#< said with forced cheer through clenched teeth

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

most nights kinda suck. but sometimes youre relaxing in a nice motel and one of the tv channels is playing 9-1-1 episodes <3 and everything feels like it'll be okay for a few hours <3

[helaintoloki]

Keep Your Enemies Closer

pairing: sparrow!ben x reader

warnings: language, angst, suggestive content, minor spoilers

notes: the new season has brought me back from the dead so pls send in any tua requests you have <3 also this technically could be read as a sequel to relenting

summary: attending Grace’s birthday party forces you to confront the man you’ve been trying your hardest to avoid

The scent of pizza and spilled soda invades your senses as you help continue to set up birthday decorations in Lila’s absence. You have no idea where she’s run off to now, but you hope that taking over the rest of the work load will ease some of the stress from the tired mother’s shoulders.

The party center is loud, shrill shrieks of kids and music blasting from the arcade games splitting your ears and giving you a headache, and you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else but in some children’s play place. But, you are Grace’s favorite aunt, and you firmly believed in always showing up for family, so here you are.

Just as you finish setting the last place mat on the kid’s table an overly excited voice calls your name from the back of the room. A smile creeps upon your lips at the familiarity, but it immediately drops when you see that it’s not just Luther heading your way but also the man you loathe with your entire being.

“Hey, you made it!” Luther cheers animatedly before pulling your tense body into a tight bear hug. “It’s so nice to see you, y/n.”

“It’s nice to see you too, big guy,” you agree with a dry laugh and awkward pat to his back. You can feel the daggers being burned into your skull, so you have no choice but to acknowledge Luther’s companion for the day. “But you do know you’re supposed to leave the trash outside, right?”

“Like I haven’t heard that one before,” Ben scoffs with an indignant roll of his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital ‘saving lives?’”

“Shouldn’t you still be in jail?” You fire back with ire, and if not for Luther keeping you both apart you’d probably be fist fighting in the middle of the ball pit right now.

“Uh, Ben got out early on probation for good behavior,” Luther explains with a nervous chuckle while attempting to keep the peace as best as he can without losing an eye in the process. “And now he’s here to spend time with us as a family.”

“Yeah, let’s see how long that lasts.”

“Hey, I technically am family,” the Sparrow boasts with a taunting smirk, formulating just the right insults to get under your skin. “You were a late addition added to the Umbrellas to pick up the slack Viktor left behind after Dad suppressed their powers. You’re not even a Hargreeves. Isn’t that right, Luther.”

“W-Well, I wouldn’t say that,” the man is quick to defend only for you to speak over him.

“Fuck. You,” you snarl through gritted teeth, palms clenched tightly at your sides as you adamantly work to not let him get the best of you. “Ben was family, and you’re not him. You’re just the shitty replacement we’re stuck with.”

“And yet when you thought the world was ending you still slept with me.”

The smug smile on Ben’s face is immediately wiped off by the impact of your open palm colliding with his cheek, and the sheer force of your hit as him tumbling back into Luther. Your assault earns a few bewildered gasps from a nearby table of parents, but you couldn’t care less about what a group of wine moms thought of you in that moment. Your chest is tight with rage, but you will yourself to walk away before the situation can escalate further and ruin the party.

“What did I miss?” A curious Five notes after arriving to the scene, but he soon finds himself forced to match your brisk pace as you grab him by the arm and drag him with you to the bar.

“I need a drink.”

~~~

You do your best to avoid him for the rest of the night, but eventually Ben is able to corner you by the gift table where you sit nursing a spiked lemonade.

“Drinking at a kid’s party, huh?”

“Did you come here to get slapped again?” You retort with a wry chuckle before taking a quick swig of your drink.

“Actually,” he starts, hesitating as he struggles to get out the words, “I came to… apologize.”

“You? Apologize? What, is the world ending again?” You scoff in disbelief before finally settling your gaze on the shaggy haired man before you. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you think prison might have made him hotter, and the fact irks you to no end.

Obviously annoyed by your defensiveness, Ben shakes his head and says, “I don’t even know why I bother. I only came here for Luther’s sake because he wouldn’t shut up about making ‘positive changes’ now that I’m out of jail.”

“‘Don’t even know why I bother?!’” You repeat in indignant disbelief. “I gave you so many chances to prove that you weren’t a complete asshole and every time you screwed me over! You are not the victim in the situation.”

“Oh, spare me the sob story,” Ben remarks dismissively with a roll of his eyes. “I lost someone too, you’re not the only one that has to deal with the fact that you’re stuck with a completely different version of your dead partner. At least I’m trying to make the most of what the universe has given me.”

“By getting yourself thrown in jail over some stupid crypto scheme?”

“Jesus, by trying to make something with you!” Ben cries out in frustration. “You won’t even try to just play along!”

“I already told you, I’m not your y/n. She’s dead,” you remind him harshly. “Sleeping with you was just a moment of weakness and a mistake that shouldn’t have happened.”

“Really? Because if I remember correctly you seemed to really be enjoying yourself,” he taunts with a suggestive smirk that has your face immediately growing hot.

“God, you’re so insufferable! I could just-“

“Kiss me?”

“-choke you!”

A heavy silence falls between you both as you stare at each other in bewildered shock. It takes you a moment to recover from Ben’s words as you swallow harshly and ask, “What did you say?”

“What did… you say?” He retorts in an attempt to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The tension between you now is so thick you could cut it with the knife sitting by the birthday cake, but instead you just sit and stare at each other.

“Does your car have tinted windows?” Ben asks suddenly, prompting you to raise a brow.

“Yeah, why?” You reply with an inquisitive raise of your brow, but when Ben gives you a pointed look you’re then quick to catch on. “If we go now we’ll be back in time for cake.”

“Let’s go,” he says, eagerly rising from his seat so fast it almost knocks over the presents. Anxiously taking your hand in his, you both scan the room to make sure no one’s eyes are on you before bolting towards the exit.

You know you’re going to regret this, but in the moment you couldn’t care less what consequences would come from your romp in the backseat of your car with Ben.

Because as much as you hate to admit it, you’ve really missed him.

[milkbobatyun]

my love, mine all mine

pairing: yandere!sunday x reader

genre: yandere

summary: the consequences of not listening to the head of the oak family

word count: 936

C O N T E N T W A R N I N G : yandere behaviour, manipulation, fear

a/n: was inspired after listening to a really good sunday-inspired playlist on yt and i HAD to write this

you had only been talking to a passerby, giving him directions to reach his destination.

golden, hawk-like eyes scrutinsed your every move from a distance, watching as the man slowly leaned closer to you. every movement of his wretched mouth, every quirk of his eyebrow fanned the ember of jealousy into a raging flame. he said something. you laughed. the pretty sound travelling towards his ears, igniting a fire of anger from within him.

a thread within him snapped when he saw the man place his filthy, disgusting hand on your shoulder. his jaw clenched, the pearly feathers behind his ears fluffed out in rage. the heat of jealousy surged through his veins, pounding in his ears. all he could see was red.

sunday stalked towards the chatting group. with your back turned to him, you were blissfully unaware of the encroaching danger. the man’s face paled when he caught sight of the intimidating figure rapidly approaching.

a haloed shadow was thrown over the shaking figure of the man, its wings fluffed out in jealousy. seeing the fury radiate from the powerful stance of the head of the oak family, the fearful man collapsed to the floor, his legs giving out underneath him. with a hurried scramble, the man scurried away, throwing one last petrified glance behind his back.

sunday turned to you, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“i think it’s time to go home.” he gritted out between his teeth, a firm grasp encircling your wrist.

with your wrist trapped in his iron grip, you were forced to stumble along behind him, biting your cheek against the painfully tight grasp. sunday, seemingly unaware of your discomfort, politely greeted passersby, waving to them with mock cheer, a smile plastered on his face. however, his piercing golden eyes were hard, like a predator who had found its prey.

the heat of his hand on your wrist burned you, yet the hairs on your arms were raised, goosebumps prickling against the surface of your skin. his fingers trembled with barely contained rage, an edge in his voice, filled with faux warmth. as though the people walking along the street could sense the tense air between the two of you, the air felt thick, pressure building against your chest.

when you reached his manor, sunday threw open the door. the house reverberated with the loud boom of the door richocheting from the force.

sunday mercilessly dragged you up the stairs, not caring if you were stumbling up the stairs, often almost tripping. with overwhelming force, he threw you onto the bed, the plush mattress cushioning your body, the soft pillows at your back.

with measured calm, sunday gently shut the door behind him, his eyes hiding a fire of hatred.

“just what, pray tell, did i tell you before we left the house?” he hissed, pacing up and down the room, the sound of his boots muffled by the velvety carpet underfoot. sunday’s voice came out low and venomous, his movements slow, placing you on the edge.

you trembled in your place, hand over the bruising wrist, body instinctively curled in a foetal position, lest he hits you like before. the silence stretched out between the two of you, the only audible noise was your pulse, booming in your ears. the bruise throbbed dully, a reminder of your vulnerability.

sunday slinked closer to you, watching you with amusement at how you flinched at his every move, bracing for any blows to land. your eyes were pressed shut, memories of past ‘lessons’ flashing vividly behind your eyes. 

each second stretched into a minute, an hour, eternity. thunk. thunk. thunk. the quiet shuffle of his boots scraped across the carpet. sunday placed a knee on the bed, like a cat stalking a bird.

“what. did. i. say.” he purred, a smile etched onto his face. underneath the facade of kindness, you could see how his brows furrowed in anger, his knuckles clenched white against the silken bedsheets.

he reached out a hand towards you, tilting your chin up with a gentle touch, like you were a glass flower, fragile and easily broken. his soft touch could almost be mistaken as a lover’s touch – tender, loving; yet within his eyes swirled the burning fury, like a predator who was about to devour their prey.

the bed creaked softly as sunday leaned closer, his warm breath fanning across your skin. he smiled down at you, a faux smile.

“i give you all this luxury, yet you’re here talking to other guys?” he hissed, his finger drawing a cold path down your neck, past your jugular, an unspoken threat in his eyes.

he chuckled softly, finding amusement in your trembling, like a cat toying with a mouse. his smile faded instantly, his hand darting out, unforgiving grip on your chin burning your skin. your skin prickled against his touch, your hands trembled uncontrollably. he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear.

“remember what happened last time you defied me. we don’t want that again do we?” he mocked. “you belong to me and me only.”

sunday’s grin widened at the prolonged silence. his hand trailed down to your neck, the tender touch of love. his fingers lingered for a moment too long, tracing absent-minded lines along your collarbones. with the speed of a hawk, he gripped your neck in a chokehold, just tight enough to bring out a surge of panic across your face, your airways restricted beneath his hand.

“yes.” sunday whispered dangerously, a smirk of sick satisfaction on his face. “that’s the look i want. you’re mine.”

taglist (open): @yeonjunsfox

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobayun 2024 / づ ♡

[13uswntimagines]

The Come Down (Alessia Russo X MMA fighter!R)

R is a very popular MMA fighter, and Alessia sees the parts of you that other people don't. Shes the one who gets to put you back together again after a tough fight.

Warnings: D/S undertones but no smut.

Author's note: This was super fun to write and i hope you enjoy it. Feel free to hit me up with ideas and comments and stuff.

You sighed, leaning your head against the stone walls of the Emirates tunnel, letting it soothe the twinges that always lingered after a long flight.

It was masochistic, but the ache that lingered the day after a war in the Octagon was always one of your favorite feelings, especially if you won. It helped you to compartmentalize the parts of yourself. It helped you separate the completely in-control fighter, the stone-cold monster that didn’t give a fuck about her opponents, and the human that lingered underneath. 

It was hard to punch a man until he was unconscious if you thought about how human he was. If you pictured his family and his life as anything other than an opponent for you to run through. But you never wanted that part of yourself to exist anywhere other than in the cage. 

The throb in your muscles and ache in your cuts helped you lock that part of yourself away. It helped you keep your grip on reality in all of the post-fight hormones until you could get to the grounding force that was your girlfriend. 

The post-fight come-down was always difficult for you, especially after a 5 round back and forth battle like the one you had just fought. 

You loved your job, you really did, but it was so easy to… lose yourself. To get lost in the anger of the UFC universe and the vitriol of your opponents. To get lost in the cycle of Training, listening to a man tell you he was going to destroy you at press conferences, cutting weight and beating the ever-living fuck out of someone while people cheered. 

Just being in the same building as Alessia had set you at ease, and watching her score 2 against Chelsea was even better. 

But the sound of the crowd had started to set you on edge. The way they erupted when your face, black eye, stitched gash on your cheek curving up to your forehead and all, appeared on the Jumbotron after your girlfriend’s PK had you clenching your teeth. It egged on the thoughts of murdering the keeper that had taken her out swirling in your brain, along with the desire to demolish the player who had so callously stepped on her teammate after a play. 

It was why you escaped to the tunnel, to gain some form of control over your thoughts. 

Maybe flying out as soon as you had been cleared by the medics wasn’t such a good idea, but you couldn’t stand being away from Alessia any longer than you had to be. You couldn’t stand being away from the comfort, love, and… safety she offered you. 

God, you sounded like a psycho. 

Or a submissive nearing the end of her rope.

6 weeks apart from your girlfriend was really doing a number on you. 

“Ay bruiser, fancy meeting you here,” Katie said, appearing in front of you with a wide smile. 

You flashed a toothy grin at the Irishwoman, ignoring the way it pulled at the stitches holding your cheek together. “Maccabe, always a pleasure,” 

She caught your arm. “That was one hell of a fight. Thought Less was gonna break my hand during the third round,”

You grimaced. 

The third round was the only one your opponent won. He had caught you with a big overhand right, opening the gash on your cheek and knocking you on your ass in the last 15 seconds of the round. The knees he had followed it up with to your side hadn’t been fun either. He had almost finished you, and you knew it had to be hard for the team and your girlfriend to watch. 

“My hand dipped when I tried to close the distance,”

It really was a game of inches, and he had certainly taken advantage of your small mistake. It was ok, you had gotten him in the end anyway. 

Katie made a sound of agreement, glancing at the tunnel behind you. “Certainly made us all nervous, but I’m happy you took his head off, even if it took you until the last 30 seconds of the fight,” 

She made a little kicking movement with her leg like a semi-recreation of the head kick you had used to end the fight. 

“Didn’t want to rush it,” You shrugged, nodding to the Arsenal girls as they passed you, unable to help the way you automatically searched each face for your girlfriend. 

“Ya missus is still signing for a couple of kids,” She gestured over her shoulder, a knowing smile still playing at her lips. “I can take you to her if you want?”

You shook your head. “I’ll wait here. I’m in no hurry,” 

You also didn’t think you could deal with the sounds of the crowd when your head was still pounding, a consequence of taking a flight with a concussion against doctor's orders you supposed, and you ached every time you took a step, every time you inhaled too deeply really. 

Katie’s eyes softened when she saw the emotions flit across your features. “Come on, let's go to the locker room instead. It’s away from prying eyes,”

She tugged your hand. You let her lead you deeper into the tunnel and into a room filled with wooden cubbies. 

It was nice to let your brain turn off, to just… follow along and allow someone else to lead you. 

“Hey champ,” Leah smiled at you as Katie deposited you in what you assumed was Alessia’s locker. “That was one hell of a fight last night,”

“Thanks,” You winked at the defender. “You guys had a fantastic game too,” 

“I’m not sure a football match compares to a man trying to punch you in the face,” Steph said, glancing at you from her spot near Lottie. 

You made a low sound in the back of your throat, feeling the tightness return to your chest. “But I don’t have people stepping on me after the bell,” 

“But you do end up covered in blood,” Kyra chirped. “We don’t have to worry about that usually,” 

“Most of the time it’s not mine,” You muttered, leaning further into your girlfriend's locker. Her perfume lingered in the cubby, and you let it soothe the frayed edges of your nerves.

You didn’t want to think about fighting. About the person. The savage. you were in the octagon. You toyed with the hem of your sweatshirt sleeve. It was slightly too long because it really belonged to Alessia. She had given it to you before fight week. 

It helped, but it wasn’t her. 

It hadn’t been enough after the fight, and it wasn’t enough now. 

You didn’t think you could wait much longer, but you didn’t have to. 

“The stadium is buzzin,” Alessia said slightly breathlessly, stepping through the locker room door. 

You were immediately on your feet, taking in her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. “Less,” 

A grin instantly broke across her face, and she crossed the room in 3 long strides. Her arms wrapped around you, and without thinking you buried your face in her chest. 

It made the gash on your cheek sting and the tender skin of your jaw ache, but you didn’t care, pressing yourself as tightly to her as you could. She shifted, her nails running over your back with one hand as the other cupped the back of your neck. 

It was gentle, and grounding, and everything that you craved. 

“Hey baby girl,” She breathed into your hair, her voice dipping just a little and sending a shudder down your spine. 

She was like a ray of sunshine, always warm and sweet. It was why none of the fans would ever speculate about the positions that the two of you held in your relationship. They joked that she was too soft to be a dominant, but the people who understood how your relationship worked could see that her mix of firmness and warmth was exactly what you needed. 

She waited for you to pull away first, just enough to meet her eyes. “Hey,”

She leaned in and placed a careful kiss on your lips. “I’ll shower and then we can go, yeah?”

You deflated, your fingers tangling more tightly in her jersey. You didn’t want to let her go, even if it was just for a second. 

“You can come with me,” She said, a knowing look in her eyes. “And tell me all about fight week,” 

“Ok,” You agreed, only loosening your grip long enough for her to grab her shower bag and change of clothes, before you latched back on, holding the hem of her jersey tightly as she led you towards the showers. 

You felt a bit like a child, clinging to her, but she was like a buoy keeping you from drowning in the sea of your rocky emotions, and now that she was close to you, you couldn’t let her go. You were afraid that if you did, you would lose your grip on reality. 

The warm, wet air of the shower helped too. 

It reminded you of your post-fight routine. 

Win or lose you would stand under the hot steam of the stadium, washing off the blood and sweat from the octagon until your coaches pulled you out. It was part of the routine that you had skipped since the docs wanted to stitch your cheek as soon as you were out of eyeshot of the fans. 

Then you had felt so… off balance that you raced through a cold shower and hopped on a plane to get to your girlfriend as quickly as possible. You didn’t even stay for the post-fight press conference. 

“Come on love,” She said, pulling you into one of the stalls, sliding the first curtain shut behind the two of you, and bringing her face inches from yours. 

Her hand very gently cupped your cheek, mindful of the dark bruises that littered the skin, tilting your chin up. Her eyes searched you for a long moment like she was reading your mind. Like she was deciding what you needed from her. 

Her pointer finger very gently followed the long cut that ran under your left cheek, up to your temple, and just above your eyebrow. “I thought they usually put a bandage over stitches,”

Your eyes darted away from her. “I didn’t like the way it pulled at my skin,”

“I think you’d like it less if you got an infection,” She deadpanned, using her thumb to tilt your chin up further as she stepped into your space. “You wouldn’t be able to fight,” 

“But the scar would be worth it,” You shrugged, using all of your strength to muster up fake nonchalance. 

Her lip quirked upward. “Would it?”

You let your own smile morph into a playful smirk, despite the tremendous effort it took. “Chicks dig girls with scars,” 

“I think you’ve got enough of those, cheeky,” She hummed, leaning in and brushing the thick line that lived on the underside of your jaw with her nose. “I like it more when you come out without a scratch on you or a hair out of place,” 

You hummed, leaning back on the stall wall as her lips replaced her nose on your jaw, her teeth grazing the delicate skin as she made her way down the column of your throat and back up. 

Her hips pressed into yours, keeping you pinned to the wall, her thumbs insistent under your chin, keeping your head tilted up as her tongue slid pleasantly against your own. 

You sighed into the kiss, your fingers twisting into the material of her jersey, trying to pull her closer. 

Her thigh flexed between your legs, pressing into you, and you couldn’t help the way your hips rolled down to meet her. 

Or the wince that broke the kiss when the 

movement pulled uncomfortably at your ribs. 

“Babe?” 

You whined as she pulled away, blinking open to meet her burning blue eyes. 

“I’m ok,” You said breathlessly, trying to lean back up to kiss her. 

Her hand on your chest stopped you, as did the perfect arch of her eyebrow that screamed yeah right. 

Her fingers traced down your chest to the hem of your shirt. They crept under your top, meeting the tape wrapped heavily across your abdomen instead of smooth skin. 

Her eyes widened when she pulled up your sweatshirt, revealing the thick white bandages wrapped tightly across your stomach. 

“Want to try again love?” She asked, finally looking up at you with an expression that had a shiver tingling down your spine. 

“Just two cracked ribs and some nasty bruises,” You huffed, shifting uncomfortably when her fingers grazed the material. 

“Just,” She snorted, shaking her head, dropping your shirt, and standing up to her full height. “Why didn’t you tell me last night?” 

You shrugged. “I didn’t want you to worry. The stitches were already enough,” 

“I’d rather know and worry than accidentally hurt you,” Alessia said seriously. 

You looked away from her, swallowing hard. “And I knew you wouldn’t touch me at all if I told you,” 

“Baby girl,” She murmured, her voice going very soft, her thumb very gently ghosting over your uninjured cheek. 

She knew that the come down from fights was always particularly difficult for you. That the power that you held in the octagon always made you crave submission. You craved to not have to think, to just exist, and then to let your being relax in the aftercare that followed. 

This time the desire was amplified by the brutality of the fight. 

She could see you teetering on the edge, fighting the fog that always filled your brain, and while she wanted to scold you for withholding information, she knew that that wasn’t what you needed from her. 

Not when you were already dropping so hard. 

“Ok,” She said, keeping her voice soft as you leaned further into her touch. “I’m going to shower, and you’re going to be a good girl and stay right here for me, alright?”

You made a low noise in the back of your throat, and your eyes slid closed as you nodded very slowly. 

“Good girl,” She hummed, placing a very gentle kiss on your lips, and pulling away. “I’ll be two minutes love,”

You sagged against the shower stall wall. 

You could do that. You could wait 120 seconds for your girlfriend. 

You could and would do whatever she asked you to do because you knew it would help. You knew she would fit all of your loose pieces back together again and make it ok. 

You just had to exist.

[ode2rin]

“it is because of your negligence that we're stuck here with each other,” you spat at him, the words laced with a bitter edge, and rin couldn't ignore the way you emphasized each word as if it were a weapon.

and from the way his chest was contracting against his ribcage, maybe they were indeed sharp knives out to get him. 

rin felt the weight of your accusation pressed against his chest, a stark contrast to the sweet nothings the two of you once exchanged beneath the sheets of love, where “i love you's” had been met with smiles, and the world had seemed so full of promise.

but now, things had taken a dark turn, and neither of you could pinpoint when or how it had all gone wrong. you wouldn't tell him– wouldn't let him turn things around.

rin's anger flared, his words escaping through clenched teeth. "my negligence? you're really pinning this on me, again?"

your eyes locked onto his, a warning in their depths. "don't go there."

he pushed on, relentless, “go where? you know i'm right. you always pin things against me.”

you didn’t respond , but you looked at rin in a way that made him want to fall on his knees and beg you — beg you to just tell him what more he can do for you to stop looking at him like this.

only if it was that easy, no — because it was a look of indifference, a look in your eyes that’s telling him none of his words were right anymore, and everything he says had not been good enough to attempt to fix things.

“let's just tell them we're done and leave this shitty reunion,” rin suggested with a note of finality.

“i should have known you'd suggest something as selfish as you,” you countered, shaking your head in disbelief. “this isn't about us. so don't you dare ruin this too, itoshi rin.”

the word ‘too’ hung in the air, a relentless echo that reverberated through the room, each syllable like a blade, cutting into rin's heart. it felt like a never-ending loop, a supercut of all he had lost and ruined - nights filled with piercing arguments, when your voices were raised until your throats ached, and the bed you had once shared had become a cold, lonely expanse. just how much of you had he shattered beyond the point of no return?

the ensuing silence was thick and suffocating, it enveloped the room, creating an atmosphere so tense you could almost hear the creaking of the floorboards under its weight. 

two old friends, once lovers, now trapped in a forced reunion getaway, compelled to act like a couple when their love had long since turned to ashes.

perhaps it was pride that you couldn’t admit it was partly your fault too. you should’ve told your friends about it the moment he took his things out of your shared apartment. there had been numerous chances, yet you clung to false hope, bargaining for a lost cause, and desperately wishing for a change that was never meant to be.

foolish. that's what it felt like - a foolish hope. you knew it was over the moment he couldn't bring himself to respond to your declaration that you were done.

“uhm, guys?”

as if on cue, isagi's head appeared at the slightly ajar door of your designated room,

“is everything fine? the tour guide is already downstairs, so…” he trailed off, his gaze shifting between you and rin, sensing the tension.

“we're—” rin began to say, but you immediately cut him off.

“everything's fine! just one of rin's moods,” you chimed in, forcing a smile as you turned towards isagi. “right, baby?” you said, addressing rin with a strained cheerfulness.

isagi chuckled, seemingly oblivious to the emotional maelstrom in the room. “must be it, then. i don't know how you dealt with that for five years, y/n.”

and there, amidst the oblivious laughter, it struck you. 

five years.

“yeah,” you admitted with a tinge of sadness, “five years of loving him would make you immune to it,” you thought, the words choking in your throat.

isagi, still in the dark, laughed lightly. “i guess so. we'll wait for you downstairs.” and with that, he left you alone with the relentless weight of your unresolved feelings.

for a moment, you and rin remained silent, but when you met his gaze, it was as though he wanted to ask a hundred different questions to comprehend what you meant about being immune to it.

but you beat him to the punch. “we'll tell them on our last day, and then pray to god that we never have to talk to each other again.” with that, you left rin to grapple with his thoughts, leaving the room heavy with the unspoken truth.

and right then and there, it struck him that the answer to when and how things had unraveled for both of you had been staring rin in the face all along. it was just that he wasn't ready to see it.

note. and i offer you: an excerpt from an idea i scraped :D

[syndrossi]

October Trick or Treat Fill #11: Daemon overhears an upsetting song

There were some great prompts for mad!Daemon and I...ended up taking little pieces from a few. (I started with "Daemon punches Cole" but ultimately stopped because we might get there at some point in the main story.)

So at long last, here are 3.6K words of Daemon experiencing all the emotions, which definitely include anger.

x~x~x

“Why is this so difficult?” Daemon snarled as they stepped back into the busy street.

“Because you are making it difficult,” Laenor said. “Why did you ask me along if you refuse to heed my advice?”

That was six shops along the Street of Kings visited, none of them offering anything remotely worth gifting to his sons. He had only given them two years worth of name day gifts, and each time it grew more difficult to decide upon a worthy one.

He had hoped that Laenor might have insight to offer, but his sons were years younger, while Daemon’s sons often seemed older than their own years. The wooden ships he had gifted Jon had seen some limited use when their cousins visited, but otherwise collected dust on the shelf. He doubted they would show any more interest in wooden knights or horses.

“It must be perfect,” Daemon said, frustration rising.

When his sons’ belongings had arrived from the Gates of the Moon, and Rhaegar had excitedly reached for his harp, Daemon had been met with the harsh realization he still did not know half of the things his sons were interested in. And when he had learned that Jon’s short sword and Rhaegar’s harp had been gifts from an unnamed “benefactor,” he had needed to excuse himself for a rare visit to the yard, where he had hacked a target to pieces with Dark Sister.

Realizing that Otto Hightower had known his sons’ preferences better than he, to have sent the perfect gifts, had filled him with fury at first, but when his energy had finally been spent in the yard, it had turned to hollow grief. I should know these things. I should know their favorite color, what foods they loved as infants, what joys they clung to for comfort in that joyless place.

That Jon had been forced to seek solace in weapons, in bashing training targets to gain some sense of control with he and his brother at Allard Royce’s mercy, while Rhaegar had turned to song to soothe their pain—

Daemon spun away from Laenor, breath hissing through clenched teeth as he fought to master his fury when every part of him screamed with the impulse to burn, to destroy.

“I know where we can go!” Laenor said, voice tight with the forced cheer Daemon had heard him use before to stave off one of Joff’s toddler meltdowns. His cousin raised his arms, palms flat, in a placating gesture when Daemon turned, ready to snap at him.

He exhaled then. Laenor was not the enemy. The man he wished to burn was in the Vale. “Where?”

“Children like secrets, hidden things. Like Jon’s sheath, the one you said Rhaegar gave him.”

That was true, though it set his chest to burning once more at the reminder of another enemy who still drew breath. Rhaegar’s first gift had been taken from Jon the night of their attempted escape, when Crayne had broken bones and threatened him with death, and discarded. His younger son had asked for aid in having a new one made for Jon, who had been moved almost to tears at the gift.

“What do you have in mind?”

“There is a shop nearer to River Row that sells such things. Jeweled boxes with false walls where they can keep their treasures, pouches with hidden pockets that can hide letters or other small things. Oh! There were some fetching brooches and hairpins that conceal tiny knives.”

His sons did enjoy both intrigues and martial pursuits. And although both had their bronze knives now, Rhaegar wore his openly rather than concealed. He might enjoy the novelty of a weapon hidden within a hairpin. It went without saying that Jon would gladly welcome any excuse to be further armed. He had already started to pester Daemon about when they would be considered old enough to wear a sword at their side.

“That sounds promising,” he admitted, earning a smile in response.

The shop in question was so close to the River Row as to nearly be in it, just barely skirting the edge of the sphere of affluence that radiated outward from the base of Aegon’s Hills, where the wealthiest of the city dwelled. The man who greeted them seemed to be a jeweler by trade, but there were enough works of leather that Daemon assumed he had a partner who specialized in such.

It had all that Laenor had described and more, and the jeweler, upon recognizing that he had royal visitors, brought out some richer pieces for their perusal. There was a beautiful pin of garnet and gold, fashioned into the shape of a red dragon that Daemon was immediately drawn to, the head rearing back and wings splayed wide, as though preparing to breathe dragonflame.

It had considerable heft to it, the pin itself wide and tapering to a point, to serve as a sheath for the hidden blade. The hilt and guard were hidden behind the dragon’s head and wings, secured in place to a pair of hooks by leather straps on either side of the guard that could be worked free.

The dagger could hardly be called that, its delicate hilt barely long enough to pinch between his thumb and forefinger, and the blade itself thin, tapering to a needle’s point. But it could stab a man’s flesh, should the need arise, and bleed him capably enough if aimed somewhere vulnerable.

“Can you make two more in this style?” Daemon asked, running his finger over the jewels that formed the scales. “One of sapphire on silver, and one of onyx on bronze?”

Jon did not often wear his hair styled into braids, but he might consider it with a Shadow hairpin that could transform into a tiny blade. The bronze would stand out against his dark hair, just as the blue of the sapphire would in Rhaegar’s light hair.

“For your sons?” The jeweler’s smile faltered for a moment at Daemon’s suspicious frown. “Tales of their hatchlings have spread throughout the city! It would be my honor to fashion pins in their likeness. Would my prince prefer the pins without a blade?”

“No,” Daemon said. He tested the red dragon’s blade with his thumb, which proved acceptably sharp. “It should be just like this one.”

“I can have it completed within a moon, if that is acceptable,” the man said with a bow. “Should I set aside the red dragon pin for when they are complete, or would my prince like to take it with him today?”

Daemon looked at the hairpin, heavy in his hand, and hesitated. He had not planned on seeking any trinkets for himself, but the red of the scales combined with the warm yellow of the dragon’s topaz eyes were too alike Caraxes not to be tempted.

“Here,” Laenor offered, taking the pin from his hand.

He wove the pin through one of Daemon’s side braids, then through the center braid. With just the pin, it would not have been especially stable, but the wings themselves extended into the teeth of a comb, allowing the decorative top piece to be partially secured in place. Daemon turned his head from side to side, then gave a small hop, testing its hold. It would be better served by some center braid knot, with the pin and comb akilter above it, but he could seek suggestions from Rhaenyra when she finally returned.

“It is very fetching,” Laenor said.

“Set it aside,” he said. One for each of us. It would not do to spoil the surprise early by revealing his own.

He added a pair of belt pouches with secret compartments to his purchase, and even took Laenor’s final suggestion, dictating a design for a pair of jeweled boxes with a clever mechanism for triggering the false bottom to spring up when pressed, revealing the hidden space below.

It was not an inexpensive trip, but Daemon had spent little of his royal allowance over his time in the Stepstones. He looked forward to someday bringing the twins with him to the shop, certain they would find other trinkets to their liking within. Once the matters of Volantis and the Stepstones are settled.

They were near enough to a woodworker’s shop that Daemon agreed to one more stop. Laenor had, for once, been inspired by his gift choices and wanted to find some wooden ships for Jace and Luke.

“He also carved their wooden dragons,” Laenor said. “If you’d like any for the twins. His Caraxes was quite a good likeness.”

As they turned onto the next street, they spied a small crowd gathered around a singer who was plucking his lute as he sang a melody Daemon hadn’t heard before, too distant yet to make out the words themselves. They had taken no more than a few steps when Laenor turned abruptly.

“I did not take note of the hour,” he said. “We should return to the holdfast. I can stop by another time.”

The swiftness of his speech spoke to a sudden agitation, and Daemon regarded him with suspicion, not moving to follow. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Laenor said, shoulders slumping after a few seconds of Daemon’s unblinking stare. “I—there is someone I wish to avoid.”

Although his words held the ring of a lie, his gaze did stray toward the singer. Daemon squinted through the crowd to catch a better glimpse of the man. Short, with short brown hair and a plain face. Far from his cousin’s usual type, which was lean, handsome, well-muscled and preferably knighted. And he could think of no other reason Laenor would wish to avoid some singer of common origin.

“Why—?”

“I can explain later.” Laenor grabbed his arm. “Come.”

Daemon easily twisted his arm free, and Laenor’s final protests trailed off as he approached the crowd gathered around the singer. The song was flowery tripe about a pair of Targaryen princes, with two entire verses devoted to their beauty. Such hyperbole was not uncommon in songs about their house.

The song turned slightly ribald then, switching to the lascivious Free Cities of Lys and Myr, whose loveliest slaves could not compare in a verse where their shortcomings were enumerated, with heavy innuendo. A few stretches of broken and butchered Valyrian were sprinkled into the verses, presumably to emphasize the foreign nature of the Free Cities, as the owners of the richest pillow houses conspired to steal away the “hidden jewels of the Iron Throne.”

“You see?” Laenor hissed at him. “It is nothing. We should return.”

Daemon turned to follow, willing to concede just this once, only to halt as the singer moved on to the details of plot, where the “jealous witch of Runestone” struck a bargain with the Lysene slavers.

My sons. Daemon spun back to the singer, too stunned for a moment to hear much of the next verse. It is about my sons.

A purse of fifty-thousand dragons was offered and accepted, and the young twins—fair and dewy-eyed in their innocence—escorted south to Gulltown by a man named Crayne, where the slaver ships awaited. Much was made of his sons’ helplessness, and the slavers’ delight when inspecting their find.

It did not matter that Daemon and Caraxes were made the heroes of the tale, swooping in for a daring, last-minute rescue. Hearing his sons spoken of thus, as objects of desire, as fodder for a Lysene pillow house, brought his blood to a roar in his ears.

“Daemon—” Laenor whispered, seizing his arm once more to halt him from drawing Dark Sister.

“My sons are eight,” Daemon hissed, mind shying away from the knowledge that the pillow houses across the Narrow Sea were notorious for training their pleasure slaves young.

“It is only a song,” Laenor said, straining with both arms now to hold him back. “Nothing happens to them, even in song.”

Laenor’s caution was no match for his fury. Daemon dragged him several steps before his cousin released him at last, and the crowd parted around him as their eyes fell upon his hair, then his unsheathed sword. The singer spotted him last, glancing up from where he had stooped to pick up his earnings, and Daemon lifted him in a single motion, shoving him back into the wall, bringing Dark Sister’s blade to rest just below his jaw.

The man stared back, terrified recognition in his eyes. “My prince. I—”

“Is that song of your creation?” Daemon demanded, the heat of his blood growing with every second he dwelled upon its ugly lyrics.

“No!” the singer gasped, desperately angling his jaw upward to put space between it and Dark Sister’s edge. “There was a singer in Flea Bottom, I learned it from him! And he had learned it from another.”

Daemon searched his gaze for signs of a lie, finding mostly terror, and he turned his head aside, spitting the vilest curses he knew in Valyrian. It has spread then. “What is it called?”

The man swallowed, clearly reluctant to answer. “‘The Pillow Princes.’ I did not name it!”

Laenor had made his way through the crowd after Daemon and put a hand on his shoulder. “Daemon.”

Daemon’s arm strained with the effort of not opening the singer’s throat to spill upon the cobblestone. “If you wish to keep your tongue, then you will not sing it again. And you will spread my warning to others who might do the same.”

The man gave the barest of nods, mindful of the blade. “Yes, my prince, of course! I will spread your words far and wide!”

Daemon lowered his sword, then his elbow, which had pinned the singer in place. The man bowed once, twice, even lower, and stumbled over his lute as he backed away, feet jarring several of the coins that had been tossed his way, which he now ignored to stumble further, not daring to turn his back until he was fully out of view.

When Daemon looked behind, he found that the crowd had dispersed entirely, as though fearful of receiving similar treatment for having listened to the song.

If it has made it through the city, it is only a matter of time until it finds its way into the Red Keep. The thought of his sons hearing it themselves, even if they did not entirely understand the uglier parts, made his fists clench. The part about Rhea will hurt them.

Rhaegar especially. She had given his younger son reason enough to doubt her love, he knew from speaking to Ser Perkins on the matter.

Crayne’s inclusion in the song made it clear that word had spread of his bounty, and inferences had been made from that as to the intentions behind the kidnapping attempt. That the singer behind it had chosen the vilest of possibilities, rather than the more obvious interpretation that one of the Free Cities sought dragons, spoke of malice.

I shall have every gold cloak on alert. Any who dare sing it—

“Forbidding a thing only increases its allure,” Laenor said.

Either he had read his thoughts, or Daemon had spoken aloud without realizing. Denial rose in his throat, and he swallowed it, jaw clenching so hard that it ached. Laenor was right. And if the song had made it to River Row, then it had almost certainly found its way to the harbor, and from there—anywhere.

I cannot protect them from anything. Every failure loomed before him, taunting him. Crayne’s continued freedom, wherever he had fled. The warlock’s candle that continued to haunt his sons. The reward offered by Volantis for their capture, unopposed and uncontested by the Crown.

Even the Stepstones remained unconquered, merely the seeds of victory being planted, with the harvest unassured. And the true horror of the song was that if not for the protection offered by Volantis’s reward, he could very easily imagine the Triarchy hatching such a plot to punish him for all that he had done to oppose them.

He did not sheathe Dark Sister, the walk back to the Red Keep a blur of bitter rage and despair, his thirst for violence, for bloodshed, unquenched. The temptation to mount Caraxes and set out for the Stepstones was nearly overwhelming. Let Caraxes rain fire from above. He would join the chaos of the melee, find release in the spray of blood.

Anything was better than yet another day spent on planning and logistics, on useless whispers and fruitless investigations. I am a blade left sheathed for too long.

Laenor departed once they reached the yard, and Daemon hacked at one target, then another, and another, but the destruction only further fueled the fury in his heart, until he felt as though he might choke on it. I am useless. I shall only fail them, as I failed them for so long.

“Daemon.”

That was his brother’s voice. Daemon blinked, finding his sword stuck partway through the top beam of the wooden fencing along the edge of the yard. His hand throbbed from the repeated impact of metal against wood, carried up the blade to the hilt.

There were a dozen knights in the yard, keeping either a respectful or wary distance from his swath of destruction, and two Kingsguard flanking his brother, and yet all Daemon could feel was a vague sense of threat. As though he were surrounded by only the illusion of safety, and it could vanish within an instant, trapping him, trapping his sons—

You cannot protect them.

He released Dark Sister’s hilt, the fire gone even more swiftly than it had built, without even embers to warm him. He felt cold as he looked to the setting sun, then back at his brother.

“Is there not a small council meeting?”

“Laenor fetched me,” Viserys said. He nodded at Ser Harrold, who strained for a few pulls before wrenching Dark Sister free of the fence and handing her to Daemon, who stared at the sword a moment before sheathing her. A hand found his back, resting lightly there. “Daemon, you worry me. What is the matter?”

There was a concern in his voice that Daemon desperately wanted to believe. “Am I one of your problems again?”

His brother heaved a heavy sigh, which seemed answer enough. “I should not have said that before. I am sorry.”

I am sorry, but we cannot risk open conflict with Volantis while we war against the Triarchy. I am sorry, but you must wed, even if you do not wish to. I am sorry, but I do not trust you enough to explain. I am sorry, but your children must remain here, blood to be spent.

“Daemon?”

“I do not want your apology,” he said. The screams he had strangled before had still somehow left his voice raw.

His brother fell silent for a few long seconds, though his hand remained on his back, a subtle pressure between his shoulder blades. “What do you want?”

“I—” So many things all at once that they might as well be nothing. Daemon swallowed. “I want my sons.”

Viserys’s head moved, and Ser Harrold spoke. “Their arms training is finished for the day. They should be back within the holdfast.”

“Come, then.” Viserys’s hand pushed gently, spurring him into a walk. “We shall find them.”

“Are you not needed at the small council meeting?”

“Are you not needed?” Viserys prodded back, only to quickly add as Daemon’s steps faltered, “They shall manage without us.”

Daemon was escorted to his apartments, and the two Kingsguard and the knight standing vigil outside the door were then ordered a few paces back by Viserys, who continued to study him, his small frown only serving to make him appear even wearier.

“Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

Everything. “It is nothing you can help with,” Daemon said. Nothing you would help with.

“Laenor told me about the song,” Viserys said, hands squeezing his shoulders. “I shall have it dealt with.”

Daemon was startled to find that it had almost completely slipped his mind. The embers of his fury earlier flared briefly, but as he reached for their warmth, they faded once more. “Thank you.”

“Would you do something for me in return?”

He should have expected a price. Daemon’s hands flexed. “What is it?”

“Would you stop slipping your household knights when you leave the Red Keep?” Viserys’s frown deepened. “It is not safe for you until the Triarchy is dealt with.”

He does not wish to let you beyond his reach.

Daemon gave a halting nod in response, and Viserys pulled him into an embrace, pressing a kiss to his temple before releasing him, pulling back to arm’s length, gaze roving over him once more, seeking something that he did not seem to find. “Thank you.”

The sound of laughter rose from within his apartments, and the constriction that had found its way to his lungs eased. Jon. He reached for the door, overcome by the need to see them, hold them. “I must—”

“Go on. We can speak later.”

The flutter of apprehension in his chest settled as he pulled the door open to the sight of his sons staring at one another across the room, their hatchlings positioned between them in some unknowable game. All four heads turned to him, and within moments he was swarmed by all four, warmth seeping through the cold at last.

[deviantdaffodil]

In Heat

Miguel O’hara x Reader smut

IM ALIVE !!!! WAHHH i need miguel o’hara more than ANYTHING !!!!!!!!

!!SMALL SPOILERS MENTIONED EARLY ON!!

contains: biting, breeding, office sex, clawing, a bit of blood, choking, praise, dom miguel, sub reader, fem reader, size difference, heat, in heat, whatever you call it, dubious consent/very very very slight non con if you squint, primal/prey if you close your eyes, slight anal play if you squint

You decided you wanted to go up and visit Miguel. He had been busy since he was struggling so hard to find Miles Morales, so you wanted to go and try to cheer him up. You were a spider-person yourself and though your canon event went nothing like Miguel’s, you still felt so bad for him and took it upon yourself to be a sort of.. support system for him.

You enter the elevator of the HQ and make your way up to the top floor. Felt fitting for Miguel to have his office be the highest up.

Upon reaching the top, you step off the elevator and enter his office. “Miguel?” you call out into the darkness. You thought it was so strange how.. spooky his office felt. You became a little nervous, unable to locate Miguel. A tingle shot throughout your body and you quickly whip your body around. Standing behind you, Miguel towered over you. You jumped slightly, clenching your hand around your heart. You slip your mask off your face and look up at Miguel. “You scared me,�� you said nervously with a slight chuckle.

Miguel slid his mask off as well and looked into your eyes. He was panting and sweating and you could feel the heat radiating off of him. “You shouldn’t really be here.”

You pout. He always liked your company. What’s gotten into him? Well.. you two weren’t exactly dating per se, so it’s possible he just didn’t want to be around you at the moment.. This thought hurt your feelings a little. “Is everything alright? Did I do something?” Your voice is so innocent and Miguel shudders; unbeknownst to you, pleasure and lust are clouding his mind and all he can think about is locking the door and taking you right then and there. He’s been anxious and hesitant to start a new relationship, but something about you made him go wild. He needed you, bad.

“You just- you wouldn’t get it,” he said, exasperated. “I just. I can’t be around you, it’s not safe - you’re not safe.”

You tilt your head. Again, your innocence and ignorance about the situation makes his cock throb. “Why not?”

An animalistic growl erupted in his throat. he just could not take it anymore. The shock of the noise made you back up a good bit. This only made him smirk; he enjoyed the hunt. He lunged at you on all fours; you yelp unable to get away fast enough and he quickly rips your suit across the front, nicking your flesh in the process. He latches his teeth onto your throat and bites down with a force that leaves you temporarily breathless. Heat immediately floods into your body and travels between your legs.

“M-Miguel!” Your voice cracked as you shouted, trying to get him off of you by hitting him with your fist. You did not want someone to see the two of you right now. Miguel kissed and licked at the wounds he made on your flesh. It felt like electricity was flowing through you and you moaned slightly. You carefully hold up your arm and fire a web at the door, in hopes it keeps people out. “Miguel!” your voice is now more stern.

He looks up at you, his eyes seem to glow red as your blood drips from his lip. “I need you,” he pleaded. “I need to fill you up, please..” He brushed his fingers against your clothed pussy as he pleaded with you. You instinctively grind your body against his fingers and bite your lip. It was your turn to pounce, capturing his lips in a kiss, tasting your blood on them. This was all he needed for confirmation; his claws came out and he started ripping off your suit and his own. Once he freed his cock, he held his hand up to your face. “Spit. Now,” he growled at you. You did as he asked and spit in his hand. He rubbed some of your saliva onto his cock and then some was used to lube his fingers for your pussy.

“I need you to be good and wet for my cock, okay,” he started to babble, “I don’t want to hurt you,” he cooed as he rubbed his finger around your pussy, careful to avoid your clit or your dripping hole. You were whining and whimpering while he played with your pussy and leaned in for a kiss, gently biting your lip. You were instinctively bucking your hips against his hand, praying you would get the friction you wanted so badly.

“Miguel please,” you pleaded as you run your hand down his chest to his v-line. Another growl rummbled in his throat. He picked you up and threw you over his shoulder, giving your ass a good smack or two, earning a delicious whimper from you. He took you to his desk and ran his hand across the desk, knocking everything off of it. He laid you down on your stomach on the desk and spread your legs with his knee.

He leaned over you, his toned chest pressed against your back. “I’m going to fill your pussy with my cum and put a baby in you, you slut,” he growled into your ear. Just his voice made your pussy tremple. He slapped his massive cock against your ass and began fucking your plump ass cheeks, using his own spit as lube. He grabbed both ass cheeks and squished them together on his cock as he thrusted. Once he was satisfied, he spit on his cock again and rubbed the tip of his cock around your hole to tease you. You let out a cry when he accidentally brushed it up against your clit and that was what sent him over the edge. Immediately, he stuffed his cock into you. Tears formed in your eyes and you cried out as loud as you could, babbling about how full his big cock made you feel.

He grabbed your hips then dug his claws into them, pounding away at your pussy. He continued squeezing and smacking your ass as he abused your womb. You were crying out for more and more as he bottomed out his cock in you.

“M-Miguel! Oh god don’t stop! I don’t want this to stop! Oh god you fill me up so good! Your cock is so big and so good!” you moaned, completely cock drunk. Miguel leaned forward, still abusing your pussy. He wrapped his hand around your throat and allowed his claws to dig into your flesh.

“You gonna let me cum inside? Gonna let me put a baby in you? Gonna let me knock you up? Huh? Huh?” He pleaded and mumbled into your ear. You nod rapidly in response, mind too numb to find the words. “Such a good girl,” he pulls away from your ear, slowing his pace earing a whine from you, “Such a good slut.” He spreads your ass cheeks again and using the pad of his thumb, starts applying pressure to your asshole. You whimper out of pleasure and can’t help but buck your hips back into him to make him fuck you again. He gently slides his thumb into you with the help of some of his spit and fuck it in and out of your hole. Once he’s satisfied, he picks the pace back up with his hips, wet slapping sounds echoing throughout the room. You’re a moaning mess right now, your legs feel weak and you can feel yourself getting close to an orgasm.

“Cum inside me Miguel,” you cry out, “I want t-to have your babies please!” He’s thrusting at a rate your mind cant keep up with, he’s huffing and grunting and digging his claws into your flesh. every thrust felt like heaven and you could feel a knot forming in your stomach. “Oh god! Right there Miguel! Just like that! Don’t stop!” You start to babble about how much you want his cum in you and how much you love him and need him for the rest of your lives which sends the two of you over the edge. Your walls clench with an orgasm and Miguel’s throbbing cock fills you with a huge load of cum.

The two of you sit there, regaining your composure. Miguel doesn’t pull his cock out of you, wanting to keep his cum in you.

“Did you mean that..?” He asks breathlessly.

“H-Huh?” then it hit you - you definitely told him you loved him. Your cheeks began to burn from embarrassment. “Y-Yes,” you admitted, completely ashamed that you lost control of yourself that badly.

Miguel huffed, amused. “Good.” He pulled himself out of you and you sat up and turned to face him. “I love you too.”

[l0vegl0wsinthedark]

Reminiscing

~

"Okay, this one."

Lily's irate frustration was a nearly tangible crackle in the perfumed air of the boutique. Draco glanced up over the rim of his spectacles.

"Absolutely not," he said calmly.

Lily's fists balled up in the skirt of the slinky, forest green dress she wore. Thousands of shimmery little beads were sewn into the light, clingy fabric. The slit ran all the way up to mid-thigh and the halterneck straps were beaded strings.

"Why." Lily's question sounded from between grit teeth.

"Turn around," Draco said flatly.

A moment of hesitation, and then Lily spun around to reveal her back, exposed from neck to tail bone.

"Absolutely not," repeated Draco, looking back down into his phone, typing out an email with one forefinger, painstakingly slow.

"It's a dress. You want me to buy a dress. This is a dress."

"I want you to be respectably dressed for your seventeenth birthday party," Draco replied without looking up. "You're coming of age, yes, but you will do so whilst dressed as you ought to be."

"As I ought to be," Lily repeated scornfully.

"As a Potter-Malfoy ought to be."

"Why can't a Potter-Malfoy wear something like this?"

"We don't go out in public half-naked."

"This is a floor length gown."

"The whole length of your left leg is on display, as is the entirety of your back." Draco glanced up once more. "Your whole back. You're practically naked."

Lily"s clenched jaw shifted as she gnashed her teeth some more. With forced calm, she said, "Papa, I do not want to be wearing some sort of Victorian ballgown for my seventeenth birthday party."

"More's the pity. But no, definitely not this one either."

"I can wear a jacket over it." Lily raised one eyebrow when Draco looked up again. "I want a leather jacket."

Draco snorted, shaking his head. "I don't think so."

"Dad said I could get one."

"Your dad is an idiot."

"I want one like his."

"Absolutely not. He's a lunatic with a flying motorcycle. You don't want everything he has, trust me."

"It's just a bloody leather jacket, Papa, please!" Lily actually stomped one booted foot, her voice rising shrilly.

"I'm used to strops, darling, I invented them," Draco said, completely unbothered. "Besides, what would your grandmother say. She would faint."

"She told me to get the jacket in black." When Draco looked up in genuine surprise, Lily went on, "She said black would go best with her opal earrings that she's having reset in silver for my birthday present."

Draco stared at her over his spectacles as she stood glaring back at him, hands on her hips.

Then the bell above the door tinkled merrily, and Harry's voice filled the silence of the stylish little boutique as he exchanged cheerful pleasantries with the owner.

Reaching breaking point, Lily shrieked, "DAD!"

"I will not tolerate that sort of screaming in a public--," Draco started.

"Green, eh?" Harry said, walking into the private area Draco had reserved for the afternoon, his own boots loud on the wooden flooring.

"Because I have your eyes," Lily said in her most honeyed voice. "Grandma's eyes."

"Good choice, Lils," Harry said affectionately, sitting down on the plush sofa next to Draco before carefully picking through the collection of truffles set out in little crystal bowls.

"You haven't looked at the dress very closely," Draco said, voice tight.

"Oh?" Harry popped a hazelnut truffle into his mouth, straightened his glasses a bit, and leaned back, crossing ankle over knee. "Let me do that, then." A pause, and then, "She looks great!"

Draco twirled one forefinger through the air, motioning for Lily to spin. "She's half-naked."

"It's the trend now or something," Harry said, shrugging and scratching carelessly through his beard.

"I want to wear it with a leather jacket, Dad," Lily said hastily. "A black leather jacket. One like yours."

Harry grinned, roughing up his hair as was his wont. "Like Sirius'. Yeah, why not? Let's get you one."

"Harry."

Draco's lips were very thin as he pulled off his glasses and turned the full force of his displeasure onto Harry.

"Don't," said Harry. "We said she could pick her own outfit."

"The Minister's going to be at the party," Draco said tightly.

"Doubt he cares, honestly," Harry said, eating more chocolate. "Besides, it's Lily's day."

"I don't like to be ganged up against," Draco said, teeth gleaming white on a forced, very dangerous smile.

"Babe, we're not ganging up--," Harry started.

"Where is James?" Draco said suddenly, raising his voice over Harry's.

"My ears are burning," James drawled, sauntering in. Draco turned in his seat to look at him, his mouth slightly open.

James' hair was a bright, lemon yellow where it stood in a carefully styled, vertical mass on his head. The sides had been shaved down close to the scalp and dyed green.

Draco could only splutter in apoplectic dismay at the sight.

"What are you supposed to look like?!" he finally managed to ask.

James shrugged, scratching behind one pierced ear. "Dad thinks it looks cool."

Draco whirled around in his seat, now glaring violently at Harry. "He was supposed to get a haircut that's also suitable for school."

"He's still on summer break," Harry said.

"His head looks like a bloody sunflower!" Draco said. "Harry, you had one job--"

But Lily was now cackling loudly at James, who in turn stood grinning proudly, hands in his pockets, fourteen years old and sincerely unbothered about a single opinion that wasn't his own. Harry couldn't help grinning, too, but he quickly moved closer to Draco and took one of his hands with both his own.

"Babe, we've talked about this," he murmured gently. "This is one of those times you need to let go. Remember how we talked about letting go?"

"She's seventeen, and he looks someone cracked an egg on his head," Draco seethed.

Harry leaned forward and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

"How about lunch at the Ritz?" he asked gently.

"And then we buy me a black leather jacket," Lily said, hitching up the skirt of her dress and stomping loudly back to the changing room.

"Life was easier when I was seventeen," Draco muttered darkly, glaring at where their son was inspecting a rack of dinner jakcets.

Harry grinned again. "Yeah. A war, a megalomaniac. I really miss those days."

~

[heylittleriotact]

🕯️ THE RITUAL HAS BEEN COMPLETED AND I AM SUMMONED BY @emmg 🕯️

WIP ✨WHATEVER✨

I have a lot of Emmrook things in mind that I want to write (I made a list!), but I only have one brain and one dominant hand for writing, so I’m just dawdling away at my leisure.

Currently I’m working on my take on a scene that would take place directly following the end of the game because BioWare hates us and decided we don’t need any closure for our Rooks or their love interest aside from some vague ‘live, laugh, love’ bullshit epilogue slide.

Rook works their fucking ass off the entire game and is basically the emotional sponge for everyone else’s issues, pushing themselves beyond what’s healthy to see their goals through. Emmrich remarks on it on at least two separate occasions, so I think my Rook would probably find herself in a position within hours of everything concluding where her body and her mind just stand on the brakes and say, “Nope! We’re done! We cannot and will not do any more things until you take some time to recuperate!”

And who’s going to make sure that happens in the most romantic, wholesome, and slightly stern but sexy way?

Emmrich, of course 🤍

Also, I’m reverse uno-ing @emmg because I want to know what you’re cooking. LET ME INNNNNN.

I’m also tagging @allofthebarks because she said she has things she wants to write but the writing just isn’t coming, so comfort yourself in my clumsy, unedited WIP and just write A Thing. Dooooo it!!!

Veilguard End Game Spoilers Under The Cut

Cheering and accolades followed them through the ruined streets of Minrathous, and Amina took the time to ensure that no waiting hand was left unshaken, no hug went unreturned, and no condolence went unoffered. It took them nearly two hours to make their way to a damaged but still structurally sound estate secured for them by the Shadow Dragons but as far as she was concerned, it was time well spent.

As the ornate doors of the manor closed behind them and the cacophony of their victory was muffled, Amina took two steps into the manor, bent at the waist, and splattered the floor with the contents of her stomach.

Emmrich was on her in an instant, holding her long black hair aside with one hand and stroking comforting circles on her back with another.

“What’s happening? What’s wrong with her?” Taash demanded, taking a step forward. Her voice was distant - drowned out by the screeching whine in Amina’s ears.

She felt her legs wobble and give way, her armoured knees colliding roughly with the ground as she threw out a hand to steady herself, not caring that it landed right in her sick: everything was too much. Too loud. Too bright. Too… real. It felt like she was being driven out of her own body like a wayward spirit, her essence clinging desperately to whatever it could hold onto to tether her here.

Just as distantly, Amina could hear Emmrich respond to Taash but his words were lost on her as she wiped her mouth with the back of her arm and lurched clumsily to her feet.

“Harding - I need to go to her mother—“ Her voice broke: she hadn’t had time. None of them had had time to tell her mother about Harding’s death before Elgar’nan forced their hand.

She clenched her teeth at the sensation of hot tears cutting through the accumulation of grime and gore and sweat on her face, snarling defiantly through the deluge of agony crashing through her… breaking her from the inside.

There’s still work to be done…

She was pulling away from Emmrich, her course uncharted but steadfast: she needed to go. Somewhere. Anywhere. It didn’t matter, as long as she was doing something… as long as she was helping. But no matter how she pulled and tugged, he wouldn’t let her go: lithe as Emmrich was, he wasn’t weak by any stretch.

With some effort he managed to put himself in front of her, gold rings clinking against silverite where he gripped her shoulders before pulling her tight against him.

“Breathe, darling.” He instructed, enshrouding her diminutive frame in his own. “I need you to breathe… can you do that for me?”

She managed an anguished sob in reply but nothing more: any attempt to draw breath was met with unforgiving resistance as her airways slammed shut in seeming rebellion of life itself.

Arrangements need to be made - things need to be taken care of, and I’m the only one left to take care of them.

No. First I need to breathe.

“I’ve got you: you’re safe with me.”

More tears rolled down her cheeks as her eyes clenched shut and she forced a thin, ragged inhalation into her lungs.

“Well done, darling.” Emmrich encouraged, ever calm, ever heartening. “Now let’s try for another one, shall we? I’ll do it with you. Let out your breath on the count of three: one… two… three…”

She felt Emmrich contract against her as he slowly exhaled with her. None of this was new to her: Nevarran breathing techniques were required learning for Watchers. Claustrophobia could present unpredictably, and if one found themselves turned around or overwhelmed in the Necropolis, being able to stay calm was vital to survival.

“Perfect. Now another breath in…” He waited while Amina drew another shaky breath then loosened his hold on her to gently cup her cheek. Within moments she could feel the familiar soothing tingle of Emmrich’s magic coursing intimately through her, seeping through her nervous system and providing some relief.

“Emmrich,” she rasped, clutching at his chest. “I… I need to—“

“Do absolutely nothing.” He interjected sternly, his voice absent of any playful familiarity or scholarly flair, though it softened almost reflexively as he continued. “You’ve overextended yourself, Amina. You’ve been overextended for some time, but you pushed through to see this to the end - and you have - but my love, you can’t evade the reality of what you’ve been through indefinitely… you need to rest and take time to come to terms with things.” He drew his thumb over her cheek, speaking to her like she was the only person in the room.

“But—“

“All that needs to be attended will be seen to: Lace’s mother will be informed of her sacrifice in an appropriate manner, and the… actions of the Inquisitor will be communicated to the south.” He hung on the word ‘actions’ seemingly unsure of its accuracy but ultimately too focused on Amina to care.

She opened her mouth to argue, but likely having anticipated this from her, Emmrich spoke first.

“You’ve done so much and helped so many without asking for anything in return… please let me be the one to help you in your moment of need?”

His eyes searched hers, soft and pleading, and she studied the face of the man she loved: each pleasing curve and angle that she had committed to memory etched on her heart. The crinkled lines at the corners of his eyes, and the creases around his familiar mouth spoke of years of smiles offered to comfort and soothe.

He was filthy too, and his hair was limp and disheveled, strands of it hanging into his face… but oh Maker how she loved him…

“I love you…” He whispered for her ears alone, his lips ghosting over hers. “And I so look forward to reminding you of that fact every day for the rest of our lives… so let me begin now: let me take care of you.”

[lokisgoodgirl]

Mischievous Creatures [Brodinsons]

Part of the Brother Collection A link to my regular Masterlist is HERE Summary: A grumpy Loki is forced to pet-sit by Thor, and an unexpected friendship blossoms. (w/c 1.8k) Warnings: Fluffy bro-stuff. Generic dog description, runs on the small side. Mild peril.

Loki grimaced, gritting his teeth. His eyes squeezed shut while a hand flew up against the assault of intrusive sunlight. “Brother,” he hissed, groaning against the pillow. “Must you continually be such a harbinger of accursed agitation upon my-”

“-Ahhhhh!”

Thor released an infuriatingly cheerful sigh. His arms were spread, holding the curtains wide. “Tis’ a joyus day in this realm, brother. Can you smell it?”

Loki frowned, squinting towards the silhouette. “The window is closed, you cretin.”

Thor chuckled. “One does not require an open window to smell joy, brother. Indeed, it is all around.” He turned, the aura of confidence in that garish smile making Loki’s blood run cold. “Some may say...in this very apartment.”

Loki’s frown deepened. It was always concerning when his brother attempted to be coy. “What?!” he barked, suddenly aware of how dry his throat was. Truly, had the monstrosity of muscle woken him before nine? “We have a guest,” Thor cheered, “and I require my brother’s aid.” He paced several strides to the bed, swinging crotch coming alarmingly close to Loki’s face. Two meaty hands rested on his hips, fingers drumming lightly against thick sweats. He swayed back and forth expectantly. This was not a sight Loki wished to see before breakfast.

He pulled the duvet over his head, muttering curses before the sheet was ripped from his grasp. He stiffened, an unexpected chill making his body clench while his brother’s laugh ripped through the air. “Come, they’re waiting,” was all he managed to say, before there was a loud yelp from the living room.

“So this is a dog?”

Loki observed the creature with suspicion as it snuffled against the hardwood floor.

It had been going about its business for around twenty seconds now, paying no reverence or respect to the legendary beings in its presence. Loki’s scepticism grew. He was suddenly glad he’d worn his leathers. “Yes! And I broke up some biscuits your lady gave me on the floor for it to seek while I roused you. Charming, isn’t it?” Thor spoke quickly, and with an undeniable awe. The dog looked up expectantly, tail quivering. “I have no lady,” Loki griped, casting his gaze around the living room. A cushion from the immaculately arranged sofa had been rudely upended to the floor. Loki's eyes narrowed as Thor made his way obliviously to the breakfast bar. “Be that as it may,” the blonde said brightly, “this is the companion she speaks so often of.” Loki watched as the small creature trotted to Thor’s feet, looking up at him. Its tail was doing that thing again. “This is the rival for my affections which takes up so much of her time? I’m insulted,” he muttered. The dog’s paws tippy-tapped from side to side, impatient for whatever was in the bag Thor had begun rustling. Against his better judgement, Loki felt the side of his mouth twitch. He cleared his throat. “So. Why is it here, and what are we supposed to do with it?”

Thor scoffed, shaking his head with a smile.

Loki didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all.

“Your lady- apologies, not your lady; has been called on an unexpected mission, shouldn’t take long – usual sort of thing." Thor glanced to his brother, glee in his eyes before bending forward with his hands on his knees. "I volunteered to ensure the safety of this treasure of the realm in her absence. Yes I did! Didn’t I?! Yes I did!” The pitch of Thor’s voice traced higher with every syllable. Loki was horrified. It descended into mumbling saccharine inanities at the excitable being shuffling below him, which let out a small a-woo. “‘Treasure of the realm’, please...” Loki scathed as he sidled over to the sofa. He had been sure to give the unfamiliar being a wide berth. Who knew what it’s intentions were. It was, after all, a stranger.

His breath hitched as it suddenly looked in his direction, the flash of a tiny pink tongue taking him by surprise.

He had the sudden urge to call to it, to feel the rest of it’s delicate triangular face in his hands. Perhaps, even, to stroke it. He thought it might feel soothing.

With unnecessary gravitas, Thor produced a beleaguered looking plush animal from a small bag resting on the counter. It was pink and mint and blue; splotches dotted on a crusted physique. Loki thought it had seen a few battles of its own.

“Oh for heavens sake, what is that?” he groused as Thor began to shake it aimlessly in the air. The dog leapt up on it’s back legs, dancing excitedly. “Tis a llama, brother,” Thor chided with authority, “obviously.” “A llama?” Loki frowned. Thor shrugged. “I know not. But that is how your lady referred to it. The little thing is rather attached to it, apparently. I thought it best not to question further.”

Both brothers nodded in silent understanding while the creature began to chirp, bouncing in comical circles. Its front paws waved in the air, the soft underbelly looking undeniably tender and scritchable. “Well... throw it then,” Loki huffed with feigned impatience. He rested his chin on his palm. He would admit, reluctantly, that he was beginning to mildly enjoy this. In a ridiculous sort of way. Thor’s eyebrows rose. “Excellent idea, brother” he said, before lobbing the llama forth at full force across the room. Loki’s eyes widened. “Brother, no-” The dog followed its lightening fast arc, legs sliding out behind it on the floor in haste. Loki braced against the arm of the sofa as the plasterboard-covered wall exploded with an almighty crack. The stuffed toy may as well have been a cannonball. A huge mist of dust immediately flooded the living room, chunks falling from the wall.

“Protect the small thing,” Thor bellowed.

Without hesitation, Loki sprung from the sofa, caging the little dog in mid-pursuit beneath his torso. Debris hit him like a wave, white mass covering dark curls falling around his face. There was a frightened whimper beneath him, something solid smacking against his thighs with a heavy thump. His heart was thundering as the carnage settled. She will never forgive me, Loki thought with horror. He peered between his forearms to the dark cave his body had created.

There was silence.

“Does it live, brother?” Thor rasped, his choking voice panicked. Loki registered pacing footsteps hovering around him in a cloud of dust, regretful muttering and coughing peppering the air. His stomach dropped.

He could barely bring himself to look. So fragile, these mortals. Their familiars even more so, surely. Suddenly, something moist and round surfaced from the darkness and poked him straight in the eye.

“Gargh!” Loki spluttered, before the breath was stolen from him. He fell forward, forehead hitting the floor while an agile tongue delved deep into one exposed nostril. An assassin, after all. Loki rolled to the side, freeing the wild creature. “It lives!” Thor whooped ecstatically. But the moment was lost on Loki.

The ball of fur and limbs and squiggling was upon him, crawling like a demon of Muspelheim across his person. The thing was liquid. It placed its front legs on his chest, perfecting a position of strength while a deceptively long tongue continued the assault of his face. “Desist!” he spluttered, searching for purchase on its lithe, fluff-laden frame. And yet, the incorrigible creature could not be swayed.

The softness of the bacon-like protrusion tickled violently, but somehow...Loki found himself unable to catch his breath from the laughter shaking his chest. It ravaged his cheeks, his mouth, his nostrils - all in whirling succession with no obvious tactical rhythm. “Brother, make it stop-” Loki gasped unconvincingly, hooking his thumbs beneath the dog’s little underarms. His laughter, Loki surmised, acted only to encourage the creature. And yet, he could not collect himself. “Alas, brother I must attempt to retrieve the valiant llama from the rubble,” Thor chuckled, biting his lip at his sibling strewn across the floor. With a resolute grunt, Loki hoisted the creature in the air above him. It squirmed, wriggling all four legs erratically. Its rotund bottom was positively vibrating with excitement. “Look, brother...it flies,” Loki grinned. The dog’s mouth was open in a smile, aimless tongue licking the air. Still in search of his skin no doubt. The god sat up, drawing the squiggling bundle to his chest. It settled, the cup of his hand under its rear and the other snug to its barrelled chest seeming to calm it. Loki smoothed its whiskers, brushing a crumb of plasterboard from the tufts of its snout. He searched its eyes, deep brown pools bubbling and sparkling with life. And with mischief, he thought. Loki smiled. Without knowing why, he placed a tentative kiss on its upturned nose. It was fresh, and cool. The richest black. And somehow, Loki knew those were good things.

The dog’s tongue flicked out once more; a soft, solitary lick to the tip of his own nose reciprocating the sentiment. He felt unfamiliar warmth blossom in his belly, drawing the precious bundle closer to his chest. “I am glad you are well, friend” he murmured. “I can only apologise for my oaf of a-” “-brother! Success!” Thor cheered, holding the resurrected llama aloft like a battle trophy. If it looked beleaguered before, now it was tragic. The plushie was completely white, stuffing protruding from its head like a fatal war wound. He paced victoriously across the floor, holding it out to the dog nestled in his brother’s arms. Loki could swear the creature rolled its eyes.

“Do not presume to return its prize possession in such a vile state, brother,” Loki hissed. He dropped his gaze to the bright eyes gazing lovingly into his own. “Never fear small thing, Uncle Loki shall amend this abomination.” he cooed. Circling a finger, Loki enjoyed the perk of the dog's ears as the llama glowed green. In moments, its garish pastel glory was restored. “The crusted biological coating is gone too, brother…” Thor mumbled sceptically, inspecting it. “Was that important?” Loki jiggled the squishy package in his arms. Its front paws bounced. “Methinks that was enthusiasm from historical play; perhaps we should begin to restore it,” he chuckled, as the dog began to squirm with excitement once again. Loki tickled its belly. Thor frowned. “Do not get too attached, brother” he warned, “remember that this one is claimed. And by whom.” Loki rolled his eyes. “I am aware of that, brother” he snarked, before bending to carefully lower all four paws to the ground. He straightened. “But clearly the creature and I have an affinity. It cannot be denied.” Thor folded his arms, and Loki did the same. They watched in silence as the fluffy tornado fell upon the llama, beginning to prance in a parading circle around them. It dotted easily between the chunks of plasterboard, the plushie snug within tiny jaws.

Thor cleared his throat. “It is my belief” he began knowledgeably, “that the creatures have developed ways to trick mortals in favouring them. They are provided shelter, comfort, snacks and the like in return for being…” he gestured open handed to the floor, “thus.” Two sets of eyes assessed the inexplicable sight before them, rolling on its back with four wriggling paws flapping at strange angles. “Is that so…” Loki mused, smile widening as he lowered to his haunches. The dog flipped to stand, nails scratching against the floor in a race to meet him. That little bottom shifted side to side, overcome with indescribable joy at their friend’s return to the lower level. The llama bonked against Loki's knee, a helicopter-esque tail making his heart soar.

He gripped the llama’s sides, tugging gently before pulling it flush against his chest. The cheeky growl in the dog’s throat made him chuckle as he pressed a soft kiss to its forehead. “How mischievous,” he whispered, smiling conspiratorially against the tousled fur.

Tags ( **let me know if you'd rather stick with just smutty stuff - no offence taken!)

@meowmeow-motherfucker @gigglingtiggerv2 @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loopsisloops @glitchquake @holdmytesseract @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @sebstanwhore @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @sidepartskinnyjeans @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @superficialdomina @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @muddyorbsblr @literatureatthebowofnails

[cinnamonest]

Alright, we need to know. Who are top members of the "looking at women, who're minding their own business, and talking about how sad and concerned you are for them because 'with the way they are, they'll end up single and childless for the rest of their lives and no high value man would give them a chance," club? Like on a sclae of 1-10 how delusional would they become after they realize said woman doesn't give a shit?

Honestly one of my favorite tropes is the whole, “nooo what are you doing living your own life you're supposed to be someone's wife and having babies” thing. Like it has both benevolent aspects (the whole “you'll be happier this way” part) while also having malevolent aspects (the “you're a resource to be used and the resource is being wasted” part).

Like, even irl, there are some men who are like. Discombobulated. Baffled. At the suggestion that a woman can have other priorities in life. The sheer reeling disbelief when he sees a woman that's like 30+ with NO kids, NO husband. Unbelievable. It must be so awful for you, you must be so sad and desperate. Equally worrisome is that you might end up accepting some inferior, unsuitable guy that doesn't have the same Husbandly Quality™ of someone like himself, tragic…

But yes I’ve been thinking about this concept ever since the Diluc escape fic, and I know I’ve talked about him with that concept before, but consider CHILDE would be such a major candidate.

Childe is hopelessly drawn to you if you’re mean.

It’s honestly not healthy for his sake either, but it’s far worse to be on the receiving end. He can’t help it, it’s like waving meat in front of a hungry dog, an irresistible urge to have you.

You’re not exactly high rank, but not much of a subordinate, you’re more of an “other” category, you keep records and files and do a lot of scribe work for a division of units you’re assigned to. Unfortunately for you, higher-ups such as harbingers end up consulting you quite often for records and information… well, most of the time, they send someone else to do such a menial task for them, but he always comes in-person, waltzing in all cheerful and full of youthful energy — and loud, God. You wonder if parents these days have stopped teaching their kids about having an inside voice, because this kid certainly is unfamiliar with the concept.

You scowl, evident disgust on your face as you lazily sort through your records, not about to show any urgency for someone so annoying. You were kind of hoping to irritate him, even. But alas, he’s equally smiley and talkative when you hand him what he’s looking for.

Far too talkative. You’ve already handed him what he needs. Why is he still in here? Now he’s talking to you, asking you the dumbest questions about if you like working here and what you do and blah, blah. You didn’t ask for this. You force yourself to give answers, albeit blunt and short as possible, mostly consisting of yeah-s and sure-s, before the annoyance becomes too much and you ask through clenched teeth if he needs anything else or if he’s done here, an all-too-obvious hint to leave.

Thus marks the beginning of the bane of your existence, because unfortunately, by the will of some malicious higher power, he comes back. Regularly. Habitually. Eventually you start noticing that he isn’t even retrieving anything, half of the time, he’s coming in just to annoy you.

See, for him, it’s not just attraction, but a weird sort of pride thing. That initial coldness draws him in, because it presents a sort of challenge. He’s now overheard other people say the same thing, that you’re cold and mean to everyone.

Based on looks alone, he thinks, you’re old enough that you should be married. Maybe that’s why you’re so mean, you’re just bitter or something. Maybe you had bad luck and got hurt a bunch and now you’re all guarded. That’s actually kind of cute.

Naturally… well, naturally for him and whatever’s wrong with him, at least, it sparks an obsession. He likes chases, challenges. Things that are hard to get are that much more satisfying to obtain, you know? The feeling of having won, the feeling of being better than everyone else, knowing that he accomplished something other people can’t and now reaps the rewards, and the pride and ego boost that comes with it — that sort of thing is an intoxicating fuel, a motivator unlike anything else one could offer him. This does not combine well with the fact that he’s young and hot-blooded and in possession of a hair-triggered sexual aggression, not to mention a sense of pride for which the word ‘no’ doesn’t have any meaning.

It’s kind of sad though. Wasting your life away in some menial job, you’ll be so lonely and regretful.

You’re very lucky, then, that he takes pity on your plight. It will all work out.

Because he can fix you.

And he knows that that's just how you are — he's already composed multiple potential sad backstories that explain your behavior in a way that makes you seem cutely pitiable, that writes off your attitude as being ultimately due to being sensitive and afraid of vulnerability, very endearing — he's not deterred by you pushing him away.

In fact, he realizes, once you've opened up to him and he's forced you to expose the vulnerable side of yourself, you'll probably feel bad for all the times you were mean to him. You'll shuffle even closer (in the scene that plays out in his mind, see, you'll be in bed, naked, face buried against his chest, all clingy and needy) and quietly sheepishly mutter out apologies and ask him to forgive you.

Or maybe after a while, if he keeps being nice to you, you'll break down and cry and be more honest about how sad and lonely you are and how much you need him and then he'll be right there to hold you close and promise to be there for you, it'll be really sweet and will make him very happy. He's already planned out several lines to say that should elicit enjoyable reactions.

It will be so cute. It will feel so good. It’s just a matter of winning you over at this point.

Which, you see, proves to be the difficult part.

He’s getting there, he’s certain, you’re just a little more stubborn than he anticipated.

He’s already started trying to work his way there, during his regular visits. He’s already asked you if you’re married, watched the way your face turned all sour the moment the word came out and the way you rolled your eyes before you muttered a no. Ah. Sore spot, then, as expected.

And then asks if you have kids — because the first answer doesn't necessarily negate that possibility, and ‘jaded single mom with a bad ex' is one of the potential backstories he's theorized for you, so, it's worth asking. You still say no.

The ideal response, then, is—

That's too bad. You would make a good mother!

You narrow your eyes and glare like he's just said the most vile thing you've ever heard. But it's okay, it's cute that you’re so defensive (because you know he’s right and it’s what you really want).

It doesn't matter what you say, any words that come out of your mouth will be filtered through his delusions to match the reality he's already decided is the case.

You say you don't want to get married, this means you actually really do, you say you don't need a man, which means you actually really do and are aware of it and it bothers you, you say you're fine by yourself, which means you're very lonely, it's practically a cry for help.

He'll keep being nice, no matter how much you push back. He can tell it's just because you're sensitive. Maybe you think someone as young and charming as him wouldn't sincerely like you, and you're being defensive? That's probably it. Aw. That makes him feel good.

Poor thing. You're so defensive, so guarded. It's endearing, even if it's starting to get a little frustrating. But it will just take a little more work before he gets through to you, and then everything will work out perfectly… and then he’ll have a nice trophy for all his efforts, can savor the defeat and vulnerability you’ll show. You'll become so meek and submissive and it'll be just for him and no one else. It’ll be so nice. Just a little more time.

[whackk-kermitt]

It’s Not True

Tropes: Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: “Death” of character, Mentuons of Trauma/Abuse, Violent Threats

Summary: The reader returns to Asgard, despitetheir banishment, after hearing the news of Loki’s death.

NOT PROOFREAD

≫ ────── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ────── ≪

The bright colors and shining gold of the city felt wrong. People in the streets, smiling, and cheering, were a stab in the gut. It felt like an insult to be this merry after such a tragedy.

[y/n], adorned with a dark cloak, watched the passing faces as they stepped deeper through the avenues of busy Asgard. The cloak was a way of hiding their identity, knowing they'd be prosecuted for returning here after having been banished. It was also the only thing left to cherish from the recently departed.

The cloak had been his, though it had lost the scent of him long ago. A parting gift when they were dragged away to the Bifrost.

Wearing it made [y/n] feel as though Loki was still holding them close, like he did before.

Before everything went to shit and they were separated by Odin's wrath.

[y/n] looked up at a golden statue being built in the middle of the Plaza. The face of it haunts them. Turning away to ignore the burning twist in their heart they strolled along.

The lavish tribute was as pathetic as Odin in their eyes.

They made their way through the crowds and toward the palace.

It had been nearly three years since they'd seen him, held him, even spoke. Though not a day passed where they doubted the love they held for him. Even now.

The guards at the door garnished with flowers and gifts along the walls, only gave them a look as they pushed through. All the gifts that played outside were enough for them to know he was here.

And there he was.

Laid out in a space on a shining pedestal, his body enclosed in a shimmering force field to protect it from the outside.

All motivation to keep walking drained only a yard away from the corpse. Body and hands began trembling and they finally let out the tears they refused to let go.

Some time had passed since hearing the news from Thor himself on Midgard, their prison. They hadn't believed a single word of it. Refusal to accept that Loki was truly gone until they saw him with their own eyes.

But there he was. Decomposing.

On display like a wretched trophy of Asgard's victory.

The room was empty of gifts and offerings, the only few having been laid outside. Nobody cared enough to come in and see him for themselves.

Their cries echoed off the walls and ran back at them.

Loki had promised to find a away for them to be together again, “Do you trust me, love?” He had said. “I’ll figure something out, just wait for me.”

And wait they did- for three years. Patiently waited. For a letter, a massage, Loki to appear at their door, something, anything. Wait and wait, and wait, for nothing. For agony and heartbreak.

“[y/n],” An all too familiar voice called. Though it was foreign to them at the same time; for it was gentle- kinder than they remembered.

“Odin.” [y/n] seethed, refusing to face him. Hand coming up to press against the magic that separates them from Loki.

“You got the message I sent, yes?” He asked heitently.

“I want nothing from you.”

Their back still turned to the All-Father, they admired for one last time the beauty that was their first true love.

“If you did not get my message, that makes this difficult.” [y/n] heard his steps drawing closer. “I suppose it's time to explai-”

“Another word and I'll kill you!” All the anger and spite held back over the years boiling over and out. All the thoughts, insults, and unsavory opinions held back for Loki’s sake, come to mind. But Loki isn't here anymore. 

“[y/n],”

“You think you could embrace an innocent child, raise him on misery, point out every mistake- every flaw,” Their words stuttered out between clenched teeth. “Paint his story, his living memory, as an image of an untrustworthy monster-”

“Let me-”

“Then kill him!” [y/n] turned to the elderly man, eyes bleeding red in sorrow. “Put up a glimmering statue and praise his death? Do all that and expect me to listen to a word you have to say to me?”

Odin looked on at her with a horror in his eyes, guilt and shame took root in his chest.

“You’ve killed me as well Odin. I'd slit your throughout but it is not my place. Ragnarok is coming to Asgard, you have made sure that there is nothing here worth saving.”

The was silence between the two. No words, just anger and regret.

A glow of green caught their eye, turning to see the corpse vanich in an instant.

“Wh-” They breathed and uneven breath, staring at the empty coffin.

“I’m so sorry, my love.”

That voice.

Slowly turning their head to look into the most captivating blue eyes they'd ever seen. Loki.

“I thought you'd come after getting my message. I explained everything in it, I thought you-” He hesitated for a moment taking a cautious step forward. “I never mend to deceive you. That illusion was meant for someone else. Not you never you.”

“It's not true,” Their voice was broken. “Its fake, you're here?”

Loki sighed tear threatening escape watching his lover's lip quiver in distress.

“I'm here.” He opened his arms, an empty pace that was quickly filled by a trembling companion.

Their cries of relief as they felt his heart beating rang ing his ears. Petting their head and holing them close he shushed and soothed their sorrows as best he could.

“I'm here, I'm here love.” He mumbled in their ear. “I'm sorry you waited so long.”

≫ ────── ≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫ ────── ≪

Got sleepy, gave up. Goodnight, happy Halloween!

•Kermitts Masterlist•

[bigsoftmarshmallow]

How would The Ganondorfs (Wind Waker, Ocarina of Time, Twilight Princess, Hyrule Warriors, and Tears of the Kingdom) & Demise react to being cursed to be helpful?

The curse is basically that no matter what he does, it betters the land and people. Drove off the animals? They were all sick and would have made people sick. Ended someone's life? Turns out he was even more evil than he was. No matter what he does, he just… saves the day somehow! He is being praised as a hero.

This curse would be a nightmare for characters like Ganondorf and Demise, whose identities are rooted in power, domination, and destruction. Being forced to play the role of a "hero" through no choice of their own would frustrate them beyond measure, as their efforts to sow chaos and fear continually turn into acts of good. Their reactions would range from rage to confusion to bitter irony, with each struggling against the curse while being unable to escape the hero’s praise.

Wind Waker Ganondorf

Thoughts: Wind Waker Ganondorf, who is driven by his desire to reclaim the land for the Gerudo people, would find the curse almost laughably ironic. He is a man who values control and legacy, so every act of "helpfulness" would sting, as he constantly tries to bend the world to his will, only to see his actions bring unexpected benefits.

Scene:

Ganondorf stood at the cliff's edge, watching as the village below celebrated his most recent "victory." He had burned the crops to teach them despair, but the soil had turned out to be infected, and the flames purified it. Now, a healthier harvest would follow, and the villagers praised him as a savior.

His hands tightened into fists, his nails digging into his palms. "This is a mockery. A sick joke from the gods."

The wind whipped around him, his cape fluttering as he scowled at the joyous crowd. They even erected statues in his honor—his honor. Ganondorf growled under his breath, a deep, guttural sound of frustration.

"I will not be their hero," he muttered, turning away. But no matter what he did, the curse continued. He was trapped in this role of a reluctant savior.

Ocarina of Time Ganondorf

Thoughts: Ocarina of Time Ganondorf, known for his raw ambition and desire to conquer Hyrule, would be livid. His every move is calculated to instill fear and assert his dominance, so the fact that everything he does helps the people would tear at his pride. The endless praise and hero-worship would be intolerable.

Scene:

Ganondorf’s rage boiled over as he stormed into the throne room, throwing a goblet against the wall with a snarl. "Why does this keep happening?!"

The Gerudo warriors outside the door flinched but said nothing, knowing better than to anger him further. Earlier that day, he had attempted to summon a storm to ravage the land, but instead, it had brought much-needed rain, saving the crops from a drought. The townsfolk had practically thrown a parade in his honor.

"Hero!" he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "I am no hero!"

He paced, his cloak billowing behind him. No matter what plan he devised, it backfired in the worst way possible—by benefiting Hyrule. His enemies praised him, and his name was spoken with reverence instead of fear.

"This cannot go on," he growled. But even as he spoke, he knew there was no escape. The curse bound him to be their savior, and no amount of plotting could change that.

Twilight Princess Ganondorf

Thoughts: Twilight Princess Ganondorf, who thrives on manipulation and the subjugation of others, would view the curse as the ultimate insult. His strength is meant to bring ruin, not salvation, and the idea that every move he made helped the people would gnaw at his very core. He would grow increasingly bitter and resentful of the role fate had forced upon him.

Scene:

The village cheered as Ganondorf rode away, their voices rising in joyous shouts of thanks. His teeth clenched as he gripped the reins of his horse, every fiber of his being resisting the urge to turn back and level the village. But what would be the point? He had destroyed the bridge leading to the next town, intending to isolate the villagers and starve them into submission. Instead, the river beneath had diverted, creating a new, fertile delta that fed the farmlands.

He looked down at his hand, flexing his fingers as if searching for the source of this cursed "blessing" that followed him. "I cannot destroy anything. This land mocks me."

His horse snorted, sensing his frustration. As he rode away from the village, he could feel the weight of the people’s gratitude pressing down on him. They saw him as a protector, a guardian.

"I will find a way to break this," he muttered, his eyes narrowing in cold determination. "I am not their hero."

Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf

Thoughts: Hyrule Warriors Ganondorf, the most bloodthirsty and war-hungry version, would be utterly furious. His entire identity is built around leading armies into battle and crushing his enemies beneath his feet. To be cursed with helpfulness would be a bitter pill, and he would lash out in anger, only to find his destruction thwarted again and again.

Scene:

Ganondorf stood atop the battlefield, sword in hand, having just annihilated a group of rebels who had dared to oppose him. But as he surveyed the carnage, a sickening realization struck him: these rebels had been planning to betray Hyrule, and by killing them, he had unwittingly saved the kingdom.

The cheers from the nearby soldiers filled him with disgust. "Ganondorf, the protector of Hyrule!" they shouted, their voices brimming with admiration.

His hands tightened around the hilt of his sword, the veins in his arms bulging as he fought the urge to strike them down. "I will not be your protector!" he roared, swinging his blade in frustration. But every action he took only solidified his status as a hero in their eyes.

The battlefield had become his prison, and no matter how much blood he spilled, the curse twisted his intentions into salvation.

"This is not my destiny," he snarled, turning away from the battlefield. But deep down, he knew that fate had bound him to a role he could never escape.

Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf

Thoughts: Tears of the Kingdom Ganondorf, twisted by madness and grief, would be the most volatile in his reaction. His obsession with power and control would make the curse unbearable, as every act of destruction turned into an act of salvation. His mind, already unstable, would teeter on the brink of complete collapse as the curse relentlessly pushed him into the role of hero.

Scene:

The ground shook beneath Ganondorf’s feet as he unleashed a wave of dark energy, intending to obliterate the nearby village. But instead of destruction, the energy dispelled a hidden curse that had been plaguing the villagers for generations.

"Thank you, Great King!" they cried, falling to their knees in reverence.

Ganondorf’s eyes widened in disbelief, his hands trembling with rage. "No… no! This was meant to destroy you!"

But the villagers only praised him louder, their gratitude overwhelming. His breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to contain the fury boiling within him. Every time he tried to wreak havoc, it backfired, turning him into a savior in the eyes of the people.

His hands shook violently as he looked down at them. "This is not who I am," he muttered, his voice cracking with frustration.

But the curse was relentless. No matter what he did, the land and its people thrived under his unwilling guidance. Ganondorf threw back his head and screamed into the heavens, the sound echoing through the valley.

"I AM NOT YOUR HERO!"

Demise

Thoughts: For Demise, the embodiment of destruction and hatred, the curse would be an outright contradiction to his very existence. Being forced to help the people and land would be akin to a personal hell for him. Every action that went against his nature would erode his patience, driving him deeper into frustration and rage.

Scene:

Flames licked the air as Demise stood amidst the charred remains of a battlefield, his great sword in hand. But instead of the destruction he craved, the fires had purified the land, driving out a deadly plague that had been spreading through the region.

Villagers, their faces filled with awe and gratitude, approached cautiously. "Thank you, Lord Demise," they murmured, bowing before him.

Demise’s fiery hair flared with anger, his eyes blazing. "I did not do this for you!" he roared, slashing his sword through the air. But the more he tried to destroy, the more the land thrived. Every act of violence he committed somehow bettered the world around him.

His breath came in ragged bursts as he glared down at the people who knelt before him. "I am the bringer of death," he hissed. "Not your savior."

But the curse would not relent. The more he fought, the more the people hailed him as their protector. Demise’s fists clenched tightly around his sword, his entire body trembling with barely contained fury.

"I will break this curse," he vowed, his voice low and dangerous. "No matter what it takes, I will bring ruin to this world. This false heroism will end."

But deep within, even Demise knew the curse had trapped him, forcing him into the role of a hero he despised.

[indigo-graves]

Rusty pt. 2 |Lewis Nixon|

---SMUT AHEAD--- 18+

Nixon knew better than to respond to her words with the force of every kiss he had stopped himself from planting on her full, pouted lips over the past three years. There were moments where he was so intoxicated (both figuratively and literally) by her that he thought he may reach his breaking point. Had he known there was a similar eagerness within her, this day may have come far sooner. 

The way she looked up at him through her long lashes caused a tension in his lower abdomen that she would soon feel the result of, pressed so close against her form. He surveyed the room, taking inventory of just who in the company was even paying attention to the heat radiating from the pair of them in the center of the room. With a war won and a store of alcohol to last them years, they were little more than just furniture for the rest of them to oscillate around. 

“Nina…” Nixon spoke gently, leaning forward so his lips were nearly against the shell of her ear. “Tell me I’m dreaming.” 

She giggled at the softness of his breath on her skin, “meet me upstairs in five minutes.” When she moved away from him, he immediately felt the ghost of her against his body. There was not a single man in Easy Company, despite how chivalrous they had always been to her, that would not shoot off a toe to be in his position. 

Five minutes was both five seconds and five lifetimes while he attempted to make his way naturally towards the doorway of the main room. Grateful for his tendency to disappear to a footlocker full of booze, he realized that it was not likely that many would notice his absence anyway. As he climbed the stairs, he wondered if there was going to be a moment where she would realize that it was him that she was taking to bed, not some other more decorated man from the Company. It was only when he missed a step at the top of the staircase that he reminded himself that wallowing could happen any other inebriated night of his life. Tonight, he steeled himself, he was going to get the girl. 

Two light knocks on Nina’s bedroom door with the back of his knuckles was as coy as he could play it. When she said “come in” from behind the oak barrier, he found the knot in his stomach clench. 

“Why do you look so pale, Nix?” Nina giggled. She was standing at the dresser in the bedroom, slowly unpinning her hair from its once meticulous place. As he watched each curl bounce free, he felt the heat in his neck and ears. The intimacy of watching a woman take down the trappings of pristine femininity to their natural state was something that had only occurred in his marital bedroom. Never before, never since.

He watched as she placed the pins in a trinket dish on the dresser, crossed the room in her bare feet, the line she drew in her stride slightly askew from the alcohol. He felt the effects the liquor had on himself as well, hopeful that it would not impede his performance--should he make it that far. 

Nixon watched as Nina’s tongue wet her lips, watched as they parted into a sweet smile. She reached up and gently touched the hair at his forehead, tucking it back to the side. His eyes studied her face as if he was going to be tested on the slope of her nose, the freckles on her cheeks, the slight gap between her two front teeth, the scar in her right eyebrow. 

“Kiss me,” she whispered. Her voice took on a tone he had never heard from her before. He had heard her scream, yell, cheer, and laugh, but the siren song he was hearing in that moment was something entirely new. As new as the flicker that darkened her eyes. 

The moment Nixon leaned down to close the space between them, it was if every inch of self doubt had been resolved. The way she hummed against his mouth let him know that she was just as hungry for him as he had been for her. He reached up and held her jaw softly, his other hand tracing her back and down over her hips. She flicked the softness of her tongue into his eager mouth and he felt a twitch grow into a throb in the confines of his uniform. Never in his life had he felt himself light ablaze under the simplest of touches. 

When Nina pulled back, she was breathless. Her swollen lips were parted, ghosts of red lipstick on both of their mouths. She gripped his shirt in a fist that loosened as she composed herself. 

“Lew…” She breathed, it was only the second time she had ever used his first name, the first time it had been shortened by her affection for him. 

“I can’t tell you how fucking long I’ve waited to do that,” his confession bubbled from his lips before he could tell her. Drunk on liquor or passion, he couldn’t tell where one stopped and the other began. 

“Well, if you can’t tell me,” she breathed, reaching up and starting to unbutton his shirt with delicate fingers. She looked up into his eyes and smiled coyly, “can you show me?” 

“Fuck,” he sighed as she ran her fingertips down over his chest, just the undershirt between them. “Absolutely.” He smiled, leaning down to kiss her deeply. 

They worked together to get his shirt over his shoulders and onto the floor. His undershirt was soon after. Every muscle that she had watched move beneath his uniform was exposed. Every single one she had considered in her idle time over the last three years were soon to be hers to touch. 

There was a beat between the two of them where he checked her eyes for any hesitation while his fingers gently toyed with the zipper at the back of her dress. She nodded, a small smile of appreciation at her lips. When he started to pull down the zipper, his fingertips traced over the exposed skin over her spine. Her skin erupted in goosebumps under his touch. She bit her lip and pulled her shoulders in as he worked to get the fabric down over her arms. With every piece of her that became more and more exposed, he felt his heart start to race. 

There was a part of her that worried about the amount of women he had undressed and how the curves of her body compared. Before the war, there had only been one other man to peel away both physical and emotional layers to her to connect so deeply. She wondered if the significance of the fire they were dancing dangerously close to meant just as much to him. One thing was certain, she decided, Lewis Nixon’s hands were the only hands she wanted on her body from this moment forward. 

When her dress hit the floor and she stood there, vulnerable, in front of him, Nixon felt something animalistic ignite in him. It took everything in him not to tear the remaining fabric from her body and cover every inch of her with his mouth. In attempts to avoid acting on this instinct, he met her lips in a deep, hungry kiss. He guided her backward toward the bed, her hands working deftly on the buckle of his belt. She groaned when her hand made contact with the anticipation growing in his pants. He sucked in a breath and bit playfully at her lower lip. He left a trail of eager kisses from her lips down over her jaw, feeling the giggle that resounded in her throat vibrating against his mouth. 

When his pants hit the floor, he felt the immediate relief from the confines of the fabric. She toyed with the elastic of his boxers, watching him shudder in response. He reached up and tangled his hands in her hair, pulling her close for another kiss to distract her. If she got too handsy, he may not make it to the main event. When he kicked himself out of the legs of his pants, he reached around and skillfully unclasped her bra. 

There was no sexy, coordinated way for Nina to get herself back onto the bed. As she crawled, Nixon admired her figure from behind, wondering what he had done in his lifetime to find himself this lucky. Unable to tally it, he shook away the thought and watched as she giggled, laying herself back on the pillows, her hair fanning out around her. Unconsciously, he adjusted the length in his boxers, pulled his socks from his feet, and followed her onto the bed. 

“God,” he let his eyes dance over her in appraisal. “You’re incredible.” 

Nina rolled her eyes, the heat in her cheeks was not foreign to her. Lewis Nixon had a way of making her flush pink that had been a noteworthy occurrence Easy had not let her forget. She often told them it was only his rank that made her nervous, not the man himself. But God, it was everything about him. 

“So,” he leaned down and kissed her lips tenderly, “god,” he kissed her cheek, “damned,” he kissed her neck, “beautiful.” She giggled when he pressed the kiss to her shoulder, his hands cupped both of her breasts. When his thumbs simultaneously brushed against her nipples, she whimpered softly, arching up into his palms. Her hand gently, toyed with his hair, running her fingers back through it as he leaned down and took her nipple into his mouth. Slowly circling his tongue in an effort to elicit more gorgeous new sounds from her parted lips. 

Nixon groaned as he worked his tongue, lips, teeth, and fingers over her exposed chest. At the same time, the placement of his body between her legs encouraged her hips to connect with his, calling forth a growl from his throat he had not anticipated. He was beginning to recognize the need he had for her was something wildly foreign and exciting to him. The fear that lingered in the back of his thoughts would have to be tended to in the moments following the plans he had to explore every inch of her body.

When he kissed down over her stomach, he started to feel her muscles tense in her abdomen under his lips. He looked up at her as he toyed with the waistband of her underwear, searching for permission. She bit her lip, eyebrows furrowed with concern. 

“What is it?” He asked, gently placing a hand on her thigh. He traced a delicate pattern on her skin. 

“I..” There was that pink in her cheeks he had often worked so hard for. He smiled gently and kissed her hip.

“You can talk to me,” he repositioned himself so that he was at eye level with her once more. 

“I’ve never had anyone…” She nodded down toward her underwear, where Nixon idly was toying with the satin bow at the elastic. “Use their mouth.” Nixon’s eyebrows raised and he grinned. He leaned down and he kissed her temple gently, his hand reaching up and fingering a strand of her hair. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to…”  He couldn’t help but let out a throaty laugh. He rolled on top of her, brushing his nose against hers, then his lips against hers. “You can’t make me do something I’ve spent half the damn war thinking about.” He captured her lips in an urgent kiss, his hand slithering down over her stomach and dipping confidently into her underwear. “Mmm,” he groaned, the moment his finger dipped into the heat between her legs. When she gasped, he caught it in a kiss, greedily swallowing every sound that he earned with the deft work of his fingers.

[sergeantsarga]

Me and my friend ( @aziormin ) recently started talking about Aki and Sarge having a heart to heart moment on Discord, I said that I would write my idea on here and this is what this post is about! I hope you enjoy!

[Blue is Aki, red is Sarge, pink is Mini, and black + (( can be their actions]

(Sergeant Night is bailed out of jail by Dr Thomas Light, he is forced to babysit Aki Light.

“So, uhhh….how are you?”

(Night doesn’t respond.)

“Night? Breakerrrrrrr?? Breakie?”

(Night clenches his fits and teeth at Aki by calling him “Breakie”.)

“You good? Cat got you’re tongue?”

“Shut up.”

(Night said through gridded teeth, Light chuckles and smiles.)

“Why are you so rude? Cheer up, bud!”

“Ugh….I don’t wanna….”

“Why not? It’s fun to be nice and happy! Or are you a bit too old for happiness?”

(Night gets upset by that comment.)

“Shut up! I’m not even as old as you probably think, I’m only 29!”

(Light seems a bit surprised by that.)

“You are? Dang, I would have thought that you were in you’re 30s or 40s!”

(Light chuckles again.)

“You aren’t funny, robot.”

“Pfft! You’re right, I’m HILARIOUS!”

(Light laughs a little.)

“AUGH!!! Just shut up! Stop being so annoyin’!”

(Light stops laughing.)

“Sorry, sorry!….how was you’re day today, Breaker?”

“….Not sure why you wanna know that but it’s been okay, I guess.”

“Geez…he’s such a party pooper! Why did you’re dad even let him out?”

(Mini is whispering.)

“Shut up!”

“Excuse me?!”

“W-Wait!! I didn’t mean you, I was….just…..uhhh….I have a rat in my hair that can speak!”

“….What?”

“….uhhh…I don’t know how to explain it.”

“And I couldn’t care less about it.”

“….Why are you always so angry and rude?”

“That’s none of you’re business!”

“You can tell little ol’ me about it! I promise I won’t tell ANYONE!”

“My answer is still NO.”

“No it isn’t! You said “that’s none of you’re business!”, you just said it!”

(Light painfully (and sort of accidentally) mocks Night’s southern accent, this makes Night even more upset.)

“Oh my gosh….just be quiet!!”

“Pleeeeeeeeeeaaaasseeeeee!!! I won’t tell anyone in a MILLION years! It’ll be a secret between us both, forever and ever and ever and EVER!!!”

“Stop it, Aki!”

“Hey, you called me Aki! This is the first time you’ve called me Aki! Good job!”

(Night looks over at Light as he pats Night on the back, Night flinches when Light does this and Light notices it, he stops smiling.)

“You….you good, buddy?”

“Y-Yeah…and don’t do that without warnin’ me!”

(Night’s voice cracks.)

“Oh! Yeah, heh….sorry, dude!”

“….hm.”

(Night pouted and looked away, he didn’t like being randomly touched.)

“Are you really ok or are you just-“

“Stop tryin’ to get into my business. That’s nothin’ YOU wanna know and somethin’ you shouldn’t know.”

“….I’m just curious about you. You’re always so rude to everyone and you’re always yelling and complaining about robots and humans. Why are you like this? Did something happen to you that made you this way?”

(Night fake chuckled and sighed, he stopped pouting.)

“You’re a needy one, Aki. Stop tryin’ to get into my business and you should probably get whatever homework you got done!”

(Night faked another chuckle as Light let out a real one.)

“I’ve already done it! Now, cmon, tell me something about yourself! You have to talk to someone about you’re life!”

“Do you think anyone in Silicon City would listen to a person like me? I bet even you’re dad would laugh in my face and call it all bluff if I told him!”

(Light nudges Night with his elbow.)

“Not funny! My dad isn’t mean! And…wait, why would he call you’re life bluff?”

“Uhhh….forget it! It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Breaker, are you good???”

“Yes….just…..actually, no. I have to be honest now….uhhhh…..sorry, I guess.”

(Night looks away.)

“Hm. Hey, watch out!”

“Huh?!-“

(Light suddenly hugs Night, he pats his back a bit, Night was about to complain but he didn’t, he liked the hug and it made him a bit happy….he then teared up, he wasn’t used to being hugged. He slowly started to cry, he couldn’t help himself now.)

“I-I’m sorry for cryin’! I didn’t mean to do this!”

“It’s okay….it’s okay….it’s okay, Breaker.”

“Holy shit…”

(Mini whispered again.)

“Just let it all out, Breaker, it’s okay.”

(Night hesitated for a second but then, he started to sob, Light rubbed and panted his back.)

“I hate everythin’ that happened to me! I want it to go away and never come back! Why couldn’t I have a good dad when you get to have one?! I-I’m not tellin’ you anythin’, you wouldn’t understand!!!”

“I know, but I never said that you had to tell me.”

[bloodandrunes]

How would Arassa and other ROs react if some noble kept flirting with their romanced MC and the MC was clearly uncomfortable with it, but the noble wouldn't get the hint?

Anon, I like the way you think. Answers beneath the cut.

Aariz doesn't think when he punches the noble in the face. All he feels is rage, red and flashing hot, at the sight of your clear discomfort. One second, his metal fist is drawing back and the next, he feels bone crunch and give way beneath the force of his blow. The noble screams, clutching at his face, and Aariz snarls, drawing his fist back and bringing it back down again. And again and again until someone, likely you or Dalia, drags him away.

Dalia's anger is not an inferno like Aariz's. No, hers is as cold and biting as a winter storm. She takes in the sight of the woman touching your arm, at the way you are trying to inch away from her, shoulders hunched, and feels her jaw tighten. She steps up to you, feeling the weight of the metal beneath her clothing, and glares at the noble. She presses her fingers to the crook of your arm, letting you know she's here, and pours every ounce of enmity she has in her into the look she sends the woman. It is with great satisfaction that she watches her run with her tail between her legs.

Adys walks up to you cheerfully, two drinks in hand. "I brought you some wine," he says, "who's your friend?" He watches as the noble introduces himself, obviously proud to be speaking to the son of Malic de Resham. He hums quietly to himself and gestures to one of the goblets in his hand. "I don't have a taste for this particular wine," he offers, "would you like it?" The noble accepts proudly, his chest puffing out, and Adys watches with barely contained pleasure as he swallows it. In a few minutes, he'll get sick and embarrass himself horribly. He guides you away, still cheerful, a hand pressed reassuringly against your back, and waits.

Ralys' hand tightens to a fist as the noblewoman before you trails her fingers along your arm, jealousy burning through her. You lean away from her touch, clearly disinterested, and pleasure curls in her chest. Then the woman continues her advances, and as your disinterest becomes discomfort, Ralys' satisfaction turns to fury. She stands from her seat and walks over to the two of you pleasantly. Her arm snaps out to where the woman touches you, her grip on her wrist painfully tight. "Get your hand off of them," she says, her voice sickly sweet, "lest you wish to lose it." The woman's face goes pale.

Idar has never hated the nobles more than he does right here, right now. He walks up to you, jaw clenched as his nails leave crescent moons in his palms. He steps between you and the man who harasses you, mouth curved into a false smile. He places an arm around your shoulders and pulls you close. "I believe they said they weren't interested," he says, voice light. Then his smile drops. "Leave before I make you and break every bone in your body in the process." And this time, his tone cannot be mistaken for friendliness. The man runs.

Zara clasps her hands together as she walks over to you, lest she slap the offending noble who has made you so uncomfortable. "There you are," she laughs, her hands brushing your arm and not-so-subtly batting the woman's hand away from you. "I've been looking for you." She turns to press a kiss to each of your cheeks. Then she turns to the noble who still stands there, looking quite irate. "I would've thought you'd get the hint by now," she whispers to her out of the corner of her mouth, flashing her teeth as she smiles, "leave, before you test my patience more."

Arassa watches you cringe away from the noblewoman who makes her advances and sees a younger version of herself in you, with her husband all those years ago, before she thought that she could love him. It strikes a cord in her, makes her blood freeze in her veins even as her skin burns with rage. Something fierce and ugly twists in her stomach as she calls for you in her seat, laughing at some jape one of her ladies has said. "Sit with me," she smiles, "you must tell us of stories outside of the capital." You smile back at her, clearly relieved, but her eyes are not on you. They are on the noblewoman who is quite clearly put out about having you torn from her side. Arassa smiles at her, and she smiles back hesitantly. By dawn of the next day, she is gone, and no one dares to speak her name around the queen ever again.