#(by which i mean tea. he only drinks tea.) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

entitled-fangirl · 1 month

Text

The Warden's fears.

Cregan Stark x wife!reader

Summary: the reader is unable to give Cregan a child, and he reveals why.

Warning: talks of sex, childbirth, death, crying, guilt, etc

A/n: I've never seen anyone do this concept, so I gave it a shot!

Masterlist

..............................................................

"My gods, what's the matter?"

Y/n sat on the foot on their bed, her eyes puffy and red with tears. She sniffled and wiped her eyes, "I didn't hear you enter, husband."

Cregan let out a light scoff, hating her answer. She only responded coldly when something greatly bothered her. He shrugged off his cloak, throwing it to the side, "That is not an answer."

She wiped her face again and her shaky voice broke, "What am I doing wrong?"

He tilted his head, "Doing wrong? My girl, what are you talking about?"

"Eleven months, Cregan. Eleven months and still no child."

Oh gods.

Cregan felt his stomach drop to his feet.

"I… I didn't know you wanted a child so desperately, my love."

She looked up at him with a horrified face, "Why would I not?"

He let out a breath, cursing himself silently. He kneeled in front of her and took her hands in his. "We already have Rickon. He may not have come from your womb, but he is all I need, my love."

Y/n was Cregan's second wife, his first, Arra Norrey, dying in childbirth. Cregan was devastated at her death, but a few years later, the cold Warden's heart was warmed by Y/n, and they married soon after.

Rickon was a sweet boy, and Y/n was quick to step into a mother role for him when she married the boys's father. Now almost five, he was growing into his father's shoes more and more each day.

Which brought them to now.

"But my duty is to give you children."

He immediately shook his head. "No. No, nothing of the sort. I… I don't need more children."

She tilted her head in confusion, "You're the Warden. You… you need more children. I… I am to give you children, Cregan. And I can't."

"That's not true!" He argued.

"Then why is my womb still bare despite our devotion to it?"

Cregan's cheek flushed completely. "Do… Do you think I only bed you to fill you with my seed?"

"Well… not entirely."

He forced himself to take a breath. "I lie with you because I wish to. Because I love you."

"Will you still love me if my womb remains dry?"

Pain erupted behind his eyes.

How could she think that? That he'd leave her?

Because of his own doing, this was entirely his fault.

His grip on her hands tightened. "I… I must confess something to you, my love."

Her eyes flitted up to his, still puffy and red, but at least the tears had paused.

"I… I have kept myself from filling you with child."

"W…what?" She managed to whisper out.

"I did not know that you wished this so desperately. I am very sorry, my love. I did not mean this as a secret."

She sniffled but no words came from her lips as she waited for the entirety of his secret to be exposed.

"I have been drinking a tea from the maester on the nights I believe we'll lay together."

Her jaw went slack.

"I did not know you wanted a child so badly. That you think yourself only worthy to me if we have children."

She pushed him back as she stood, moving to leave.

But he was quick, standing and grabbing her wrist.

She spun, beginning to hit his chest as sobs wracked from her body, "HOW COULD YOU?" Hit. "YOU'VE LIED TO ME!" Hit. "AND YOU LET ME BELIEVE I WAS THE PROBLEM!" Hit. "How long would you have let me?" Hit. "I hate you!"

He intercepted her hand this time, his grip strong but not one of pain, "Listen to me." His voice was low, "Will you do this?"

She hiccuped lightly as she stared up at him. Finally, she nodded.

"I took the tea because…" He let out a soft sigh. "Arra died in childbirth. I had nightmares of it every night. Her cold body in my hands, switched for the warm one of my son."

His eyes watered but he continued, "The nightmares stopped when I met you. And when we wed… they returned. Only... they were different. Changed. It was you dying in childbirth."

Her eyes softened.

He never spoke of his first wife to her. He hated the reminder of what had happened.

"And so… I take the tea. To keep your womb bare because I.." His voice broke, "…I cannot live knowing I could make the same mistake twice."

"Why did you hide it?" She asked softly.

"It was not purposeful. I figured… you did not wish to see your husband in such a state. Or truly believed that I did not wish to bed you. Or have a child with you."

"But you don't."

"I do," he argued. "I want a child. But… I will not put you through the trials of the creation of one. So, we won't."

His hand trailed down to her stomach, tracing lightly, "To think of your swelling with my child, growing by the day, only to die once on the bed. I can't bear it."

She thought for a while of what to say. She wished she was mad at him. But how could such a burly man proclaim his fears only to have his wife mock him? She couldn't bring herself to.

"That was noble."

His head snapped up to look at her, "Was it?"

She nodded, "You care for me. You put your manhood aside to keep me safe."

He bit the inside of cheek, "I have."

"Thank you."

His eyebrows raised at her proclamation. "You're truly thanking me? When I should be begging your forgiveness?"

Her gaze softened and a hand came up to his cheek, "I do wish you'd have told me. But I cannot fault you for your fears. I'm suppose to ease them."

"How do you plan to do so?"

Her head tilted, "Have you taken the tea lately?"

He nodded.

"Then let us test it."

A fire lit behind his eyes, "Oh, we've tested it quite often, haven't we?"

A mischievous smile moved across her face, "We have."

His lips moved her hers, a mere brush. "Forgive me for making you feel unable to perform your duty," he whispered.

"What is my duty then, my lord?"

He smiled against her lips, "Being mine."

A laugh came from her, "I'll do my best then."

"Aye. You're already quite good at it."

........................................

@misswynters, @cosmosnkaz, @sithapprentice, @kaniromi, @lovemesomevesey, @its-jackie-bb, @callsignwidow, 8812-342, @nyxbranwenn, @thorins-queen-of-erebor, @kingdomzeldaquest,

#fanfiction #game of thrones x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones x y/n #game of thrones imagine #house of the dragon #cregan stark x y/n #cregan x reader #cregan stark imagine #cregan stark #cregan stark x female reader #cregan fanfiction

1K notes · View notes

dcxdpdabbles · 4 months

Text

Mr Flavor Soda Part 2

Mr. Flavor's Soda gains traction once the creator starts selling in a fixed place. Anthony's Pasta also grows in customers when word gets out that there is a surefire way of crossing paths with Mr. Flavor on Mondays and Fridays.

It's mainly because Mr. Flavor has gained a reputation for being hard to find. It was almost as if he vanished from one side of the city to the next without so much as a hint of how he got there.

However, that didn't mean he wasn't well known. He was a young teenager, likely fifteen or so, who always rushed about Gotham doing questionable parkour.

People had seen him climb up fire escapes only to do crazy leaps, looking to be aiming for his knees to break on each landing. He was spotted doing cartwheels across walking lanes, sometimes going over the hoods of cars that stopped on the lines instead of around.

He deliberately looked for the most haunted places in Gotham, walking with a traveling tea set because "the ghosts like to have tea parties." He had picnics in the middle of dark alleys, asking the air if it would like a second cup but pouring nothing from his teacup.

People were often confused by his responses when speaking to him. Nothing he said was particularly bad, but it showed his severe social awkwardness.

Customers walked away bemused but holding bottles of delicious beverages.

Another odd thing about the boy was his refusal to sell any of his creations for more than a single dollar. Nothing in Gotham was cheap. A regular Zesti was at least two dollars and nineteen cents, but Mr. Flavor looked appalled to charge so much.

A kid claiming to be among the original group that discovered Mr. Flavor, bestowing him the nickname, quoted the strange soda maker as saying, "If someone gives me a dollar, then I am one dollar richer. But if someone gives me two dollars, then they are two dollars poorer instead of only one."

It sounded humble on the surface, but it didn't really answer the questions the kid had originally asked him which were: "Why do you only charge a dollar? Why not more?"

Some people in Gotham were weary of Mr. Flavor. He didn't sound all quite there in the head. He wasn't near the level of insanity of the supervillains running around, but it wouldn't be a surprise if they all woke up one day to find out Mr. Flavor had snapped.

The remaining skeptics also regarded his drinks with cautious eyes. Despite his claims and the word of Red Hood, many wondered if Mr. Flavor was putting some kind of drug in his drink, hoping to spread it to the masses with his cheap prices.

If he was even selling soda at all.

Zesti is a familiar and beloved brand, but Mr. Flavor was once seen tasting the beverage and shouting, "Is this cream soda?!" He then bought one bottle or can of every soda option from the same gas station.

Each one was apparent "cream soda" according to Mr. Flavor. It was confirmed that the drinks the young boy made were far from the flavor of what they considered soda.

Now, Tim didn't see anything wrong with that. Jason had brought back samples of the other's work, and though the ingredients were interesting, they were ultimately confirmed to be soda. Or as close to soda as Mr. Flavor claimed it was.

He was just a bit eccentric while wandering Gotham. Nothing to worry about. Tim, knowing Jason, Bruce- and maybe even Dick with how determined his eldest brother was to try one of the sodas- had everything regarding Mr. Flavor under control; he chose to turn his attention to a series of missing people reports hitting Old Gotham.

There was no visible connection with the victims besides all having long chestnut hair. Age, gender, and social class didn't matter to whoever was taking these people- and Tim knew they were being taken. Tim found it strange that people who vanished were last seen near the same area, having built a map showcasing they were being targeted within a triangle that covered well-known shopping districts.

It was a bit of ground to cover, but Tim figured if he wandered around there long enough, he would attract the kidnapper's attention. He opened his closet, dusted off his old wig, and an hour later, Caroline Hill made her way over to Old Gotham.

Tim originally hated his Caroline Hill as he did not like disguising himself as a woman, but over time, he grew to adore how easily he could change her backstory and his mannerisms to fit with whoever Caroline was that day.

Sometimes, Caroline was a first-year medical student working through clinicals and rotations. She was overworked, under a lot of stress from her assignments, and didn't have time to be distracted by a social life, much less a man asking her out.

Sometimes Caroline was a highschool student who enjoyed community service. She was friendly, outgoing, and more then willing to take the lead in projects. She was naive and sheltered not losing faith in people quite yet.

Other times, Caroline was a high school dropout who didn't know what she wanted. She would apply to any job that would hire her, dreaming of leaving Gotham one day to find a dream to chase. To her, life was dull and meaningless.

Caroline was even a fashion model once. She was famous for her streetwear outfits and gorgeous selt-taken shots. Tim was proud to say her submission to LexCorp's phone promotion contest was still being broadcast, and she received checks for her work. She oozed confidence as a woman who knew what and when she wanted it.

It showed in her walk as she strutted down Old Gotham, stopping to enter any clothing Boutique she saw under the pretense of looking for an outfit for a big-shot party. She was dressed like the world was her runway, but not a red carpet.

If anything, she dressed like a woman who used to live in Old Gotham during its glory days, gracefully wearing the vintage outfit.

Her attire drew the eye of more than one person, especially when she ran her hand through her long, lush hair, making it fall smoothly against her lower back.

Tim figured model Caroline would be a much more tempting target, mainly because she carelessly browsed the various shops and little cafes. Anyone who watched her could tell she was unaware of her surroundings, and Tim had to carefully ensure they never doubted her blindness for even a second.

It was well; he was in an antique shop, glancing at lipstick holders, when something finally happened. The door swung open with a bang, and he allowed himself to jump as it would be something Caroline would do.

"Sorry! I gave the door a little too much razzle instead of dazzle!" a voice yells. Tim twists around to see a boy his age, with wild black hair—as if he did try to run a comb through it, but the strains refused to yield—and big, sparkling, far too aqua eyes.

Was he wearing cheap color contacts? Or was he a meta?

"No problem, Danny." Ms. Pinkney, the owner, a sweet woman who had refused to marry and was now approaching her sixties, smiled back. "Are you here again to play with Cyrus?"

"Yup, I'm going to beat him today." The boy chirps, walking over to a display that was roped off. He didn't seem to care for the sign on the red rope that read "WARNING: HAUNTED BY ANGRY SPIRIT" as he stepped over it.

It was the notoriously cursed chessboard and the two original armchairs from the eighteen hundreds.

Tim knew of the rumor that the man responsible for Gotham's architectural style- Cysrus Pinkney- had been in the middle of a chess game with his friend Solomon Wayne on the eve of his fortieth birthday when he had died.

He had been poisoned in the middle of a large party thrown by Henry Cobblepot, and no one to this day knew who his murder had been. Following Pinkney's death, terrible things happened to anyone who tried to sit or even move the chessboard. Sounds of chess pieces clicking on the board, low mutters in a man's voice, and even the chair moving back and forth began to appear.

Figthen that Cysrus still lingered; Henry had gifted Cysrus's wife the two chairs, the board, and the table it sat on. She took it home and learned that only she and her children were allowed near Cysrus.

He attacked all the others, including Solomon and his other best friend, Amadeus Arkham. The attacks were so bad that everyone eventually knew not to bother Cysrus.

He became an Urban Legend of Gotham, and many tourists would travel to Old Gotham just to gawk at the Pinkey's haunted family heirlooms.

Tim watched him confidently sit in an armchair before a chessboard. He gave the opposite chair across from him a wide smile. "Hiya Cyrus."

A lamp near Tim was flung at the boy, who took the hit with a laugh. "No need to be rude."

The lamp shattered against the ground, appearing to have been lifted again, only to fall as the boy reached out and moved a pawn. Tim's stomach dropped. His experience with Greta had taught him that ghosts were very real and, when their deaths were left unsolved, often very violent.

This guy had no idea what he was dealing with.

He opens his mouth when the teenager is suddenly flung from his seat, flying across the room and smashing against the wall. Ms. Pinkney laughs as if she just saw a toddler throw a fit.

"Honestly, grandfather, must you be so rude? Danny is just trying to play with you."

Tim watches her hair shift as if someone- or something- was ruffling her hair. Yikes, it was a poltergeist who unliked Greta was not visible but able to touch anything he pleased.

"Knight G1 to F3!" Danny yells, climbing to his feet. The scraping sounds of something being dragged across the floor as Danny twists around with his arms spread wide as a very large wardrobe rushes at him. He welcomed the attack like an old friend, nose cracking as it broke.

"Going Ghost!" Danny screams through his blood, landing on the ground as the wardrobe nearly crushes him.

Tim's mouth drops open. He's taunting Cyrus!? Not challenging his existence but straight up taunting the angered spirit?!

"Grandfather!" Ms. Pinkney scowls. "Stop this at once! You're usually more friendly than this. Danny is a guest!"

"It's okay, Ms. P! I think it's almost Cyrus' death day. All ghosts tend to get a little cranky around that time. Besides we're scaring the lady."

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for " lady" Danny to refer to him as he still wears Caroline. It's enough for the boy to leap to his feet, pat himself down—ignoring the broken nose—and strut to Tim.

Before the undercover man can say anything, Danny yanks out a bottle and hands it over. "Sorry about that, ma'am. Here, I have one on the house."

A Mr.Flavor bottle is thrust into his hands; the bubbling clear water with the leaping boy has green and yellow undertones. It's the only difference to the bottle Jason showed him not too long ago.

The teenager smiles, his teeth colored red. "You're quite pretty. Have a good day! Don't let your drink get warm!"

Then he skipped right out.

"Wha?" He blinks, and Ms. Pinkney slides right up to him with a ruthful smile.

"I know what you're thinking. I don't believe Danny is eccentric, but he has a good heart." She starts carefully, studying Tim's face with far too much intensity. It's not the kind of attention that one gives someone who they are just trying to convince to leave someone else alone. Her eyes linger on his wing for a few seconds too long.

Isn't her shop smack in the middle of the missing people's map? Interesting.

"Who was that?" He says instead, making sure Caroline's voice sounds breathy and sweet.

She smiles "Danny. But most know him as Mr.Flavor."

Tim looks at the bottle in his hands, feeling the ice-cold beverage- did he just pull it out of a freezer?- and unclips it to have a sip. It's nothing like soda, but it is at the same time.

It was far smoother than other sodas, with far more bubbles, and the flavor made his tastebuds sing.

"Oh, looks like you got Sprite. That's one of my favorites," Ms Pinkney comments. "Rare that one. Danny usually sells out by now."

"Does he come here often?"

The old woman laughs. "I'm afraid you're barking up the wrong tree, dearie."

Not what he meant, but if it kept his new number one suspect to chat more, he is fine with the assumption.

"Does he not like girls?" Tim asks, allowing his features to pull into a pout. He is very grateful that her made Caroline young enough to pass for his own real age.

"I don't believe he likes humans, I'm afraid. Male or female."

Huh?

But Ms. Pinkney's attention was distracted by the chess board, which shook slightly as the pieces previously moved by Mr. Flavor returned to their starting positions. She walked over to carefully lift up the thrown wardrobe.

Tim is quick to help her, slowly restoring the shop to its former glory. It's only after they finish that the old lady glances in the direction in which Mr. Flavor disappeared.

"Grandfather Cyrus is my great-great-great-great-grandfather. It's easier for me to call him grandfather since he's been around for generations, but his closeness has made the family tree a bit sensitive to the paranormal. I'm unsure what Danny is, but he doesn't feel human." She sighs. "I doubt he will find what he is looking for if he continues going about things like this."

"Like what?" Tim asks, stepping closer. "What's Danny looking for?"

The old woman's dark eyes chill down his spine as she gazes at him. "Death."

In the corner of Tim's eye, a man sitting at a chess set nods his head. He decides it's a good time to end his daily undercover work. Tim leaves, strutting with less grace as his mind recounts everything he knows about Mr. Flavor.

He is unaware of the person watching him from the alley, eyes tracing the lovely mane of chestnut hair. The grin that blooms over their face is nothing else but hungry.

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Mr.Flavor #Part 2 #Tim's pov #Danny is really weird #a true Willy Wonka #Tim is on a case #And Danny is still trying to force his other form #Picking fights with ghosts should work #Not sure if I'll make this Dead Tired or gen yet #Hope I made the haunting a little creepy

1K notes · View notes

ldrfanatic · 6 months

Text

Italian Theodore Nott Headcanons

So... by popular request (I think like literally one person commented on a post from ages ago) and also because I'm still working on my most recent part to the '13' Series (linked here) here's some Italian Theo headcanons to keep you sated.

sorry if this is inaccurate it's based off of my own knowledge of italians and what I think Theo would be like

slytherin boys masterlist works

So, unlike most, I don't think that Italian Theo would be a whore. Let me explain:

Sure Italian men like to flirt, (although Theo doesn't), but they do it because it comes so natural to them and because more than anything, they value their partner.

They're well dressed and take pride in their appearance (something Theo does do) but they don't always entertain the people of the heads that they turn

They also have a natural air of confidence that Theo has and doesn't even have to use

However, just because Theo isn't a whore doesn't mean that he doesn't have his own little clique of fangirls.

In general:

As a person, Theo is incredibly quiet. His English is not the best as he grew up in the Italian countryside and spends his breaks there. He spends most of his time observing, and the rest of his time, mentally translating sentences from English to Italian and vice versa (and yes that's exhausting).

He does however take food incredibly seriously (as most Italians do I feel). His favorite kind of pasta is Paccheri and he will die on the hill that the Italians were the first to make Pizza (who else could make bread, sauce, and cheese taste so good?). He was also incredibly shocked when he found out the drinking age in England was 18. Theo had a glass of wine with dinner every night since the age of ten.

Another thing he doesn't quite understand about England is the frequency through which they drink tea throughout the day. At most, he has a cup a day while some of his English friends have four to five cups a day and usually, one cup with every meal.

Theo also had a very strong connection to his mother. Now that she's gone, he spends a lot of time in his head with his memories of her. It's not all that shocking to anyone really that he doesn't quite have the time or the patience for girls.

Platonically:

As a friend, Theo is a little more open but not much. His two closest friends in the group are you and Lorenzo who's also Italian. He'll talk to either of you and open up a little, but only if no one else is around. He's a bit impartial to Mattheo although he does think the boy is a loose cannon and he actually secretly despises Draco and his blood purity nonsense as it reminds him too much of his father (whom he also hates). So yeah, he spends the majority of his time with Lorenzo and Blaise.

In regards to your friendship with Theo, he's a complete gentleman. He never sits too close in fear of startling or offending you. He opens all of the doors the pair of you walk through and carries your books to class when you have the same class.

In fact, despite being significantly more well mannered than any other boy in your year, the only thing that hinted to you that Theo felt anything towards you other than indifference were small smiles and shared secrets.

Romantically:

Before you even became friends you'd caught Theo's eye. The first time he'd noticed you, you were comforting a crying first year muggle-born that Draco had bullied to tears. You spoke so kindly and softly to the boy. Theo knew then that you weren't like everyone else in Hogwarts. Most people were too afraid to stand up to Draco but the next day, you punched him square in the jaw and told him to stop being such a prick.

The first person to find out about Theo's crush on you was Lorenzo of course. He didn't tease him for which Theo was grateful. Now as stated, Theo is an incredibly quiet person so it's not clear to you that Theo has crush on you.

Also, once Theo has decided that he likes you, other girls don't even approach him anymore. Not after the Ravenclaw incident. A Ravenclaw from your guys' year approached him and asked him out. He didn't even acknowledge her. Just stood up and left.

He does however, make an attempt to spend more time with you whenever her can. He sits with you at meals and during lessons, he asks you for help in charms (even though he's already receiving high marks, but you don't know that). He brings you soup when your sick.

The way that you find out Theo has a crush on you is actually really surprising for you.

Lorenzo came running up to you after Potions one day, completely out of breath. "Y/n! Come quick." He didn't give you any room to disagree as he grasped your wrist firmly and began dragging you down the corridor towards the courtyard. When you got out there, your stomach dropped.

For the first time since meeting him, you saw Theo fight. He had Addrian Pucey on the ground and was currently pummeling the poor boy. The scariest part was that he remained completely calm, cold. Mattheo and Draco were standing on the sidelines egging him on while Theo ruthlessly delivered blow after blow in dead silence. He didn't even wince as his knuckles began to split open and bleed.

Blaise was desperately trying to pull Theo away but he wouldn't budge. Finally, you snapped out of your stupor and approached the boy. As he was throwing punches with his right arm, you approached him from the left and placed a hand on his left shoulder apprehensively. "Theo."

At the sound of your voice, Theo stopped immediately. He didn't look at you immediately. Instead, he stood and kicked Adrian who was on the ground rolling in pain. "Stay away from her." The crowd dispersed as the fight ended. When Theo turned to look at you, his eyes were blazing. For the first time since you'd known him, Theo was burning with rage.

"Theo come on." He let you lead him away in complete silence. Worse than what Adrian had said to you, Theo was ashamed. He couldn't believe that he'd let his emotions take over like that. Now he may have lost you for good. When you finally stopped in a secluded corridor, Theo turned away from you.

"Theo?" He was silent and your concern grew. It wasn't Theo's usual kind of silence, it was a silence that made your heart feel heavy. "Theodore."

"Don't."

"What?"

Finally Theo turns to you and his eyes are glossy. It was startling almost, to see the normally calm and collected boy tearing up. "Don't do that tesoro. Yell, push me, hit me if you need to, but I'm not Theodore. Not to you."

"What happened?" He sighed.

"I overheard Adrian say something completely vile about... you. I couldn't let him talk about you like that. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me cuore. You are the only light in my dark life."

You reached out and grabbed Theo's hands in your own. "That's incredibly sweet of you Theo. But why would you do that for me?"

"Isn't it obvious! I am entirely and irreversibly in love with you. I cannot live without you and I will not allow anyone to say such things about you."

After that, Theo took you out on a date. Thanks to his Pureblood lineage, Theo's family was quite wealthy. And his father had always taken to making sure he was well cared for financially, perhaps out of guilt from his emotional abuse.

For your first date, Theo took you to a London shopping district with his Black Card. At first you refused to spend any of his money. That is until Theo became resigned to buy you everything that your eyes lingered on for more than five seconds despite all your protests.

To end the date, he treated you to a nice dinner and then brought the pair of you back to Hogwarts.

As your boyfriend:

As your boyfriend, Theo's go-to nickname for you is either tesoro (treasure). He spends a lot of time staring at you which Mattheo teases him endlessly for of course.

He wishes you could meet his mother, but he adamantly refuses for you to meet his father. Instead, he introduces you to his grandmother. She teaches you how to make pasta from scratch and you and Theo often sneak into the kitchens at Hogwarts to try and make it there.

He makes it pretty clear that you're the only girl for him. He even tells you one night how his mother's dying wish was for him to find someone that he loved wholeheartedly and who loved him as much. Theo knows that this person is you, and he has no shyness in telling you.

He hates to see you cry, but if for any reason you're feeling sad, he recites Italian poetry to you in a soft and devoted tone.

Questo nostro amore, vita mia

lo prospetti felice

destinato a durare per sempre.

Dei del cielo, fate voi che lei dica il vero,

che lo prometta sincera e dal cuore,

che si possa per tutta la vita

mantener questo patto inviolabile

(This love of ours my life; I predict will be happy; destined to last forever.; Gods of the sky, do what you deem to be true; that promises to be sincere and from the heart,; which can be for a lifetime,; keep this inviolable covenant.)

When Theo speaks his native tongue it makes you a little weak in the knees. The way that his lips curve around the words and his tongue effortlessly forms each syllable makes your heart swell.

Overall:

Italian Theo is a complete cutie with impeccable manners and expresses more romance in ten minutes with you than most men express in their entire lives. He sees you as a light that brightens his life that he will do anything to protect.

----

help this is so bad

#slytherin boys #slytherin #theodore nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #theo nott #slytherin boys x reader #mattheo riddle #draco malfoy #lorenzo berkshire #blaise zabini

1K notes · View notes

inkdrinkerworld · 26 days

Note

hello bae idk if ur taking requests rn but whenever u are could you potentially do a spencer reid x curvy reader ?? just a true baddie and no one thinks spencer can handle all of her? i love this trope and am happy with whatever you do with it!

“You’re not being nice to me.” Spencer says as you slip into a pair of low rise jeans.

Your skin glistens, the glitter lotion you’d applied making you look that much more like a goddess.

You’re meeting Spencer’s friends from work for drinks tonight and you’d just gotten the most perfect top to make your outfit delectable.

“I’m being very nice to you, Spencer.” You slip into the top that stops just over your navel, your newest piercing out on display making Spencer swallow hard.

He’s not a prude, not your Spencer, but seeing your belly button adorned with a dangly silver dragonfly and in display fills him with an almost animalistic need to keep you in bed with him for the rest of the night.

“How do you figure?” He asks, reaching for you and smoothing his hands down your sides. You smell like burnt sugar and marshmallows. Spencer’s nose brushes yours, as he waits for your answer.

“Because I look like a peach and I’m gonna make the best impression on your friends ever.” You squeal when Spencer squeezes your bum and then captures your lips.

When you meet his friends, Spencer can tell you’re not what they were expecting. You look like a seductress- hair pinned up with pieces falling out, pretty dangly earrings to match the rest of your jewellery, your voice a siren’s call and you’re incredibly cheery.

“How does pretty boy keep up with you?” Derek asks, a smile playing on his lips as you look to Spencer who’s deep in conversation with Penelope over some new nerd game.

“Honestly, I don’t know how I keep up with him.” Derek laughs, shaking his head as he drains his drink.

Emily chimes in next, “Never thought Spencer would man up to ask you out.”

Your eyebrows knit, “What do you mean?”

She smiles, a little evilly- like a sister does when they have all the information on their brother. “Spencer’s pined after you for about three months before he said, ‘I finally did it.’”

Your boyfriend tunes into the conversation then, cheeks scarlett as you turn to him.

“You work at the courthouse right?” Emily asks and you nod.

“Spencer was always gushing about the pretty lawyer and how he wanted to ask you out but didn’t have the-“

He cuts her off with a hand over her mouth. “Emily.”

She laughs behind his hand, shrugging which only makes Spencer’s blush worsen.

Penelope shrieks and everyone turns to look at her. “You’re like Vanessa!” She says it like you’re all meant to catch on immediately; when you don’t she rolls her eyes.

“From the Little Mermaid! You look like a siren.” You smile, a barely there blush flushing over you in the dark bar.

“Your trouble is what you are.” Spencer mutters, no one but you hearing him making you smirk.

“Thank you Penelope! Though I have to be honest, this is just my going out get up- I’m much more slouchy at home.”

Spencer rolls his eyes, he doesn’t think you understand how incredibly attractive you are regardless of what you’re wearing.

You lean on Spencer’s shoulder as your drink comes to the table, a sip of Long Island Iced Tea and you’re turning to JJ.

“What’s it like working with Spencer?”

His hand falls to the small of your back as you listen with rapt attention to his friends’ every word.

Spencer can’t tear his eyes away from you and that’s all Derek needs to know as he shoots a message to Savannah to send him the number of the jeweler who made their rings.

#spencerreid #spencer reid #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid drabble #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid blurb #spencer reid x curvy!reader #spencer reid x black reader #spencer reid x yn #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x fem!reader #dr spencer reid

1K notes · View notes

charliemwrites · 7 months

Text

Mafia!au part 5!

A bit of fluff, a bit of drama, a bit of Soap!

Content: Attempted Gaslighting, Violence

“Gooood morning, sir!” you sing as you sweep into Mr. Price’s office. “And happy birthday!”

His head shoots up from whatever he was brooding over, brows arched high in genuine shock. Surprise is a good look on him.

“How the bloody hell did you know it’s my birthday?” he demands, sitting back in his chair.

You beam, sauntering right up to his desk. His eyes flick to the round white box balanced on top of your tablet. Nothing big, a little something you baked at home after a couple dissatisfying trials.

“It’s my job to know,” you reply easily.

He blinks– a habit you flatter yourself thinking he might have picked up from you. “What else do you know about me?”

You tilt your head at him, a smug curve to your lips.

“Just the basics. Your full name and birthday,” you demure. Hold up your free hand and start rattling off on your fingers. “Height, allergies, tea preference, pastry preference, blood type, drink of choice…”

You set the box in front of him and resettle your tablet in the crook of your arm. He stares at you for a beat, expression bleached from surprise to outright shock. You spin your stylus around your fingers.

“Which is why I made you a marble cake with whiskey instead of rum.”

His eyes lock onto the unassuming white box. It’s not a big cake by any means, about six inches in diameter and only one layer. Just a small something for Price to have for himself. God knows the rest of the boys (and Farah) get enough treats from you as it is.

“You made this?” he asks, leaning a bit forward.

“Yessir,” you declare, “and I’m pretty good at it too. Perks of stress baking.”

He runs a hand down his face, as if his beard got ruffled. “Christ, you need a raise.”

“Yes. Anyway – I’ll get you a plate after I’m done,” you say, swatting at his curious hand. He huffs but sits back to give you his full attention. You smile in reward and begin reciting his schedule for the day.

He listens, only interrupting when he needs clarification on little details. You try not to be too endeared by the way his eyes occasionally flick to the covered cake. When you finish, you twitch your nose at him knowingly.

“I’ll get you a plate before I get started on that expense summary,” you say, turning on your heel.

You hum in surprise when a large, calloused hand catches your wrist. It’s not the hand of a businessman, you think, but a man used to work. A man who does the hard things for himself. Before meeting John Price, you would have scoffed at the thought of a rich man knowing labor. Price though… well, he’s been proving to be a welcome exception since the very start.

“Thank you for this, love,” he says, voice hitting that tone and pitch that makes your insides squirm. He caresses his thumb over the tender skin before releasing you. “Really.”

You can already feel the blush climbing up the back of your neck, over your ears, creeping onto your cheeks. Can’t ever catch a break with him.

“Well, don’t thank me ‘til you’ve tried it,” you try to deflect.

“Weren’t you the one saying you’re decent at baking.”

“Yeah, well… maybe I poisoned you or something – for that time you closed my skirt in the door.”

He sputters a bit. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from giggling at the indignance on his face. Such a handsome, almost regal man. You love to rile him up.

“I apologized. Profusely.”

And offered to buy you a new skirt entirely. The way you’d shrieked that that was not an appropriate response made Soap choke with laughter as people stared.

“Yeah, well, I hold a grudge,” you reply, shrugging.

It’s true, but not about things like that. Graves and his assistant? Oh, that’s practically a blood feud at this point. A silly little accident where your boss left a crease in your fourth favorite skirt? That’s not even something to forgive him for, but you sure as hell will never forget. Especially when he still seems mildly sheepish about it.

“You wouldn’t be the first,” he grumbles. You’re not sure if he’s talking about grudges or poisoning, but the dramatics finally make you laugh.

“But I could be the last,” you call over your shoulder as you flounce out.

Not for long though, returning with a disposable fork from the breakroom. There’s something amusing to only you about a man in a thousand-pound suit using cheap plastic.

“Come to see me keel over for yourself, then?” he asks.

“Well, I can’t have you getting cake crumbs on the expense reports,” you reason.

He’s already got the lid open. No icing on the cake – you’re shit at decorating, so you chose a recipe without icing. The flavor of the whiskey and sugar should be plenty. To make up for it, you folded a tiny placard and wrote “Happy Birthday, Boss!” in your best loopy cursive.

He takes the fork, fingers brushing yours in the process. You remind yourself not to snatch your hand away like a scandalized Victorian lady. Christ, you really need to get it together.

“Tell me how you like it,” you say, making to leave again.

“Come try it yourself,” he protests.

You pause, give him an amused look. “I didn’t actually poison it, sir. You’ve not done anything that heinous. Yet.”

He snorts, carefully digging out a respectable bite from the edge. “If you see fit to toss a little rat poison in, then I’ll likely having it coming.”

You hum. “Arsenic is more my style. Classic.”

In the corner of the room, Simon makes a little noise you’ve come to recognize as repressed laughter. You shoot him a quick, amused look, before shifting your attention back as Price gestures with the fork.

“Regardless, you should get a little taste of the fruits of your labor,” he offers.

The fruits of your labor, you think with a bit of regret, will be his enjoyment of your baking. You’re not sure when his admiration became your favorite part of the day, but you’re spoiled for positive feedback from your otherwise stern boss.

“You first,” you insist, “it’s your birthday after all.”

He keeps unnerving eye contact as he brings the bite to his mouth, tongue flicking out to catch any spare crumbs. He hums, eyes closing a for a second in enjoyment, before opening and fixating on you again.

“That’s bloody brilliant, love.”

He scoops up another piece, brings it right to your mouth. You hurry to put a hand beneath in case it falls; don’t even think before parting your lips. Sugar and whiskey, chocolate and vanilla, burst across your tongue.

“Oh!” you hum, hiding your mouth while you chew. “That is pretty good.”

It only occurs to you as he takes another bite for himself, a twinkle in his eye, that you just ate after him. Used the same fork like it was nothing, like that’s an acceptable thing to do as his assistant. You’re not squeamish by any means, no. It’s just… it’s gotta be crossing some sort of professional line. You can’t imagine any of your previous bosses ever sharing with you like this.

“Let me tell you, if you did poison it,” he muses, “I wouldn’t mind it being the last thing I ate.”

You roll your eyes, swat lightly at his arm again. “I told you; it’s not poisoned.”

“I know, you just took a bite,” he answers smugly.

You click your tongue at him, playing at exasperated. “I’m going to work now.”

“Ta, love.”

“Oi, li’l miss?”

You glance up at Soap curiously.

(Recognize, in the back of your mind, that it’s a nickname that’s not only spread – thanks, Simon – but that you’re responding to as quickly as your own name now. You should probably feel some type of way about that. Probably righteously annoyed or something. You don’t.)

Soap is standing at your desk, shifting from foot to foot. Uneasy. But the expression on his usually friendly face isn’t nervous. It’s… something else. Something you don’t know how to decipher but makes you sit up a bit straighter, alert.

“What’s up, buttercup?” you ask, voice light.

“There’s some bloke down in the lobby, says he’s got a date with you?” he explains, frowning deeper than you’ve ever seen.

It gets deeper – and angrier – when he sees the blood drain from your face. You push your chair away from your desk to hide the tremble that’s trying to infest your hands.

Absolutely not. This is your place of work, dammit. Where you’re calm and collected, the person anyone can turn to for solutions. You’ve worked so hard to craft this sleek vessel of professional grace and you’re not about to have it sullied like this.

“He does not have a date with me,” you state, keeping your voice flat and tight. “Would you come down with me, please?”

“’Course,” he replies instantly.

You stop by Price’s office, knock twice, then poke your head in when he calls for entry.

“I’ve just got to pop out for a mo’,” you explain, “I’ll be right back!”

He nods and you duck out again before he can notice anything amiss. For a rich bastard, he’s too observant of others. (Especially you.)

“What’s he here fer, then?” Soap asks in the elevator.

You let out an annoyed puff of air. “A reality check, I assume.”

He side-eyes you but doesn’t ask any further before the doors open.

Sure enough, standing in the lobby, is the last man you want to see. Your ex, Brandon.

“There you are, bunny. You’ve been keeping me waiting for—”

“One, do not call me that. It’s inappropriate,” you interrupt, crisp and sharp. “Two, I haven’t been keeping you waiting, because there’s nothing to wait for. Three, get out.”

He rolls his eyes, that smarmy curve to his lips never leaving. You don’t think he’s even noticed Soap just behind you yet.

“Look, I know you’re still in a mood about everything,” he says, “but that’s why I’m taking you out. To smooth things over. Clear the air, and all that.”

“You’re not taking me out,” you repeat. “Get out.”

He crosses his arms, tilting his head in that condescending way you’ve always despised. It sets your teeth on edge, makes you burn with anger.

“This isn’t your building,” he goads, “you can’t kick me out.”

“Might as well be hers, mate,” Soap interjects, “she could kick out the goddamn queen.”

Brandon’s focus shifts to him. You feel a curl of vindictive satisfaction when his expression curdles a bit. Soap may not be a particularly tall man, but he can be intimidating. Built thick and strong, doesn’t bother to conceal his physique at all with his sleeves rolled up his forearms. And you’re not oblivious to his looks either. Soap is a handsome man. A walking ego bruise for a man like your ex.

“Fine,” he huffs, “then come outside so we can talk like adults.”

You click your tongue, fold your hands behind your back to conceal the way your fingers clench into fists. “We did talk like adults. You just failed to listen like one.”

And ohhhh, the petty satisfaction that bubbles through you at the way his teeth click in shock, a flush of embarrassed anger curtaining his face.

“Now, I’ll ask one more time and then my coworker is going to toss you out himself.” Soap chooses that moment to crack his knuckles. “Leave this building. You’re not welcome.”

You drop your arms and turn on your heel, ready to get back to work and compartmentalize this until you’ve got a fuck-off sized glass of wine in front of you.

“Hey, we’re not—”

Even if you did see what happened, you don’t think you could have followed. It happens so fast. One second, Soap’s eyes are on you. Burning with questions and fury on your behalf, checking that you’re okay. The next, he’s darted past you. There’s a scuffle, fancy shoes squeaking on polished floors, a thick, wet pop. Then Brandon is shouting in pain.

You jump, twist to see what the commotion is. Soap’s got a white-knuckled grip on Brandon’s extended wrist – though now it’s bent at an awful angle, you realize he must have been reaching for you. Your skin crawls.

“Away ‘n bile yer heid,” Soap growls, shoving Brandon back roughly.

He doesn’t fall on his ass but it’s a near thing. With the eyes of reception, a few employees, and you on him, he spits a curse at Soap and retreats. You stare after for a moment, lips parted in shock.

“All set, miss?” Soap asks, adjusting his sleeves.

“Um, yeah,” you say. Blink and pull yourself together. “I mean, yes. Let’s head back up before the boss misses us.”

He places a hand on the small of your back on the short walk back. It feels grounding rather than proprietary; you’re grateful for it. He lasts until the doors close before turning to you.

“The hell was that about, lass?”

You sigh, smooth your skirt down for lack of anything else to do. “That was my ex. He wants to… reconcile, I suppose. And he’s quite keen on getting his way.”

Soap mutters a few choice words under his breath. Scottish slang, you suspect. You’ll have to get him to teach you sometime.

“Anyway, thank you for your help,” you continue, eyes on the elevator doors. “I can’t believe he showed up here. I’m so embarrassed.”

“You’ve nothin’ to be embarrassed about, hen,” he protests. “He’s the creeper here.”

You sigh. “I know, I just… you don’t think less of me, do you? That I didn’t… take care of him myself.”

Soap’s expression softens. He draws you into a quick one-armed hug. “You did take care of ‘im, far as I’m concerned. I was just there to enforce. No need to mess up yer pretty nails, aye?”

You smile, small but genuine. “Thanks, again.”

“Anytime, li’l miss.”

The elevator chimes as it reaches the top floor. You turn to Soap just before the doors open.

“Oh, and please don’t tell the boss.”

First | Previous | Next

Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #mafia boss price #mafia!au #assistant!reader #oddly wholesome for a mafia au #john price x reader #john price #john soap mactavish

1K notes · View notes

mypoisonedvine · 1 year

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 || dark!jonathan crane x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 || since you're the only one of his coworkers at arkham who doesn't seem to be intimidated by his intelligence, jonathan decides it's time he finds out what does scare you... and how he can embody it. unfortunately for you, turning into your greatest nightmare doesn't prove very difficult for him.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 || 5.5k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 || EXTREME AND EXPLICIT NONCON (18+ only and please proceed with caution), drugging and kidnapping, paralysis, traumatized reader, forced orgasms/overstimulation, degradation, humiliation, choking, slapping, unprotected sex/breeding, misogyny, jonathan is very much in character which means he is incredibly evil and has incel vibes (I know y'all are not about to get mad at me for writing a villain being a villain and not uwu babifying him...)

When you interrupted and corrected your colleague, Dr. Crane, about the correct combination of pharmaceuticals for a certain schizophrenic patient in the asylum who happened to have diabetes, you thought nothing of it. After all, the whole point of staff meetings was to discuss and debate these things, and you weren’t about to let him damn-near poison a patient by giving him something that would interfere with his insulin. You weren’t trying to be snarky about it, but you did sort of make a joke about how dangerous his suggestion was— and you didn’t notice the way Jonathan’s nostrils flared and jaw tightened when some others chuckled at what you said.

When you received an email from your therapist’s office informing you that there was evidence of a break-in in her building, but that the police were unable to officially determine if confidential client files were compromised, you thought nothing of it. It was a big complex, these things happen, and you knew from being a clinician yourself how tricky the laws could be surrounding that stuff: she had to email you, legally, if there was any chance your file could’ve been accessed, and that didn’t mean you had any reason to fear your private therapy session notes had been read. Besides, who would want to read about you and your boring life, diving into your mundane hopes and fears and daily stresses?

And when Crane came into the office with tea for you, you thought nothing of it. Sure, you seemed surprised when he popped into your office with cups in hand— you asked him why he had two cups of tea, assuming they were both for himself, and he laughed. Just that was out of character, he wasn’t much of a chucklehead or anything. “Green tea, right? With lime and honey?” he asked, setting one cup down for you. You were still taken aback, but you had to admit defeat.

“Yeah,” you said, taking the cup as he sat down across the desk from you. “Yeah, that’s my order— I didn’t know you drank tea.”

“Sometimes,” he informed you, hoping his poker face was holding up as he watched you take a sip. He couldn’t help but stare at your lips wrapping around the little hole in the lid, the print of berry-red your lipstick left behind. His heart was racing already, more than he expected.

When you finished the first sip, you smiled at him and let out a small, nervous laugh. “Thank you,” you finally said. So, yes, even though you clearly noticed this was slightly odd behavior, you thought nothing of drinking the tea. That was one thing he hated about you: the thoughtlessness. You didn’t seem to second-guess yourself much, if anything you were a little on the cocky side. He found it so irritating— that confidence. Sure, you were smart and you deserved to take yourself somewhat seriously, but the way you walked around this place— the way you ignored him so easily, or spoke over him if you wanted to, or ignored his suggestions when he gave them… you were a bitch, basically. You clearly thought you were better than him— better than everybody else— for no reason at all. Just because you were pretty and had a good job you thought you could get away with anything, surely; pretty girls always think that way.

He made casual conversation with you as you sipped the tea, asking questions he already knew the answer to, hoping to catch you in a lie. For the most part, your stories matched up with what he’d learned from that file. But, you left out the gory details— you left out the best parts, really.

You mentioned where you went to medical school and that you transferred mid-way through due to ‘stress’, but you didn’t elaborate on what really happened to you. You mentioned having your own therapist— something you said passionately that every client-facing mental health professional should have— but left out what you were actually being treated for, not to mention the PTSD diagnosis.

He had to hide his smirk behind the paper cup every time you seemed to lose your train of thought— it wasn’t like you, so focused and determined all the time. No, it was the drugs finally kicking in. You went for bigger gulps of tea each time your eyes looked heavier, hoping the caffeine would work— but the trace caffeine in your green tea was nothing compared to what he’d added.

You tried to warn him that you were suddenly not feel up to par— that he needed to leave, and you might try to wake yourself up— but he just sat and waited. He watched you try to get up, and lose your balance. He watched you stumble, trip, and ultimately fall onto the floor limply. He watched your eyes flutter shut and the final ounce of energy to fight it fade; he quietly took a final sip of his tea.

You woke up on the floor. You could barely feel it beneath you, but you knew it was the floor— it was cold, and hard. And you were looking up at the dark ceiling, at the fan spinning at the lowest speed; so you were definitely on the floor.

Jonathan was standing above you, not too far off, flipping through papers. You couldn’t move— no matter how hard you fought to, you couldn’t. You barely managed to turn your head, but it felt more like it rolled to the side on its own. You tried to yell for Dr. Crane’s attention, for help, for him to explain what happened to you, but even your mouth couldn’t move. The best you could do was breathe harder— actually, you were pretty sure your body was trying to hyperventilate, but you were too incapacitated to even have a proper panic attack.

He heard you, though; he looked away from the papers and grinned down at you. “Comfortable down there?”

You started to put together a few things. One, that the last thing you remembered was being in your office, and now you were in your apartment. Two, that those papers were photoscans of chart notes— obviously you couldn’t make out the words from here, but the format gave away that it must have to do with a patient.

And three, that Crane was neither surprised that you were paralyzed on the floor, nor interested in helping you.

He half-rolled the papers in one hand and playfully hit the other hand’s palm with them. “These have been quite interesting… revealing, to say the least,” he informed you, like it was a compliment— something you should be proud to hear. “You’re quite the enigma, Doc!”

He sat down beside you on the floor, leaning on his hand first to find his balance with a little sigh; he seemed amused, actually, and your heart began to race.

As he started to read aloud from the page in front of him, you felt nauseous. He was reading patient data, describing a client who was receiving individual counseling— or that’s what the CPT code indicated, at least. As he listed the client’s demographic data— age, race, gender, height, weight— it became eerily obvious what he was doing. You refused to believe it until he went on: “Client was recommended to Dr. Min Zhang for individual therapy concerning PTSD following sexual trauma.”

Your therapist. This was a file he’d copied, which belonged to your therapist. And it was obvious whose file it was.

As you tried with all your might to scream, Jonathan flipped a few pages ahead.

“Session fourteen, eleventh of June,” he continued. “Client expressed frustration with an increased recurrence of nightmares and flashbacks to her assault. Up until now, she has struggled to explain what triggers her anxiety without having to actually elaborate on the circumstances of the event.”

He stopped, but you weren’t exactly relieved. In fact, you were horrified. He had a little grin on his face when he looked at you, but you could finally see the rage in his eyes. Suddenly, you realized how long it had been there. You had sort of picked up on it before, the resentment he had towards you— and it didn’t take a Freudian expert to figure out that he was threatened by you, especially as a man. He didn’t respond well to feeling upstaged and he clearly had an issue with women. Maybe not that issue— he was good-looking and well-off, he didn’t need to have any issues with women if he didn’t want to— but an issue nonetheless.

“Now,” he added, smiling wider than you’d ever seen him smile before, “client states she is ready to describe the incident in full detail.”

He set the papers aside for a second, leaning over you and almost looking… giddy, really.

“I won’t read you the rest, I’ve already pretty much memorized what goes on from there. It was fascinating— seeing how what happened that night connected to the fears you still have today… the nightmares. You said that you still feel sick at the smell of alcohol, you still don’t like to wear pinstripe skirts, and even just the wrong few words can make you feel like you’re right back there where it happened— on the floor of your apartment.”

All you could do was look up at him, and you felt your eyes get hot as they welled with tears.

“Not this apartment, obviously— the one by your old school,” Jonathan sighed, “but this will have to do. And the smell of alcohol, well, I wouldn’t want to let anything cloud my experience— but I dabbed a little gin on my wrists, what do you think?”

He held his hand up by your face, caressing your cheek for a second, and you imagined yourself pulling away— turning your head and shrugging his touch off of you with a grimace. But nothing happened, of course, and you were entirely helpless as the acidic stench of liquor became apparent. You couldn’t give your typical outward reaction of a frown, but inside, you felt just the same as always: your stomach twisted, your heart pounded, your head swirled.

“Smell is such a… primal trigger of memory, isn’t it?” he mused, watching your face reverently. “I can see it in your eyes, it’s affecting you even more than I expected. You act so fearless at work— but I knew you must have been overcompensating. God, you’re terrified— I would say you’re paralyzed, but, well… it would be too literal, I think.”

You knew that Crane studied fear and phobias, even trauma occasionally, as a personal interest within the field. It was normal to have a favorite subtopic, and to conduct related research on it— but obviously, this was far from normal, this was absolutely deranged. You knew that part of this was vengeance, in his own mind at least, but you didn't feel like you'd done anything actually wrong to him. And the rest of it, well, it seemed like some twisted experiment, but if you were able to speak you would've tried to remind him that this 'research' wasn't going to get him published or advance his career— but of course, that wasn't what he wanted. He just wanted to humiliate you.

“I was worried I didn’t have enough to work with, you know,” he added. “I knew I couldn’t get you to where it happened, if I could even figure it out since you never filed that police report… and the skirt, well, I considered it. It sounded pretty exciting to dress you up like the night it happened— what I would give to know everything you were wearing that night, but I don’t have a ton to work with. Obviously, you don’t own any pinstripe skirts anymore, so I would’ve had to buy one… and I wasn’t quite ready for the looks I’d get shopping at Macy’s, so…”

Carefully, he reached up to take off his glasses, folding them and setting them down on your coffee table.

“You know how detail-oriented I am— I mean, I went to all this, didn’t I?” He continued, reaching down and brushing his fingers for a moment over your leg. It was so instinctive to pull away that it took you a moment to realize you hadn’t… because of course, you couldn’t. “But it’s impossible to recreate it all perfectly. Clearly, I don’t need to— if only you could see it, Doc, you look… you look so weak. Pathetic.”

Since the only thing you could do was look around, you tried to look away— to not give him the satisfaction of seeing the terror in your eyes. He grabbed your face and turned it until you looked up at him.

“Did you think you’d be able to face your greatest fear? Perhaps with a bit more dignity?” he mused. He looked different without the glasses on; and, ironically, you felt like he could see you even better now.

It was obvious that he enjoyed lording complete power over you, but a quick glance down to his suit trousers made it clear just how much he enjoyed it. You quickly darted your gaze away, but it was too late; he started to climb on top of you, staring at your face uncomfortably close, and worked on opening his belt and fly.

“Fear rules us all, doesn’t it? Everything you did, it was guided by your fear that it would— well, why paraphrase? Let me find exactly how you put it…”

He picked up the papers again quickly, licking his thumb and flipping around until he found the right entry.

“Yes,” he said, “here it is: client states she lives in almost constant fear that it will happen again.”

So that's what this was: his disturbed take on exposure therapy.

As he tossed the copied charts away for the last time and reached up under your skirt, he leaned down and whispered in your ear— and you couldn’t even flinch from the harsh sounds of his words. “It took you over fifty sessions to admit it,” he recalled, “to tell her the whole truth. Not just what he did to you… what you did.”

With a small growl, he yanked your panties down your legs and rubbed your thighs with far too much aggression, such that you expected bruises from his hands— just like the ones you’d had before.

“You said he made you do it,” he continued, “you couldn’t help it, right? But you said nothing’s ever felt like that— that you’d never had such a powerful orgasm.”

You would’ve vomited, except that that, too, requires your muscles to not be paralyzed. Rolling your skirt up and spreading your legs, he positioned himself right between them, rubbing his cock's leaking head around your hole.

“Your greatest fear isn’t really that it’ll happen again, is it?” Jonathan taunted. “You’re afraid someone’s going to find out how much you liked it.”

With that, he punched his hips forward and speared you on his cock.

It had been years since you'd had anything inside you, even your own fingers. You couldn't even remember if being penetrated hurt like this during your assault, and you would've sworn before that you remembered every detail perfectly. But this was so real, not a memory or a nightmare. You couldn't cry out from the sting.

"God, it's tight," he groaned, "I bet you weren't this tight when it happened— you'd been whoring around, hadn't you? Letting all kinds of guys use you… just ran into the wrong one and got your drink spiked. But now…"

He hissed through his teeth, tightening his grip on your hip.

"Now it's all mine, isn't it?"

Inside, you were screaming and kicking and pleading for mercy. You imagined you would be angry and violent, beat him to death with your heel or something, but you wondered if you'd be forced to bargain with him— apologize for whatever you did to upset him, promise you wouldn't tell a soul about this as long as he left you alone. But either way, it didn't matter… on the outside, you were useless, laying there and letting him use you.

"What made you come so much before? Did he have a big cock, is that it?” he asked with a snarl. “Did he know exactly how to touch you? Or was it just that you’d been craving it, needed it really rough to get off properly? Is that why you came while he raped you?”

It was a biological response, you told yourself like you had over and over, I couldn't help it, it wasn't my fault, it was a biological response— it wasn't my fault, I didn't like it, it was a biological response.

“I think I know what it is,” he mused, looking down at you with heavy eyes and almost purring as he watched your limp form bounce on the floor. “I think you wanted to be put in your place. You act so liberated, so empowered— but you’re a creature of instinct, like anything else. You need someone to remind you how weak you are, I know, fuck, I know you do…”

He fucked you just a bit faster, grunting and tightening his fist on the floor by your head.

“You haven’t been able to have an orgasm at all, since then,” he stated— almost making it like a question, with the way he said it, but he obviously already knew it was true. He sounded shockingly sympathetic— not even pitying, not condescending, for once. “I’m sure for a while you didn’t even try, afraid it would remind you— but that’s the thing, you can’t finish unless you’re reminded.”

You almost surprised yourself when you heard a whine come from your throat; he smiled proudly.

"It's wearing off, I think," he noticed. "I only gave you a small dose. Can you move at all? Can you beg me to stop?"

You opened your mouth to try to say everything you'd wanted to since you awoke, but all that came out was a moan. You hated yourself for that, and he laughed happily.

"You don't want me to stop," he decided. "Feels too good?"

I fucking hate you, you wanted to scream, you sick son of a bitch, I fucking hate you—

"You didn't say it outright, but he must have said something to you— during, maybe after," Jonathan theorized. "You didn't say what it was, but you told your therapist about having a vivid flashback after being accosted by a delusional homeless man on the street. He called you a bitch, seemingly for no reason… is that what your rapist said to you? Did he say you were a stuck-up little bitch?"

As burning hot tears striped your temples, you curled your fingers over and over— maybe you could move your arms if you really tried…

"He was fucking right about you. You think you're so much fucking better than everyone else," he growled. "You think you're so fucking smart, and special. But you're no fucking different, you're nothing—"

You whined and reached up, weakly trying to push him off of you, but all you could do was limply grasp at his shoulders.

"Nothing but a stupid—" he grunted the word as he slammed himself into you— "fucking—" he did it again— "bitch."

"No!" you finally heard yourself sob, clutching a weak fistful of his white shirt, but he grabbed your hands and shoved them back down to the floor.

“God,” he choked, holding your wrists tightly until you whined, “it’s so much better when you can fight— fuck, it’s so much better. Keep struggling if you want, Doc, you’re still too weak for me…”

Your legs moved a little, but they felt heavy. Sensation was only just beginning to return to them, like pins and needles, and it stung; you winced as you managed to squirm a bit beneath him.

"That's it," he praised, "this is probably just how you did it before. Too drunk and too desperate for cock to really do much, but trying so hard to look like you hate it— I understand, you don't want anyone to know that you need this. They'd never look at you the same again: the smart, accomplished psychiatrist who likes getting treated like fuckmeat. What would they think of you if they knew?"

"No…" you said again, too weak and traumatized to say much else— but it wasn't what he said that made you say no, it was the pulse of pleasure inside your cunt. He must have felt it, and if he didn't, he surely felt the next; yes, he did, because he smiled down at you excitedly.

"It's happening, isn't it? You're gonna come."

He held on tight to one of your legs, gripping your thigh and staring uncomfortably into your eyes as he kept going— faster and rougher with each thrust. You choked on your throat, trying to stop any part of this, but the pleasure was undeniable; it still hurt, yes, and you still felt so angry and sick and numb, but something familiar and desperate was tightening in your gut. It’d been so long since anyone touched you… you’d forgotten how natural it could feel, even when it was so horrible.

"I read it in your file, but I still couldn't really believe it,” he laughed quietly, “I couldn't believe you came over and over while being raped— but here you are, wow, look at you… you’re so beautiful when you’re scared.”

A long, heavy sigh fell from your lips; your eyes got heavier, and your whole body seemed to relax— in a way totally different from the medication-induced paralysis.

He cooed at you, seeming oddly proud, and you were oddly compliant as he picked you up and pulled you into his lap.

Tears streamed across your cheeks as he held you close, one hand around your back while the other moved your hips against his. “There you go— come for me, I wanna feel it— another one, baby, for me…”

It wasn’t much longer before another one came— from what you remembered, it was a lot like the first time, this terribly wonderful way your body protected itself from the trauma by immersing you in pleasure. Of course, Jonathan helped you along by rubbing your clit with his thumb, excited to watch you surrender to ecstasy even when you begged him to just stop and leave you alone.

Of course, your protests were less and less believable as more of your strength and mobility returned— you could’ve tried harder to get away, but instead you found your hips rocking with his, your arms wrapping around his shoulders. No, you didn’t want this— you never wanted this— but you found the way he spoke to you impossibly comforting even while it was still deeply upsetting. “Tell me about the nightmares, darling,” he whispered— some impossible mix of pleading and ordering.

“A-almost every night,” you whimpered. “I… I got used to it, but I used to… I used to wake up and think I was still…”

"They felt so real, hm?" he presumed, and you nodded. “It’s real now… you don’t have to be afraid of the dreams anymore, it’s all real— I’m right here.”

You couldn’t tell if he was trying to scare or comfort you; he pet your hair, clinging to you tightly, kissing your face and neck along the lines of the tears soaking your skin.

You felt his grin against your cheek when another wavering moan echoed in your chest, and he laid you back on the floor to hover over you again. “Was that your third one, already?” he noticed. “This is so much easier than I thought… you needed this so badly, you poor girl.”

A quick wave of panic settled over you when his hand wrapped around your neck. “W-wait,” you pleaded instantly, as if you really feared he would just strangle you to death right then and there. Your hands, still weak and tingly, reached up to his arm, and you felt his cock throb inside you— of course that was what he wanted, to see you react in fear again. So many other emotions were at play right now, even some you didn’t know existed (like whatever the word would be for longing for the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, or feeling like the only person you can trust is the person hurting you the most), but fear was still going to rule it all as long as he had any say.

"How many times did you come before?" he demanded to know, nostrils flaring as he fucked you harder. "Tell me how many times you came when he raped you."

"I— I don't—" you stammered.

"Say it," he ordered.

"I— I don't know!" you yelped, whimpers falling to silence as he tightened his grip on your neck.

"You don't fucking know?" he snarled at you, watching you fight for air. You clawed at his shirt, his wrist, tried to pry his fingers away, but he just sneered as he stared at your numbing face. "You don't know how many times you creamed on your rapist's cock? Bullshit."

"I—" you gasped when he let go of your throat, "I lost count…"

He went from livid to ecstatic in a second, laughing proudly and dipping down to kiss your neck passionately. "Good girl," he mumbled against your skin, fucking you even faster. "That's what you need to do for me now— come for me until you lose count."

“I— I can’t,” you choked, grabbing at his shoulders as he seemed to overwhelm you just by pressing his weight down on top of you. “I’m sorry— you… you proved your point, I— I just need a break—”

Even though the drug he’d injected you with was wearing off, you realized you were just as limp and helpless as before… after all, some of the most powerful chemicals come inside the body. You didn’t even fight it when he put his hand over your mouth, spitting out a quiet but hateful shut up and continuing with his quick and forceful thrusts into you.

He kept you conscious and lucid by occasionally hitting or choking you, talking to you, once or twice even ordering you to kiss him. Like you mean it, he’d said, slapping you as punishment for doing it wrong. Truth be told, you hadn’t kissed anyone in so long that you’d really been trying your best the first time. Sometimes he told you to beg him for more— or to beg him to get off of you— and yet he would usually punish you for speaking at all. He was completely unpredictable, and you figured that was part of the plan: take away any shred of control you might try to get by making it impossible to follow his rules. Keep you confused and crying, keep you fearful, keep you obedient.

But, he did seem to enjoy when you could only just choke out a broken please. He laughed at you, pinching your sore clit in response until you sobbed and tried to jerk your hips away. “‘Please’ what, honey? You mean, ‘please keep fucking me, Doctor Crane, you’ll make me come again?’” he taunted. “Something like that?”

“Please… please,” you swallowed around your whines, “please just… finish, and go…”

“Oh,” he purred, “you want me to come?”

You’d specifically not phrased it that way, but, yes, that was what you were asking for. You weren’t sure what else he wanted from you now, it felt like he’d drained you of everything.

“You can just say that, baby— you wanna make me come?” he grinned, moving in closer for a kiss, but you turned your head away. He grabbed your jaw again and stared at you with an angry glare. “This isn’t about me. This is what you wanted. This is what you fucking wanted!”

As he screamed in your face, you sobbed and tried to look away again, but he hit you hard on the face and covered your mouth before the cry of agony could come out.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he insisted again, forcing your head to nod with his clammy, iron-tight grip. “Uh huh— and you wanna make me come, don’t you? You understand now that’s all you’re good for.”

As sick as it was, you felt yourself fall into another orgasm when he said that; your eyes rolled back a bit, and for a moment you felt even hotter between your legs.

“I think, if you beg me to come, maybe I will,” he offered— bargaining with you, probably another way to trick you into clamoring for some control only to yank it away. Unfortunately, you were in no position to turn down a deal.

“Please,” you blurted out the second he released your mouth from under his hand; when you blinked the tears from your eyes, you saw him clearly again and realized how completely different he looked from the arrogant-but-generally-unassuming man you knew from work. His hair was fallen beside his face, and he was close enough that the ends were tickling your forehead. His eyes were bloodshot, crazed, and dark. His lips, always full and plush but usually in a tight frown or neutral look of condescending boredom, were curled around the teeth he bared at you. He looked animalistic, for a man typically so measured. Only he could do something so animalistic in a way that required such intellect, foresight, and contemplation— using his superhuman skills to treat you in a subhuman manner. You realized that you were really seeing him for the first time— the person you’d known before was the mask. This was something horribly freeing for him; and you were having a much easier time analyzing and thinking about him to distract from how sickly freeing this experience was becoming for you. “Please, Jonathan—”

“Doctor Crane,” he corrected. Apparently this wasn’t enough to put you on a first name basis…

“Doctor Crane,” you repeated, “please… come. I want… I want you to come.”

“Hmm,” he considered, and you worried he’d decide he was unimpressed with your effort and hurt you again— but, he did maybe the only thing worse. “Okay,” he agreed, “if it’s so important to you.”

Just when you shut your eyes tight and hoped you could just get through this— just hold on for a few more minutes at most and then this would be over and done with— he whispered in your ear that he needed you to keep your eyes open if he was going to finish.

Though, when you obeyed, he purred at you and let his own eyes flutter shut for just a moment. For once, he actually seemed affected by all this physically and not just psychosexually. “I think I’ll come inside, like he did before,” Crane decided with a groan when he opened his eyes, biting his lip for a moment as he stared down at you. “I didn’t see any birth control in your listed medications on chart… I guess we’ll find out if you have a fear of getting pregnant.”

"Jonathan— don't," you whimpered. "Please, don't do that—"

"Shh," he soothed, petting the top of your head and laying his weight over you. "Shh, it's alright. I think you need to be filled with come… I think that might be the one thing that’ll get you to settle down, now just hold still.”

“I— please… please…” you began to beg again, but your words faded away as another wave of sensation washed over you— they started to blend together, like before, and you realized you were doing what he’d asked: you were losing count.

“Good girl,” he praised under his breath, “like that— fuck, I’m close. Fuck!”

He held onto you tight— one hand on your thigh and the other on your neck as his thrusts sped to a desperately, impossibly fast pace. You moaned— or cried, or yelled, or something— as he pushed just a little too deep and your toes curled in your heels.

“Uh huh,” he encouraged, “just one more while I come inside you— I think you can manage that, just one more good squeeze on my cock— oh, fuck, that’s it, yes, just like that…”

You stopped being able to understand what he was saying, but you heard the wavering groan that came a few moments later when his movements suddenly stopped. He gasped and kept himself as far inside you as possible; you shuddered, blinking fresh tears out of your eyes, and felt paralyzed in an entirely new way as you laid under him, staring up at your ceiling, seeing how far the sun had set since it began— actually, it had started to rain, making it even more impossible to tell how much time had really passed. Eventually, though, he took his head out from the crook of your neck and propped himself up enough to look down at you.

Reaching to your coffee table, he fumbled his hand around until he found his glasses, and shakily put them back on. “Well,” he grinned, still panting but seeming to be mostly back to himself (whoever that was). “I never thought I’d meet someone who loves fear as much as I do.”

#jonathan crane x reader #scarecrow x reader #cillian murphy x reader #jonathan crane smut #cillian murphy smut #IM SO SORRY TO THIS MAN #not to crane he's garbage

5K notes · View notes

aakeysmash · 18 days

Note

bakugou taking care of you when you're on your period but not in a "omg my cramps hurt so bad" way but in a "i am literally gonna throw up" way

thought i’d change it up and make him the one who gags lol. thank you for this ask bb, even if it is indeed from MONTHS ago……..

he enters the bathroom and gags. you’re changing your pad with the door open, because it’s nothing he didn’t already see a million times.

“hello to you too, boyfriend,” you huff annoyed. your cramps have been killing you all night, and seeing a man (even if it is the boyfriend you have been living with the past three years) makes you feel an indescribable rage. these are the only moments you truly wish you had a dick instead of an uterus.

he clears his throat, but his scowl stays. he knows you tend to be a little bit more moody the first few days of your period, but the sight of your blood outside of your body makes him feel nauseous.

“hi. i’m gonna go. catch ya later,” he rushes out before bolting out of the door towards your kitchen. you sigh, shaking your head. you think by now he’d understand you’re not being brutally killed even if he sees a little red on you, but the pro hero in him doesn’t want to acknowledge this.

you get back to the living room and cover yourself with your soft blanket, trying to sleep a little. it’s your day off from the office, so it’s not like you’re missing anything: being your boyfriend’s assistant has its perks. you feel a warm hand softly caressing your forehead, which is the only thing peeking out from the giant blanket.

“tea?” katsuki asks. you know this is his way of caring. you hum.

“hurts?” he asks again, and you hum for the second time.

you hear him walking away and pouring the hot water he already prepared in advance in case you wanted to drink something warm. you hear the gentle pit-pat of his slippers coming back to the sofa, and you sit up to reach for the cup in his hand.

“i want to curl up in a ball and die,” you mutter before taking a sip.

“you always say this,” he responds, sitting down next to you.

“and i mean it,” you sassily say, looking at him with your brows furrowed. he kisses your forehead, smirking.

“no you don’t,” he chuckles. you playfully shove him.

“i’m sorry for staining the sheets. i promise i’ll wash them once the ibuprofen kicks in,” you sheepishly say, laying your head on his shoulder.

you feel the shiver that runs up his spine. “no use. sleep, i’ll make lunch. i asked eijirou to cover for me today,” he answers before kissing your forehead again and getting up.

“you know i love you, right?” you sigh, laying down and managing to fall asleep in 30 seconds.

you wake up because you feel a big thud in the bathroom. you groggily walk toward it and you find katsuki kneeling down in front of your bathtub. he's the palest you've ever seen him be.

"are you okay?" you ask him, worried he might have hurt himself, maybe by slipping on one of the many puddles of water across the floor.

"i'm fine, fuck. it's just a little blood, why am i acting like such a pussy," he snaps. you're confused, before realizing he's holding onto the sheets from last night. a laugh bubbles inside you and you try to force it down, but he notices it and scowls.

"i did this for you and you're laughing at me?" he looks down at the slightly bloody water in front of him and sits down on the wet floor. "i feel like i might pass the fuck out, no joke," he grunts, closing his eyes and taking big breaths.

you burst out laughing. "i could've done this, you know?" you say between chuckles, kneeling down to take over. he grunts again, muttering something alongside "i wanted to do something nice for you."

the day after you finish your period, you're sitting next to each other on your bed.

"so you find me disgusting, huh?" you tease him, still remembering how he had to lay down for 30 minutes to regain color in his face.

he rolls his eyes, flicking your forehead. "looking at your blood is one of the few things that makes me want to gauge my eyes out. apart from tasting that stupid egg mix my mom gave us the other day," he barks out. you laugh.

"y'know, there's a way to end this," he says in your ear.

you look up with a questioning gaze.

"isn't it time to have a baby?"

#idk if i like this yall but okay #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #katsuki x you #bakugo fluff #mha x reader

945 notes · View notes

evielmostdefinitely · 10 months

Note

Hi!! I love your snow fics! I would love to see more of them on the tour through the districts

treat me rough |young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader|

prompt: as requested above, more honeymoon smut :) also the title is from the song treat me rough by ella fitzgerald which just reminds me of coriolanus and reader haha.

contains: smut 18+. dom!coriolanus and sub! (kinda bratty) reader. possessive, controlling, mean/hard dom!coryo. dom/sub themes. bratting. spanking / pussy slapping (with hand). pinvsex.

“You’re pleased with yourself, aren’t you?” Coriolanus growled through gritted teeth, a firm hand on your bicep dragging you to the train’s station.

You bit back a smile, trying to hide the giddy excitement you felt. Your devious little plan had worked.

It had been nearly a week since your wedding, since the start of the tour from district to district. A makeshift of a honeymoon that you agreed to. Was it ideal? Not entirely, but at least you’d be together through most of it, Coryo had promised.

He’d failed to mention his countless meetings and obligations that took up most of his time. When he’d finally return to the carriage, shoulders slumped and eyes heavy, you’d be waiting in your lingerie, obediently on your knees ready to stuff his length down your throat. He’d let you, of course, but other than a half hearted fucking- you were left unsatisfied.

You knew he was tired. You knew he was stressed and anxious about becoming the President of Panem. But this was your honeymoon. A start to the rest of your life, and if this was any indicator of how your life would change, especially in the bedroom, you were far from interested.

By District Four, you’d had enough. You knew better than to pick a fight with Coriolanus, it would only frustrate him and he’d be likely to ignore you out of pure spite- he’d done it before. Instead, you hatched a plan.

At the end of each day at the Districts, you and Coriolanus would join the Mayor and his spouse for tea. You and Coryo would never drink it, of course, he was paranoid about being poisioned by the rebels, but you’d sit and discuss formalities amongst the four of you.

The Shefland’s were hospitable, a lavish house that sat near the lake where they could oversee their working people- you knew Coriolanus was pleased. They offered you a seat in their sun room, at a small, round table where they offered up Earl Grey and finger foods. Coryo and Mayor Shefland talked rebels, Peacekeepers, and other droning business, while you and the Mayor’s spouse sat obediently.

For now.

You placed your hand on Coryo’s thigh, simple and unsuspecting. He looked over at you, patting your hand affectionately, joining the conversation. Your cheeks flamed with daring adrenaline, staring at the poppy seed pastry in front of you, your hand sliding slowly up Coriolanus’ fine trousers. You’d start slow, enough to have him convinced you were doing it innocently, before starting up again. His breath hitched once, a firm squeeze to your hand, shoving it down his thigh towards his knee.

The cut of his eyes, an icy side glance, you knew you were teetering on dangerous territory, but still not where you wanted to be. Coriolanus would chastise you at most, scold you and maybe take a ruler to your palms, but that wasn’t what you wanted.

And you always got what you wanted.

Your hand moved, boldly, resting right on his crotch. Coriolanus’ breath hitched, faltering just for a moment, before you squeezed his length lightly through the fabric, palming his length. Coryo cleared his throat, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

You frowned, brows creased in concern. “Darling, are you alright?” You hummed innocently, leaning forward, pressing further into his crotch.

“Yes,” Coryo hissed, eyes narrowing at you. He cleared his throat, apologizing politely to the mayor, shoving your hand off his length, pressing it into your own lap with a warning squeeze to your thigh.

You pressed your thighs together, practically squirming in your seat. It worked. Coryo was furious at your blatant brattiness, in a way you hadn’t seen since you first started dating, and it filled you with bubbling excitement.

Coriolanus hadn’t stayed long after that, curtly thanking the Shefland’s a hand on your back, leading you towards the car. He’d contemplated yanking you over his knee right there, the driver be damned, maybe it’d embarrass you. Instead, he kept his composure until you were alone, dragging you into the private carriage of the train.

“I should call the Academy. Tell them to refund your father, because clearly they failed to teach you any etiquette.” Coriolanus sneered, shoving you lightly into the train, latching the carriage door behind him.

“What are you talking about, sweetheart?” You cooed innocently, nearly taunting. Coryo's fists tightened. “I thought I behaved very well for the Shefland’s-”

“-For the Shefland’s.” Coriolanus snapped, taking a dangerous step towards you, towering over you. “But you don’t answer to the Shefland’s, you answer to me.”

Your knees wobbled at his tone, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. His hand caught your chin easily, squeezing your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks, pulling your gaze up to him. “You know better.” Coryo growled. “You know better, and you still behaved that way.”

You whined, his fingers curling tighter around your face. “You know how you act for me, how I expect you to behave.” Coriolanus sneered. “And you know what happens when you don’t.” The lingering threat in his tone had you throbbing painfully between your knees.

Still, you whined in protest, wiggling to move out of his grip- defiant and bratty, just how you knew Coriolanus liked it. He loved breaking a brat, loved putting you in your place, though he’d never admit it.

“They didn’t see, Coryo.” You huffed, a roll of your eyes that had him bristling, jaw clenched so tight he was sure his teeth might crack. “It’s our honeymoon, and you’ve been ignoring me.” You whined, a petulant pout that had his cock stirring.

“Oh?” His tone was dangerous, teetering on amused and sinister. “That’s what this is about?” You whined, trying to wiggle out of his grip. “You acted like this because I’ve been ignoring you?”

“I was just trying to get you excited.” You muttered, avoiding his hard gaze. “You’ve barely been with me, and-and we haven’t had sex in days and it’s our honeymoon, Coryo!”

“Days?” Coriolanus scoffed. “We had sex this morning.”

“Barely.” You muttered, his fingers tightening around you, jerking you towards him.

“I’ve had enough.” Coriolanus snapped, voice booming, bouncing off the walls of the train’s carriage. You shrunk under his gaze, eyes rounded pleadingly. “You want my attention so badly, you impish little brat, then you have it.” His hand moved from your jaw, and for a moment, you were relieved- until it found its way to your hair, wrapping around your locks and tugging at the scalp.

You whined, clawing at his wrist as he pulled you roughly towards the bed, sitting on the edge, hauling you over his knee. “Completely uncalled for, touching me like that.” Coriolanus snarled, roughly shoving the hem of your dress up over the swell of your ass.

Your hands reached back, trying to push your dress back down. Coryo’s hands wrapped around your wrist, pinning it to the small of your back. “I should bind you.” Coryo spat bitterly, his hands squeezing around your wrist for emphasis. “Should take you out to the center of town and tie you to the whipping post. Show everyone how I handle my disobedient wife.”

You shuddered at the thought, legs clamping together. Coryo’s brows lifted in amusement, hand smoothing over the bare skin of your ass. “You’d like that, wouldn't you? Filthy.” His hand fell heavy on your upturned ass, without a warning, a resounding clap! filling the air and leaving you breathless.

“You will behave.” Coriolanus gritted, hand punctuating each syllable of the words with a stinging smack, satisfied at how you whined and wriggled in his grasp. “I will not have a disobedient, needy, bratty wife. Do you understand?”

Your silence only infuriated him further, two hard spanks falling to the center of your bottom. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes,” You panted, head swimming with a whirlpool of emotions- pain, pleasure, embarrassment, and blinding need. “Please, Corio.” Your hips raised, back arching low to reveal your puffy, wet lips, throbbing with need.

Coryo’s cock was stiff, mouth watering at the sight. He longed to bury his face in your pussy, push your head into the pillows and devour you- but you didn’t earn it, not yet anyways.

Instead, he grabbed you by your waist, letting you fall on your back into the soft duvet with a bounce, whining at the fabric brushing your inflamed skin. “Spread those legs.” Coriolanus’ eyes were dark, lust filled and dangerous.

You parted your legs obediently, watching him carefully above you. His gaze on your pussy, tongue running over his bottom lip mindlessly. “Keep those spread or I won’t touch you at all tonight.”

You whimpered at his threat, hands hooking under your kneecaps to spread your legs apart, on display for him. Coryo knelt between your legs, working the buttons of his shirt open until it fell open. You ogled at his toned chest, mouth filling with spit at the sight.

“I think I need to get to the root of this issue.” Coriolanus hummed, tossing his shirt to the side. “You’ve been acting bad because of her, haven't you?”

Your thighs squeezed, legs starting to close before he stopped you, a warning glare that had you shrinking. “What did I tell you? You don’t want me to touch you at all?”

You shook your head. “N-No, Sir.”

Coriolanus seemed pleased at the use of his favorite name, ego inflating at the title. He didn’t think you’d call him that so soon, so easily. Usually he had to push you a little further, until you were needy and desperate for him before you’d call him that.

“I think I need to spank her.” Coryo’s eyes stayed on yours, kneeling between your legs. “Since she doesn’t know how to behave.”

You whimpered, nails digging into the skin of your knees, watching him carefully. His eyes on yours, hand raising before it fell, not nearly as hard as the punishing spanks to your ass, but a stinging slap to your mound. One right after the other until he hit five, the last a particularly hard one over your clit that had your hips jolting and writhing.

You spent the better half of the night, head lolling over the edge of the bed while Coriolanus shoved his cock down your throat, fucking your face until you gagged and cried and begged to be touched. When he finally did touch you, ass raised high, hands folded behind your back while he rode you, fucking you with a punishing vigor in front of the mirror. You drooled on the edge of the bed, whining and whimpering pitifully with every orgasm he pulled from you until he was finally spilling over your abused ass.

The meeting with the Mayor of District Five was uncomfortable. You shifted in your seat at tea, grimacing behind tight smiles. Coriolanus bit back his own smirk, proud of his handimark that was undoubtedly the cause for your sudden obedience and clinginess. He rewarded you for being so well mannered by letting you sit on his face that night, devouring you while you rode his mouth and nose, hands gripping those golden locks you adored, your wedding ring scratching at his scalp.

2K notes · View notes

sorchathered · 4 months

Text

It would’ve been you

Pairing- Bob Floyd x female reader

Summary- you’d finally admitted your feelings to Bob, the only problem? He doesn’t remember any of it, and now he’s got a new girlfriend.

Warnings- angst, a little bit of smut, Bob being a dummy, reader also being a dummy.

A/N- Hey babies! Let’s celebrate me finally getting back to the states with a new fic I wrote (one of three) on my 14 hour flight last night, not beta read, fuck it we ball. 😂😂

———————————————————————

Bob’s new girlfriend was awful.

No really she was. Natasha had been sending you emails for weeks about how bad things had become, and until you’d stepped back on shore you had scarcely believed it yourself.

It had been twelve weeks since you left for your special detachment. Twelve weeks since you drunkenly fell into bed with your best friend Robert Floyd.

You’d had a party at you and your roommate Natasha’s, sort of a “good luck hope you don’t die” drunk fest as your front seater Jake Seresin liked to call it. Too many drinks were had and inhibitions were pretty much non existent by the end of the night, Bob offering to help you clean up which resulted in drunken confessions of love and hands roaming bodies until the early morning hours.

It has been perfect, messy, but perfect. You’d scarcely hoped he felt the same and had been holding a candle for him for an embarrassingly long time. When you woke that morning you were in a lavender haze of ooey gooey feels, sneaking out of your room to shower and pack your things as you thought about what might be in the future for the two of you when you made it back from the mission.

But when Bob woke up with the hangover of the century and didn’t remember a single bit of the night before? Everything went to shit. You were too embarrassed to tell him the truth, if he didn’t remember then maybe it didn’t mean what you thought it had meant, and maybe he hadn’t been ready to cross that line with you after all. So you bottled it all up, pushing forward with the mission and kept contact to a minimum. He never said it but he knew something was off, you never missed an email when he wrote and lately you’d all but ignored him entirely.

About 6 weeks into your deployment, Nat hit you with a bomb you never expected- Bob had started seeing someone. You let it all out in your bunk, cried until your tears could have floated the carrier you were on and then some. You should have said something, you knew that now, and it was too little too late.

When you made it back Nat was bursting at the seams to give you all the gossip, you weren’t ready to hear it but she was quite literally bouncing on her toes to give you the tea so you settled in after a shower and let her blab.

“She’s awful y/n!!! Some wannabe instagram influencer who is on her phone constantly and oh my god she is rude!! She puts on this sweet little angel vibe for Bob but as soon as he leaves the room she’s like Cruella de Vil with blonde hair. I’m totally convinced she only wants to be with him for the military girlfriend vibes, she posts all these pictures of them together and tags them with little stupid hashtags about how she’s a military girlfriend and blah blah blah.” She says with a scowl as she pretends to fake wretch and you don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Is he happy with her?” You ask quietly, too afraid to look in her eyes, she’s too perceptive for her own good though; she’s known something changed between the two of you but hadn’t been able to place it.

“Honestly? He looks miserable, he hasn’t seemed like himself since you blew out of the house the morning of your deployment without so much as a goodbye. I don’t know what happened and I won’t ask, but I think you two need to talk. He misses you.” She took your hand in hers and gave you a kind smile, she was a bulldog in her field but she was the kindest soul you’d ever met. “I miss him too Natty, I really do.”

Bob had really liked Lauren in the beginning, she seemed like such a sweet girl, her socials full of pictures of her rescuing dogs and going on adventures, he could really see a future for them. But then she started only wanting to hang out when he was at the bar with his navy friends, always on her phone posting pictures of him in uniform, and bragging on her tiktok about being a Navy pilot’s girlfriend when that wasn’t even really what he did and she never seemed to listen enough to actually care about getting to know him for who he was. It had become exhausting, and he couldn’t talk to the person he wanted to the most because it felt like you’d completely ghosted him over the past few weeks. Bob was at a loss, he didn’t know what had changed between the two of you but as soon as Natasha announced to the group chat everyone was going to dinner to celebrate you and Hangman making it home he only had one thing on his mind- corner you and find out what the hell he’d done to piss you off.

When he got to the Hard Deck that night everyone was already in full party mode, drinks and pizzas littered the back wall of the bar as everyone danced along to Rooster’s rendition of “Benny and the Jets” on the piano, you perched right by his side singing the harmony and bursting into giggles as he wiggled his eyebrows at you. You were breathtaking, you always had been to Bob but he’d never had the courage to tell you how he felt, always burying it when the feelings bubbled up in his chest. He was glad he hadn’t brought Lauren with him, he couldn’t clear the air between the two of you with her around, and honestly he was still wondering if he even wanted to continue a relationship with her in the first place. He would unpack all of that later, the song had ended and you’d noticed he was staring at you, your skin flushing bright red at his gaze.

You knew he’d be here, but even after weeks away you weren’t sure you were ready to face him. Did he remember what happened? Did it change anything? It certainly had to you, how could it not? You’d admitted your deepest feelings for him and then had the best sex of your life, only for him to completely forget it ever happened. It was devastating, but there wasn’t any way to avoid him so better to just rip the bandaid off now and get it over with. You sat your empty beer down on a nearby table and made your way to where he was perched at the bar, ginger ale and peanuts occupying his hands as he looked you over with a nervous smile.

“Hey.” Oh god really? Hey? That’s all you could come up with? You cringed internally at the waver in your tone, you can be held responsible for millions of dollars of military tech but Bob Floyd is somehow the Achilles heel in your confidence? Jesus.

“Hi” he said softly and smiled back at you, “we’ve missed you around here, you didn’t answer any of my letters and I was starting to get worried about ya.” He fiddled with the top of the plastic cup holding the peanuts and tried to look anywhere but in your eyes, this was already the most awkward conversation he’d ever had and that was saying something for him.

“Look, Bob I don’t want to prolong this but I get it ok? We all do stupid things when we’re drunk and I won’t hold it against you. I heard you have a new girlfriend and I’ll respect that, I just…I need some time. I meant every word of what I said to you that night and if you just said it back to be kind-“

“Whoa hold on a minute, what are you talking about honey?” He thrust a hand out to catch yours and watched horror cross your face, what the hell had he done?!

“Oh-oh my god. You still don’t remember. Fuck, I- I’m sorry Bob I can’t do this right now.” You all but ran from him towards the back door and out into the night, you were fairly certain you were going to throw up or pass out. Maybe both.

Bob’s head was swimming, he stood up to follow you and had a moment flash behind his eyes. You beneath him, arms around his neck as the two of you ground into each other in your bed. He’d thought that had been a dream…it had been…right? The more he tried to think of it the more the memories came back, watching you come undone beneath him as you cried out your love for him, his hands tangled in your hair as he made the same confession. Natasha came up behind his rigid form to press a hand to his shoulder and he jerked back with a gasp, deep blue eyes wild and filled with panic. “Hey, whoah! Easy Bob, what’s going on?” She put both hands on his biceps as if to steady him but it couldn’t stop the room from spinning.

I-I’ve gotta get outta here Phoenix, did you see where y/n went? I royally screwed things up I have to see if I can fix it before it’s too late.”

She pointed towards the back door and he was bolting for it before she could say anything else, he couldn’t believe how much of a fool he’d been.

You were crouched in the sand a hundred feet or so from the bar, gasping in deep breaths as tears clouded your vision, head in your hands and body shaking. You should have just said something the morning after it happened, why didn’t you just tell him then? He still didn’t remember and if he didn’t remember then it must’ve not meant anything to him, now he was with someone else and your chance had all but evaporated. Had you completely lost him now? You didn’t know if you could bear not having him in your life, even if he wasn’t in love with you, losing your closest friend would be too much to bear.

“Y/n?” You heard him say softly behind you, he had always had an uncanny ability to sneak up on people and you supposed you should’ve known he’d come. He was the kindest person you knew, even if something made him uncomfortable he still worried about others. Selfless.

You swiped the tears away as best as you could before you stood and looked at him but it was no use, the second you locked eyes the tears were back.

“Robby, fuck I’m so sorry. I should’ve brought it up the morning after it happened but I-“

“I didn’t remember. And you thought it best to leave it be.”

“Y-yes” you said shakily, and you saw anger flash across his handsome features, a look you weren’t used to seeing from your beloved WSO.

“Damnit y/n! All that time wasted! If-if I’d’ve just known-“ he was shaking his head in frustration and you realized with a shock that he may not have remembered- but he meant what he said.

“Wait- wait, are you saying you meant it?” You said with a whisper, Bob looking at you incredulously like you’d grown three heads or something ridiculous.

“Is that what you’re worried about? That I didn’t… Jesus of course I meant it! How could I not? I think I’ve been in love with you since the day I met you and I feel cheated now! I’ve had you in my arms, kissed you, made love to you and I don’t remember it, but the worst part is knowing that you kept this from me. We could’ve been together this whole time! I’ve been pissing my time away with a girl who couldn’t give a rats ass about me and you’ve been right here all along.”

You were so sure he’d said it in a drunken mistake, braced for the worst that it wasn’t registering that he was telling you everything you wanted to hear, tears still spilling from your eyes as you blinked up at him, and a sound of frustration escaped his mouth as he yanked you into his arms, pressing kisses to your forehead and cheeks, and you melted into him as it finally settled in that this was real.

He took your face in his hands as he tipped your head up to look at him, swiping the tears away with his thumbs while you tried to bring yourself back down from the meltdown.

“Damnit girl it’s always been you, I don’t know how you could’ve thought otherwise.”

You laughed out at your stupidity and leaned up into him as he pressed a chaste kiss to your lips.

“Now listen, I want to do this right, so before I let myself drown in you like I want I have something I need to do. Stay right here, wait for me.” He kissed you again and released you, already missing his warmth you let out a whine.

He chuckled and swiped a loose curl behind your ear, “in order to make love to you like I want, I have to speak to Lauren. I want a clean slate for us baby, give me a few minutes and I promise after this I’m yours until you’re sick of me.”

“Never gonna happen” you said with a grin and he mirrored you with a brilliant smile of his own.

He had a renewed confidence he hadn’t felt in months as he made his way back inside to get his phone, passing Hangman by the dart board with his arm braced against the wall and a very familiar blonde haired woman shamelessly flirting with him.

Doing a double take he confirmed with a laugh that is was in fact his girlfriend trying to shoot her shot with Jake Seresin and oddly enough it didn’t even surprise him.

“Hey Seresin, glad to see your back.” He said with a smack on the golden haired aviators back, Jake cocking his head to the side with a smirk.

“Baby on Board! Good to see ya, glad to be back home. This is- uhh I’m sorry sugar I don’t know that I got your name” he said gesturing towards the girl and she looked at Bob like a deer in headlights.

“Lauren, her name is Lauren. By the way, whatever was going on with you and me? It’s over sweet pea. I think you two will be very happy together, you like TikTok right Hangman? She’s real big into all that influencer shit. Anyways, you two have a good night, I’ve got somewhere else to be.” He said as he walked off winking at Natasha as she cackled from her perch near the group.

He bounded out into the sand to find you right where he let you, lighter than air as he looped an arm around your waist and pulled you in to kiss you like he’d wanted. You gasped into his mouth as he nipped at your bottom lip and slid his tongue into your mouth to taste you. It was perfect, all your little sweet noises as you grasped at his collar and rubbed your body against his.

“Robby” you gasped out as his lips drifted down your jaw and to your neck and he felt lightheaded over all of it. “What’s on your mind baby” he said as he smiled against your skin and you shivered in his arms. “Take me home? I think- I think we need a do over. Want you so bad.” He couldn’t think of anything better, tossing you over his shoulders as you shrieked and giggled he carried you to the parking lot and placed you gently in the passenger seat of his old beat up truck.

“Let’s get you home sugar, we’ve got a lot of time to make up for, hope you weren’t planning on sleepin’ tonight, I don’t know that I’ll be able to keep my hands to myself.”

You all but crawled into his lap in the bench seat as you ran your hands through his sandy blonde hair,

“I love you. Don’t you dare keep your hands to yourself, want you to love on me until we can’t move anymore, take me home and make me yours.”

And he did. Six months later when he put a ring on your finger it was a surprise to absolutely no one, he’d always pick on you for hiding the truth and you’d never let him live it down that he had forgotten making love to you in the first place. It seemed so silly now looking back on it, knowing you two were meant to be. He’d always been the one, and now he always would be.

———————————————————————

🏷️ tagging people who might be interested- @attapullman @bobfloydsbabe @bobgasm @roosterforme @seitmai @jessicab1991 @sebsxphia @fandom-princess-forevermore @nerdgirljen @lenafromthenordiccoven @sio-ina-bottle @sunsetsimpsblog @auroralightsthesky

If I missed anyone I’m sorry I’m running on three hours of sleep 😭

#top gun maverick #bob floyd #top gun maverick fanfiction #robert floyd #robert bob floyd #robert floyd x reader #robert floyd x you #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd smut

727 notes · View notes

enhard · 3 months

Text

nishimura riki — “late night wishes”

: late at night, you find yourself missing him like crazy. what better way to spend your night other than sneaking out together?

not proofread!

pairing: n.rk x gn!reader

cw: fluff, established relationship, cuddling, kissing, just ni-ki being as sweet as ever. (& jay teasing both of you)

——————————⋆·˚ ༘ *🔭——————————

you’re laying on your bed, waiting to fall asleep.. but how can you fall asleep when you can’t stop thinking about your dear boyfriend.

you squish your pillow between your arms and body, wishing that it was riki instead.. holding him in your arms and running your fingers through his silky hair.

the song “one and only” is playing in the background, hearing his voice isn’t helping the situation but.. you love this song. mainly because riki is your one and only.

you tell yourself not to text or call him since he might be busy or he might just want to rest after a long day, but lucky you, he decides to text you first.

from the second you hear the phone bing, you grab your phone to see who’s texting you at this hour.. you can only imagine the excitement on riki’s face when he saw that you read his message, thinking you’re already asleep.

my love🐥🩷

“hey baby, hope you’re not asleep yet.. i need to see you. i know its risky going out right now but i’m craving a kiss from you badly. 😓”

“riki you have no idea how much i miss you, i’ll do anything to see you rn. let’s sneak out.. i wantttt some boba 😜”

“fineee let’s get you your boba.. just because you’re so cute”

“hold on jay is calling me”

“oh he just told me that i need to go to sleep mannnn eff him seriously🙄”

“just ignore himmm ugh i don’t care i need to see you..”

“i’m getting dressed rn, you better be ready by the time i’m outtt”

“fine fine i have to be quick, if jungwon catches me it’s over☠️”

5 minutes later..

“ok i’m getting out right now, are you there?”

“yup, hurryyy it’s cold out”

read 23:06

anddd.. you suddenly see him running up to you. the smile on your face automatically forms, spreading your arms to hug him. he falls into your embrace.. his scent sucking you in even more.

“i missed you so much love.” he says immediately leaning in to kiss you. his leather jacket shining thanks to the fairy lights hung on the boba stand.

you smile, leaning in to kiss him again. “i missed you too. i actually couldn’t sleep because i was thinking about you.”

“oh really? you love me that muchhh? come on. let’s get you your boba.”

as you’re drinking your boba, he can’t help but admire you. he grabs your hand just to feel your warmth.

you end up walking through the park a bit, small lights from the stars shining in your eyes..

riki is holding you close trying to keep you warm. you finally finish your drink so you toss the empty cup into the trash.

“wanna sleep at our dorm?”

“huh?” surprised with his question, trying not to seem too excited.

“yeah i mean, we can sneak in. come sleep in my room, wanna?”

your eyes widen and you grab his arm tightly, getting all bubbly and happy.

“duhh!! come on come on lets go alreadyyy”

riki laughs at you while he’s getting dragged by the arm. —

you get to the dorm, quietly sneaking in, thinking you’re slick but. you get startled by jay’s voice coming from the living room.

“oh you lovebirds came back already?”

“shut up jay. come on baby let’s go.. i’m tired.” riki grabs your hand, walking you to his room.

“oooo if i tell jungwon about thisss”

“no you won’t.”

jay rolls his eyes and lets you guys go, drinking his tea like a middle aged mom.

riki immediately gets in his room, only having a dim light on, his bed looking mad comfortable for your sleepy self.

he gives you a hoodie of his to put on, which is over sized for you but.. it smells like him.

you both get in bed, cuddling so close together, his read resting on your chest. you play with his hair just like you wished almost an hour ago.. he’s whispering sweet nothings as he’s on the verge of falling asleep..

“go to sleep my love.. you must be tired..” you say smiling at him, seeing how his eyes grow heavy.

“i love youuu…” he mumbles.

you both fall asleep hugging each other, warming up yourselves under the blanket. you fall asleep admiring his pretty face.

#nishimura riki #ni ki #enhypen soft hours #enhypen fluff #ni ki enhypen #ni ki fluff #enhypen

513 notes · View notes

sophiethewitch1 · 8 months

Text

What We Want - Prologue

In Which A Romantic Breaks The Universe

(Yandere!batboys x f!reader) 18+ MDNI!

SUMMARY

Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.

Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?

As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.

And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.

Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?

(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)

PREV - NEXT

The cupcake is smashed. Pink icing and gaudy star-shaped sprinkles coat the interior of the box, and the pastry itself has devolved into crumbs. You just stare at it. It had cost you seventeen dollars. It was expensive, yeah. But you’d spent the last three months walking past it every morning and afternoon in the bougie cafe’s windows. You’d waited. You’d wanted.

And it was destroyed. Completely. The perfect swirl of the buttercream was no more. The single, delicate flower made of frosting had lost half it’s petals. You weren’t sure how you could eat it. The wrapping had been warped, but maybe a tea spoon would work?

You let your head fall into your hands, a sob wracking your shoulders. And then less than a second later you swallow down the feeling, and stride over to your shitty apartment’s tiny kitchen. You grab a lighter, a plastic wine glass and the bottle of white wine Molly had given you earlier today. You hadn’t told her what happened yet, but she could tell something had. She’d gave you the wine, a hug, and the promise to always be by your side.

Despite today’s circumstances, despite this week’s circumstances, despite this decade’s circumstances, you were going to have a good birthday getting black-out drunk.

You weren’t going to let yourself sink into one of your funks. Even if it was the worst day of the year by far. Even if it was the second worst birthday of your life.

You just don’t. It’s not allowed.

Your phone rings. Sliding it out of your pocket, you stare blankly at the name on the screen. Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Malcom. One of George’s friends. You reject the call, block the number, and slide your phone back in your pocket. See? Dealing with things like an adult. Not throwing a temper tantrum, not crying, not… well, destroying your life in an epic meltdown. You’d had a few of those. Still, despite your obvious erraticness, you hadn’t been fired this year. Yay!

You told yourself you were getting better, even as the universe seemingly conspired against your happiness. You were kind of convinced it was.

Turning, you play with the cap on the wine, walking over to your old ratty couch and falling into it. The beast groans at the contact, but you pay it no mind. The thing was probably older than you, and you were celebrating your twenty-first today.

You were an orphan in Gotham, it was not your first time drinking. Molly had dragged you to so many awful parties over the years. But this wine was probably the fanciest you’d ever been given. Scratch that, definitely was. You pour yourself a glass, stick the birthday candle half-hazardly into the largest chunk of cupcake, and grab the remote.

The only true comfort you can get on this day. A woman, a reporter. She speaks, but you can’t really hear what she’s saying. You chug down a glass of the wine, apologising in your head to Molly, and then pour yourself another.

It takes a few minutes, but your muscles relax, and her words tune into focus.

“Today’s memorial, is once again sponsored by the Wayne foundation.”

Yeah, because they’re the only charity organisation in the city. The family of billionaires were debatably the only good ones in existance. Debtable because you weren’t sure if they were good enough themselves. As an orphan who’d known the cruelty of the system yourself, you were a mix of bitter and grateful towards them. Sure, they’d been the only thing that kept you out of true poverty. You were still an awful bitch about it.

You always had been the jealous type. The other kids who got better backpacks or toys or whatever had you seething with fury. The multitude of orphans Bruce Wayne risen out of poverty were not safe from your envy. It didn’t matter if you were… Well, a little bit, just a teeny-tiny-tiddly-little bit… obsessed. Obsessed with them. Kind of manic about it, actually.

You were working on it. Today was a bad day, and you were a little too raw. So, like every little dumb animal on the planet, you went straight to your creature comforts. You pretended you were a roman eating and drinking on their chaise lounge, watching their magnificent entertainment.

Delusional. Your sofa was falling apart at the seems, your cupcake was debris and your entertainment was a memorial service. Wine was good, though.

Gotta focus on the good parts.

You watch the TV screen, the reporter’s voice drifting in and out of focus. There was a family photo of the Waynes and their family friends, all in perfect suits and dresses and pearls and fancy watches. You’d bet that those little accessories were worth more than a year of your rent.

And you lived in fucking Gotham, both the most expensive city to live in, and the worst at the same time. A miracle, truly.

Anyway, they were all stunningly beautiful, even some of the guys. God knows how much the internet went on about Richard Grayson’s long eyelashes. You’d always been enamored with Dick’s good looks. Even Damian Wayne who had only turned nineteen a few months ago and was three years younger than you was already being fawned over by the tabloids.

Gotham’s newest young rich bachelor. Bitterly envious, that was you. You didn’t like that emotion, though, so you turned your attention to others. Namely, delusion.

You let yourself get swept up in daydreams. Of having a rich family, of one so close knit as the Wayne’s. Of having a handsome, loving, kind partner. You don’t let yourself dream about your real family, of a George that was faithful.

You just don’t.

Maybe someone like Tim Drake. Loyal, everyone who knew him described him as loyal. His romances with Bernard Dowd and Stephanie Brown were famous. There were hundreds of papparazzi photos of him with big bundles of roses and a sweet look on his face. You thought someone like Tim Drake would probably be like one of the heroes in your romance novels. Something silly like a meet cute in an airport, or maybe a bookstore or a cafe. He was pretty famous in Gotham’s niche hipster coffee scene, right?

Yeah, you could see it now. Some dumb but cute scene where you get confused and accidentally take his order. You get the same drink, and bond over your shared love of caramel syrup. Like he didn’t live on the opposite side of the city from you, and you probably couldn’t afford whatever fancy shit he drunk. Italian coffee beans versus… well, you didn’t actually know what you bought. You knew it didn’t taste very good, but it was dirt cheap.

What were you doing? Ah, yes, silly daydreams about romance.

But even as you think of Tim, Dick Grayson was so pretty, and he’d had his fair share of partners too. Someone with such an angelic face had to have a personality to match, and the media agreed. Of course you didn’t really know what he was like, this was all just fantasy. Other than numerous tabloid interviews and television, which suggested he had a kind heart and a love for bad jokes you truly knew nothing about the guy. Still, he’d be the golden retriever trope, you think. Or the knight in shining armor, saving his heroine from one of the many disaster’s plaguing Gotham and confessing his love in one big final act. His meet cute would be the airplane one. The blue of his eyes, it makes you think of the sky. You’d take his seat, but he’d be super sweet about it. Like he didn’t have a private jet, and would never be caught on economy.

You think Damian Wayne could play a good romance lead as well. From what you’d seen, he seemed to have a terrible personality, which was perfect for any modern romance. A classic enemies to lovers, with some bickering. Maybe he’d have secretly loved her the entire time, and maybe there’d be a good grovel at the end. So, appreciating his character, he’d have to have a meet ugly. Probably get stuck in an elevator with him or something, and he’d get to display his keen intellect and argumentative nature.

You swirl your wine, nodding your head. Brilliant ideas today, you should talk to Molly more. She’d definitely appreciate your wisdom. She wanted to be a screen writer one day, and all this would be very helpful. She was going to college for it. You couldn’t afford college.

Maybe you were drunk. Maybe you were a genius. It was hard to tell, so you take another sip. That’ll help you figure things out.

“As always, the Wayne families’ faces are morose as they celebrate the late Jason Todd.”

And as always, you felt an odd connection with the dead man. Your lives had both technically ended the same day, in the same grand calamity. Sure, you were still technically alive. Kicking about. But everyone you loved dying in one fell swoop, right in front of your eyes? You felt more like a ghost these days.

Weren’t you supposed to be fighting those sorts of thoughts off? Whatever, it was too much effort anyway.

Your slight obsession with the Wayne family had been initially started by Jason Todd. You hadn’t been thinking about him as much recently with George in your life, but he swung right back into place as soon as George left your life. Like a magnet, or more likely, a compulsion.

But now you were brought right back to the morning after. Seeing the entire city grieving the day after you’d lost your family, your first thought had been ‘Good, I’m not the only one,’ and then you’d stopped being an idiot and realised the city was mourning Jason Todd, heir to the Wayne name. Sure, there’d been hundreds of others who’d died, but that was Gotham. Your family had gotten a plaque filled with tens of other forgotten names, Jason had gotten framed photos hung around the city.

Today, his photo was once again surrounded by thousands of bouquets. Peonies, roses, daffodils, lillies, a rainbow of petals that almost covered his memorial stone. It reminded you of your sad-ass cupcake. When the camera zoomed out, you could see your smaller set of poseys against one of the thirty towering monuments, the tiny names crammed into the rock. Your families name was on line fifty-two, near the bottom. You could only afford the flowers once a year, but you visited once a week at least.

There were other flowers. Other offerings. Other candles. Jason’s dwarfed them all.

You sometimes couldn’t tell if you hated the dead man or were hopelessly in love with him. Obviously it didn’t matter. Even when he was alive he was out of both your league and your tax bracket.

Still, you were absolutely certain of it, Jason Todd would beat up George Lancaster. So fucking bad. To a bloody pulp. He’d be eager to do it, as well. You could hum and haw about how you thought violence was bad but he’d see right to the core of you.

The part of you that wanted George Lancaster to suffer. And he’d do it with a kiss and a promise that he’d make it slow. He’d save you from all your monsters, and he’d do it eagerly. And that was the fantasy of it all, wasn’t it?

You lift your glass, in celebration of your dead parasocial imaginary boyfriend. You hoped he wouldn’t be jealous of your new living parasocial imaginary boyfriends. Hiccuping out a laugh, you swallow down another gulp.

And even then, of course you wanted Bruce Wayne as a father. As someone who has seen the worst of the world, and would protect you from it. As someone who would wipe away the tears, who would save you from your own self. And you wanted Cassandra as a sister, someone to groan over guys with and steal clothes off. You wanted the close relationships they shared with Barbara Gordon and Stephanie Brown, with Duke who’d only recently come into their fold. You even wanted their dog you’d seen in photos, the cat that Damian posted on his instagram, the fucking cow they kept for god knows reason inside the estate. You wanted everything, every part of their lives. You were a jealous person, but more than that, you were a greedy person.

You glance at the clock.

11:57.

You shakily open the candle packet, picking a green one out. That had been Sam’s last favourite colour, but he switched them so often it was hard to remember. You stab it into the pink frosting. Julie always chose pink for her cake. Chasey loved flowers, particularly poseys. The flowers had looked like posesys before they’d been crushed.

You light the candle. It’s tiny flame flickers in the dark room, the warm light overpowered by the cool from the television. You peek back over to the clock.

11:58.

And Mum always made her wish at midnight, because she believed that was when it was most likely to come true.

What would you wish for? You never did, because you never knew what you wanted to wish for. Everything you wanted, everything you could’ve wanted, was gone. It couldn’t come back, it was impossible.

11:59.

You look at the TV, at the blinding forms of the Wayne family. Of their graveyard, with the manor in the background. It’s as impossible as everything else. But that’s what they represent for you, isn’t it?

Something hopeful. Something impossible.

You wanted impossible.

12:00.

You lean over the messy cupcake, and blow the candle out. It disappears in one blow, and you sink back into the couch. You take a few crumbs from the cupcake and sneak them past your lips. In your drunkenness, you probably get more on the couch than in your mouth.

You let your eyes flutter shut, and because only you can, you give yourself the comfort of lies. You imagine loving embraces, whispered platitudes. You imagine that today was a good day, that you’d find yourself tomorrow happy. That you wouldn’t wake up with a hangover, that you wouldn’t have a shitty job, an evil ex, and mountains of debt.

That you’d have people who loved you, who could ease the pain.

And you don’t even care who they are.

MASTERLIST - NEXT

#Series:WWW #yandere batfam #yandere dc #yandere batfamily #yandere batfam x reader #yandere x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #damian wayne x reader #robin x reader

1K notes · View notes

crownmemes · 29 days

Text

Alcohol & Drinking Sentences

(Sentences for muses who like to drink, sometimes perhaps a little too much. Adjust phrasing where needed)

"You're not trying to ply me with wine to find out what I know, are you?"

"I would offer you a drink but it's very rare and expensive."

"If you keep drinking, you're going to get fired."

"I must say, I'd rather hoped 'tea' was code for something a little stronger."

"Are you hungover?"

"I like you better when you're drinking."

"Are you drinking all alone tonight?"

"You're a mean drunk."

"You drink too much. I get why, but I wish you wouldn't."

"I'm going to erase that image from my mind with a bottle of scotch."

"Did I mention that I have been drinking?"

"Why are you drinking so much tonight anyway?"

"If I don't drink, then I start to feel - and I don't like what I feel."

"Would you like a drink?"

"Isn't there anyone you want to stay sober for?"

"I haven't been like this in a long time. Years."

"I'm not drunk!"

"I must be drunk already, telling you this sob story again."

"I'm not drinking to get drunk."

"A guy only gets that drunk when he wants to kiss a girl or kill a man - so, which is it?"

"You can't keep drinking yourself into oblivion!"

"I've been to a party. I'm a bit drunk."

"Some people swear by hair of the dog, but I refer nature's sponge: the egg."

"I think you've had enough to drink."

"May I have a drink now?"

"Why don't you have a glass of champagne?"

"I'm not used to doing this while sober."

"Can I buy you a drink?"

"Are you trying to get me drunk?"

#rp meme #rp memes #roleplay meme #roleplay memes #rp prompts #roleplay prompts #sentence starters #assorted;#addiction;

386 notes · View notes

milkloafy · 3 months

Text

STUCK WITH YOU — BLADE

⋆｡˚ ❀ summary: in which you get sick and blade is wondering how the hell he got stuck having to take care of you. ⋆｡˚ ❀ contents: sickfic, fluff, swearing, gn!reader, stellaron hunter!reader, reader doesn’t like room temp water LMAO only ice cold, blade’s kinda mean but a softie trust me u.u ⋆｡˚ ❀ wc: 1.8k+ ⋆｡˚ ❀ a/n: i haven’t written for blade in ages so i am very rusty but i hope u enjoy <3 this is a self-indulgent fic i wrote while sick and bed-ridden yesterday :c if any of y’all got the summer cold/flu too i hope u feel better !! :>

You felt like shit and the last thing you needed was someone threatening you to get better.

It would have been one thing if those threats worked in scaring your illness away. But you were certain that it did the opposite of help— It simply gave you an unwanted headache instead.

“Can you stop glaring at me whenever I blow my nose?” you demanded with a sniffle, tossing your tissue into the trashcan Blade so graciously placed next to your head.

“Can you stop blowing your nose so loudly?”

You glared at him, responding by grabbing another tissue and blowing your nose even louder. You winced at the force, feeling a slight throb in your head from the overexertion.

With an ever-present scowl on his annoyingly handsome face, Blade shook his head at you. You could practically sense the disappointment and annoyance radiating from him. “Don’t make yourself feel worse.”

“I’m not trying to,” you said, choosing to lay back down on your bed rather than arguing with him.

Your throat was sore, your nose was both runny and stuffy with no in-between, your muscles were achy, and your body was tired. There wasn’t much fighting spirit left for you to spare in your current state. Hence, the reason the Stellaron Hunters had Blade stay behind on the mission until you recovered enough to join everyone. Why they didn’t leave someone more personable and caring like Sam behind was beyond you. But you supposed you should be grateful Elio let anyone stay behind instead of having you recover alone.

Coughing, you reached for a glass of water to moisten your throat only to find it already empty. You groaned to yourself, the thought of having to get up from your warm and cozy bed to fill up your water in the cold, cold kitchen made you shiver.

With a sigh, Blade exited your room while muttering a quick, “Stay put.”

You blinked blearily, eyes barely able to follow his quick-moving figure out the door.

In a flash, Blade returned with two separate cups—one filled with clear water, and the other with warm tea. He set them both down on your nightshade, collecting your empty glass to clean in the sink.

“Thank you,” you murmured, touched that he brought you drinks without you having to ask. You grabbed the glass of water first, letting out a giggle when you saw the single ice cube floating on the top. With a smile, you questioned, “One ice cube?”

Blade shrugged, a nonchalant look on his face that one could easily mistake as uncaring. “You don’t like room temperature water. If I brought warm water to you, you would rather die of dehydration than drink it.”

A nodded sheepishly, unable to deny what came out of his mouth.

“Still, you need fluids to feel better. I figured one ice cube might be enough to satiate you.”

Staring at the melting ice cube, you assumed it didn’t do much to help the temperature of the drink, but the thoughtfulness of your fellow Stellaron Hunter was enough to coax you into drinking it regardless.

“That’s…surprisingly sweet of you,” you said, taking a sip of water. It was, in fact, not cold enough for you, but you still pushed onwards. “Thanks, Bladie.”

The scowl on his face deepended. “Don’t call me that. And drink the tea. I put honey in it since its anti-inflammatory.”

“Your frown lines are forming prematurely,” you jested, setting the glass of water aside to pick up the steaming cup of tea. The warm mug felt hot against your skin and you felt a droplet of sweat forming on the side of your head. In the blink of an eye, you threw the blankets off your body and fanned yourself dramatically with one hand. You shared a look with Blade. “It’s too hot for tea.”

“It’s not too hot, you just have a fever,” he said with annoyance, walking over to the thermostat and turning down the temperature regardless of his words. “But you can wait for it to cool down then—”

Before he finished his sentence, you had already taken a sip of the drink. Immediately, you felt a burning sensation on the tip of your tongue and jumped. “Ow!” you yelped, placing the mug down and glaring at it. “That’s hot!”

Blade glared at you. “Tea is typically made from hot water. I just told you to wait for it to cool down.”

“But you said that after you told me to drink it!” you sniffed, nursing your tongue by dipping it into the lukewarm glass of water. “You can’t give a sick person mixed signals like that.”

“You’re sick, not incompetent.” He paused. “Not more than normal, at least.”

“Hey!” you protested. At the sudden overuse of your voice, you felt your throat growing more irritated. You coughed and coughed, taking in deep breaths of air to stop yourself.

He folded his arms as he scolded you, “Don’t overexert yourself. Get some rest.”

With tears forming around your eyes from coughing, you matched his haughty expression. You croaked out, “You’re naggy. Did you know that?”

“Only to those who don’t listen.”

“You tell me like a million different instructions! How can I listen?” you retorted, your headache coming back as your shoulders tensed in irritation.

When he noticed your slight wince of pain, Blade sighed and relented. He walked over to the side of your bed and picked up the cup of hot tea. With a blank expression, he blew the surface of the drink, cooling it down until the steam went away.

“Here,” he said as he held out the cup to you. “Now drink.”

Your stared open-mouthed at the drink. You felt as if he was giving you whiplash with his crass words and caring actions. You didn’t quite know how to feel, but you knew you were at least a bit grateful.

Carefully, you sipped the cup of tea Blade gently (and begrudgingly) placed in your hands. This time, you did not feel the scalding heat burn your tongue.

“Thank you,” you said, chugging as much of the tea as you could. “It wasn’t hot that time.”

He nodded in response, stepping away from the side of your bed once he confirmed you finished your drink. Blade studied you as you laid back in bed, closing your eyes to try to soothe all your ailments. It didn’t work, but you would certainly keep trying.

Without the blankets covering you, you felt cold again despite the sweat you felt gathering on your forehead. You heard rustling and the clanging of glasses next to you.

When you opened your eyes, you saw Blade walking away with the dirty cups in hand, muttering something about how he wasn’t your maid. You smiled weakly, knowing he was doing his best to take care of you regardless of his bitching and moaning.

Blade returned with a slightly damp washcloth in hand, folded perfectly into a compact rectangle. You sniffled through your stuffy nose, watching as he held out the washcloth to you, before taking it back last minute. Confused, you pulled your hand back as well.

“I’ll just do it. Before you mess up somehow,” he said, leaning down by your side and placing the damp washcloth on your forehead.

The instant he placed the towel on you, cool relief coursed through your body. You shivered at the sensation, letting out a noise of satisfaction.

You peeked one eye open, looking at Blade with another sheepish expression. “Thank you. Again…”

“You don’t need to keep thanking me.”

“I do!” you insisted, staying as still as a board despite the passion in your voice. “I know you would rather be out on a mission right now, following Elio’s script with the others. But instead you got stuck here taking care of me.”

He folded his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “It’s not your fault. Kafka forcibly volunteered me.”

You chuckled lightly at that. It certainly seemed like something Kafka would do. Either to annoy Blade, tease you, or irritate the both of you just for fun.

“You just need to get better soon,” he said as if it were that simple. “Then we can both get back on the field.”

“Is that why you’ve been such a good little nurse, Bladie?” you teased, touching your fingertips to the cool washcloth on your forehead.

He glared at you, but there was no anger behind the expression. “Call me that one more time and you will see what happens.”

“Will you bring me more hot tea to burn my tongue on?” you asked in mock horror. Despite his menacing-sounding threats, you knew Blade would never hurt you.

“I’ll bring you room temperature water with no ice,” he promised blankly.

Your mouth dropped in surprise and you shook your head fervently, the small towel falling off your face. “No, please! I won’t call you Bladie again.”

Blade rolled his eyes at your dramatics but immediately went to pick up the fallen washcloth. “Stop moving around like that. You’re going to make your headache worse.”

“Sorry, mother.”

He scowled and plopped the washcloth back on your forehead, less gently this time than the first. You stuck your tongue out at him in response before feeling another fit of coughs come your way.

Once you managed to soothe your throat and gather your breath, you sighed. “I hate being sick.”

“Then drink more fluids and go to sleep.” Blade grabbed the glass of water from your nightstand and began to walk out with it. “I’ll get you some more before you try to rest.”

Closing your eyes shut, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself despite your discomfort. He had a rough exterior, but he surprised you with how much effort he put into helping your sick self out.

His hidden thoughtfulness was enough to stir something in your stomach—butterflies, you hoped, and not an unwanted stomach bug to add to your list of ailments. It was unfamiliar to you, but certainly not unwelcome.

Blade entered your room one last time for the night, bringing you a new glass of water with a single ice cube, and a fresh new washcloth folded to perfection.

You giggled, noticing his attentiveness to detail. “Thank you, Bladie. I really appreciate all of this.”

He sighed but didn’t argue when he heard that nickname. Thankfully, he did not take the ice cube out of your water and hand the glass to you lukewarm.

“You are so… You’re welcome,” he relented, replacing the damp towel on your forehead with a fresh and cold one. “Now, hurry up and recover.”

“I’m trying,” you laughed, no longer annoyed by his impatience. “I’m sure I will, with you doting on me like this.”

“I don’t dote.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Bladie,” you sang softly, your eyes finally feeling heavy after drinking more water and relaxing your muscles with the help of the cool washcloth. “I’m finally getting sleepy…”

He nodded. “That’s good.”

“Mhm,” you murmured, your voice drifting into a sleepy mumble. “‘M tired. Goodnight… Blade.”

There was a long pause before you heard Blade’s response while you drifted off into a deep slumber. “Get well soon, Y/N.”

#blade x reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr blade #blade x you #blade x y/n #hsr x you #hsr x y/n #honkai star rail #hsr fluff #blade fluff #sickfic #hsr imagines #honkai imagines #honkai x reader

640 notes · View notes