rather intrigued. He weighs his options and reluctantly lets go of the door handle.

“Just… don’t go around telling any of the others about this. I don’t want to lose my position,” he sighs as he walks over to the couch and sits down.

“Fine with me. This can just stay between us,” you smile sweetly and rest a hand against his thigh. It was pretty exhilarating thinking that you’ll be this Angel’s first taste of something sinful. He looks at you with fearfully innocent eyes as you shift over onto his lap. You were so close, he swears he could almost feel your heartbeat. As your hands found purchase on his waist yet again, his mind called out to him. This was clearly wrong, clearly inappropriate for an Angel like him. He was supposed to be a being above desires and vices, he was supposed to set an example for humans and angels alike. Maybe, just maybe if he held out a bit longer, he could find another opening to escape. He could quickly run out of the door and hide out in the kitchen for a while until his aroused body finally calmed down. Yes, that’s just what he will do-

His thoughts dissolved like melted butter as your sinful fingers slid under his skin tight black shirt and by the gods did it set his souls alight. His breathing picked up as a whimper escaped his lips.

“Wha.. what… are you…” he could barely stammer out a complete sentence as your fingers inched further and further up. He looked completely dazed, biting his lip, eyes unforced, chest heaving. It was absolutely gorgeous.

“Oh? Has the pure angel Simeon lost the ability to speak already? Too lost in the feelings of desire?” You teased him. So cruel, worse than cruel; he was helpless and vulnerable under you and you were enjoying it. He felt weak, like such a weak angel for allowing a human to come onto him like this and even go so far as to enjoy it. His body was sending mixed messages to him, to both run away and give in at the same time.

“Ngh,” he gasps as he realizes how dangerously close your fingertips were getting to his chest. No, no no he can’t let this happen. If you touch him there, there’s absolutely no way he’s going to be able to fight back. His trembling hands try to reach up for your wrists.

“Please… don’t.. n-not there…” he begged with an airy voice.

“Shhhh pretty angel, just relax. There’s no use fighting this, just let me show you the world of pleasure you’ve been missing out on,” you smirk down at him, causing him to gulp nervously. Pleasure? H-he can’t, he can’t give in to one of the major deadly sins like pleasure. He has to be strong, for him, for his friends, for every being in the celestial realm.

He whines and tries to squirm free, “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. Can't give into this, I’m an Angel, I’m an Angel, I’m an…” his eyes almost roll back as the pads of your fingers finally reach his delicate chest, gently swiping over his nipples. An elicit moan finally leaves his mouth as his brain turns to mush.

“See? Isn’t it good?” You coo and cup the expanses of his chest. Is this really what he’s been fighting against for oh how many years? This feeling… it’s euphoric… so strangely euphoric, like nothing this poor angel has ever felt. Why does it feel so good? It’s just his chest. Another louder whiny moan escapes him as you press harder.

“You really haven’t been touched anywhere like here before, have you? Have you been fighting it back or have you just never felt the urge to have these places touched?” You whisper vulgarly in his ear.

“Angels… are supposed… to suppress these feelings… never give in… or else it’s a sin…” he explains in between heavy breaths, “When I… would feel… like touching… I… would just read a book… until it goes away…”

“Aw, that sounds so annoying. Have you been close to giving in before?” You smirk as you give a small squeeze to his chest, delighted as the moan you're gifted with.

“Nghhh... hah… mhm. I’ve gotten… close… on days where uh… uh…” he stammers, looking away shyly.

“Come on, if you tell me the truth, I’ll reward you?” You coo to him. Reward…? That sounds interesting.

“Well uh… on days where I would feel… especially p-pent up, I… I would… sometimes have thoughts… of… someone… helping me with it…” he admits, clearly ashamed of himself for having such fantasies as an Angel.

“Ohhh?~ So you fantasize about someone coming along and relieving you of your impure urges?~” You hum fondly, a spark of excitement enters your mind. Could it be possible he had a…

“Would you like to tell me more about this particular idea?” You ask sweetly, rolling his hardened nipples in between your fingers.

“Aghh… hah… that feels… ah, a-anyways, it’s not really something I think I should say out loud. It’s rather… profane…” he mumbled with embarrassment. What kind of angel was he, being groped by a human and telling them his dirty fantasies? It’s so wrong but… something about the wrongness of it all causes him to twitch desperately in his tight slacks. Your eyes widen as you feel the twitch and press right against your backside.

“Hehehe, you’re a dirtier angel than I thought,” you tease as you squeeze his nipples, “Don’t tell me you like being touched like this? Does it excite you?” You tease as you give his nipples a light squeeze. His eyes shut tight as he whines.

“Mmm… I wonder. You’ve had your chances to escape and you’re definitely capable enough to overpower me, yet here you are, laying still as I taint your pure body. Why could that be…” you faint a curious expression as you tease the poor angel even further. You're pretty sure you know the reason why, but using the truth against him to exploit him a little more is far more interesting. You press your thumbs harshly against his nipples.

“Aghhhhh.. p-please…” he has no idea if he’s begging for you to be gentle or rougher.

“I think I’ll just let actions speak louder than words~” you smirk devilishly as you finally give an experimental grind of your hips down onto his aching erection. Simeon feels every nerve in his body light on fire with a burning passion, releasing an embarrassing loud moan as he grasps your waist. Your smirk widens as his lovely reaction; it was everything you could have hoped it would be. Desires of lust surge through his body, all the temptations he's resisted for millennia return to him full force to leave his poor, desperate body aching for relief.

“Mmmm someone’s pent up, look at how hard you are,” one of your hands sneaks down to pull down his white pants and expose his throbbing dick. He groans, it’s so fucking hard and leaking everywhere, it’s so embarrassing.

“You've been trying to resist it for so long, what would happen if I…” you sinisterly brush a finger over the tip as it twitches even harder.

“Aaghh… ahhh…” He moans.

“Oh? Did that feel good?” He coo.

“Ahhah… ahhh… y-yeah… d-damn… I can’t believe… this is happening…” he internally curses himself for falling victim to you. He watches weakly as your hand wraps around it and starts pumping him slowly. This feeling, oh gods, this feeling is something he’s dreamed about for so long. He knew he shouldn’t but having to ignore it for so long has put some rather perverted thoughts in his mind. And all those daydreams and fantasies were finally coming true. He couldn’t hide the goofy smile on his face as your hand squeezes harder.

“Hehehe~ I guess instead of fantasizing about an unknown face helping you with your urges, it will be my face instead,” you cooed, greeted with a deep groan in response.

“Oh? You like that? Like it when I say you’ll only be able to think of me and this moment from now on?” You chuckle as his hips jump up to catch your strokes. He nods, completely lost in the pleasure.

“Am I going to make you obsessed? Is that what it is?” You move your panties to the side as soon as his head leans back.

“Yeah… ahh… ah! Aghh?! W-wait, is that your?” He whines loudly as your dripping, gorgeous pussy rubs over his tip. He hates to say the lords name in vain but god fucking damn it… it felt so, so good. He wants to push in, he wants to feel it squeeze, he desperately wants to go in. His poor, one pure mind is only filled with thoughts and urges to sink his aching dick into your mouth-wateringly tight and wet pussy. He wants it, so, so bad, please, please give it to him. He doesn’t care what happens, he needs it too bad. And as soon as you grant his wishes and sit down on him, he keens. His nails dig into your hips as he thrusts into you like a desperate animal in rut. He doesn’t even know fully what he’s doing, he just needs to fuck, more than anything this world has to offer.

“Aghhh someone’s being eager, couldn’t even wait Ahh, a little bit longer. Aghh you’re so big… aghhh, just keep going,” you wrap your arms around his neck and ride his dick with all the strength you’ve been holding back, lifting your body up and sliding back down.

“Nghh- Hahh, Aaghhhh!!~” Simeon moans in between sobs and heavy pants, flipping you over so your face presses into the velvety couch and your ass is raised right into the air. You look so alluring, so vulnerable like that… he can’t control himself as he mounts you and pushes his twitching cock into your quivering pussy. He sobs and cries as he clings to your hips. Even if this stopped for just a second he thinks he might die. It’s just so good, so tight, so warm. He just needs more, more, more, he can’t help himself anymore.

“Aghhh please please please, I can’t stop, can’t stop!!~” he cries out as he goes impossibly faster, making your eyes roll back as he fucks right against your cervix. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he pushed in further and further, losing the last remaining traces of purity.

“I’m sorry… aghhhhh I-I’m sor… sorryyy… aghhhh!~” His voice cracks as he humps your pussy faster and faster, toes curling each time it squeezes around him. Could this be the message the book was trying to give him? What kind of message even was this? He doesn’t even know anymore, all he knows is he needs to keep thrusting into you until his desires finally relax.

Little did he know this was just the start of it all. He realized it as soon as his hot cum stained the walls of your cunt. This wouldn't be enough for him. It would never be enough. He fucked you over and over and over again, on almost every since surface he could find in his room, trying to relieve the prominent desire that itched just below his skin. He just couldn’t stop, the poor angel was completely enthralled by you, he just couldn’t control it. As your blurry eyes, aching with tears looked back up at the once sweet face that would always smile back at you, you instead saw a darkened, lustful face staring back at you with new light green and black horns standing proudly on his head and a pair of jet black feathered wings fluttering behind him. Maybe playing a prank on him wasn’t such a good idea, you thought to yourself as you felt his dick growing inside of you.

“Aghhh… so good… never… gonna stop…” He heaved as he squeezed your hips harder.

But you gotta admit, it felt good as hell. Its length stretched you out so well, reaching the deepest parts of your pussy your fingers could only dream of touching. You couldn’t stop cumming, over and over again, you were honestly beginning to lose consciousness.

In your delirious state of ecstasy, you pick up on the slight turning of the door handle out of the corner of your eye. On the other side of the door, Solomon was mere seconds away from walking in on an angel falling victim to sin.

“S-Simeo- aghhh simeon t-the d- nghh the door!!” You stammer out between strained moans but it’s already too late.

“N-ngh?” Simeon’s head snapped over to the white haired man that entered the room. His wings immediately wrapped around the two of you to block your leaking bodies from the intruder's view. His scared, sharp eyes peeled from in between his feathers as they ruffled in intimation, releasing a soft growl. Yet through all of this he kept up the same back breaking pace against you poor, abused pussy.

“Uhhhhh… is this a bad time?” Solomon snickered bashfully as a sweltering dark aura surrounded him. In retaliation, a blinding light radiated from Simeon’s eyes and glittering white feathers circled around him. You whined nervously at the impending fight that seemed ready to explode at any second, till suddenly, in a flash of dark red and pink energy, Simeon was wrapped tightly in thorny, blood tinted vines. He groaned in pain before his thrusts came to a halt and his head slumped over.

“Phew, that could have gone a whole lot worse. I have no clue what you two were doing in here and I don’t think I wanna ask. Hope it was fun though,” he started walking back out the door, “Oh, one thing. Because of the magic I used, he might be a bit… ‘excited’ when he wakes up. Just give him a good ‘release’ and he’ll knock right out. When he wakes up again he'll be right back to normal. Good luck, my pupil~” he gave a delightful wave before leaving you all alone with the problem you created. With a shiver you gently tried to cup his cheek, only to jump back at the bright pink eyes that flashed open. He easily ripped apart the vines and smirked at you with a look of pure dominance, a look in pure contrast to the sweet smiles he used to give you.

His voice came out as a low growl, “You… look… delicious. I… need you… so fucking bad right now…” a terrifying shiver shook your body in place.

As Solomon blissfully skipped down the hallway with his hands in his pockets, he chuckled to himself when he heard your screams of fear and pleasure rattling the walls.

“Hehe, those two must be having fun. Maybe I’ll get to join them next time~”

Reblog + Comment + Like if you wanna see more obey me or Simeon specific posts!~

(Phewww finally done and kinda happy with it! Next is either thirteen or another idea I’ve had recently~ you’ll find out soon enough <3 also comment if you wanna join or leave tag list)

{Tags 🏷️: @letgobro }

#obey me #obey me nightbringer #Simeon #obey me simeon #simeon x reader #simeon x mc #obey me smut #obey me x you #obey me x reader #obey me x mc #fem reader #afab reader #enjoy corrupting this pretty angel boy <3

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touyasdoll · 1 year

Text

Just How He Likes It

pairing: Shouta Aizawa x exotic dancer!reader (fem)

word count: 1.3k

warnings: coffee shop acquaintances to lovers. he’s comes off a little stalkery at first, but nothing too intense. he’s just very into you and also very unsure how to pursue that. takes place in a strip club. soft/intimate sex. handholding <3

Aizawa doesn’t normally do this.

He doesn’t typically frequent establishments of this sort. The kind that are full of dim lighting and dollar bills. It’s not that he holds anything against these types of places; it just isn’t usually his scene.

He’s not even really sure what he’s doing here. He’s out of his element, but he couldn’t resist the temptation when he heard that the cute waitress who knows just how he likes his coffee moonlighted as an exotic dancer.

He tried for some time; he really did. How could he possibly stay away forever though? With the knowledge that he might finally get a peek at what you’ve been hiding beneath that coffee stained apron all this time? He couldn’t.

Now he’s here, waiting in the corner. His ever tired eyes glued to the stage, anxiously awaiting a glimpse of you. He’s not even sure that you’re working tonight, but he’s willing to stay and find out. He’s willing to come back tomorrow night and the next night after. And so on and so forth. He just needs to see you.

But then once he does, once he sees you strut out on stage, all he can think about is how he wants to touch you.

His gaze ravages your form as you begin to move, sensually swaying and spinning around the cold steel pole. He’s so much warmer. He could give you so much more than the men hollering for your attention. He could give you everything that you deserve and so, so much more.

He tunes the men out, focusing on the way your body expertly moves to the music, though his ears do perk up when the DJ refers to you as “Kitten”.

An amused smile graces his lips as he leans back in his chair, finally feeling a bit more comfortable in your presence.

That is, until you notice him.

You lock eyes with the man you’ve seen every morning for the past who knows how many months and for a second, you forget to breathe, but that’s nothing new. Every time he shuffles into your store, the same phenomenon occurs.

You forget to breathe and then you keep doing your job. This time is no different.

You keep your nerves in check, on the outside, at least. All that you can think of is a litany of questions.

How did he know? Did he seek you out? Is this simply happenstance? Is he going to treat you differently now that he’s seen you like this? Can you really take your top off on front of him?

It’s not like you have much of a choice. Off it comes and the way that you notice his eyes widen is worth the perfect reward for the risk.

You know that look. You’ve seen it hundreds, if not thousands, of times by now. He’s interested. You have him hook, line, and sinker.

So when your set is done, you depart the stage, feeling his gaze burning on your skin and loving every second of it. You can’t wait for more, so you make quick work of stowing away your earnings and putting yourself back together, so that you can make your way onto the floor.

He’s right where you left him, his eyes anywhere but on the dancer who’d since taken the stage. You’re hopeful that he’s looking for you and, of course, he is.

His stare meets yours and you gravitate to him, pulled in by some magnetic force that has your heels clicking in his direction, slow, sensual, and steady.

“I don’t recall seeing ‘Kitten’ on your nametag,” he murmurs, a lazy and effortlessly confident grin tugging on the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t recall ever seeing you here before,” you reply as you circle behind him, dragging your fingertips along his shoulders. “I’m not quite sure how to serve you here.”

He feels more muscular than he looks beneath his baggy clothes. You can’t help but wonder what else he’s hiding behind his aloof persona.

“But if I had to guess..” you continue, coming around to stand in front of him and straddle his lap. “I assume that you prefer it extra hot?”

It’s his turn to be rendered breathless. The subtle shift in his hips and the bulge growing beneath you is all the affirmation you need.

You smile and lean in, arms draping around his neck as your lips ghost the shell of his ear and you whisper,

“Why don’t you come with me?”

And you’re so grateful that he does.

Sweat rolls down your torso as your bodies glide and grind against one another, moans and groans being traded back and forth in the low light of the VIP room.

Your spine presses against the slick leather sofa beneath you, sticking to it when the thrust of his hips coaxes your body to bow and bend to his will.

He slips a sure hand beneath your back, leaving one last trail of kisses along your neck before he readjusts. He kneels, seizing your hips with both hands as he changes tempo, driving into you with more purpose.

The hair that’s come loose from his messy bun frames his face. The soft glow of the light illuminates his toned body in an enteral manner. His eyes are dark and full of lust, fixed squarely on your lewd expression. You’ve never seen him so feral and you’ve never been fucked this well.

He drives his hips into yours like he’s got something to prove. Like he’s finally releasing all the pent up energy from your daily exchanges. The subtle flirtations. The lingering touches when you personally hand him his drink. The stolen glances from across the shop. It’s all finally coming to a head and it feels glorious.

You want to tell him how good it feels. How good he’s making you feel, but you can’t find them. All you can do is reach for him, sinful noises pouring from your lips.

He takes your hand, interlocking his fingers with your own as he press it back into the sofa, squeezing it tight while his lips crash into yours. He readily swallow every decibel of desire vibrating against his mouth, swipes his tongue against your bottom lip and bites down, nipping at your kiss bitten pout as a particularly erotic groan is ripped from his lungs.

His hips move faster, angling up in just the right way to set you on a crash course straight into oblivion. That all encompassing feeling lights up every nerve in your body, winding you up and up and up until you hit your peak and crest over it beautifully.

His names tumbles from your tongue over and over as you mindlessly writhe and whimper beneath him, inspiring him to join you in nirvana. Seeing you like this is more than enough to do him in. He’s never felt pleasure quite like the jolt that runs through him when he finally spills his seed.

His hips briefly stutter and then fall right back in time, rolling as he rides out his high, all breathless grunts and softer whines than he’s seem capable of on the surface.

The silence that hangs in the air isn’t like any that you’ve felt before. It’s not awkward nor full of regret. It feels.. warm. Comfortable. Made easier by the way his thumb brushes against yours and how the tip of his nose nuzzles your neck.

Laying there in afterglow, all tangled up with one another as comfortably as lovers who’d had the privilege of spending a lifetime together already; it just feels right.

#aizawa x reader #shouta aizawa x reader #shota aizawa x reader #aizawa smut #mha x reader #bnha x reader #bnha smut #mha smut #aizawa x reader smut

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buckyalpine · 1 year

Text

Peter’s Hamster

Crack fic alert: Imagine Bucky with a pet he never wanted. He’s around the compound more cause he’s taking a break from missions for a while. In the meantime, Peter brought a hamster from the pet store and Tony is not having any of it.

“No”

“C’mon Mr. Stark, you won’t even notice him-

“I can smell him from the lab”

“I’ll invent something to stop the smell”

“Aren’t pets expensive”

“Aren’t you a billionaire?”

“Shut up Romanoff”

“He was like 2 bucks!”

Peter manages to squirrel his way into keeping his newest friend but there’s still the matter of who would care for him when everyone else as away on missions. Anyway, Bucky made it clear he would have no part in hamster sitting. Not one bit. If everyone was away then the hamster would have to fend for himself.

Like today. It had already been a few days since the collective team had left leaving Bucky in perfect solitude with his worn copy of the hobbit and his secret guilty pleasure; peanut butter cups. No one would ever EVER see the former winter soldiers suck off the chocolate left on the wrapper, licking his lips like a cat after every bit between flipping pages.

It was perfect.

Except.

Bucky could hear the sound of the squeaky wheel of the hamster going at full speed, the high pitched squeals piercing through the air.

“For fucks sake, can’t you keep it down” he grumbled before pausing and closing his eyes. “…I’m talking to a hamster”

….

“who can’t hear me”

Eventually the rustling and scurrying gets to him so he reluctantly goes over to Peters room to see what the 3 gram rodent is up to. He notices the pellet bowl is empty and water has almost run dry, though the little fur ball didn’t seem to care just yet, more concerned about cleaning and pawing at his face.

“If you had more than half a brain cell you would’ve escaped and fed yourself” Bucky scoffed, ready to turn on his heel but the tiny beady eyes that look at him make him stop.

“Pathetic” he mumbled before finding the bag of food under a pile of Peter’s clothes “no more wonder he bought a hamster, he lives like one”

The hamster nudges against him when he refills his bowl, using it as an opportunity to escape by climbing up his arm and sitting on his shoulder.

“Seriously”

The small light brown puffball stayed there while Bucky scoffed, plucking him off and plopping him back in, narrowing his eyes at it.

“This was a one time thing. Figure it out”

Is what he said and fully intended on standing by but the squeaky wheels and rustling get to him. At one point, he swears it’s on purpose as the hamsters way of getting his attention for a food refill.

So he takes matters into his own hands

“If you won’t feed yourself, I’ll teach you”

So the late night sessions begin. Rigorous circuits for the thing that was smaller than his palm, learning how to scale the cake, click the lock open and nibble its way into the pellets.

“I’m training a hamster”

Bucky caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, a few stray pieces of woodchips dusting his clothes while the hamster (who he now called PB....based on an interesting choice...) completed another around in less than 0 seconds.

“I’m training a fucking hamster”

“Good Job PB” Bucky petted his head with one finger, stopping when he was about to comment on his ability to climb the cage,

“And still talking to it”

Imagine the absolute confusion the team feels when they get back to find random clear tubes running along the walls, each connecting to a different room, most tubes leading to the snack cupboards and counter tops.

The walk into the living room and no one breathes a word, too entranced by the sight of a very focused Bucky and Peter’s hamster, perched on the super soldier. He sits on Bucky's shoulder, remnants of sunflower seeds left over on the coffee table while Bucky nibbles on a peanut butter cup.

“What the fuck”

Bucky turned around to find everyone staring at him with a variety of expressions from shock to amusement to utter confusion. At this point, Bucky couldn’t not care less, shrugging before holding up a seed to his shoulder so PB could grab it in his tiny hands.

“Which episode now, PB” “Who the fuck is PB”

Bucky pointed to the furball while scrolling through Netflix, avoiding any animal documentaries, not wanting to traumatize his new tiny friend.

“You named him PB?”

“Yup”

“Based off of what” Tony cocked and eyebrow while Bucky snorted, feeding him another sunflower seed.

“We’ll, I originally called him Parker’s balls”

Imagine after this Bucky has PB trained to wreck havoc and steal things he likes from just about anywhere. Peter gets absolute shit from Tony because 1 Bucky was enough chaos and now its Bucky plus this tiny demon.

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defectivevillain · 5 months

Text

tongues and teeth

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reading (can be read as romantic or platonic)

reader's pronouns & race: unspecified, ambiguous

summary:

“What should I do?” Franklyn whines. His voice continues to grate on your ears. Every remark that comes from his lips is dripping in misguided arrogance and misplaced hero worship. He’s staring down at his tortillas with worried eyes. “He hates me.” “Chef Lecter?” You ask incredulously. Franklyn nods. “I don’t think he cares enough to feel any particular way about you,” you say, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them. There’s a whisper of a dark laugh from far away, an amused exhale of breath.

Chef Hannibal Lecter is a world renowned chef praised for his innovative dishes. He’s won numerous awards and his restaurant, Hawthorn, reflects his talents. There’s something off about him, though. It isn’t until you’re seated in Hawthorn, a distance away from the door guarded by security workers and looking down at a breadless bread plate, that you begin to connect the dots.

word count: 6k | ao3 version

Warnings: spoilers to The Menu, canon-typical blood & violence, suicide, hanging

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is going to be an alternate universe, in which the characters from the Menu are replaced by those from Hannibal. Hannibal is the main chef and the reader takes the place of Margot. In this universe, we’re pretending that the dinner guests—many of whom are criminals in Hannibal—are not hardened killers, but rich consumers in the highest echelons of society. There’s an exact list of which character corresponds with The Menu dinner guests in the endnotes, if you’re super interested.

I have many different justifications for some of the choices I made while writing this, but I don’t want to bore you all to tears, so I’ll detail them in the endnotes. Just know that Hannibal and Julian (the antagonist of The Menu) have very different reasons and motivations for killing, which will impact the story

You’re not sure how you find yourself sitting at a table in Hawthorn, one of the world’s most exclusive restaurants, next to someone you can barely consider an acquaintance. Actually, you do know—you’d just rather not think about it. The boat ride over to the private island, the entirely unnecessary tour of the facilities, and the weirdly stringent rules governing your every move… You indeed remember how you got here. These occurrences all seemed outlandish and entirely otherworldly to you. This entire day has been nothing but a flight of fancy for those with more money than they know what to do with. Not for the first time today, you regret every decision that led you to step into the boat, walk along the sandy shores, and step into this cage of a restaurant.

Indeed, the space is nothing more than an enclosure. Everyone in the group seemed too excited about the upcoming meal to notice how the door promptly swiveled shut when you entered, sealing you into this urban nightmare of a building. You had turned over your shoulder upon hearing the door close, only to find several men in suits blocking the exit. A horrible feeling had settled in your chest. Whatever may come tonight, one thing is for certain: you are not supposed to leave. This may very well be your last meal.

You’re ushered rather forcefully to your table. Franklyn Froideveaux, the man who invited you, looks completely ecstatic. You berate yourself for accepting the invitation; in your defense, however, you weren’t exactly given a choice. You owe this man a favor, as begrudged as you are to admit it. You’d rather wash your hands of the scourge that is Franklyn Froideveaux as soon as possible, which is why you find yourself in Hawthorn tonight. This restaurant doesn’t accept single reservations—something Franklyn made sure to announce several times on your walk over. You should be grateful for this opportunity, Franklyn says every few minutes. Currently, he’s prattling on about the cooking utensils in the kitchen, and about some television series that he claimed to watch about the executive chef. You nod and hum at the appropriate moments, but your attention is elsewhere. Conversations fill the space, combining with clinking glasses to create a pleasant ambiance. At least, you suspect it is intended to be pleasant. However, you can’t help but see past the pleasantries scattered around you—especially when in the presence of such… notorious dinner guests.

First, there’s Frederick Chilton—self-proclaimed genius and institutional leader of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Next to him sits Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier, another high-profile psychologist known for her numerous research publications. Dr. Alana Bloom is seated in the third spot at the table. From what you know, the three professionals are colleagues in the medical field and research partners.

Next is Freddie Lounds. You remember seeing her make the news for her self-published food review magazine, TattleCulinary. She sits with James Gray, another critic who is more well-known in the art world. Gray edits the journalist's pieces, and you can pick up on the underlying tones of superiority in their dynamic as Lounds dominates their conversation.

Scott Komeda sits at a table off to the side with his wife, Cheryl. Neither of them look too happy to be here. You can’t say you blame them; although, judging from their luxurious attire, they’re all too familiar with a rich dining experience. A sordid state of affairs, you might say, if they weren't absolutely dripping in wealth. It almost appears as if they’ve dined here before. You certainly wouldn’t be surprised if that were the case.

Mason and Margot Verger sit at the table to your left. Rumor has it Mason is a cruel bastard. Since his rise to stardom, he’s been embroiled in many scandals—scandals that have dragged him into the courthouse, of all places. He is not a good person. Margot, his sister, sits next to him. Her shoulders are drawn tight, as if she’s on guard. You can’t find it in your heart to pity her—not when you remember her and her brother’s exorbitant wealth.

And, of course, Franklyn is sitting across from you. Truly, you’d rather be sitting here with anyone but him. Mr. Tobias Budge was supposed to dine with Franklyn instead—as the hostess so rudely reminded you several times—but he couldn’t make it. You wonder if Franklyn also has Tobias under his thumb; although, if he was able to escape this dinner, you suppose Tobias is in a much better spot than you are.

You allow your gaze to wander about the room. Everyone is preoccupied with speaking to one another or sipping the proffered wine. Upon first glance, there isn’t much that this group has in common. However, the more you look at them, the more you’re struck with one fatal realization: this entire group is enamored with greed. You can see it in the most minute of gestures—the roll of their eyes when they’re left waiting, the expectations they carry on shoulders that have never known burden or suffering. Indeed, it costs an excessive amount to take part in this dinner—this dining experience, Franklyn is keen to remind you.

Amuse bouche is served first. You stare down at the dish. It looks to be no more than two mouthfuls of food. You can’t help but huff a laugh from under your breath, which goes entirely unnoticed by Franklyn. He’s too busy sneaking pictures of the food—something the group was explicitly ordered not to do—and ranting about something pretentious.

As you stare down at your plate, you feel a prickling sensation rising up your spine. Unnerved, you turn around, only to find that a new addition to the kitchen is staring at you. It’s not just a new addition, you realize with growing horror, but the chef himself. You’re the first to break eye contact, as you tear your gaze away and focus on the appetizer. The man unsettles you.

Ultimately, you don’t end up eating the dish, so Franklyn takes it and eats it himself. Somehow, his behavior has grown worse since you first set foot on the island. You contemplate the thought for a moment, before you’re interrupted by a loud clapping sound. It makes your heart race out of your chest; startled, you turn around to find the chef standing in the center of the room.

“My name is Hannibal Lecter,” he says, his voice cutting through the eerie silence. “Today, you will ingest some of the building blocks of nature and, perhaps, even nature herself.” You take the gifted opportunity to study the man before you. Perfectly coiffed hair frames a sharp, angular face and mahogany eyes. An understanding smile is plastered on his face, yet malice curves his lips and sharpens his teeth. Your heart is hammering in your chest. You’re thrown out of your reverie by the light applause scattered about the room. Clenching your fists at your sides, you try to remain calm and turn back to face Franklyn. The cooks descend the stairs and serve you the first course. Once again, the dish you’re presented with resembles a display more than a meal. You pick around at it for a few moments before abandoning the thought.

If the first course is sparse, the second course is almost entirely empty of nourishment. Lecter’s description—an allusion to the privilege of the very guests sitting around his restaurant—is a warning for what lies ahead. The group will not be receiving bread, you realize as the cooks step down from the kitchen and fan out across the room. You have to suppress your irritation at the scene. Sure, you understand what the chef is trying to say. However, you get the feeling you’re not his intended audience. You’re not from the same world as these people. This is painfully present in the way Freddie Lounds tastes her dish, gushing about its distinct flavor profile. You grit your teeth to stop yourself from saying something stupid.

You’re anchored to your seat. Ultimately, you don’t belong here amongst these upper-class socialites, born with silver spoons on their tongues and privilege in their every movement; you feel like a sheep in wolf’s clothing.

The third course doesn’t bring nourishment, but it certainly brings a host of other feelings. The chef’s anecdote about his childhood is disturbing—especially when punctuated by the dish he serves, chicken thigh with scissors stabbed in it. When the dish is served, you can’t bear to touch it. Thankfully, there is an accompaniment to the poultry: tortillas. The tortillas have engraved drawings on them, supposedly. You unfold the tortilla cautiously. To your disbelief, there are indeed intricate depictions on the tortilla. Your heart hammers in your chest as you look at the single tortilla you were served. It’s an exact replica of how you’re seated right now, except Franklyn is missing. His chair is pictured and there’s a dish placed on his side of the table, but the man is excluded from the image. Upon closer examination, you find his fork and knife positioned vertically on the plate. Dread courses through your chest as you recognize the nonverbal sign of a finished meal. This does not bode well for Franklyn.

Franklyn, seeing that your attention has been captured by the tortilla, moves to grab his own. His tortillas are engraved with sketches of him seated at this exact table, holding up his phone and sneaking pictures of the meal. The color promptly drains from his face. You’re about to ask him why he looks so disturbed when you hear several outcries from the tables around you. Each person’s tortillas are depictions of unsavory, humiliating truths. The three researchers are whispering hurriedly amongst each other. Mason Verger is glaring at Margot, as if the dish is somehow her fault. Mrs. Komeda is staring at her tortillas with wide eyes and her husband seems to be sweating. Suddenly, you feel as if you were spared from any potential humiliation and embarrassment.

“What should I do?” Franklyn whines. His voice continues to grate on your ears. Every remark that comes from his lips is dripping in unfounded arrogance and misplaced hero worship. He’s staring down at his tortillas with worried eyes. “He hates me.”

“The chef?” You ask incredulously. Franklyn nods. “I don’t think he cares enough to feel any particular way about you,” you say, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them. There’s a whisper of a dark laugh from far away, an amused exhale of breath.

Franklyn’s preoccupation with his tortillas prompts you to look down at your own. You look down at the tortilla warily. Suddenly, you realize your picture has another meaning. It’s not just an omen for Franklyn, but for you, too. It’s a warning: this night is going to be a bloodbath.

The fourth course validates the trepidation settling in your chest. Chef Lecter allows a cook, Jeremy, to take center stage. Immediately, you know something is wrong. From what you’ve seen, Hannibal Lecter treats cooking as a performance. What performer would willingly let another take the stage? Unless… that other performer was the entertainment. Your suspicions are proven correct when you see Jeremy put a gun to his mouth and fire it off. You flinch at the gunshot, even though you’re expecting it. The guests around you scream.

The subsequent dish is aptly dubbed “The Mess.” There’s a significant resemblance to the human body, and the dish’s sauce looks like blood. You swallow hard, feeling rather nauseous. Franklyn rubs his hands together and begins eating, as if someone hadn’t just committed suicide before his very eyes. He is entirely unbothered and you’re sorely tempted to snap your fingers in front of his face.

You feel completely sick to your stomach. You grip the table hard, trying to keep yourself anchored to this horrible reality. A man died before your very eyes. You’re going to die tonight, surrounded by wealthy, privileged assholes. Bolts of pain slide through your fingers. Before the sensation can begin to truly burn, there’s a harsh grip on your shoulder. Hannibal Lecter, the chef, is looming over you. You flinch at the sudden touch and look up at him, while trying to regain feeling in your locked joints. There’s a buzzing sound in your ears. The chef’s eyes gleam crimson in the bright lighting. Franklyn lets out a weird squeal, clearly excited by the prospect of Lecter visiting your table. Unfortunately, the chef doesn’t have eyes for Franklyn. He’s staring at you hard enough for your skin to be lit with a phantom burn.

“How are you enjoying the meal?” Lecter implores, looking down at you. He’s rather handsome up close, you realize. You try to choke out a response, but Franklyn is quicker.

“It’s wonderful, sir!” Franklyn gushes shamelessly, “Truly exquisite-”

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” the chef interjects, sending him a withering glare before focusing back on you. He raises an eyebrow ever so slightly at you. You’re scrambling for words, empty promises and compliments that will leave him satisfied enough to leave you the hell alone. Thankfully, you’re spared by the enraged scream of Scott Komeda. The chef’s attention is drawn away from you and you breathe a sigh of relief. Lecter clasps his hands behind his back and levels the man with an expectant gaze.

Mr. Komeda’s eyes are frantic and he breathes heavily. “Get me the hell out of here!” He screams.

There are a few beats of silence, before the hostess—Abigail, you think her name is—paces over to him and places a hand on his shoulder. She whispers something quietly to him, something that goes unheard by everyone else. Whatever she says, it must be suitably disturbing, because the man’s face pales significantly. Abigail’s grip tightens on his shoulder.

“Which hand would you like to lose, sir?” She asks politely. The placating smile on her face almost makes you second guess what you just heard her say. The man blinks at her in evident disbelief. His wife tries to pull him back, but security guards descend on the man and he doesn’t budge. “Left or right?” He does not answer.

“Left hand, ring finger,” Lecter announces, breaking through the tense silence that was descending in the air. You inhale sharply, nearly choking on air at the reminder of the dangerous man lurking near you. You had nearly forgotten his presence. Abigail nods and walks back towards the kitchen, returning with a sharpened butcher’s knife.

You avert your eyes, but the man’s scream is enough to inform you of what occurs. When you turn back, you find Mr. Komeda holding his bloodied hand. His ring finger rests on the elegant tablecloth. You very nearly vomit right then and there—just barely managing to avoid the urge by placing a hand over your mouth and turning away. Mrs. Komeda’s jaw is frozen wide-open, and everyone else seems just as nauseated as you. At least, everyone except Franklyn. Somehow, amidst all this chaos and madness, Franklyn is still eating. His unaffected ferocity unsettles you.

“Let’s get a breath of fresh air, shall we?” Lecter asks, before motioning for everyone to rise from their seats. No one seems to understand his question, in the wake of what just happened. After he repeats the question, the guests are quick to rise from their chairs. It is dangerous to try opposing the chef. You stand up and follow the group back through the entrance hall, until you step out the door and outside the building. The chef waits in the center of the assembled group, pausing for a few moments to let any stragglers catch up. Franklyn is still chewing. The researchers are whispering amongst themselves, and Mason looks two seconds from decapitating his sister with his own hands. You keep your eyes firmly on the ground.

“You will be given a forty five second head start,” he begins. Everyone stares at him in confusion. “You may try to run. After forty five seconds have passed, my staff will chase you down.” Lecter doesn’t finish speaking before Frederick Chilton is sprinting away. The chef huffs in amusement, not looking the slightest bit threatened. He turns to regard the rest of the group. “Your head start begins… now.” Alana Bloom and Bedelia Du Maurier exchange glances before running away. Mr. Komeda stumbles away, with Mrs. Komeda tugging him along. Freddie Lounds and James Gray run in opposite directions, foregoing the path straight ahead and diving through the trees and bushes. Margot Verger doesn’t hesitate to run away. Mason watches her go for a few seconds, before pursuing her. This leaves Chef Hannibal Lecter, Franklyn Froideveaux, and you. You turn on your heel, about to run alongside the exterior of the restaurant and behind the building. A loud clap interrupts your momentary escape.

“Stay.” You swivel back around, only to see Lecter staring you down. His eyes are glittering in the dark night. You bite the inside of your cheek. Of course, you could simply ignore his command. However, you know you’ll be caught by his staff eventually, anyway. Might as well spare him the chase, you think to yourself. You nod and take a step to break the distance between the two of you. Franklyn sends you an incredulous gaze that you pretend not to notice. “We will go inside.” Lecter doesn’t wait for your answer, instead walking past you and back towards the door. You follow after him apprehensively, wondering what he could be planning. Perhaps he will slaughter you and serve you as the fifth course. The thought makes you shudder. You step through the opened doorway and stop once you’ve crossed the threshold. Chef Lecter is staring at Franklyn with a bored expression.

“Not you,” he says, effectively dismissing the man. Franklyn, evidently embarrassed, steps back from the door. The attendant closes the door, leaving you as Lecter’s only dinner guest who is still in the building. The chef’s shoes click against the polished floors. You momentarily contemplate ducking down into a hallway, but you realize you don’t know the building well enough to ensure you have a fighting chance at escape. Lecter leads you through the kitchen and into another room, waiting for you to enter before closing the door behind you. The room is sparsely furnished.

“This entire evening has been meticulously planned,” the chef says, taking a seat. You move to do the same. “You are not according to the plan.” He doesn’t seem too troubled by the notion—it’s a mild inconvenience. You frown. Before, you had attributed the chef to be a person taking his grievances out on his guests—each of whom serves as a reason for his loss of love for his craft. You were wrong, you’re beginning to realize. Hannibal Lecter is doing this for his own amusement. The social commentary behind it all is certainly motivation for his actions, but he does not intend to offset the system—the fragile ecosystem of the high-end restaurant industry. He is utilizing it to cater to his desires. What exactly are his desires, though?

“Why are you doing this?” You decide to ask, your heart hammering in your chest.

“Whenever feasible, one should always try to eat the rude.” It is not an answer to your question, yet it somehow provides you an explanation nonetheless. From there, the chef manipulates the conversation expertly, asking you all sorts of questions about your childhood, your adult life, your career… You’re beginning to feel unnerved, all up until he releases you from your pseudo-captivity. His attention has been recaptured by his staff, which you are extremely grateful for. His gaze felt as if it was searing through you. When you return to the dining area, you’re surprised to find the rest of the guests are already seated. They look tired, their hair messy and their clothing slightly rumpled. Just as you sit down, you’re immediately assaulted with tons of questions from Franklyn. They start off innocuous enough, but soon descend into an envious madness.

“Why would he want to speak with you?” Franklyn spits, stabbing at the remains of his meal. You watch as he shoves another bite into his mouth, seemingly immune to the positively disgusted glare Chef Lecter is pointing at him right now.

“Franklyn.” The chef is heading towards your table. Franklyn practically lights up upon the chef saying his name. Lecter steps impossibly closer, until he’s almost towering over your table. It feels as if he’s looking down on you—and he sort of is, from his position. You try to just breathe. His attention isn’t on you right now. “There’s something you haven’t told your friend here.” The chef’s tone is slightly mocking. His mention of you throws you for a loop.

You look to Franklyn, only to find that he’s steadily paling. Agitation itches beneath your skin as you try to rationalize what could possibly cause such a fearful expression. Lecter is nearly smirking from his position at your side. You grit your teeth and clench your fists under the tablecloth.

“What were you told about tonight?” Lecter prompts the man. Everyone is looking at Franklyn now. Even the kitchen seems to have fallen into an uneasy quiet. What could he have possibly been told about tonight? You’re not sure.

“Everyone would die,” Franklyn admits. There’s a ringing sound suddenly, and it takes several seconds for you to realize the sound is in your mind. Every thought almost seems to come to a screeching halt, as you try to come to terms with the unshakeable fact that Franklyn willingly attended this dinner, despite knowing he would die.

“And what happened to your original companion?” Lecter muses. “Who did you bring in Mr. Budge’s stead?” You don’t stay still for long enough to hear his next remark. There is a sharp knife lying next to your fork and spoon, almost as if this very interaction had been planned (if not for you, then certainly for Tobias Budge). Rage governs your every move, as you realize that Franklyn brought you here despite knowing you would die. This night was a death sentence, executed by Franklyn himself. Before you can contemplate the consequences, you lunge across the table in a fluid movement, before reaching out and cutting him. Before you can stab him, you’re roughly yanked backwards by someone. The knife slices at the skin on Franklyn’s cheek, and he screams loudly. You try to fight the person’s grip off, and it takes a few people to hold you back from Franklyn. When you see the shock and fear on his face, you’re filled with a cruel sense of satisfaction and vengeance.

“That is enough,” the chef remarks, slicing through the tense air with a simple sentence.

“Sorry, Chef,” Franklyn immediately replies, a bead of sweat trickling down his face. Does the thought of falling out of Lecter’s favor really distress him so? Although, when you think about it, you’re not sure if he was ever in the chef’s favor.

The chef looks at you now. You don’t bother apologizing. You didn't do anything wrong. If you’re correct, Chef Lecter engineered that very interaction. You don’t regret lashing out at Franklyn, so you meet Lecter’s expectant gaze head-on. Eventually, he seems to come to terms with your resolve, because his attention falls back to Franklyn.

“Franklyn,” the chef starts. You see Franklyn nearly go limp at the prospect of Lecter using his name. You grimace. Something feels wrong here. Indeed, the chef’s next remark seems to be an omen. “You believe yourself superior to me.”

“No, Chef,” Franklyn is quick to say. The patrons around you are entirely silent. The room almost seems to buzz around you, ringing with unresolved tension. You think back to Franklyn’s hero worship of the chef, clumsily combined with his own attempts at thoughtful critiques.

“You have made a mockery of my craft,” Lecter continues.

“No, Chef-” Franklyn sputters.

“Now,” the chef breaks off, a glint in his eyes, “We will test your assertions. Come here,” the chef orders. Franklyn obeys and, once he’s in the kitchen, Lecter awards him an apron and ties it around him. Franklyn looks absolutely over the moon, but you see the gesture for what it really is: the final nail in his coffin. “Everyone, please step back. Franklyn will cook something for our guests.” A hollowed laughter echoes throughout the space as the cooks chuckle, before stepping back to let Franklyn have control over the kitchen.

What ensues is quite easily the most embarrassing and humiliating display you have ever been forced to witness. By the end, there are tears slipping down Franklyn’s face. You almost feel bad for him—almost. Your sympathy quickly fades to obscurity when you remember that he invited you here despite being told everyone would die.

When Franklyn’s dish is complete, there’s a renewed silence around the space as the chef takes a few steps forward and leans down to smell it. Chef Lecter motions for a cook to step next to him and gestures for them to taste the dish. The cook eats the food, their left eyebrow ticking up ever so slightly.

“How is it?” Lecter questions.

“Horrible, Chef,” the cook answers. “The lamb is undercooked, and the sauce is practically inedible.” They grab a napkin and wipe their mouth, before putting it in the pocket of their apron and stepping back to join the rest of the cooking staff in the background. The background is an apt term for the group—they are mere backdrops, accessories, to Chef Lecter’s performance.

“Do you see now, Franklyn?” Chef Lecter asks, an understanding smile on his face. All you can see is sharpened teeth and a crooked malice. “Guests must remain in the dining hall, just as cooks must remain in the kitchen. Take off your apron; you’re dismissed.” But Chef Lecter isn’t done yet. The moment Franklyn takes off his apron and holds it in a clenched fist, Lecter places a hand on his shoulder and leans in to whisper something to him. It’s incomprehensible to you, but you can still see the way Franklyn’s expression falls, before an eerie resolve sets his shoulders. Without explanation, Franklyn steps further into the kitchen and disappears from sight.

Things don’t end there, however. Lecter then calls your name, beckoning you to follow after him as he weaves through the busy kitchen with ease. The rest of the patrons are banished to return to their seats. You glance back at them for a moment, before returning your attention to the chef in front of you. Once you turn the corner and are out of view of the guests, the chef turns on you.

“Abigail was supposed to bring dessert,” the chef remarks. His gaze flits to the hostess behind you for a moment. You hadn’t noticed her presence. Lecter stares at you. “Fetch the barrel from the smokehouse. It is a key instrument for the next course.” You stare at him in disbelief. You desperately want to object, but you suppress the urge. Once you think about it, you realize you’re being given a golden opportunity: a chance to leave the restaurant and explore the premises. Perhaps you could find something to aid your escape. With that knowledge in the back of your mind, you accept Lecter’s request.

You nod and turn around, intending to retrace your steps. You’re walking into the kitchen when something enters your field of vision. You squint and take a step closer, eyes widening as you process just what you’re seeing. Franklyn is hanging from a noose, feet hanging limp in the air. There’s a horrible motley of bruises around his neck and his eyes almost seem to pop out of their sockets. Your eyes are inexplicably led to the bloody cut on his cheek. You take a deep breath and pretend you didn’t see anything, before heading through the winding hall and exiting through the door Lecter mentioned. When you reach the open air, you feel a new sense of tranquility and calm hit you. The night air doesn’t know of the pain and suffering inflicted tonight; its briskness seems to ground you to the present.

You manage to make it to the smokehouse and, once you find the barrel, you drag it outside. However, knowing this may be your only opportunity for exploration, you decide to look around a little. Leaving the barrel to rest near the smokehouse, you head towards the nearest building. To your surprise, the side door is unlocked. When you open it, you’re certainly not expecting to be standing in a living room. Upon closer examination, this appears to be a home—the chef’s, most likely. Abigail had mentioned that all the cooking staff sleep in barracks, which leaves Lecter as the only viable owner of this residence. You look around the space, unsurprised to find that it looks meticulously clean.

You look around a little more, finding a gleaming stainless steel kitchen and an elaborate dining room. There’s only one space that remains: hidden behind the wooden door that you’re currently staring at. You tentatively grasp the door knob and slowly twist it, only to find that it’s locked. You tug at the door again, only for the sound of footsteps to distract you.

You turn around, your heart nearly jumping out of your chest as you see Abigail standing a short distance from you. “No one is supposed to enter Chef’s personal quarters,” Abigail remarks, her voice hollow. There’s a dullness to her eyes that disturbs you.

You frown. “Why are you here, then?” You ask. She stills for a moment, clearly not expecting the question. A moment later, the hostess regains her composure.

“You were asked to fetch the barrel, because of my mistake,” Abigail recounts, eyebrows furrowing to let you know what she really thinks of that idea. She crosses her arms over her chest, her eyes gleaming in the dim lighting. “But Chef never asked me to fetch it.” There’s a dangerous look in her eyes and a weapon in her hand.

It happens in the blink of an eye. One moment, Abigail is running at you; the next, you’re standing over her bleeding body. A knife juts out of her throat and it seems that she’s choking on her own blood. The light slowly leaves her eyes, until her form is terribly still on the kitchen floor. You take a shaky breath in, finding the effort rather laborious. It takes you several moments to come to terms with the fact that you just committed murder. Once you’re finally able to steel your nerves, you take the hostess’s key and walk over to the door. After twisting the key, the door swings open to reveal a hallway. You don’t make it more than a few steps into the hall before noticing a doorway to your left, barricaded by a steel door with a small glass window. Against your best judgment, you steal a glance through the window.

There are chains and sharpened tools lining the walls, metallic gleam burning your vision. A corpse hangs from the ceiling, flayed and mutilated beyond recognition. It isn’t even the thought of a corpse that frightens you. No, this corpse is different from the ones you saw in the smokehouse—this one isn’t an animal. The realization slowly sinks into your skin, sending your heart roaring in your ears. Human corpses hang from dangling meat hooks, in various states of mutilation.

You’re suddenly immensely glad you never ate anything. That chicken thigh served in the third course… was probably not chicken. You shudder. One thought triumphs over all others in your mind: you need to leave.

Afraid of what else you may find, you decide to turn back. You retrace your steps and walk back through the kitchen with bloody flooring and the empty living room until you’re outside once more. The walk to the smokehouse is quick, but once you grab the barrel, you’re reminded of how heavy it is. Your trip back to the kitchen takes longer than you’d like but, fortunately, Chef Lecter doesn’t seem bothered by how long it takes you to return. He only nods and instructs you to give the barrel to one of the cooks. Lecter’s attention is then taken elsewhere—as he still has a dessert to prepare—so you decide to take advantage. You know a way out now, after all. You have to wait for an opportune moment to access the outside door, since cooks are mulling about the kitchen near the exit. Eventually, you manage to find an ideal time frame for your escape and, with equal apprehension and anticipation, you walk over to the door. Your hand doesn’t even clasp the doorknob before there’s a hand on your shoulder.

“Leaving so soon?” You turn around, dread prickling across your skin as you’re faced with Chef Lecter’s disappointment. You’re not sure you’ll make it out of this alive, after all. Every time you blink, you see yourself as the next course in this absurdly fanciful feast. The Unwanted Guest, the chef would probably call it. “The final course hasn’t been served yet.”

You manifest a confidence that you don’t necessarily feel. “I’m finished eating,” you assert. Beneath what you hope is a cool exterior, you’re panicking. You can’t think of an excuse that will permit you to leave. Lecter seems to recognize that, because he only arches an eyebrow at you. He is not threatened.

“You’ll miss dessert,” he remarks, a sad smile on his face. You know the gesture is nothing but an act, a performance put on for an audience of one. You bite the inside of your cheek, stopping yourself from doing anything rash.

“I’m not much of a sweets person,” you eventually say, when the torrent of noise in your mind manages to calm down. The kitchen continues to hustle and bustle behind you, providing a subdued background of sound. It’s not enough to drown out your fear.

“Stay,” Chef Lecter insists.

“I couldn’t possibly,” you answer. You need to think of something quickly. What could justify your departure? “My clothes…” You break off, motioning down to your dress clothes, which are now stained with Abigail’s blood and who knows what else. This is as good of an excuse as you have, but it just may work. Stained clothing is extremely improper, and if there’s one thing you’ve learned from this hellish night, it’s that Chef Lecter abhors rudeness.

It must only be a few seconds of silence before Lecter speaks again, but it feels like an eternity. “Very well,” the chef finally responds. Lecter reaches towards you, his hand frighteningly close to your hip, before he opens the door for you. It feels too good to be true. There’s no way you actually convinced him to let you go, right?

He’s still holding the door open. This isn’t a trick. As you stand in the doorway, you briefly contemplate staying to rescue the other people. You contemplate fighting back against this chef and his staff. The thought doesn’t last long—not when visages of the guests are conjured up in your mind’s eye—Mr and Mrs. Komeda’s annoyed, impatient expressions, Miss Lounds and Mr. Gray debating the integrity of an ingredient worth more than your very life, Franklyn eating while blood splatters, the researchers amicably discussing the lives of their patients over the very depiction of the chef’s own trauma, Mason Verger gazing at his sister predatorily. None of these people are worth saving.

“Thank you for the meal,” you murmur to Lecter. Somehow, it feels like the appropriate thing to say. It must be a good choice, because a small smile appears on the chef’s face. It’s a fleeting gesture, but it almost looks genuine.

“I hope to see you here again soon,” Lecter says. You don’t acknowledge that remark, instead turning on your heel and walking away. The chef’s ensuing laughter follows you and echoes in your ears, even as you board the ship and sail back to the mainland.

Character Guide Chef Julian = Hannibal Lecter Margot = Reader Soren, Dave, and Bryce, business partners = Frederick Chilton, Bedelia Du Maurier, and Alana Bloom, research partners Lillian Bloom, food critic = Freddie Lounds Tim, Lillian’s editor = James Gray Tyler Ledford = Franklyn Froideveaux Ms. Westervelt, Tyler’s original guest = Tobias Budge Richard and Anne Leibrandt, restaurant regulars = Scott and Cheryl Komeda George Diaz, movie star = Mason Verger George’s personal assistant, Felicity Lynn = Margot Verger Elsa, Chef’s right hand = Abigail Hobbs

Adjusted Menu (Appetizer) Amuse bouche: compressed and pickled cucumber melon, milk snow, and charred lace. (First Course) The Island: plants from around the island, seaweed, raw scallop served on a rock from the island (Second Course) Breadless Bread Plate: no bread, savory accompaniments (Third Course) Memory: house-smoked chicken thigh, served with scissors stabbed in the meat, along with house-made tortillas (Fourth Course) The Mess: pressure-cooked vegetables, roasted filet, potato confit, beef au jus, and bone marrow Franklyn’s Bullshit: undercooked lamb with inedible shallot-leek butter sauce

Justifications At first, I thought Abigail as Elsa was a stretch. Then, I remembered that Abigail helped source the victims for her father, Garret Jacob Hobbs. That led me to conceptualize an older Abigail—one who wasn’t afraid to embrace the cruelty that she witnessed all around her. She is rather similar to Elsa, especially in the sense that she longs for Hannibal’s approval (just as Elsa longs for Julian’s). Just like Elsa, she is delegated to the sidelines—forced to carry out the chef’s every whim without even a moment’s gratitude.

Freddie Lounds as the food critic (Lillian) just makes perfect sense. She would be a perfect food critic—entirely unflinching and brutally honest. The Komedas fit pretty well too, and I wasn’t even aware of their existence until I looked through the Hannibal wiki for characters to substitute. Mrs. Komeda—and her husband, by extension—was a frequent guest at Hannibal’s dinner parties, which bled rather well into her status as a regular at his restaurant.

Since Hannibal’s relatives aren’t exactly alive or easily accessible, I scrapped the whole alcoholic mother bit that Julian had going, and instead just kept the third course as a vague allusion to Hannibal’s childhood. The bit about having the males hunt and the females dine felt misogynistic (and also exclusive of people who aren’t exclusively male/female), especially without the context of Katherine and Julian’s interactions, so I just scrapped it. Now, everyone gets to run from a murderer! Woooo!!

Y’all, I did A LOT of research for this fic… so pls lmk if u enjoyed reading it !!!! <3

TAGLIST (hoped y'all don't mind I'm tagging you in this, but I figured you'd like another Hannibal piece): @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

#defectivevillain #x reader #reader insert #male reader #gn reader #hannibal x reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #hannibal nbc #Hannibal Lecter x reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #the menu #the menu fic #fanfic #sorry for all the tags lmao

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