#*gestures at the fucking state of the world*

[silence-ofthe-llamas]

TexAid returns and comes with the gore! Whooo!

They were all fucking insane.

First Aid staggered down the hallway armed with nothing but the flare gun they kept in their cockpits for emergencies. He didn’t know how much damage this would even do – it would probably hurt him more when he fired it than it ever would against a quintesson, but he had to hold some form of hope. If he didn’t have hope, he had nothing.

Vortex was offline. His last words to him still echoed in his head, bumping around between his ears and ringing in his ears.

GET LOST. I HOPE YOU DIE.

Stupid idiot. Stupid, stupid. First Aid wiped his face. He didn’t know if he was wiping away sweat, or if they were tears. He could feel that he was dying. He didn’t need to make any stupid grand gestures to try and hide it, to get him to unplug before he felt his core splutter out. He knew that if he’d stayed connected, there was every chance that he’d die too. He knew it, he wasn’t- he wasn’t a fool. He knew where to get help and he wasn’t about to go ahead and die before he’d even tried.

Damn it. God damn it. He was so, so terribly fucked.

The usual tell for a quintesson being in the vicinity was the smell of one. It hit the back of the throat and burned like alkali, clawing through the soft tissues of the nose. It tingled in the lungs, popping and pinging against neurons in the brain, activating the fight or flight instinct more powerfully than anything had before. And he was bathing in it right now. Each direction felt exactly the same, he didn’t know if they were just behind closed doors, or were stood waiting for him around a corner, and he didn’t know what scared him more – the fact he was so vulnerable, or the fact that Vortex wouldn’t even know.

They were all fucking insane. Each and every one of them in their command structure. Nobody seemed willing to acknowledge what was happening right now – in what fucking world was it fine to leave a medic and a pop idol in a fucking enemy space ship? To tell them that they were on their own, that they’d figure it out? That their mechs would be more than enough? Because they weren’t. He’d last seen Blast Off and Cosmos getting launched off the starboard port by a cannon and Vortex was in a crumpled heap in the storage room he’d managed to stagger him into, totally inoperable. He was on his own, nobody was coming to help, and he was furious. He had no idea what he was meant to fucking do, and no doubt if he miraculously made it back, they’d grill him and berate him for not doing enough. For not doing more than survive. For not having any ideas or plans magically pop into his brain whilst he tried not to think about the state of Vortex and the impending sense of doom that fell upon him, crushing him under its weight. He was going to die out here, and all he could think about was how pissed he was about it.

He didn’t know the first thing about mechanics or engineering or how he was built, but fuck if that didn’t stop him from trying. The two repair droids who Vortex had reprogrammed and kept stashed in his shoulder were hard at work when he’d managed to drag back his first offering. He didn’t know what it was, but it looked mechanical and it looked useful, and he vaguely recognised some of the bits inside it, so that had to count for something, right?

The droids seemed to think so. They were scavenging from it before he’d even put it down.

His third trip had him panting and shaking and almost vomiting from exhaustion. He dry heaved in the corner, coughing and cramping as his body tried to empty itself of a toxin that wasn’t there. Is the air poisoning me? He wiped his mouth and swallowed, legs shaking as he steeled himself for what was to come next. He’d need to go and help with the repairs. The droids weren’t fast enough, they were squabbling – if he could just get the important parts in place, he’d stop that leak and protect his core. If the core was protected, he stood a better chance of getting him back to Earth in a state they could properly repair him in.

Toolkit in hand, he stood by the gaping hole in his abdomen. The core whirred, visible tendrils of light and energy reaching out towards him. His eyes flew over the wreckage, assessing what could be salvaged. The droids helpfully began putting the disassembled parts at his feet, ready for the human to deal with it. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he swallowed nervously.

He couldn’t get this wrong. He’d never forgive himself if he did, and he didn’t want to die like this. Vortex had promised him his death – he couldn’t deny him that.

It took over an hour until he could get the big, red visor to flick online, Vortex’s systems groaning and slowly whirring as he booted back up again. The crackle was audible, electricity arcing over his frame.

“You’re awake!” First Aid exclaimed in delight, slumping down to his knees in exhaustion. “Oh, Tex, I am so glad-”

His hand slammed down just behind him, and First Aid froze as the sudden blazing heat registered, the head-splitting sound of a quintesson gun being fired resonating inside of the cavity of Vortex’s abdomen.

“I thought I told you to go fuck yourself.” Vortex’s voice sounded in his helmet, and First Aid could have sobbed.

“You actually told me to die.” He corrected. “I guess you didn’t want me dead that badly.”

“I didn’t want them to shoot my core, actually. Now, what’s your plan with the squishy?”

“Uhm.” First Aid looked down at the flare gun on his hip. “I guess shoot them?”

Vortex’s laugh sounded pained, and his helm thunked back down against the floor.

“Oh, we are so dead.”

He heard something bigger and heavier behind him, and a familiar choom. Gasping, he threw his head around, peering around Vortex’s arm-

“Blast Off!” He leaned against Vortex’s too-hot arm, not caring how it burned him through his gloves and the tingle of it against his cheeks. “Vortex! They survived!”

“Yippie.” He sarcastically replied.

First Aid’s eyes fell to the alien corpse. Fresh. Ready for harvesting. An idea slowly formulated in his mind as he looked between Vortex and the body.

“Hey, listen… I’ve got an idea.”

“Does it involve filling me with corpse organs?”

“You make it sound so weird.” First Aid grimaced. “I’m just saying… I think I can splice your two systems together. Just enough to get us back to Earth.”

“I’m game if you are.” He softly swore in Ukrainian. “As soon as we get back, I’m killing the lot of them.”

“I’ll try and find you a new gun too, then.”

“You know the way to my heart, darling.”

First Aid stood and waved up to Blast Off, gesturing for Cosmos to come down. Blast Off knelt, visor opening, and Cosmos slipped out, carefully climbing down before sprinting over to him.

“Oh, thank god you’re both still alive!” She hugged him tightly. First Aid awkwardly patted her back.

“Not for long if we can’t get that corpse over here. Can you guys move it for us? Vortex’s nervous system was severed, he can’t move his legs.”

“What?” She pulled away, holding his shoulders tightly as she frowned. “What do you want that for?”

“I want its spine.” First Aid said matter of factly.

Cosmos grimaced. “Its… spine? Alright.” She nodded firmly, expression setting into determination. “We’ll help.”

Work went much more quickly when a mech was involved. Cosmos watched and handed him tools when it came to the fine-tuning, Blast Off sat back and silently watching. First Aid got the impression that he hadn’t figured out how to move independently yet – a feat Vortex had only managed with time and effort himself. So he silently watched them instead. He wondered what he was thinking.

“Is… is he okay?” He quietly asked Vortex when he was deep in his internals and Cosmos was out of ear shot.

“He’s fine.” Vortex replied a bit too quickly. “Just adjusting.”

He left it at that. Vortex was sounding weak, his voice strained. He double and triple checked his work before he went to make the final connection, the one that would have Vortex’s system finally shake hands with that of the quintessons. And with that, he quickly scrambled out to look at him and assess his work.

The organic flesh twitched and glowed a sickly blue colour. Black oil smeared and pooled on the ground, pearlescent and pungent.

“How’re you feeling, Vortex?” First Aid nervously asked. Blue was bleeding into the red of his visor, a bright toxic blue that was so much like the blood the aliens bled. He didn’t reply, and all he heard over their comm link was static.

“What’s going on?” Cosmos asked. “Why is he blue?”

“I don’t know.” First Aid frowned. “He’s not speaking to m-”

Vortex’s hand shot out faster than it moved naturally, catching them both by surprise. Without thinking, First Aid roughly shoved Cosmos out of the way, her head bouncing off of Vortex with a loud bang, her helmet splintering as cold metal fingers closed around him.

His helmet was suddenly alive with sound. Morse code. The same pattern he’d filled Prowls with all that time ago.

MINE.

He couldn’t breathe. The fingers were too tight around him, crushing him like a snake. His lungs burned, his vision swimming. He faintly heard a cracking sound and pain bloomed in his chest and something wet ran down his chin.

The mechs will keep you safe.

His mech was currently crushing him, and yet he’d never felt so safe in his life, so assured in where he stood in the universe.

“Tex, I can’t breathe.” He gasped. First Aid didn’t know if he was yelling or whispering – the beeping was so loud in his ears he couldn’t even hear his own thoughts. “Please stop, I can’t breathe-” he wetly choked, blue splashing down his chin.

Fuck. He had been poisoned. This just couldn’t get any worse, could it?

Vortex made a loud groaning noise, wet and spluttering and threatening. His hands tightened, and he couldn’t even scream.

The black spots were starting to overwhelm his vision. “I’m all yours, Svastjan.”

That much he was certain of. Everything else struck him as being distinctly wrong. The idea of belonging to someone had always turned his stomach, but if it was Svastjan? It felt like a warm blanket, a firm hug, like everything was going to be okay.

His helmet took the brunt of the impact as he hit the floor, Vortex’s grip suddenly releasing. It cracked, and First Aid whimpered, curling in on himself to cradle his wounds. Shit. Why did it all have to hurt so much?

He needed to get inside of him. It possessed him, overtook all common sense and thought. Shifting to be on all fours, his stomach cramped and he emptied its contents, red mixing with blue in a mirror of Vortex’s visor. Suddenly, the pieces slotted together in his mind and he was on his feet and staggering towards him before his brain caught up with his vision.

Vortex had been poisoned too. He’d done it. It was his fault, it had been his idea. He should have known better. Blue ran down his helm in a mockery of tears, and he felt his heart wrench.

First Aid didn’t know how he got there so fast. He’d blinked and he’d somehow managed to scale up his shoulder to his face, his hands pressed against the glass of the cockpit. “Let me in!” He banged against it, his ribs screaming at him to stop. He didn’t listen. “Let me in, let me in, let me i-!” He yelped as it suddenly opened and he fell in, back bending awkwardly as he ended up like a scorpion on the floor. Loudly groaning, he forced himself up and staggered to the pilots seat. Exhaustion was starting to settle in, adrenaline just not enough to keep him going any more. He tried to shove it to the back of his mind, to keep himself going for as long as he could, to do as much as he could before the broken bones and split flesh registered and he passed out.

[RUN] flashed on Vortex’s visor aggressively. First Aid ignored him, fighting with the harness to get into the pilots seat. Vortex was fighting back aggressively, trying to keep him away.

“Stop it!” He shouted. “Fucking- let me help you!”

[CAN’T STOP IT]

“Then I will!” First Aid roughly ripped the harness away, the stitches giving out. He threw himself into the seat and grabbed the controls, taking command of his arms. What remained of the harness tightly wrapped around him, holding him in place. The cable that connected him to Vortex’s systems roughly shoved itself into the port on the back of his head, and he screamed at the feeling of sharp digits shoving themselves through his skull. He let go of the controls to grab his head, to try and keep it together as it split and burst. The harness tightly wrapped around him, holding him still as he thrashed and tried to rip the cable out.

It wasn’t Vortex. There was something else in there, something that was roughly shoving him and his hands out of the way. It made his skin crawl, to think of something else in there with them, interrupting them and sullying their connection with its infected hands. Through the pain, through his screams through gritted teeth and the burn down his spine as his body twisted and arched and bended in ways it wasn’t designed to, through the searing burn over his skin, he reached inside to find out where they came from.

He knew quintesson biology. He’d cut up enough of them to feel confident and familiar with it, it was the only reason he felt comfortable splicing their organic systems with Vortex’s artificial ones to keep him alive. But he’d missed something. Why was the quintesson in his system? Why were they still alive?

The mechs hands moved with his mental search, tracing down over his chest and to the gaping hole in his abdomen. The fingers dug into the new flesh, still wet and oozing and wriggling. Pain wracked through him and he whimpered, brow creasing and teeth gritting, but he persisted. They’d missed something. There was something they’d not seen before, something new to be explored. Quintessons had two brains. One in the head, and another down at the root of their lower limbs. There must have been a third one, an even more primitive brain that they hadn’t ever been looking for before, one that they’d never spotted, one that had made its way in as he mixed blood and bone and metal. The pain stung and burned like he was being slowly flayed by a scalding hot knife. The sharp claws dug into his skull twisted and turned, pulling him this way and that in a desperate attempt to get him to stop. He felt wet, his vision was obscured by bursts of white and bright colour, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He was a medic, his job was to save people, and he needed to save Vortex.

The panic became intense as he explored the spine. His own popped and cracked, his body seizing and his vision spluttering in and out. He faintly heard Vortex’s voice, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t let himself get distracted, not when he was so close. Digging in deeper, blunt digits slowly mapped it out, tracing over familiar structures and shapes until they bumped against something foreign and unknown.

Fear flooded him, and he faltered. Found it. He felt familiar hands wrap around his own, and suddenly he didn’t feel so afraid any more.

Vaguely, he wondered if they’d have any issues if a third consciousness died whilst they were connected, but he didn’t care. He wanted it gone.

“Get out of my body!”

It came out with a wet squelch. First Aid felt his consciousness tremble, he felt Vortex’s flickering in and out of being. His throat felt raw and his chest weak, all he could manage was a broken whimper as he reached out towards him to try and grab onto him, to hold him there, to make sure he was still a part of him.

He felt the pressure of someone pulling him into a hug, oh so very gentle against the remnants of his body. He didn’t realise how fragile he felt until he was being held like he were made of glass. Stubble brushed against his cheek, a rough scratch against softer skin. A hand tangled in his hair, brushing it back away from his face, and a clammy forehead pressed against his own with a sigh of relief.

[weirdly-familiar]

That is definitely TF on the left though.

[hotsugarbyglassanimals]

Can’t say I’m a big fan of flip flopping between catastrophization and optimism based on whether or not something Bad has happened to me but….. mm

[cntloup]

nsfw hcs

these are just my personal opinion :)

tbh i don't see simon as a hard dom at all. he's a service top through and through.

he gets off on getting you off. seeing that content fucked-out look on your face would send him straight to a state of absolute bliss.

he needs a lot of reassurance. he'd ask 'am i doing well? does it feel good?' constantly. even if he doesn't give voice to his concerns, it's always on his mind.

now if you're more on the petite side, he'd be extremely concerned about hurting you and would need a lot of reassurance on that matter as well.

he starts slow and gentle and you'll need to convince him that he can let go and you won't break that easily.

big on foreplay and aftercare. he'd take care of you as if you're the most precious gem in the world.

also big on having a safe-word/gesture. he'll make sure that you know the word/gesture and you'd use it if something makes you even slightly uncomfortable.

he'd be slightly on the fence about being a hard dom. if you're into being heavily dominated and ask him for it, he'd need a lot of convincing and to make sure you’re comfortable at every step.

his sub phase occurs very rarely. and that is if you have earned his utter trust and devotion over time.

he's more into intimate touches than the sex itself. sex is just a way to experience that intimacy on a deeper level.

if you've been in a relationship for a long time and he knows that you're satisfied with your sex life, he'd be into quickies because he always makes sure to make up for it later even though you always reassure him that there's nothing to make up for and you always enjoy it no matter what.

to be continued... :)

[kannouo]

Ticklish?

fandom: obey me pairing: demon brothers & dateables x gn!reader warnings: suggestive on asmo's part summary: in which they find out you are ticklish. prompt by anon: The brothers + dateables reaction to the MC being ticklish because ik most of them are menaces about it A/N: lol rest in peace. good fucking luck mc. also i swear to god i know there's more to satan's character than his love of cats it just fits guys pls forgive me

LUCIFER

• Lucifer likes to appear as this super-serious macho man figure who, although he has his moments of going along with his siblings' antics, isn't a very playful guy. He's unlikely to find this out because he was trying to tickle you. Rather, it'd be by complete coincidence.

• When he offered to teach you to dance in the privacy of his room as classical music played in the background, you weren't expecting his hand on your waist to bother you as much as it did. Try as you might, you can't hide from him how you're biting your lip and stifling a giggle.

• "Is something funny to you?" He asks, unamused. You shake your head.

• "No, sorry. It just... tickles a bit."

• The only reaction you get in the moment is a hum and a nod. You're admittedly a little suspicious, but mostly grateful the dance lesson continued normally until you were able to return to your room.

• He's so unbothered by this new information, in fact, that you may even dare to think he'd all but forgotten about it when a few weeks pass by. Little did you know, he remembered. He was just storing it away for later use.

• Even the student council's representative of the human world was not immune to falling into Satan and Belphie's schemes, it seemed. After a failed attempt to capture a pic of a sleeping Lucifer, you find yourself trapped between him and the wall as he looms over you. You desperately hope that, just maybe, Satan or Belphie would come to your rescue — but alas, you had been left abandoned in the lions' den.

• "Bold of you to attempt to sneak up on me in such a vulnerable state," he clicked his tongue, agitated. "I'd assume you would know better by now."

• "I'm sorry, I—"

• "'Sorry'? Yes, you will be." He closed in on you.

• The shrieks that emanated from Lucifer's room that night could only be described as unholy as he unleashed his brand-new punishment on you. Out of everyone in the House of Lamentation, you hadn't expected the mighty first-born to be the one to tickle you half to death, but it was effective. If that was what was waiting for you, you were more than willing to give Satan and Belphie the cold shoulder the next time they suggested a new, ingenious prank to play on Lucifer. Sorry guys. It's not worth it.

"Come on, MC, this'll be our best work yet," Satan trails after you you down the hallway, clearly not keen on letting the matter go. He had taken the liberty of convincing you of the Anti-Lucifer League's newest escapade, as Belphie apparently refuses to be of any help. "We've planned it all out. It won't go wrong this time. I swear." You turn to look at Satan, catching a glimpse of Lucifer a short distance away over the fourth-born's shoulder. All it took was a knowing smirk and a mildly threatening gesture with his hands for you to turn pale. "MC?" "...I'm good, Satan, thanks."

MAMMON

• Unlike his older brother — Mammon would absolutely find this out on purpose.

• He's the spiritual eldest when it comes to playing around with his siblings, so he's experienced in tickle-fighting. You, unfortunately, only realised this while wrestling with him, when he suddenly starts tickling your sides to gain the upper-hand. It works, and now you're flailing around beneath him.

• "Hah! Take that!" You hear him laugh triumphantly above you as you struggle to force his attacking hands away from you. "Ya give in?!"

• "Yeees! You win, you win!"

• After your rather humiliating fake-wrestling defeat, he only gets more annoying with abusing your weakness as the days go by. As he learns all of your worst spots, he gets more and more bold, until not one day can go by where you aren't tackled and tickled to tears by the Avatar of Greed.

• Eventually, you're going to have to set some ground rules with this guy, because he just will not stop. For weeks after that initial incident, you find yourself constantly on edge no matter where you are, because he could be anywhere. Just planning the next tickle.

• Sure, it can be fun at first, but he always manages to take his play-fighting just a little too far. You don't have the same tolerance as his brothers, being a human and all, and he needs to remember that.

• Being tickled by Mammon is nowhere as unfair and torturous as it is with Lucifer though, mostly because unlike his older brother, Mammon is ticklish too. This means you can fight back and potentially even gain the upper-hand. It's unlikely you'll win in a chase, however — no matter if you're the one running or if he is — he's just too damn fast.

• He's the definition of being unable to take what he dishes out. Not only does he cry 'uncle' as soon as you land on a weak spot, but he'll be super pouty and embarrassed afterwards too. As if he wasn't the one who initiated it.

"Mammooon..." You poke his cheek, trying to provoke any sort of response. He huffs and turns his head away, but still doesn't say a word. "Mams... Babe..." "That ain't fair," he finally speaks, his cheeks tinging with red. "Ya can't call me that when I'm tryin' to be mad at ya." You can't help but smile at the demon before you. "I'm sorry for tickling you, Mammon." "Yeah? Well... I think I'm owed some compensation for that. 5,000 Grimm, at least!"

LEVIATHAN

• Levi wouldn't find this out on purpose. Or, rather, at all. At least not on his own.

• He freaks out and backs away every time his hand manages to accidentally brush against yours when he hands you something. He apologises profusely and feels like the absolute perverted scum of the earth when he happens to bump into you in the hallway. He refuses to hold hands with you beyond intertwining your pinkie fingers together, because anything more than that is too lewd for him.

• So yeah. He's not going to tickle you. Not even accidentally.

• He only ends up finding out when he catches you and Mammon having a tickle fight in the living room one day, to which he promptly leaves before either of you can notice him. Both to quell the jealousy bubbling in his chest, and to avoid Mammon roping him into his shenanigans.

• After that, he... does nothing, really.

• See, here's an interesting fact about the Avatar of Envy: He's ticklish too. Very ticklish. And his siblings, especially Mammon, tease him for it all the time. He absolutely hates it and it's just not funny to him. So even if he was able to touch you without taking 6000 points of damage to his psyche, he still wouldn't tickle you, because he understands how it feels.

• Instead, you could say that you two form an alliance of sorts. You defend him when one of his brothers (MAMMON) starts chasing him — using your pact if you have to — and he allows you safe refuge in his room if somebody is after you. His door has a lock on it after all, and knowing the consequences of trying to force their way inside the resident hermit's safe abode, your pursuer is unlikely to look for you in there.

• He might make fun of you a little for it, but that's the most he'll do. He won't lay a finger on you. Good guy Leviathan.

You restlessly chap on Levi's door, moving back and forth on your toes as you desperately hope for him to let you in. The seconds count down before your attacker will find you, when finally... Click. The door unlocks and you grab the handle, swinging it open and nearly hitting Levi in the face in the process. "Sorry, sorry!" You profusely whisper-yell apologies as you shut the door behind you. He locks it, and you can finally breathe a sigh of relief. "Thank you... You saved me..." Levi's cheeks burn red at your words. "Y—yeah, well... don't make a big deal out of it, normie. If you're staying in my room, then you're playing games with me too while you're here, okay? So... make yourself useful or I'll kick you back out!"

SATAN

• Maybe this is just me, but have you ever had a cat on your lap that just won't stop moving around and it sort of tickles? Yeah.

• A simple date to a cat café went from good, to better, then to worse in a very short span of time. Most of the kitties were awake and lively, wandering around and allowing you to pet them. So when one of the cats jumped up on your lap, both you and Satan were ecstatic, cooing endlessly at the little ball of fur that had made itself at home on your legs.

• The only problem was, the cat seemed to be unable to find a comfortable spot. You were trying to stay still, you really were, but the cat's paws constantly moving against your thighs made you really need to move around in your seat. Satan noticed how you had to force yourself to stay put by gripping onto the table in front of you, and he also noticed how you were biting the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling like an idiot, but he didn't say anything at first.

• The first time Satan tickles you, it comes completely out of nowhere. To you, at least. Some exams were coming up and you agreed to let him tutor you, but the material was just so boring, and Satan's delivery of it certainly wasn't helping to keep you engaged...

• You were abruptly brought back to reality by a sharp jab to your side. You jumped and looked around, as if searching for the culprit, only to see Satan, with his eyes narrowed at you. "Pay attention."

• "I was!"

• "No you weren't," he poked you once in the side for each word to enunciate his sentence, and then grabbed you by the waist to prevent you from escaping. "Are you going to listen to me now?"

• "Ye-ees!"

• "Are you sure?"

• Satan's kind of a dick about it, to be honest. He'll tickle you to convince you to do things with him. You don't want to partake in his newest prank against Lucifer? Uh... yes you do, remember?

• He's also a hypocrite. He is ticklish but he hates it just as much — if not more — than Levi. So if you do it back to him, he'll shove you off or yell at you.

"Fi—fine! Fine!" You yell, and Satan's attack on your sides ceases. He looks down at you with an eyebrow raised. "You'll do it?" "Yes!" You nod furiously. If getting him to stop meant agreeing to prank call Lucifer, you suppose you'll just have to do it. "Now get off!" "Good," he smiled and moved off of you from where he had you pinned. "Now, about the plan I had prepared..."

ASMODEUS

• ...You know the deal. There is going to be a struggle keeping these headcanons SFW.

• He can find out one of two ways: the first being that he was doing your makeup and somehow found out by brushing too close to your neck or jawline, the second being that you two were leading up to... other activites.

• We'll be going with the former for my own sake lol. He realises what your reaction was for after the first time you tilt your head away from him, and can't help but tease you for it right away.

• "Oh darling, how did I not know this before? Are you keeping secrets from me? ♡"

• Somehow, Asmo ends up being one of the worst for how he takes advantage of this. He will tickle you anywhere at any time and for any reason.

• If he thinks you're not paying enough attention to him, he'll tickle you so you're forced to focus on him. If he sees you using makeup wipes on your poor, delicate skin, he'll tickle you as a "warning" to never do that again. Eventually he just starts making up reasons.

• You can tickle him back, but he enjoys it and will try to use it to lead into sex. So, unfortunately, that won't work to dissuade him.

• Don't think for a moment he's embarrassed or ashamed of his behaviour in public settings, because he isn't. He has no qualms with tickling you in a restaurant with strangers around, and doesn't care how much attention you end up attracting. It's hell.

• He's another boy you're going to have to set boundaries with at some point just because of how frequent it is. The tipping point came when he squeezed your leg in the middle of a student council meeting and you hit your knee so hard on the table you were convinced you broke something.

• He'll back off if you tell him to. You just need to actually tell him to, otherwise he won't realise how much it bothers you.

"Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry..." Asmo pouts as he gently rubs your aching knee. "I didn't realise you'd react like that." You huff and turn your head away from him. "Don't turn this on me." "I'm not!" He shakes his head and leans forward to look you in the eye. "I swear! I just didn't know that'd happen. Can you forgive me, honey? I promise you I won't do it again. I can't have you bruising that beautiful skin because of me..."

BEELZEBUB

• Beel, similar to Levi, isn't likely to find out on his own. For different reasons, though.

• Beel isn't afraid of physical touch, but he is scared of hurting you. He's so big and you're so small. He's fully aware of his strength, and even if he has good control over it, he tends to treat you like how one would handle a delicate China plate. It's not that he doesn't touch you at all, but he's so careful when he does that he probably won't even unintentionally find out that you're ticklish.

• The only way he'd find out is if he stumbled across you in the midst of a (usually very one-sided) tickle fight with one of his brothers. In which case, he will usually step in to save you.

• As the second-youngest, he's used to being teased in a similar manner by his older siblings. So if he sees you pinned down, he'll intervene so you can catch your breath and get away.

• If you run to him for protection, much like Levi, he'll take you back to his room and won't let anyone else except Belphie inside until it's safe to assume whoever was after you has given up. You don't have to, but if you thank him by bringing him a few snacks from the fridge later, he'll be happy.

• Such a sweetheart and probably won't ever tickle you. He really doesn't want to upset you.

• The only time I can see him tickling you is if you're having a bad day and he decides you need cheering up. He'll be sat next to you, staring intently at your frowning face as the gears turn in his head. He doesn't know what your day was like or why you're so peeved, but he knows he wants to see you smile again.

• He'll scoot closer, trap you in a hug with one arm and use his free hand to (very carefully) tickle you until you give in. He'll apologise, but as long as that smile is back on your face, he's satisfied.

• "Do you feel better?" He asks, a sweet smile on his face as he pats your head. And you have to admit, you do.

You could swear you saw Beel's eyes sparkle as you offered him the box of chocolates in your hands. You were saving them to eat yourself at some point, but... seeing as Beel valiantly defended you from Asmo earlier, you figure he at least deserves this. He manages to pry his eyes away from the chocolates to look at you. "...Why?" "Because you saved me from Asmo earlier," you explain and hold the box of chocolates closer to him, urging him to take them. "This is my 'thank you'." Finally, he takes the box from you. "...You didn't have to." Despite his words, he opens the lid and starts devouring the chocolates inside so quickly that you don't even have time to remind him to take the wrappers off.

BELPHEGOR

• There are a few scenes in-game where he tickles or tries to tickle the MC, so yes, he'd absolutely find out very quickly.

• Belphie is not only a little shit — he's also spoiled and likes getting his way. So, like Satan, he'll tickle you to convince you of things. Usually it's when he doesn't feel like doing dinner duty or cleaning his room, or if he can tell you're hiding something from him.

• The first time he tickles you, it's because he had an assignment due the next morning. One he had procrastinated on for weeks. You had reminded him time and time again to start working on it as the deadline approached, but he ignored you, and the situation he's in now is, quite frankly, his own fault. So even as he whines to you about how sleepy he is and tries to butter you up so you'll do it for him, you don't give in.

• That is, until he has an idea. With an exaggerated pout on his face, he moved up behind you and wrapped his arms around you in a hug, lazily slumping against your back. Just as you were about to scold him, you felt him start to ruthlessly tickle your sides.

• With his body weight on you, there was little you could do. And even as you fell to the ground, he simply followed you, taunting and teasing you the whole time. When he thinks you've had enough, he hovers above you with a smirk on his face.

• "So? Do you feel like doing it now?"

• Little fucker. He cuddles with you later to "thank" you, but you're still salty about it.

• Like most others on this list, you can get him back. He's the baby of the family so of course he's ticklish. Expect him to use dirty tricks to win any tickle fight you initiate, however. Like "giving in" only to immediately attack once you stop, or using the fluffy end of his tail to catch you by surprise.

• Beel tends to come to his rescue a lot as well, so beware of that.

"I—I give! I giiive!" You smirk in triumph as the youngest demon brother surrenders beneath you, and you let up your tickling assault. You roll off of him, fixing your ruffled hair. "See? That's what happens when you challenge me," with your back turned, you're too busy congratulating yourself to notice Belphie slowly sitting up behind you. "Anyway, you need to— AH—!" You shriek as you're tackled down to the bed again, cursing as Belphie grins down at you, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic light. "Belphie! That's cheatING—!!" And so, it starts again.

DIAVOLO

• Diavolo likely finds out in a similar fashion to Lucifer. Only it might be at a ball rather than in a secluded area.

• He's confused at first. He knows what tickling is, but being extremely sheltered, he's never received much affection like that in his life. As a result, it takes him a moment to put the pieces together. Once he does, he smiles fondly down at you and apologises, and that is that.

• ...For now.

• What he didn't show right away was just how giddy this discovery made him. What an adorable trait to have! And one he had to see more of. He'd missed out on tickle fights his whole life — he had to wonder what they were like?

• He made a mental note to experiment with this information the next time you came around to the palace. And that he did.

• Literally yells "tickle fight!" before pulling you close and going to town. You have to yell for him to be gentler, because inexperienced as he is, what should tickle actually kind of hurts at first.

• "Ah, I'm so, so sorry," he relaxes his fingers a little, no longer digging into your skin. "Is this any better? My sincere apologies."

• His apology would seem a lot more genuine if he didn't continue to tickle you while saying it.

• That, and he doesn't quite understand the concept of a tickle fight. What he's doing to you is more like a tickle beat-down. It's so one-sided it's almost comical. Unable to fight back or escape, Barbatos has to come and tell him to stop before you piss yourself.

• This was fun! He decides completely on his own. We should do this more often! He says, as you are gasping for breath on the fucking ground.

• After this first experience, he incorporates more minor tickling into your daily lives. Instead of trapping you like the first time, he'll sneakily poke you while walking by, and then look back at you with a wave and a completely innocent smile on his face.

"MC? Apologies, you seem to be in the middle of something. It won't take long," Diavolo smiles as he enters the empty student council hall. Indeed, you are in the middle of sorting some letters, but it isn't as if you can deny an audience to the Demon King. "I have a question for you. It appears... as if you've been avoiding me lately. Why is that?" You blink, trying to discern if he was serious. The look on his face said yes, he was. "...Diavolo, whenever we sit next to each other, you keep reaching over to tickle me." He meets you with a surprised expression as if this is somehow news to him. "I did not know it was such a problem," He confesses. "Very well, then. I'll stop. If I do, will you start sitting beside me again? I quite miss it."

BARBATOS

• He already knew. Lol.

• He officially "finds out" for the first time when he just happens to walk in on Diavolo tickling you half to death and saves you from his grasp. In reality, he already knew this was going to happen and planned to show up just in time to clean you off of the floor once Diavolo had his fun.

• You're thankful he showed up, though. If not for the fact he rescued you, then for the tea he served you afterwards to ensure you wouldn't have had an entirely terrible experience that day.

• As for what he does with this information? Well, not much. At least, it doesn't seem like it to you.

• Barbatos knows how to be sneaky with how he uses this to hear you laugh throughout the day. He'll brush his hand against your skin while reaching for something, "accidentally" touch your back and make you jump while walking by you, and it will always seem unintentional. At first, that is.

• Red flags start to raise when these accidents seem to happen multiple times, every single time you're around him. He knows when you're starting to get suspicious too, and that's around the point he stops even trying to pretend like it isn't intentional. He'll keep doing it, but flash you an infuriating, coy smile after each time.

• Now it's war.

• If this is the game he's playing, you might as well participate.

• The only problem being... it's Barbatos. He knows when you're planning something and exactly how you're going to execute it. You can't even land a hand on the bastard.

• And even if you did somehow manage to (AKA he lets you), you genuinely have no idea if he's even ticklish. He won't react to anything you do to him, but he also won't give you a straight answer if you bluntly ask him if he's ticklish or not. He just looks at you with that signature poker-faced smile. And with that, he turns and walks away. YOU NEED ANSWERS.

• Eventually you become convinced that he isn't actually ticklish at all, but he lets you think he could be because he enjoys seeing you so determined to catch him off-guard.

"B—Barbatos!" You jerk your body away as his hand "somehow" manages to pinch your side while reaching for the utensils drawer next to you. He smiles. "My apologies, it was an accident." He says, and you call bullshit right away. With a newfound desire for revenge, you latch onto his side and start to tickle, but frown when he doesn't react at all. In fact, he simply opens the drawer and takes out a few of the cutlery inside like he initially intended to do, as if you aren't even there. He meets your eye with another, slightly more amused smile, before turning and leaving the room. You stand there, dumbfounded. Though... you could've sworn you saw him flinch a little when you first touched him.

SIMEON

• Simeon is also ticklish and is another example of someone who knows how it feels. He's not likely to tickle you often.

• That's not to say he doesn't find it amusing or cute — he absolutely does — but his first thought when the back rubs he gave you with the intention of being soothing turned ticklish wasn't that he should take advantage of it, rather that it's just something new he now knows about you.

• Simeon won't ever intentionally tickle you because it's, well, mean. He'll only do it if he gets "permission", meaning if you do it to him first.

• He enjoys seeing you smile and laugh, but he doesn't ever want to go too far. Most of the tickle fights you initiate are won by him — don't let his appearance and sweetness fool you, he's still much stronger than you are — but they also don't last long. He'll stop, apologise, and offer to make up for it with anything you want.

• "Sorry, sorry," Simeon smiles as he helps you back to your feet, brushing your hair out of your face. "Are you alright? Come on, let's sit down together. No more tickling, though."

• He... tries to be a protector of sorts if Solomon or anyone else is after you. I can't say it works out well for him though, and whoever was after you just ends up with two victims instead of one.

• Bless him for trying. At least you're not suffering alone.

• When you come around to Purgatory Hall, depending on your friendship with Luke, you two may have playful tickle wars that go on. He won't interfere, but Luke does tend to use Simeon as a shield or claims that you're "bullying" him. Simeon never takes it too seriously and you can usually continue your playful tickle-attack uninhibited.

You lay, breathless and sweaty on the floor. You stare up at the ceiling as you pant for air and slowly sit up, wiping at your forehead. You turn to the man sprawled out on the floor right next to you, the both of you having just endured the same tickle-attack by Solomon. "...Are you alright?" Simeon slowly turns his head to look at you and meets you with an exhausted smile. "Yeah, I'm fine... you?" "...Yeah." You sigh. Silence fills the air for a moment, interrupted only by your heavy breathing. "...Wanna get him back?" As angelic as Simeon still is... even he can't refuse that offer.

SOLOMON

• This shady sorcerer absolutely finds out on purpose.

• After one too many times where you've outright banned him from the kitchen to prevent some kind of national tragedy, he decides he's owed some kind of penance. So the one time you allow him in the kitchen while you cook — under strict supervision — he sneaks up behind you and...

• "Solomon!" You squeal, nearly dropping the ingredients in your hands as he hugs you from behind and uses the position to start furiously tickling you.

• "What? Why are you laughing?" He asks cheekily. "You better be careful. You don't want to ruin dinner, right?"

• After the first incident, it gets much, much worse.

• He'll tickle you at any time, anywhere, whenever he feels like it. It doesn't matter how busy you are or how important what you're working on is, he will interrupt you out of nowhere to tickle you until he's satisfied. Prick.

• He thinks it's funny to tickle you in inconvenient or inappropriate settings, too. If you're sat in front of or next to him in class, you can expect him to start repeatedly poking you or enchanting a few items to tickle you as you desperately try to hold back any reactions because then you'll be the one embarrassing yourself.

• He's also ticklish, but will go to great lengths to avoid you ever figuring that out. Probably drinks some kind of potion that dulls his sensitivity before seeking you out to tickle you just in case you try to get revenge on him.

• Of course, you can still catch him when he's unprepared. And when you do, it's war.

• At least Purgatory Hall is never boring with you two around.

You stare down Solomon as you face one another at opposite ends of the dining table. He's grinning at you, and every now and again tries to rush over to where you are, at which point you circle the table to keep the distance. "You can't keep going forever." He taunts. "Watch me, motherfucker," you curse, but it's true. You're already out of breath. He tries to charge you again and you react quickly, hurrying back around to the other side of the table. Just as you do, however, he changes direction. You're unable to turn around in time and he catches you, damn near lifting you up into the air with how he grabs you. "Solomon! Stop it!" "You started it," he argues. "Now suffer the consequences."

[mxnhoo]

dangerous (l. hs)

✎ lee heeseung x reader genre kissing, blowing vape air into one's mouth, experienced boy x unexperienced girl trope, strawberry flavoued air, first kiss, reader has like 0 experience at all, not poofread cos a girlie just wants to write - get the idea off her head - sleep warnings ALMOST smut, vaping, nicotine (duh), hee wants to corrupt her lowk word count 905 cly's note i think this is different from what i usually write but i saw a tiktok with this idea and i couldn't stop thinking about it even during work. HENCE i am staying up to actually write it so i can get it OUF MY HEAD. i hate the thought of smoking/vaping but isn't this so hot omg. plus i've been so inactive i'm so sorry, so here's a proper fic i've written in a while (though it is short)

now playing heaven and back - chase atlantic

You breathed heavily, your eyelids heavy as you continued to stare at Heeseung, who layed below you. The room was dimly lit, the only light source coming from the lamp on your study table. You can't even explain how you got into this situation with Heeseung, your best friend — how you were sitting on Heeseung's lap, him being shirtless and just vaping in front of you. Though you've always known that he was quite literally the opposite of you, you and him remained as close friends regardless, and today you were seeing him in a different way.

Your chest moved rapidly, a new gush of unfamiliar feelings taking over you as you observed him taking another puff from his vape device. He exhaled and blew the air away from you, hitting the back of his head against the headboard afterwards, staring at you.

A strong strawberry scent took over the room, the sweetness making you want to melt into him. Despite the fact that he was the only one that was shirtless and that you were hovering over him, you still felt vulnerable, feeling unsure as to what to do next and anxious that you might fuck things up somehow.

He smirked seeing the state you were in, clearly enjoying the view of you. He was aware about how you were so naive and pure — you haven't kissed, smoked, vaped, or even fucked — and Heeseung just wanted to be there to open the new world to you. He wanted to check off every single thing off from the list, since he knew best how untouched you were. He wouldn't admit it, but he wanted to corrupt you.

He blew air up to his forehead, lifting the bangs away and he threw his head back, making himself more comfortable and showing his featuers off even more, especially his prominent Adam's apple and collarbone.

You couldn't explain it, but everything about him just felt so.. hot at the moment. You've never felt this way for anyone, but the way he was looking at you with such predator gaze, the way his exposed chest was moving up and down, the way he held his vape with his thumb and middle finger, his collarbone and neck, and even more.

"Say, you haven't fucked around nicotone like at all, right?" Heeseung questioned, his voice raspy after taking a huff of his strawberry-flavoured vape.

You shook your head and bit your lip, almost feeling humiliated that you haven't tried anything at all, and that for your entire life, you've stayed away from these things. You looked down, not wanting to meet his gaze, overthinking that he probably thought you were a loser.

He lifted your chin up with his finger, interlocking eyes with yours once again and he smirked, "Wanna take a step into my world?".

Your heart immediately skipped a beat, feeling thrilled at the thought of doing something you've always strayed away from. You stuttered, "O-okay".

He turned his neck downwards to look at you properly before flicking his middle and ring finger, gesturing for you to lean closer to him. You were already sitting on his lap as he layed down, and the closeness and warmth was driving you wild. You'd never experienced something like this before, only simple hand-holding and cheek kisses.

"I won't bite," he reassured, his voice still sounding dark, but you finally started to lean closer to him. Your hands inevitably rested on his bare chest, his chest muscles and abs feeling hard and the way he hitched his breath when you touched him didn't go unnoticed.

You were finally leaning closer to him, your hair falling forward as he nodded in approval, "Want a taste of my vape? Strawberry flavour, you'll like it". You nodded and he chuckled, bringing the vape to his mouth and taking another huff, making you slightly confused. Was he not going to hand the vape over to you?

You wanted to ask until you confirmed that he wasn't. He grabbed the front of your shirt to pull you even closer, his eyelids halfway open as he started to blow the air into your mouth. You immediately inhaled the air, tasting the sweetness of the air and suddenly feeling hot as your heart rate starts to increase.

You only stared at his lips as he blowed the vape air into your mouth, only wishing it was on yours, and he immediately noticed, immediately closing the gap between both of your mouths and smirking as he could feel you immediately snap back to reality from the sudden kiss.

He immediately pulled back, his thoughts feeling hazy as he is met with your half-fucked up face, chuckling that you were already half-spent when you did practically nothing other than share a huff and kiss for a second. "Did I take your first kiss?" he genuinely questioned, observing as you recovered from the kiss and puff.

"You did," you remained quiet before continuing, "I expect you to take my second, third and more".

"Is that a challenge?" he raised his eyebrows, clearly liking your boldness and the idea of kissing you as many times as he wanted.

"Maybe it is? Maybe it isn't?" you shrugged.

His face immediately darkened, the smirk on his face growing deeper, "I never back down a challenge". He put his hand behind your head to push you closer to him, causing your lips to clash once again.

watch out we pop out~ let's fill up some dopamine~ (if u understand ily)

[artbyblastweave]

The thing about Captain America is that he is, as the name implies, a super soldier. He patches a lot of the traditional holes in soldiery. He’s strong, he’s fast, he’s smart, he’s tough, he maintains peak condition with limited time and resource input. He’s better at soldiering than normal soldiers; if you had an army of him, you’d have the best possible army. And you could have an army of him, because he’s got no esoteric powers; he’s an exaggeration of traits that militaries are already used to planning around and equipping, so incorporating a host of super soldiers into your planning and logistics is an easy deal. ( A teleporter like Nightcrawler or Cloak could be handy to have on retainer, but you can’t structure anything beyond a special-ops group on the idea you’ll have consistent access to their abilities- If you integrate them into anything important and they die, you’re fucked! They’re self-siloing.)

But what’s really important he’s also at the upper outer edge of how powerful you can make a super soldier before they become more trouble than they’re worth. If he goes rogue, you can kill him; in terms of power levels he’s one of the most powerful and effective superheroes who you could nonetheless definitely kill by just throwing wave after wave of conventional infantry at him until one of them gets lucky or he gets tired. You’re at substantially less risk of a Weapon-X style defection cavalcade, where anyone you send out who’s actually capable of killing him will wind up being an even bigger problem in the long run. You can still bomb his ass. All their asses, if he talks the clean-up crew into defecting as well.

I originally began writing this about two years ago because I saw someone expressing confusion that so many Marvel storylines involve state-level actors trying to reproduce the super soldier serum specifically instead of any of the other significantly more powerful heroes, and this confusion confused me because I found the value added pretty obvious. Captain America- and the kind of super soldier represented by Captain America- rests on this knifes edge between “best soldier ever“  and tipping wholesale over into the realm of humanoid WMDs that require a complete overhaul of the logic of warfare, and probably a world destroying arms race. It’s the split being gestured at with Comedian and Dr. Manhattan- they’re both “super soldiers“ but Comedian isn’t the one who nearly makes the cold war go hot. Two different ball games, two different uses cases. If it hasn’t been done yet, I might have to write the story where consistent super solider infantry is treated as a hot-ticket item despite the ubiquity of government-aligned worldwreckers- you’ve got guys that can paste an army from orbit, but you still need boots on the ground if you want to garrison the rubble.

[vieoeil-riae]

take you down with me

steb/fem!reader

warnings: NSFW, dry humping, making out, selectively mute!steb, 18+ MDNI, 3.1k words

synopsis: Both of you think the other might have died in the battle for Piltover, so you get emotional and fuck in a broom closet when you see each other again. Sounds fair, no?

read on ao3 | ao3 profile | ao3 collection | masterlist

It had been two days since the war ended, a miniscule amount of hours since the retreat of the Noxian soldiers following the death of their leader. The dead had to be collected, the wounded had to be tended to.

As someone with some amount of medical knowledge, Steb had immediately fallen into line attending to the wounded. He supposes his bedside manner was definitely below standard, the man having grown even quieter in the wake of all the death and displacement. It kept his hands busy however, and it kept his mind away from you.

When the fighting broke out he wasn’t sure where you’d ended up. Though there had been civilian evacuations, there was no guarantee you’d even managed to get on one of the airships.

For all he knew, you could be face down in the streets, another littered body buried under many others. Steb shivered at the thought, the pallor of death imagined on your face made him queasy and he couldn’t be throwing up on patients. So he shoved the thought down, drowning it in the wounds of his comrades and fellow city-goers alike.

Just a few days without you were hell, though, and he’d already had a taste of it several months ago when you’d frowned at him and averted your gaze — avoiding him for almost a week after Caitlyn’s strike team weaponised The Gray.

But that was a silly worry then, that you wouldn’t come back to him, because back then there was always the chance you would. Now, there was always a chance you’d be lost to him forever, and that cut much, much deeper.

Steb worried his lips as he debrided a fellow enforcer's wound — gruesome work, both for him and the patient — his careful hands easing out the shattered fragments of a Noxian blade from a wound on the man’s thigh. The man hissed, and so did Steb.

It smelled awful, but if he concentrated hard enough he could imagine how you smelled instead. The scent of your body soap, your perfume, your natural scent, all mixed together into a smell he could almost taste. God, how long had it been since he smelt something other than rubbing alcohol and infection?

Not that there was anyone to complain about that to. The only person who wasn’t you, that could understand all of his gestures without a long game of charades and short words was both dead and a traitor of the state. Steb swallowed around the memory of the way her ginger hair fell over her eyes as she slumped to the floor with a bullet between her eyes.

You’d understand, one look and you’d have him in your arms and muttering about how he really ought to quit. You’d trace the shape of his eyes and know him, it was the most relaxing game in the world and the prize for winning made it golden. To get him like that… without the words, it always made his heart flutter.

Steb held a sigh in the back of his throat, despite the summer heat the atmosphere was frigid. You would warm him up nicely, let him drift away in your soft skin, the swell of your breasts, the chub of your thighs. Two days of barely sleeping, you sounded like heaven.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Footsteps, a regular noise around the hall that had been turned into an impromptu medical care station. He payed no mind, still lost in his thoughts and in his work.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Running, also plenty familiar — especially on the first night.

“Steb!” Oh, the lack of sleep must really be getting to him.

“Steb!” A warm hand came to rest on his shoulder, too gentle to jostle his work. A familiar sense of care, but also maybe he was hallucinating. He stared at his hands, when had he finished with the man’s wound?

“Steb…” Melodic and warm, fond like the hand that reached up to tilt his chin towards you.

Not making things up in his head then. Steb’s eyes widened at the sight of you, perfectly fine and haloed by the setting sun through the broken window. 

His eyebrows pinched and his lips fell open just enough for you to see a sliver of his tongue. The way he stared at you was precious, like he was afraid to look away lest you vanish. You smiled fondly back, he must’ve been worried — Steb had a strong sense of duty, both to his work and you, sometimes at once, like the past few days. 

Steb’s face shifted again, blinking several times before searching your face desperately like he was trying to drink in your whole visage at once. You flustered, even in strained circumstances, he certainly knew how to make you feel wanted.

His hands gripped at your wrist, one thumb digging into your pulse. He rested there for a moment, his eyes glazing over with focus as he felt for the steady thrum of life there — finding it and latching on like it was the only thing in the world.

The frills decorating his cheeks fluttered, a ripple that spread across his cheekbones. You followed it closely, rhythmically, as it almost copied your heart beat. Following it further, you found his ears pinned closely to his skull. Worried must’ve been an understatement, then. You frowned slightly.

Steb’s eyes met yours as you traced his frills again. The energy you found there was intense, thick with a multitude of wants. Turning his head and tugging at your wrist, you felt a soft kiss land over your pulse — the shape of Steb’s lips was unmistakable, thinner on the top and plumper on the bottom and always in a sort of mildly pouty frown. 

You bit your own lip, staring intently at where his lips landed, where the projected trail of his kisses went. For a moment, Steb’s face grew somber, then soft in the most incredible way. So pretty, he was, even from where you stood above him; jewel-like eyes and soft, almost luminescent skin that looked so artful in the sunlight that poured in around you.

Taking advantage of where your hand ended up, you gently brushed his cheek. Exploratory, but known, you reached around to cup where the back of his head met his neck where your fingers found the small fins that trailed down his back. 

With even more care, your thumb gently stroked the shell of Steb’s ear, tracing over its points. Under your touch, he shivered, eyes closed as he subtly twitched between leaning into the touch and pulling away. 

A shaky sigh left his lips as he finally leaned into your touch. The way he opened his eyes and gazed at you was lethal; the intense glacier-blue of his eyes eaten up by his blown out, hazy blue pupils; the slump in his shoulders; the reverence that saturated every inch of his face.

You tilt your head subtly to the door, watching the twitch in his eyebrows and eyelids. They scrunched in worry, Steb’s head turning to look behind him again, at the patient he’d been tending to prior. You watch a little longer, letting his face speak.

The man on the floor behind him shrugged and rolled over. Steb looked back to you, searching your face also. You smiled again, cheekier, and nodded towards the door once more — your eyes focused on his, gazing at him through your lashes.

Sliding his hand around to hold yours, you pulled him up from his small stool. Steb let you, eyes shimmering as you walked hand in hand out of the door.

You dropped the collected facade the second the door closed behind you, gripping his hand tightly as you speed walked down the hall all but dragging him behind you. You heard him snort, and you smiled at the sound.

Your eyes spied exactly what you were looking for. A door slightly thinner than the others and less ornate. Crossing the hall with Steb in tow, though he looked more confused now — frills fluttering almost nervously — you carefully opened the door, listening for voices inside.

Waiting a second, you felt Steb press into your space behind you. His breath skimmed your ear as he listened alongside you and your teeth found your lips again, biting and pulling.

You deemed it clear, and possibly a little ungracefully, yanked Steb into the broom closet behind you and slammed the door shut.

In a flurry, you had his back pushed against the wall with your hands pawing at his front. Yet you refrained a moment longer to look in his eyes. Permission. You wanted permission to unravel in his arms and a sign that said he wouldn’t mind if he did the same.

His eyes seemed to glow a little brighter in the dark, and you could feel the way they traced from your lips to your eyes, to your lips again. Looking up again, this time through his lashes, Steb brushed his nose against yours; an invite.

You took it gladly, meeting his lips with your own. Just a few days without him had left you starving, the fear of having lost him plaguing your thoughts since you left, you drank him in.

The kiss grew less chaste and more desperate. You toyed at his bottom lip, plump and warm under your ministrations, listening to the way he sharply inhaled as you gently bit his lip. Steb’s hands dragged over your waist, needy, but it was a ghost of a feeling — he was refraining from touching you.

Frowning, you pulled away. Steb chased you as you left, lips unwilling to part with yours, eyes opening in confusion over your sudden absence.

He tilted his head with a concerned look. You settled your hands over his, and gently pushed them down to meet the flesh of your waist once before letting off and giving him the choice. His lips made an ‘o’ that turned into a bashful smile.

Steb wiped his hands on his jacket, he’d been fiddling with wounds, without handwashing (which he’d prefer) this was next best. One hand returned to your waist, but the other drifted up to your face, brushing stray hair from your eyes before carding through your hairline. Soft under his touch, you nodded in understanding. 

Steb kissed the corner of your mouth, reveling in the way he could feel your smile, before trailing slow kisses across your jawline as if he was savouring it. You dragged your hands up his sides, draping them across his firm shoulders as he worked towards the junction between your neck and your jaw.

You shivered at the sensation, inhaling sharply when his teeth met a sensitive spot, and sighing when his lips soothed it.

In a shuffle, he’d turned you around — pressing you to the wall instead, caging you in as he wrapped his arm around you tighter. The hand in your hair remained there, but his other hand took a downward path, tracing the curve of your spine like it meant the world to him.

Against your neck, you felt his frills flutter; ticklish and delicious, you clocked how heavy Steb’s breathing had gotten, how his ear twitched when you gasped. Your own hand weaved into the back of his hair, brushing gently against the tiny fins that began to appear where the back of his skull connected to his spine.

“‘Door’s not locked.” You mumbled into his uncharacteristically messy hair.

“Mn.” Too late to stop now, Steb was long lost in you. 

Your smell, familiar and so normal compared to everything around you. Your softness, the way your unbroken skin gave way to his touch. How warm you were, gasping and arching into him. There was no helping himself as he drank you in greedily, moving your shirt’s neckline and peppering your collarbones with nips and kisses. 

You tilted your head, both out of pleasure and a need to give Steb the most area of exposed skin to lavish as you could. 

“Steb…” You called breathily,  the feeling of his tongue dancing over your sensitive skin making your knees buckle. 

There was relief, there was need, and they brought both of you to the floor. Steb not once letting go as he followed you downwards. 

If anything, it meant he could focus on groping you more. Pawing at your chest, while his other hand slid south to squeeze you your hip — having ended up pressed to your side as you were both brought to your knees. His head was spinning, touching you was dizzying every time but right now it was satisfying a desperate sort of hunger.

Taking a deep breath against your skin, he dragged you closer. You whined at the feeling of his bulge pressing against your hip, your cheeks flushing with heat as Steb’s eyes grew even hazier. Your combined panting filled the small closet, you were warmer now but neither of you could tell if the shivering was borne of coldness or bubbling desire. 

Quietly, Steb whined, burying his face back into your neck — letting the frills that decorated his pretty cheekbones rub against your hot skin as a shiver traveled the length of his spine. He couldn’t tell if the pulsing he felt was his racing heartbeat or his throbbing cock, aching and needy.

For a moment, he pulled back. His smouldering eyes met yours and Steb thoroughly enjoyed the ruined look that swam in your lust-widened pupils. The marks and reddened skin were a delicious look on you, and it only served to make his cock feel heavier in his pants.

Steb’s head sunk back into your shoulder, biting and nipping with more forced than before — the way he seemed so intent on devouring you, tasting every inch of you that you offered, made you mewl.

You whimper, but don't resist as Steb moves to settle between your legs, all but haphazardly manhandling you with his needy grasp.

His ears flick at every sound you make. It was utter indulgence the way you hum and sigh and gasp, tantalising in a way that went straight to his cock. You sound so much better if you were even closer if that were even possible with the way he pressed your bodies flush. 

Steb let out a sinful moan, grinding his throbbing cock against your clothed cunt, catching on your warm, pulsing clit. The noise and the way his hips buck into you has your eyes fluttering closed.

You shift, tightening your legs around his slender hips, moaning into his ear as you feel him grind harder against your cunt. He pants down your neck, and you feel the sweat and heat starting to creep into the miniscule gaps between you.

Teeth nip at your earlobe, nibbling so delicately it makes you shiver. They trace your jaw, kiss the nerves that lay under your ear and trail down your soft neck in what feels like worship. You grip Steb tightly, one hand twisting itself into his jacket while the other runs up the length of his spine before drifting towards his ear, petting the ends with a trembling eagerness.

It pays off as he gasps against the junction of you neck; his hips cant into you with a jolt. You can’t help but smile, pleased, as you trail your fingers feather-light across the delicate frills you could reach — watching as they fluttered out of sync at your touch.

He pulls back, flushed, with swollen lips that had felt so hot against your skin and looks at you with such wet eyes. God, he’s pretty when he’s needing it so bad.

Your hand travels in reverse, over his frills and then his ear and tangles in his hair, before you pull him into a deep kiss. It’s hungry and heavy and you swallow each other whole as Steb’s hip move sensually slow.

His hands find their way under your shirt, finally. His fingers skip down your sides like sparking electricity. 

You moan into the kiss, pressing your warm cunt against his leaking cock in a way that makes him shudder and grunt, chasing his tongue. Your cunt throbs as he does much the same, but Steb-like — quieter, more intimate than wanton. You love it, he’s yours alone, you’re the only one who gets to hear him whimpering desperately into their ear.

His thumbs dig into your waist, holding you tighter, and you writhe in your spot at the feeling.

A breathless, loud moan bubbles from Steb’s throat as his face twists in pleasure against your mouth. He pulls back and you're graced with the pretty sight of his head tilted back and his mouth opening in a silent continuation of a moan. His cock ruts into you frantically, you hold him tightly, it feels like you’re reuniting after years — but no, a few days is all it takes to become so starved of you he becomes a sort of need-driven beast.

You can feel your own arousal pool in your underwear even better when he pushes you back into the wall hard, his hips bucking wilding against your cunt. You arch into the wild movement, deep, heady desire pooling in your gut as you angle yourself to catch you clit on Steb’s thrusts.

You pull away from the kiss, panting, and he takes the opportunity to bite down hard on your shoulder. You yelp and it only sends a pang of need to his gut. Your clit is throbbing and his cock aches as the feeling of his length rutting sloppily against your clothes folds.

Steb prying your thighs apart, gripping at your ass and pulling the soft plane of your cunt even closer. His thrusts become sharper, an unraveling held in the jerking motion that begged for just a little more.

He groans and you almost drool at the rare sound. Its muffled, in a familiar way, when he bites down on the bruised flesh of his bottom lip. He’s close. You grin through a whine at the thought, your hands tangling in his hair yet again and giving it a tug.

It pulls Steb’s face away from you enough to enjoy the way his eyes roll back as his hips move in an even more erratic pattern as he cums. The vigour of his thrusts as he rides his high tips you over the edge soon after, making you grip his hair as tight as he was gripping your ass.

Panting, still out of breath, you guide his lips to yours; a kiss strikingly sweet compared to the last god knows how long. You can feel him smile against you and the feeling is contagious. You know you both have each other, the world feels at peace again.

A/N: I figured out how to do the cool text I'm so proud of myself! (if I post this and it breaks I'm gonna lose it!) if u saw me on ao3 first ily

banner cr: @/cafekitsune

[robo-writing]

Hello!! I came from your single mom one shot and I am in love with how you write Logan. Could we have a worst!Logan and wife!reader at a bar and he’s getting hit on relentlessly by a girl who won’t take the hint even though he has stated that he is happily married MULTIPLE TIMES and then reader comes in and rips the girl a new asshole and Logan likes it a little too much and practically drags her home to fuck because of how hot he got from her getting angry and defending him?

How very Beth Dutton of you op! The girl that stands in front of him flashes him a smile—pearly whites, black hair that reaches down to her back, topped off with a low-cut shirt and a pair of jeans that draw the eye of everyone behind the bar—everyone except him that is.

He knows what she wants from him before she can utter a single word, eyes shamelessly moving across his body with not a hint of subtlety. A few years earlier and it might've worked, she's cute enough. A vixen, all doe-eyed and determined, if he was a younger man she might've been his type. But that's all in the past; she's cute, Logan thinks to himself, but she's not his wife. His eyes don't move from where you're standing at the bar, barely giving the girl more than a passing glance as she speaks. "Hey there, mind if I keep you company?" He almost rolls his eyes, but he keeps himself in check in hopes that he can resolve this without any trouble.

"I do unfortunately," he says, flashing the pretty gold band around his finger as he takes another swig of his beer. His fingers play with the ring around his finger, smiling to himself like a love-struck fool when he remembers what it symbolizes. He'd hope that would be the end of it, but unfortunately for him, it is.

The gal's either too drunk or too pig-headed to get the hint, so instead of backing away she leans in real close, too damn close—close enough that it starts to draw your attention from across the bar.

Suddenly your interest isn't in your drink anymore, and before you can walk closer Logan puts his hands up, mouths out lemme handle this, before speaking up again. "Listen, I'm a taken man." He says with a sigh, giving her his full attention. It doesn't deter her in the slightest, a coy smile tugging on the ends of her lips. "That's a shame. Your wife know you're here?" "She does," he nods with a smile, "and she's right over there." He points right to you, where you raise your glass with a thin-lipped smile, sarcasm evident in your body language. He can tell you're in a good mood tonight because you haven't dragged the girl by the hair yet, and he'd rather not ruin the night because she can't take a hint. Surely, she'll leave—except she doesn't. No, she does the exact opposite; she looks back and sees you, laser-focused on the two of them, and with all the audacity in the world, she fucking smiles back. You almost shatter the damn glass in your hand. "Oh, that's alright," she whispers with a wink. "Lemme go talk to her." His eyebrow damn near reaches his hairline, looking at the young girl as if she's truly lost her damn mind. Normally he wouldn't give a damn if someone wants to catch their death, but he takes pity on her for the sole reason that he really doesn't want to get kicked out. "I don't think that's a good idea." "Don't worry," she says, and to put the icing on the cake she puts her hand on his chest, loops her fingers around his dog tags and tugs him down. "I can handle myself." With that one gesture he knows she's just sealed her fate. No, you can't, he wants to say, but she's already making her way across the bar where you stand, looking like hell itself. You know he doesn't have eyes for anyone else but you, but it doesn't matter—someone else touched what's yours, so you have to remind Logan where home is. He's not really sure if he should feel happy that his girl is so protective of him, or sad that he's about to get kicked out of his favorite bar. Logan sighs and puts his beer down, reaching into his pocket and dialing 9-1-1 just as the telltale sound of glass shattering echoes across the bar. It really is a shame—he liked this bar too. The only good thing that comes from tonight—minus the visual of you with blood across your face—is the jaw-dropping sex that ensues the moment the two of you get home, remnants of rage seeping through every touch as you drag him upstairs by the collar. He's more than happy to let you take the lead, content in being your personal scapegoat if it means he gets to see you bounce on his lap like a woman possessed.

Lips intertwined, clothes askew and hair tousled. The taste of iron—a split lip, he remembers—then moans into your mouth when he remembers how you got it. Is it wrong to say you look your most beautiful when you're mad? He doesn't give a shit if it is, especially if his punishment is your pussy gripping him like a vice. He likes you like this—jealous, protective—it's what drew him to you in the first place, how you bite down on what's your and refuse to let go. From the moment you saw him you staked your claim and he was more than happy to follow you for the ride. "You like it when she touched you?" You mutter, lips pressed against his as you ride him for all your worth. Sweat beads off his brow, eyes closed in bliss, he nods his head no but it's not enough—you want to hear him say it. You teeth dig into the skin of his shoulder, a delicious groan erupting from him as you repeat yourself. "Answer me Lo, did you fucking like it?" "No, no—" he gasps, hands wandering across your body. "Wasn't even looking at her, swear to god—" "And who were you looking at?" you ask, and the answer makes your walls flutter across his cock. He lets you hear him loud and clear, giving you a lop-sided grin as he thrusts up into you.

"You, sweetheart, only you." "Louder," you moan, scratching at the expanse of his back, encouraging him. He repeats himself, fucking into your gushing cunt, his words bringing you to a new high with every thrust. His words are long, drawn out, caught in his throat as he struggles between speaking and catching his breath. "Only got eyes for you baby—fuckin' christ—" He speaks long after you've stopped, so engrossed in pleasure you can barely hear anything beyond your ringing ears and the slap of your ass against his thighs. "All yours baby, all fuckin' yours."

[multiverse-sparkles]

Belonging — S. Rogers

summary: steve had left you for a time that had forgotten him, with only a letter as an explanation. you were given another him, in another universe.

pairings: steve rogers x reader

warnings: angst, very lazy summary, read for a sexy steve! alternate earth, stark reader, eventual soft!dark themes.

“please state your name and where you came from,” the agent utters, tone void of any humane emotion as he gestures to the camera silently mocking you, as it blinked rapidly.

still rubbing your sore wrist, you kept your lips pressed together hoping to make this as unpleasant as you could. you'd been rudely transported into this warped timeline as you were being tossed into the air by a combat robot you used for training; you doubted the pile of metal and wires had the capability nor the powers to hurl you in another dimension, but you were still tossed, rather roughly on your ass.

yet before you even had the chance to process anything, or launch a defensive attack; several high powered guns were pointed at your person, and you were knocked out cold and brought to this interrogating facility.

SHIELD, you bitterly came to the conclusion. you were familiar with their protocols, their interrogation tactics, and their structure of their facility. you'd trained and worked several missions and recon assignments with some of the agents you've seen decorating their halls; even being ushered by colleagues you've shared stale coffee with, but they didn't know you here.

and you've simply reached the desired conclusion; this was an unfamiliar world.

though you have been leading a somewhat destructive life after losing nearly everything after the battle with the mad titan, there was still some self preservation left in you, and you didn't want to totally be obliterated in this foreign world with no body for pepper to mourn with.

what did taylor swift say? play stupid games, win stupid prices.

until you could communicate with friday, or be sure that you're totally safe here, you were going to be the most silent and unhlepful captive these walls have ever seen.

“state your name and where you came from.” the agent bellows firmly.

“what year is it?” you tilt your head, he purses his lips in thought, looking at you as if you're something foreign; then uttering the year.

“huh. so thanos was three years ago?” you breathe, “you guys beat him too?”

the agent looked at you with a suddenly, surprised expression.

“take my blood; run your tests. when you get the result, bring me your highest ranking officer.” you demand.

"tony has a daughter." sam balks in disbelief, his mouth gaping in scandal at the mere prospect of tony's many exploits coming into fruiton. "an adult daughter."

"old news, small head big body." bucky snorts, putting the weights down. sam bristles, a snarky reply tethering on his tongue, yet steve interrupts.

"it's the worst kept secret around the compound." steve remarks amusedly, somehow finding the fact that covert special agents become loose lipped when it came to gossip. "the lesser known fact however, is where she came from." he grabs his flask, and sat upright from the bench, and rehydrated.

the other savory details of your appearance had been limited to a few people; mostly the avengers and the key personnel involved. they hadn't yet realized the reason as to why you'd be in another dimension entirely unprompted. and while they knew time travel was possible, being in an alternate universe was a topic they have yet to dabble in.

so while they try to identify which earth you were originally from, it was better to keep very few people about your origins.

"she just appeared." bucky nods conspiratorially, "an alien, basically."

"basically fit right in." steve shrugs, making light of how many otherwordly being they've encountered over the years. "tony adores her, though." he adds.

"she has everyone eating off her palm, let's be fucking honest." bucky chortles, "kind. endearing. smart. witty—"

"breathtaking actually." sam adds, recalling when he passed by you in the hallways.

"breathtaking." bucky agrees, smirking. "she's every bit of a stark. so much so, she hates steve's guts."

steve huffs, "hate is a strong word."

"you're right. she's incredibly polite, it's almost rude." bucky grins, making no effort to hide the fact that he enjoyed your interactions with steve.

you wouldn't be rude— no, you were the furthest thing from it. you would use honorifics even, call him captain or simply mr. rogers. your hostility with steve would be pronnounced every way that mattered, and bucky could tell it was starting to make steve flustered.

being captain america came with both adoration and hostility— the public either loved him or hated him, and he was used to such instances. steve couldn't please everyone afterall.

the way you looked at him though; it was more than animosity. it felt almost like.. like a scorned lover.

"oh fuck. i knew i shouldn't have been in that mission." sam chortles, while steve grumbles in annoyance. "went out of town once and i miss all these juice." he giggles, and bucky mirrors his grin. perhaps the only time they could maintain a conversation without hurling insults, and jabs at eachother; at steve's expense.

bucky gestures, "wanna know the worst part?" sam nods vigorously, "he's hot for her."

steve abruptly drops the weights he'd been using, making sam and bucky pause at the abrupt noise.

"are the both of you in elementary?" he chides, trying to keep his tone even.

"steve and y/n sitting on a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N—"

"fuck off!"

your nerves settled as soon as the caffeine hits your tongue. your shoulders slumped, tension leaving you altogether, and you sighed a silent prayer.

you were plenty similar to tony when it came down to it; your pet projects had been less important where you came from, but so long as your objective was necessary, you won't sleep unless you achieve it.

now, going home was your primary goal... one you'd worked together with tony. or a moniker of him.

it felt strange to address him that way.

you knew their tony stark was different— their avengers stayed intact for one. but to see him again, his excellent goatie and hear his sharp wit, you'd tackled him in a frantic hug and sobbed so hard, he must have thought you to be lunatic.

tony was briefly informed of your identity, and while it wasn't an instantaneous paternal spark, he had felt for you. he had let you cry all you wanted. he consoled you, if a bit awkwardly. unpracticed, just like he had been when you wound up in his care at thirteen leaving him with primary custody.

just like then, he grew to become fascinated with you. you shared his love for engineering and technology. like the first time, he had spent every free moment he had with you; talking to you, getting you situated, making sure you were well taken care of... it felt like deja vu. and you would, eventually, lose him again.

you didn't exist here, just like he didn't exist back in your earth.

"careful."

"sorry!" your exclamation is abrupt as the paper cup crumbles in your hand, body jerking quickly as you avoid spilling coffee to the stranger. you had been so absentminded, you ran into a person's chest— cool baby blues, and the heroic perfect blonde hair paired with the most annoyingly perfect set of teeth welcomed you as you lifted your gaze.

steve rogers held you by your elbow, keeping you from tripping over yourself, "you alright?"

you felt as if something was lodged in your throat, being this close with him. he smelt unfairly delectable, despite being drenched in sweat.

this cannot be happening.

you squirmed out of his hold, and he politely took back his hand, keeping them to himself. just like you were, he was caught off guard. both by your reaction and his.

steve... steve was another complication. you couldn't get too close to him— there were many things left unsaid between the two of you, and you were terrified you would not be able to treat him fairly.

you were still angry with the choice he made.

when steve never returned from returning the stones; you'd assumed the worst. you would have exhausted every means to bring him back, if not for the letter bucky had given you.

he told you he couldn't stay; he told you he wanted to reclaim everything he's lost. he left you for a time long forgotten, and you never saw him again.

you liked to think you would understand him, if only he had told you. you liked to think you'd understand why he made the choice. it was what he wanted for himself.

yet you wonder, not unselfishly, if steve had loved you the way he had promised he did; if steve had known it would be possible to go back, will he still choose you? had he merely settled... were you just there; available, attached, and so starry eyed, you stoked his ego enough for him to forget momentarily.

for the past few months, all you did was agonize over the very fact; had every moment you spent with him been tainted with pretense and lies?

you entertained the very real prospect that he did not love you— maybe then the ache in your chest would not be replaced with anger.

because if he had loved you, the way he uttered in your skin; in a soft whisper, like a sigh of breath first thing in the morning. in a giddy exclamation, with his lips pressing upon yours. or in a dazed, soft coo as he bats away the exhaustion of the day. in a certain, so sure of a declaration, as he wraps you in a warm embrace... why was it not enough?

if he had loved you so assuredly and devotedly, he did not love you enough to choose you.

seeing another version of steve— adoring, with the same gentle cheer about him, so dreamy and bright, you stumbled.

he was steve... and yet he stayed. he had the same choice, yet he never took it. he didn't have someone like you though; so maybe, you were the offending factor in your version of steve. that made you ache.

"i apologize, captain." you purse your lips.

"nothin' to be sorry for," his tone was with a gentle lilt, "you uh.. liking the caffeine choices so far?" steve inwardly cringes at his attempt for conversation. he hadn't known how to talk to you, or how to make conversation with you— especially when you get that dazed look in your eyes, immedieately followed by a guarded expression as if afraid he would probe into your thoughts.

"it's excellent." you affirm, avoiding his gaze as if scalded. you hid your expression with your cup, and finally, steve reluctantly pries his gaze away from you.

steve walked towards the pantry, if to have something to do with himself, "yeah? half the team lives on the stuff, it's pretty good chunk of the budget." he pulls out a cup from the shelf, "once things get busy, it's not strange to find splatters of blood and torn pieces of clothing lying about. it gets primitive."

you fought off a smile. it was an appropriate retelling of how the team functioned— they were like siblings in a way. they have no problem taking a bullet for eachother, but once the coffee pot runs dry, they're throwing hands. the thought of your closest friends made you relax.

"that sounded wrong, did it?" steve winces, turning around with his own brew in hand. you looked at him with some amusement, hiding half your face in your cup, "no harm in a team bonding activity."

pink tinged his cheeks, "i didn't mean it like that." he flusters easily. the captain reminded you why you were fond of toying with steve. "i don't- i'm not.. i— i hope you don't think i'm inappropriate." his broad shoulders sag, looking at you like a kicked puppy, worried as can be of offending you.

steve was watchful of his language, especially when it came to dames; something about his upbringing being wired into his very psyche.

"i'm a stark, captain. would take a lot more to faze me." your eyes twinkled with mischief, and steve softens, almost awes at the genuine emotion he sees in you.

steve seemed to be the only one you were guarded against, and he'd been inappropriately envious of his teammates. they all talked about you in an excited flurry of retelling, like bucky had said, you had everyone eating off your palm. and he always wondered if he'd get to know you the same.

you caught his expression.. and it was as if a cold bucket of water drenched you.

"uh, i guess.. i have something to do." you gripped your cup, and steve stood straighter, opening his mouth to say something. anything. yet his limbs were faster than his... words. you look at him again, with little to no emotion in your face as he ponders how to make sense of his sneaking intuition as he grips your arm.

"did i do something to you?" steve asks, unable to stop himself.

"you haven't." you murmur, "i'm trying to keep it that way. i know from experience how that worked."

[ashonheavenscloud]

honey || s. eric

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ contents: sohn eric x fem!reader, established relationship, smut (minors dni!), starts very very soft and gets very very flithy LOL, yes this is self-indulgent and i will not apologize

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ word count: 2.7k

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ warnings: explicit 18+ content, switch!eric, swearing, unprotected sex, oral (m. rec), shower sex, praise, eric sohn (he deserves his own warning)

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆ a/n: this has been in the drafts for WAY too long and i just decided to finish it in the back of my class (yes i'm insane)

now playing - over and over - jimmy brown, rovv; sip sip - jimmy brown, rovv, sweet the kid; everyday - jimmy brown ft sweet the kid

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

From the moment you wake up in the morning, sun peeking through the blinds, the world outside made brighter by almost a foot of snow piled on the ground, Eric is suffocating you.

His arms are wrapped tightly around you from behind, head pressed to your back, legs tangled with yours beneath several thick blankets. It’s not unlike Eric to be clingy, but it isn’t just affection keeping him extra close—you can tell when you shift and he tightens his hold on you, shivering at the cold air your movement lets into the blankets. In response to your body moving around, Eric pulls you back to his chest, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck.

“Don’t go.” He whispers, voice hoarse. He must have just woken up, too.

“I’m not.” You softly promise, and Eric hugs your body somehow closer to himself, arms crossing your stomach to hold your waist, legs tangling with yours, pressing a light, almost unnoticeable kiss to your shoulder.

You lay with him there in silence for a few moments, senses sharpening as you wake up fully. Every minute or so, Eric presses a kiss or two along your back, making you sigh in content. There really isn’t a better way to spend lazy mornings than with him.

You shift again, and Eric whines when the movement lifts the blankets and lets in frigid air. But he loosens his hold enough for you to turn and face him, getting a good look at his sleepy eyes and disheveled state. You note, heart melting a bit, that he wore his favourite faded grey University of California sweater to sleep in an attempt to keep himself warmer, hood pulled over his messy brown hair. He’s so cute it makes your brain short circuit when he opens his eyes, meeting your gaze and letting his head slump onto your shoulder. “It’s so cold.”

“It’s January.” You whisper back, and he whines. 

“It’s -10 F, I don’t care what month it is.”

You laugh softly, and Eric’s mouth twists into a half smile at the sound. Slowly, his cold hands find yours and intertwine your fingers together. You watch affectionately as he lifts your hands to his lips, kissing your knuckles tenderly in a way that has your heart skipping a beat. And when he pauses to look at you with a small, teasing smile, you know he’s doing it on purpose to make you flustered. Which only makes your stomach do several more backflips when he holds your gaze and presses a lingering kiss to your palm. 

“Your hands are so cold.” He comments, kissing the tips of your fingers, successfully making your heart melt for the nth time this morning.

“So are yours.” You whisper back and he groans.

“I know, it’s fucking freezing.” 

You laugh gently, holding up your joined hands and following his lead, pressing a couple kisses to his icy fingers. When you look back at him, his mouth is spread in a smile, eyes absolutely full of adoration. Eric is always very attentive to you, preferring to show his love for you through thoughtful actions rather than words, so when you make the effort to return one of his loving gestures, he falls for you all over again. 

“My nose is really cold, too.” He says automatically, hoping you’ll get the hint. You smile, dropping his hands to cup his face with your palms, planting a kiss, then another on the tip of his nose, tinged pink- and he’ll refuse to say whether the colour is actually from the cold or from your lips on his skin, your soft giggle in his ear, your warm breath on his cheeks.

His next sentence comes out breathless. “My lips, too.” 

Laughing, you meet his lips with yours, and Eric all but melts against your mouth, hands bracing on your stomach, then bunching your sweater in his fists. Your brain turns to static as he curls into you, kissing you slowly for what feels like a minute and an hour at the same time, before you pull away. 

“Better?” You ask, teasingly.

Eric’s eyes take a second to focus on you, dazed and sparkling. He breathes out a short laugh, mumbling, “getting there,” before tilting his head to reconnect your lips with his. One hand reaches to hold your face close to his, and you can’t help but smile into the kiss, feeling his own mouth lift in a grin. 

You let the seconds blur into streaks of muted colours, Eric’s thumb applying light pressure on your jaw to tilt your face closer to his as he kisses you slowly, pulling on your bottom lip in a way that has your stomach twisting into knots. His other hand has slipped around to the small of your back, pressing your body to his- and you’re certain this time, it isn’t for warmth. Your hands slide up his torso, finding warmth under his sweatshirt and over his stomach and making Eric gasp at your frigid fingers on his skin.

“Don’t see how that helps keep me warm.” He whines against your lips, to which you loop your fingers under his waistband and tug his hips close to yours.

“What if I had a better idea?”

Eric’s eyes flicker open to look into yours. His smile is crooked as he nudges your nose with his. “What’s that?”

As a response, you kiss him, teasing his lips with the tip of your tongue, and leaving him chasing for more when you pull back with a smile. “Meet me in the shower in ten?”

Eric doesn’t need a sales pitch; he’s already halfway out of bed. “How about five?”

…

It actually only takes two minutes for Eric to have the shower running, steam instantly fogging up the room from how warm he’s cranked the water to battle the way you both shiver after undressing. However, you refuse to be charbroiled and adjust the water to a reasonable temperature before joining him under the stream. The shower offers plenty of space, easily taking up half of the room with dark tiles, a rainfall showerhead and several ledges with bottles, soap and other items - but that space is basically useless when Eric immediately pulls you close to him, wrapping his arms around you from behind. You feel his smile against your skin as he murmurs into your ear, “This feels familiar.” 

You laugh softly when he kisses your shoulder, before you turn in his grasp. “So does this,” you take his hands, gently kissing the tips of his fingers before tilting your head to kiss his nose, “and this.”

It’s ridiculously endearing that no matter how many times you kiss him, he still blushes bright pink. It spreads from his cheeks to his neck to his chest, and you follow the same trail with your lips, pressing kisses to his shoulder, honey skin covered in beads of water from the steam. His hands have a light hold on your hips and he sighs, head falling sideways onto your shoulder. 

Your hands slide down his shoulders to press against his chest, allowing you to carefully push him backwards until his back hits the cold tile, making him gasp. His hands tighten on your hips as yours wind through his damp hair, your parted lips finding his. The softest moan falls from Eric’s lips as you kiss him slowly, hands flat on his chest, body pressed against his. His skin is burning under your touch as you trail your fingers down his abdomen, nails gently scratching and making Eric tense with a whine as your hands move to his hips, caging them to the wall. When your lips part from his to look at him, his eyes are heavy lidded and his cheeks are painted pink. His gaze flickers as he leans in, as if he can’t help it, like a magnet pulls his mouth to yours. He pauses to look at you through wet lashes, lips hovering a breath away from yours. “Don’t stop.” He murmurs desperately, fingers digging into your skin, keeping you close.

“Not planning on it.” You whisper in return, giving him a smile that he mirrors when you press your lips back to his momentarily. Then you pull away and do something he doesn’t expect, sliding your hands down his thighs as you get to your knees.

You keep your gaze on Eric’s face, watching his eyes grow wide and his skin flush a more violent pink hue. His hands are frozen in place where your hips had been seconds ago. You smile; if such a simple action as you kneeling can cause him to malfunction, you’re not sure how long he’ll be able to handle you actually giving him head, especially this early in the morning. You carefully reach to hold his hardening dick in one hand and gently run your nails over the length; instantly, Eric’s body tenses and he draws a sharp inhale through his teeth, a small sound that balances delicately between a whimper and a moan echoing from his chest. His arms cross his chest, hands holding opposite shoulders in an attempt to distract himself from your teasing, fingers digging into the skin as you repeat the action, lifting his dick and dragging your fingers down to the tip. This time, he definitely moans, and loudly.

“Ah—shit—” 

The stream of short, breathy whines that follows is a direct result of your mouth pressing wet, open mouthed kisses to his erection. You drag your tongue along his length and Eric is unsuccessful in his attempt to mask a loud, drawn out moan as his head falls back. Bracing your hands on his thighs, you part your lips and wrap them around the tip of his cock, eyes never leaving Eric’s face. He can’t seem to look back at you, pupils blown out and unfocused, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. When you take his length deeper into your mouth, seated heavily on your tongue, Eric sucks in a breath, hands flying from their place on his shoulders to the wall behind him, palms pressed flat against the tile.

“O-oh my god, baby—” his following whine is breathy and strained, only encouraging you to take him in further, teeth slightly dragging along his length. His mouth drops open as pleasure pulses in waves through his body, eyes rolling as he shallowly bucks his hips with a muffled whimper. “Sorry, sorry—” 

You look up at him through your lashes, and his voice breaks off with a whine as you suck in your cheeks. His knees nearly buckle, hands curling into fists as he fights to urge to move again. 

“God-” he drags out the word, head tilting back to expose his flushed neck and chest, glistening with perspiration. “F-feel so good, fuck, you’re so good—”

Eric’s rambling is proof of just how good you’re making him feel, and you take pride in the desperation that clings to each word he manages to get out between whiny breaths and choked moans. You pull back slowly, dragging your tongue along the underside of his dick before moving back, taking more, grazing your teeth over the sensitive surface. Eric’s hips lift again, thighs trembling as he speaks, “Like that, like that— oh—”

You repeat the movement several times, sucking slowly with every bob of your head. Eric only gets louder, moaning and whining as you apply greater pressure with your mouth to bring him closer to climax. His dick pulses, heavy on your tongue, and he ruts his hips with a low groan, eyes flickering and head bowing. “G-God, baby, I’m close…”

You hum in encouragement, swirling your tongue purposefully over his tip, but immediately Eric’s hand flies to your chin, holding you still before you can continue.

“Ah- wait, wait,” he pants out, dazed eyes finding yours with desire so palpable you could touch it on his skin. His thumb slides across your jawline, coated in condensation. “I wanna come inside you, honey…” he murmurs, and heat swims through your body at his request. “Please? Can I?”

Nodding quickly, you stumble to your feet with the help of Eric’s hands on your elbows, standing before him with rolling anticipation in your gut. He takes a second to pause and tuck loose, wet strands of your hair behind your ear, eyes never leaving yours, lust swimming through them so clearly you can feel yourself pulled closer to him, a gravitational tug that forces you forward until your lips hover next to his. 

You can see in his dark irises the moment he breaks.

“Come here,” Eric pleads, grabbing your waist and pulling you directly to him. Your body curves into his and your mouth latches back to his, hands winding behind his neck and threading through his hair. He groans in relief at your touch, and guides your hips to press against his. Stumbling slightly, he spins you, holding your body up against the cold tile. You grab at his shoulders as his kisses move to your neck, mouth latching to your skin, teeth nipping to leave dark bruises along his path. One hand of yours slips down his abdomen, tracing his toned, tensed muscles before clutching at his leaking dick. Eric’s head drops into your shoulder with a moan against your skin as his body shudders, hips canting. Before you know it, he’s lining himself up with your pussy, rubbing through your soaked folds, murmuring, “ready?” And with a nod of assent from you, he’s sliding carefully into you. 

The stretch makes your eyes roll back as you clutch onto Eric’s shoulders, head falling back onto the tile wall as he hisses and curses under his breath, rutting his hips to bury himself inside you. You can feel him pulsing, and it feels so fucking good. Your mind is spinning, skin slick with condensation and sweat from the steam of the hot shower and the arousal in your veins. You can barely even form his name, repeated like a prayer on your tongue as he eventually bottoms out, leaving you feeling dizzy and seeing stars. Eric’s faring even worse, head falling into your neck, heavy breaths and whimpers hot on your skin, body shivering over yours, skin flushed and hot to the touch.

“You’re fucking perfect—” his grip on your hips only tightens as he begins to thrust. Hardly a minute passes before he’s moving faster, desperate for friction. “Shit… feel s’warm, s’good,” he chokes out between moans, and you respond with your own sounds of pleasure, reaching to grab his face and forcefully pull his mouth to yours in a passionate, open-mouthed kiss. The assertive action nearly makes Eric lose it then and there, but if there’s one thing Eric’s ego can’t take, it’s coming before you do. He frees one hand enough to move it to your clit and rub, immediately turning your legs to jelly and causing your pussy to squeeze around him.

Eric mouth falls open against yours in a beautiful moan, “Fuck, baby.”

“There, there-”

Tension only builds in your gut, and eventually you’re both trembling against each other’s bodies, spent and seconds from your highs. 

“C-close-” you moan, hands slipping down his arms to grip his biceps, feeling the firm muscles under your touch, tensing with each thrust that’s growing shakier with each moment. Your head is spinning, and all you can feel is heat, and Eric’s slick skin and his hot, trembling breath on your face.

Voice laced with desperation, Eric whispers on your lips, “Come for me, baby.”

And you do, letting the knot in your gut come undone with a moan, head falling back as white floods your vision and your high washes through you in a rushing current of pleasure. With a strained, high pitched groan, Eric follows suit, tensing and releasing, filling you up with several deep thrusts before collapsing into your chest. 

You both take a minute to catch your breath; the only sounds are your heaving pants and the ever steady stream of the shower. Eric’s hands still hold your waist, slowly loosening as he pulls out and leans back into you, thumbs sliding against your skin in an absentminded motion.

You, in return, let your hands slide up his arms and gently rub his shoulders. With a smile, your lips press softly to his temple before you whisper, “Still cold?”

Eric huffs out a laugh, arms winding around you, pulling you backwards with him under the stream of water, “Definitely not.” He murmurs back with a smirk, kissing your neck gently in return.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

the boyz masterlist

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[o-sunny-day]

@forgettable-au FAN ANIMATION ! LOUD NOISE WARNING!

*What was it all for…?

Song: Vishnu <3 by Peter Cat Recording Co.

…okay.

The main inspiration for this…can be summed up with I LOVE HOW SAD THIS CONCEPT IS. BUT i also adore how WEIRD it is.

This whole thing must be pretty weird and creepy for the characters right??? Like- we dont know for certain what EXACTLY is gonna happen, but we know for a fact that Wingdings finds out hes in a game, then kills himself so he can be closer with god-

THATS PRETTY WEIRD 😭😭 also sad but we can ignore that for now

I also experimented a tad with this in working with silence, so timing things at my own pace! It was really hard! I HAD SO MUCH FUN!!!!!!!

But, time for my FAVORITE PART….ANALYSIS!!!

DISCLAIMER: some things stated as fact haven’t been said in the blog/arent canon to the au itself, just my animation/theories/interpretation, cause i’m silly and headcanoning :3

TITLE:

The proper title ive given this is “To You” which means 2 different and very vague things. What happened to you? and sending a message like “this is To You”.

In that case, “you” is whichever version of Papyrus/Wingdings/Gaster you want- Its not exactly clear which version of him means “you” which is kinda the point. The lines blur together sometimes…

But yeah, Gaster/crazy WD sends messages TOO himself so they’re “To You”

CONTEXT

Wingdings has JUST turned himself into Gaster. Ignore how impossible Sans interacting with him in this moment is, and just hear me out on the angst possibilities-

SCENE 1

As Sans approaches the mess- Gaster is encased in shadow, and looks at him. Expression not telling much- just looking blankly. Doesn’t even look like he’s alive… just… moving. Also the eye thats open, is just a slit. because- perspective. BUT I also had fun putting that there and going hehehehe it looks like WD/Papyrus’ eye

Sans approaches, and getting engulfed in the shadow, leaving the light.

His expression here was REALLY fun and REALLY hard to draw. Angry? maybe. stunned and terrified? DEFINITELY.

In this context (that doesn’t have a lot to go off of with the comics, YET) Sans knows that this was all very much intentional. He absolutely does not want to be angry, and is certainly only feeling it subconsciously.

But… he wanted so badly to understand, and enter his brother world. But now, Sans is just… Baffled. Hes like “what the fuck did you do???”

SCENE 2

Gaster continues to look blank. Looking up at Sans as he approaches, encasing him in even more shadow.

Sans’ hand reaches to Gasters face. From Sans’ perspective, his intentions are like checking for a pulse. Not literally ofc cause pulses arent on our face- but like, feeling for him. For a sign that something is there. (It’s also meant to be something motherly/comforting)

But then, Gaster leans into the touch, somewhat reciprocating this wordless “ive got you” gesture. That’s what makes Sans go from Terrified to just purely grief stricken. His brother is still alive. And he loves him.

But this form wont last for long…For universe fixing screw ups reasons :D 👍

SCENE 3

Gaster then opens his eyes, revealing hes even still got eye lights available for him. Thats what just SHATTERS the dam, and Sans embraces him suddenly.

SCENE(S) 4

Then, the “reset” happens, Gaster is gone, and Papyrus appears in place of Wingdings in his bed.

Nothing is boiling to add to a “frozen in terror” feeling!

Now- drawing all of the differences between the past and present rooms. DESTROYED ME. i HAD SO MUCH FUN BUT I ALSO CRIED 😭 There are no thank-you letters to santa, no racecar bed, no silly bone painting, no action figures, just BORING

I also wanted to keep everything monochromatic, so ofc we’ve got black and white for the void/Gaster, blue for Sans, red for Papyrus, and purple for Sans and Papyrus together.

The tape recorder and lab coat are still greyscale though cause Wingdings still has SOME of his stuff lying around. But the tapes are indecipherable, and Papyrus threw out that lab coat the first chance he got. It gave him the absolute worst feeling, worse than anything he’s ever experienced.

Something I also really enjoy is the fact that the dress shirts were still technically Wingdings’ but they’re red for Papyrus. The lab coat is the only real WINGDINGS thing that Papyrus wants absolutely no part in. Some things that were Wingdings’ are now Papyrus’ cause :D👍

in place of the bone painting are just family photos that I also have extra to say about. Someday I wanna make a comic of what happened to those/what I think would happen to em.

One day Papyrus is like “HEY UH- SANS! THESE PHOTOS! I DON’T LIKE LOOKING AT THEM! CAN WE NOT!?” Aka, he doesn’t remember these things happening/these photos being taken… BUT THEYRE PHOTOS OF HIM.

So he just feels really uncomfortable looking at memories he should reasonably remember, but doesn’t at all- and Sans gets that. But he keeps em in his drawer. Then! they hung up the bone thing in place of it cause SILLY!

But the family photos, I still had fun with. From left to right theyre a photo of Semi with the twins, the twins as baby bones, then as slightly older kids, then WDs graduation photo.

CONCLUSION!

This entire thing was so much fun, and I feel i’ve really grown as an artist over the process of experimenting and not being knocked down by annoying setbacks,

Also, as usual, Works In Progress’ plus extra behind the scenes stuff will be posted shortly after this!! YIPPEEE!!! HAPPY NIGHTMARES!!!!!

OHHHH ALSO EXTRA ART!!!

“AREN’T THEY BEAUTIFUL?”

That silly moment when your clone is really weirdly obsessed with stars and enthusiastically holds your eye sockets open to show you them

[amywritesthings]

dating on airplane mode. | part two.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader Fandom: attack on titan (modern au) Word Count: 3.5k Summary: So you're dating your neighbor who also happens to be a sex hotline dom named Levi Ackerman. Stranger things have happened, right?

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI - slow burn, eventual smut, sex work, neighbors au, newly established relationship, the direct sequel to Press Four For More Options Credits: dividers by @/saradika-graphics / gif by pankago

part one. / part three. | masterlist

There’s a pop-up shop about six floors above yours—

A noisy bar quickly becomes background white noise.

—if you don’t mind walking a neighbor home.

And within a breath, the world ceases to exist.

You’re not sure what you were expecting him to say, but it sure as hell isn’t that.

(He gets paid to be a smooth talker, but holy shit, it is catastrophically different when you’re saddled with the reality that you can walk — run — straight to the man inviting you to his home.)

Before you can even think, your voice blurts out of your parted lips:

“I don’t mind.”

Not.

At.

All.

Annie will forgive you.

Hell, you bet everyone crowding that tiny high-top table will forgive you come Monday morning when you’re back in the office.

Half of them won’t even remember that you were there in the first place. It’s a win-win situation.

There is no hesitation in the way you pick up your purse from the countertop and rush towards the front entrance of the bar, your eyes zeroed in on a patient Levi.

It takes some serpentining, but eventually you burst through the doors.

Levi turns towards you, his cell phone still held to his ear. 

There’s a little pink in his cheeks — from the nipping bite of the cold evening weather or his quick-witted pick-up line, you aren’t sure.

“Sorry,” you exhale like you’ve run a marathon in such a short distance. “I should’ve said bye or something before running out here, but I figured—”

The fringe of his hair shakes in his eyes as he holds up a finger to his lips.

Silence.

A stern expression replaces the debonair, and for a moment, you wonder if something is wrong.

But then—

“Yeah, no, I’m calling out for the evening,” he states. “Will you relay, Petra?”

Petra.

You know that woman’s name.

(The hotline receptionist responsible for connecting you to him.)

“Not an emergency, no,” he reassures, brows briefly knitting together. “Just taking some time off.” A pause. “Why are you laughing?” Another pause. “Forward them to Erwin. I trust him not to run my damn clients off. Thanks.”

Oh.

He’s—

“Sorry about that.”

Pocketing his phone, he squares his shoulders and waits expectantly. 

A suspicious crawl of embarrassment runs through your veins, like somehow being spontaneous — selfish — inconvenienced him.

“You had a shift tonight?” you ask belatedly.

“I did,” Levi admits, that buttery-smooth voice curving with a lift of amusement. “And now I don’t.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to mess up your—”

“I have over a hundred hours of time accrued,” he interrupts in the very tone he’s used in your sessions before when you chalk up your existence as being a nuisance to him: stop. “If anything, it’ll get them off of my ass for never using it.”

Your brows raise. “A hundred?”

“Over,” Levi corrects, “so you’re doing me a favor — if you’re still in the mood for tea, of course.”

There’s a pause. A taxi flies by to fill the anticipating void.

I’m well past the mood for tea — is what you would say if you were a psychopath.

Instead you clamp your mouth shut and nod. 

Levi nods with you, seemingly exhaling a breath he may have been holding. As he steps forward, one foot in front of the other.

His attention drops from your face, searching your form in a way that makes you feel exposed.

Wanted.

Then he clears his throat and raises a stiff elbow — a polite gesture.

Take it.

The sheer idea of touching him is so fucking daunting.

Until now, you haven’t done anything but fantasize about him, but he’s flesh and blood and right in front of you — if you’re willing to simply take.

So you do.

Slowly you glide your hand over the crease of his elbow, tucking it against his side until your bodies are looped. The sheer cut of his bicep in his 90-degree angle threatens to make you lose your composure.

Jesus, it’s so solid.

(It’ll be a miracle if you even make it back to his apartment in one piece, let alone your own after everything is said and done.)

He walks. You follow until you match his pace.

For most of the journey, the two of you step in silent tandem. 

While he stares ahead, stopping you both whenever you reach a crosswalk, you can’t help but look over his profile. His cheekbones are even higher than you imagined, chiseled from the Gods, with dark hair that fades in an undercut at the nape of his neck.

Levi is the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen in your life, and you live in a pretty damn busy city, so you’ve seen a lot of men.

“Stairs or elevator?” he asks once he breaks the rhythm of your feet to move two paces ahead, grabbing the door with his fist. He detaches from you to pull open the door, offering you to walk through first. 

You’re so giddy over the chivalry you nearly miss the question. 

“Wait, what?”

“Stairs.” He nods his head, the stark black fringe waving with it. “Or elevator.”

“You live on the sixteenth floor.” 

“Yeah.”

“Wait — Levi, do you walk the fucking stairs?”

Levi blinks like he has to remember that isn’t normal before clearing his throat.

“Sometimes.”

“Oh my god.”

“I didn’t want to get complacent after losing my job at the gym,” he states, changing his trajectory as he heads for the elevator instead.

You’re grateful that, for once, you’re not trying to act brave — or stupid.

Your big mouth doesn’t try to say that sixteen flights of stairs is totally fine just to impress him.

(This man has already heard what you sound like when you orgasm on more than one occasion. In some twisted way, the two of you are way past the surface stages of courting, but it doesn’t make this any less daunting.)

Once more he tracks ahead to hold the elevator door for you. Waiting until you’re comfortably inside, he presses the grayed ‘16’ button on the panel. It illuminates in an outdated hazy yellow — forcing your attention to the grayed ‘10’ just below it.

Six fucking floors, all this time.

Once the doors close, Levi Ackerman leans his back against the metal wall, his arms crossed and forearms barred from his rolled-up sleeves. 

You stay put in the dead center of the lift, watching him stare at the elevator panel until he lifts his chin to look back at you.

Neither of you look away.

The prolonged eye contact feels like an acknowledgement of a solved mystery between two people.

He knows you better than most people. You’d wager you may know him just as well.

“You okay?” he asks, softer this time. 

The intensity of his gaze doesn’t waver.

You find yourself nodding before you realize it. 

“Are you?”

Levi takes a moment to drop his attention an indiscernible amount, mulling over your question, before meeting your eyes once again.

“Yeah. Better than.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Nothing can stop the smile growing on your face, not even by pressing your lips together.

“Never told me your preference,” he states casually, shaking some of his black fringe from his eyes. “In tea, I mean.”

“I’m happy to have whatever you have,” you promise. “I’m not picky.”

“You can be,” he promises right back. “Trust me, I have every type of tea you could think of.”

“Hoarding?”

“Hopelessly addicted, more like.”

The elevator pauses and gives way to the sixteenth floor’s hallway. When the door opens, Levi unfurls his arms to hold his hand out for you to take — only to seem to think better of it and fish for his keys instead as he takes the lead.

Instinctually your hand flexes at the ready to accept, but it falls limp to your side with the decision to simply follow behind.

(Yeah — you’re not used to the proximity yet, either.)

After passing a few apartments, Levi pauses at a door identical to yours and fiddles with the lock until it gives. 

He pushes it open, gesturing for you to walk in first.

A part of you wants to hesitate.

The rest of you refuses.

His apartment is clean to a degree you’ve never seen before — for a person who had no idea he was going to end up coming home with a stranger, you’re impressed by the lack of clothes lying about or…

Really anything.

Everything appears pristine. 

Taken care of.

So meticulously in order that you quickly toe each shoe off before stepping inside to leave the dirt and grime of the city at his doorstep. 

Levi follows suit, removing his shoes and closing the door behind him.

As you stand awkwardly by the door, he shuffles around you to the kitchenette mirroring yours a few apartments below. 

He reaches up into the cupboards to take out two mugs, preparing a kettle on the stove.

“Make yourself at home,” he offers, glancing over his shoulder towards you.

Right.

At home.

At home in the apartment where you got your shit verbally rocked for a week straight.

Afraid of offending him, you begin a slow mosey around the perimeter.

To the right is a cluster of framed photographs hanging on a wall — one portrays a tall, handsome blonde wearing dog tags around his neck and an all-smiles brunette with glasses cinching a less-than-enthused Levi between them. 

The proximity suggests they could be his friends, though the keys each person holds in the photo makes you realize a second later: 

In the background is a boxing ring, barely unpacked.

The co-owners of the old gym, maybe?

Considering the one person has dog tags, you can only assume they all met in the army and found themselves in the same city after deployment.

Another framed photograph has Levi in a similar annoyed disposition, arms crossed and unenthusiastic in contrast to the surrounding smiling young adults. They crowd him in various poses of muscle flexing, proudly sporting Survey Gym tees.

So his gym was called Survey Gym, huh?

The name rings a bell, if only in passing.

The young faces surrounding him must have been his trainees. His fighters.

(The people he held dear before the gym went under and he had to find a new path.)

“Trying to find dirt on me already?”

His voice makes you jump out of your damn skin.

“Oh — shit, sorry,” you sputter, stepping away from the wall. “I was just—”

“That was a joke,” he interrupts, the corner of his lip twitching. 

Levi takes the initiative to walk over to you with both mugs in hand, steaming from freshly brewed tea.

He holds out a no-frills emerald mug to you, and the scent finally catches your nose:

Lavender.

“Those are my friends, if you’re too polite to ask.”

“I was relying on context clues,” you confess, mindful of the heat when taking the mug from his hand. You sip until a familiar warmth spreads through your body. “Co-owners?”

“Used to be,” he answers after his own gulp. His free hand gestures to the photo with two people. “Hange’s probably clinically insane and Erwin’s not much better.”

“The guy you mentioned over the phone to Petra?”

Levi nods, taking another long sip of his tea. You follow suit, enjoying the taste.

“Same guy who got me into the hotline, yeah.” He switches focus to the other photo. “Some of my fighters. They’re busy training with other coaches and shit now.”

“Would you ever go back to training fighters if you could?”

“Probably,” Levi replies, “but I’m not exactly the easiest to work with. If I’m training anyone, it’s alongside Erwin. No exceptions.”

Silence settles between your bodies.

As you continue to stand there, allowing the aroma of the tea to calm your senses, you know — the longer you stand here, the more what ifs begin to plague your mind.

What if you met his friends, became a part of his life?

What if you don’t measure up to his expectations?

What if you just said what was on your mind without holding back — would it scare him?

When you feel your mug suddenly grow light, your instinct is to clench your hand around the ceramic handle.

However, you come back down to Earth to realize the person maneuvering the cup is Levi, who has in turn moved closer to you —

So close you can smell the faint scent of a woody, musky cologne.

Angled towards your body, he pauses in removing the mug from your hands when he feels your muscles tense. “You’re disappearing on me.”

So he noticed, even in person.

Say it.

Say it, idiot.

“Just…” 

Trailing off, you find yourself trusting him; letting go of the mug freely so that he can take it back. Levi sets both mugs down on a slender table situated just under the photographs, placing them on swirling marble coasters.

“Just?” he repeats, a mere murmur this time.

“This doesn’t feel real yet,” you confess. “Being here with you. I can’t begin to tell you how many times I wanted this but in my own apartment. Hell, it feels like this is my apartment because we have the same fucking layout — but yours is so much cleaner, I won’t even lie to you.”

It brings you both to laugh under your breath, octaves intertwining. 

When he shakes his head, you find yourself gravitating to his orbit.

“Doubt it’s bad.���

“Oh, it’s a pigsty compared to this place,” you nervously giggle, moving even closer. “Like, I should go home to clean it – but later.”

“Definitely later.”

“Like tomorrow kind of later," you accidentally joke.

“Agreed.”

Oh.

Before the realization hits you, your breath tickles his cheek. Levi is practically toe-to-toe and warm, so very warm, to the degree of dizzying every reservation you had.

You don’t have the confidence to stare anywhere but his lips, parted with little puffs mirroring yours.

“And what is that you want now?” he adds quietly — a question that shoots straight to your core, twisting it with an intense desire that it nearly takes your breath away.

You know.

And if you were a gambling woman, then you suspect that he knows, too.

Three words exit your mouth, straight from your very soul:

“To be selfish.”

It’s all it takes.

As if released from a leash holding you both to your leads, you meet Levi in a passionate, suffocating kiss. 

His hands reach for your face the same time you reach for his, mangling your limbs in a race to touch, to hold — to feel.

Manners are left behind as you press your lips to his, kissing him like you’ll die without. Your own hands bury themselves in the softness of his hair, dragging through the freshly-buzzed undercut and earning yourself a groan.

Shit.

He sounds even better in person.

“Levi—”

You part your lips with a shuddered breath when his tongue leisurely slides across it. All coherent thought ceases to exist.

It’s just him pushing closer — guiding you backwards — until your back hits something solid.

A surprised grunt melts into another groan as he moves one hand to cradle your head, mindful that the back of your skull doesn’t slam against the wall.

Levi tastes like the pineapple seltzer you abandoned back at the bar.

You want this.

Him.

Never in your wildest dreams have you considered sleeping over a man’s apartment before the third date, let alone the first, yet the heat of him — the taste of him — opens brand-new possibilities that mostly focus on the rest of that body underneath his gray long-sleeved shirt.

You're already grabbing the hem of your shirt. The fabric feels too tight against your blazing skin.

Off.

Everything needs to be off.

“Hey,” he exhales in-between kisses, catching your lower lip in his teeth to tug at it. Instantly you whine into his mouth, an involuntary (and fucking embarrassing) noise. “Hey—”

If he asks, you’ll say yes. 

To hell with the unwritten rules.

You’re consenting adults, it’s clear you both want this, and when push comes to shove —

A hand shoots out, covering yours before your shirt can lift over your bra.

“Baby—”

All motor functions effectively freeze when you realize Levi is pulling away, forcefully creating some distance between your panting bodies.

“Baby, listen to me.”

As if in pain, he grits his teeth and pulls away from the kiss, eyes damn near black. 

You’re left watching, stunned and disheveled and painfully aroused.

Worries go from nonexistent to overdrive in a matter of seconds.

“What’s wrong?” you quietly ask despite your budding panic. “Fuck. Sorry, did I do something wro—”

“No. Shit, are you kidding?”

Those stormy eyes catch yours, and you feel another sharp wave of desire flow through your body.

“You’re perfect,” Levi continues, struggling to catch his breath. “You’re fucking perfect, it’s just—”

Just.

One word acts like a splash of cold water.

You’re perfect, but something is imperfect about this. 

You’re perfect, but he still wants to stop.

Levi scowls, voice rough. “Oi. I can hear you thinking a mile a minute.”

Heat rises to your face. “Me?”

“Yeah, you — so don’t.”

For good measure of reassurance, Levi leans back in to gently peck your lips. It’s less heated but by no means less passionate.

You belatedly press your lips back to his before watching him pull away. 

His lips are slick with saliva and exertion. 

There’s a deeper flush on his face that wasn’t there earlier.

“It’s just that I don’t want to rush this,” he states as calmly and evenly as he can.

Objectively, you get it.

Objectively, Levi is making a whole lot of sense. Rushing into things could end up with a lot of heartbreak and confusion. Taking it slow hurts way less than speedrunning the firsts of a new dating-situation-whatever this is.

Subjectively, you’ve heard him moan in your actual face and you would very much like to hear it again and again until it’s burned into the back of your brain like a core memory.

“And I’m not trying to say that we can’t — trust me, I want to — but you’re not some one-night stand to me in any capacity of the damn phrase.”

Unable to help yourself, you nervously roll your eyes and shrug a shoulder. 

“Technically we’re kind of way past one night stands considering we’ve had, like, six.”

A wicked smirk flickers across his face. 

“Yeah, no fucking kidding — but that isn’t what I mean.”

Taking yet another slow, even inhale, the dark-haired man runs his thumb affectionately over your cheek.

“Let me do right by you. By this. Even if it’s corny as shit, I’ll try it.”

Pausing, he drops the hand on your face to gently take your hand.

“I want to take you out on a date. A nice date. Something proper — starting with finishing our tea, then walking you home so I know you got to your apartment safe.”

“I’m six floors away, Levi,” you tease.

“I’ll settle on taking the elevator with you,” he retorts, teasing right back. "Still: let me prove I can be good to you. That I can earn you."

He pauses, jaw clenched.

"Earn us."

Reluctantly you both detach, the taste shared on your lips. He wastes no time to take your hand in his, squeezing it for emphasis, before giving you back your cup of tea.

Although the room is charged with tension, you both behave.

Sipping tea.

Holding hands.

Staring.

As much as you want to act on your desires, you’re flattered he’s so adamant to take this slow.

It only grounds this fantasy further into the woven fabric of reality — of what’s to come in your life.

Levi is good on his word: he walks you to the elevator, through the corridor and to your apartment.

And when you’ve managed to wriggle your keys into the door, he gently calls your name.

Just as you turn, he places that warm hand on your cheek and presses his lips back to yours.

This time it’s chaste, sweet — lingering.

They brush yours methodically, as if committing your body to memory, before reluctantly pulling away.

“Goodnight, formerly Scarlet,” he states under his breath for only you to hear.

“Goodnight, still Levi,” you return, mirroring his intimacy in tone.

Satisfied, he kisses you one final time before pulling away. 

You watch as he walks backwards towards the stairwell of the apartment complex, a certain glow about him as he asks:

“Will I see you at the gym in the morning?”

As if you’d ever skip a leg day now.

.

Author's Note:

First of all, much love and appreciation for your patience as I finally found the mental capacity to write this chapter. Naturally it was easier to write in the summer, and fall has been A Time (TM). I have a lot of big life events coming up in the next few weeks, but I will keep the dash posted on when they should expect part three.

Thank you for any likes, replies, etc. Every reblog gives this writer wings.

[pucksandpower]

Sweet Nothings

Day 18 → Praise Kink 💋 Charles Leclerc

Warnings: 18+ content

Kinktober Masterlist

The noise of the bar hums all around you — chatter and laughter, clinking glasses, and the deep thump of music. It’s warm in here, that hazy warmth that comes from a few too many drinks, and Charles — sitting right next to you — has the same glow.

“You were something else today.” Your voice spills out, laced with a bit of a slur but heavy with excitement.

You lean in closer, draping an arm around Charles’ shoulders as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. His skin is warm under your touch, even through his shirt, and he gives you that boyish grin, all dimples and teeth, the one that usually makes the fans scream. Now, though, it’s just you two, and you can’t help but feel smug about it.

“Come on,” he says, laughing softly, “it’s not all me. You … your work-” He gestures vaguely with the hand that isn’t clutching his beer bottle. “You know how much you help, right?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m serious. That win today — it was all you, Charlie. All you.”

He shifts slightly under your arm, but you don’t move. His shoulders are tense, and it doesn’t register right away because you’re too caught up in the rush of adrenaline from the race, the alcohol, the celebration, everything.

“You were brilliant,” you continue, turning a bit so you’re nearly face-to-face now. Your words come in a rush, like you’re trying to get them all out before the buzz fades. “The way you handled that last corner? God, you were on fire. No one else could’ve done it like that.”

Charles blinks, his smile faltering for a second. His eyes — usually sharp, alert — start to glaze over as you go on.

“Seriously, you’re driving like you’re on another level right now,” you push, squeezing his shoulder gently. “I don’t know how you do it. It’s like — like you just know what the car needs, before anyone else does. And the overtakes, Charlie, the overtakes!” You laugh, a bit too loudly, maybe, but who cares? You’re celebrating. “I was on the edge of my seat the whole time.”

He’s quiet. Too quiet.

You tilt your head, frowning a little. His jaw is clenched, his breath a little too fast, and you can feel him trembling under your arm. “Charlie?”

His eyes, wide and almost glassy, flicker down for just a second before they snap back to yours. “I-” He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out at first. His face flushes deeper, his neck and cheeks bright red now.

“Hey, what’s wrong ?” You ask, voice softening as you lean in closer. He’s not acting like himself, and it throws you. “Are you okay?”

He shakes his head, biting his lip, but he doesn’t say anything. His gaze drops again, and it’s only then that you realize something’s off. Really off. You follow his line of sight downwards, and your breath catches when you see it.

The front of his pants is dark, a wet patch spreading, and for a second, you’re confused — until the realization hits you like a sledgehammer.

“Charlie …” Your voice comes out quieter than you expect, and you feel your throat tighten. His whole body is trembling now, and he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s staring straight ahead, as if he’s trying to pretend this isn’t happening.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, barely audible over the noise of the bar. His voice cracks, and there’s something so raw, so vulnerable about it that it makes your chest ache.

You blink, trying to process everything, trying to understand how it all happened. How you went from praising him for his race to this. You weren’t even touching him like that. You were just — talking.

And now, you realize, the praise alone had pushed him over the edge.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to breathe slowly. He’s clearly not in any state to be left alone, and you have no idea how to handle this. But you know you can’t just — leave him like this.

“Charlie,” you say softly, pulling your arm away from his shoulders. He flinches at the movement, and you wince. “Hey, look at me.”

He doesn’t.

“Charlie,” you say again, firmer this time, and finally, his eyes meet yours. They’re wide, panicked, and his cheeks are still flushed. He looks so young, so … lost. It twists something inside you.

“Let’s get you out of here, okay ?” You say, keeping your voice gentle. “You shouldn’t be here right now.”

He swallows, his throat tightening, and nods stiffly.

You pause for a moment, unsure of how to handle this delicately, but you know the first thing you need to do is get him away from all these people, away from the noise and the chaos. You glance around, making sure no one’s really paying attention to either of you. Thankfully, they’re all too wrapped up in their own conversations, their own drinks.

“Do you … do you want to go back to your room ?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady. You have to play this carefully — he’s already so on edge.

He nods again, quicker this time, still looking like he’s about to come undone at any moment.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Can you tell me your room number?”

He hesitates, his lips parting but no sound coming out at first. Then, after a beat, he stammers, “Twelve … twelve-fourteen.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but you hear it, and you nod quickly.

“Twelve-fourteen. Got it.” You stand up slowly, trying to act like everything’s fine, trying to keep things as normal as possible. “Come on, let’s get you there.”

Charles follows your lead, getting to his feet, but he’s unsteady, his movements stiff, almost robotic. You keep close to him, one hand lightly on his arm, just in case he stumbles.

The walk to the hotel is quiet — well, quiet between the two of you. The city’s alive, buzzing with nightlife, but all you can focus on is Charles. He’s still trembling, still flushed, and you can tell he’s mortified. Every now and then, you glance at him, but he keeps his eyes forward, his jaw tight.

When you finally reach the hotel lobby, it’s quiet, thankfully. You guide him to the elevators, and as soon as the doors close behind you, you feel the tension between you both shift. It’s heavy, pressing, but you can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment, confusion, or something else entirely.

“Charlie …” you start, but he cuts you off with a sharp inhale, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” he mutters. His voice is hoarse, and it makes your chest tighten. “Just … don’t.”

You bite your lip, nodding silently. The last thing he needs is for you to make him feel worse. The elevator dings, and you both step out, heading down the hallway to his room in silence.

When you reach his door, he fumbles with his key card for a moment, his hands shaking so badly he can barely get it into the slot. You reach out gently, taking it from him, and slide it into the door for him. The lock clicks, and the door swings open.

Charles steps inside, pausing in the doorway, as if he’s unsure of what to do next. He turns to you, his eyes still wide, still glassy, and for a moment, you just stand there, staring at each other.

“I’ll … I’ll make sure you’re okay,” you say quietly, stepping in after him. “Just for a bit, alright?”

He doesn’t respond. Just nods, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion, embarrassment, and something else you can’t quite place.

The door closes with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the dim light of Charles’ hotel room. The air is thick with tension, the kind that clings to your skin and weighs down every breath. Charles is standing there, hands awkwardly by his sides, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He still hasn’t said much, and you can see the embarrassment practically radiating off him.

You take a step forward, your voice soft but steady. “Let’s sit down, yeah?” You nod toward the couch on the far side of the room, hoping the invitation will put him at ease.

Charles hesitates for a moment, but then he walks over, his steps slow, almost hesitant. He sits at one end of the couch, keeping as much space between you as possible. His hands fidget in his lap, and his eyes are fixed on some spot on the carpet, anywhere but on you.

You follow him, sitting at the other end, leaving a careful distance between the two of you. Silence stretches for a beat too long, the kind of silence that fills with everything unspoken. You watch him out of the corner of your eye, taking in the way his shoulders are hunched, how his chest rises and falls a little too fast, like he’s still trying to catch his breath.

“Hey,” you begin gently, folding one leg under you as you turn to face him more fully. “You don’t need to be embarrassed.”

His jaw tightens at that, and he lets out a sharp breath through his nose. Still, he doesn’t look at you. “You don’t … understand,” he mutters, the words barely audible.

You scoot a little closer, not close enough to crowd him, but enough that he can feel your presence more. “I do understand,” you counter softly. “You think I don’t, but … it’s not a big deal. It’s just-”

“It is a big deal,” he snaps suddenly, his voice raw, and it surprises you. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands like he’s trying to pull himself together. “This — it doesn’t happen to normal people, alright?”

You blink at him, startled by the edge in his voice, but you stay calm. He’s unraveling, and the last thing you want is to make him feel worse. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” you say softly, leaning forward just a little. “It doesn’t make you any less, you know that, right?”

He shakes his head, lips pressed into a thin line. His hands are shaking slightly, clenched into fists on his lap. “You don’t know the half of it,” he mutters, his voice barely a whisper.

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, quieter still, “This … it’s not the first time.”

Your brow furrows at that. You weren’t expecting that. “What do you mean?”

Charles takes in a slow, shaky breath, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he lifts his gaze to meet yours. His eyes are glassy again, a mixture of frustration and vulnerability swirling in them. He swallows, his throat working hard, and then he says, “It happens. Sometimes. During races.”

You blink, trying to process what he’s saying. “During races?” You repeat, confused.

He nods, his gaze flickering away from yours again. His cheeks are flushed, and he looks like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. “When you … when you talk to me over the radio,” he admits, his voice small. “When you … praise me.”

For a moment, you’re stunned into silence, your brain working overtime to make sense of what he’s telling you. He’s not just talking about tonight. He’s talking about during races — while he’s driving, while you’re guiding him through strategy and telling him he’s doing a good job.

It hits you all at once, and your chest tightens with a strange, overwhelming mix of emotions. You feel a pang of something — affection, maybe — curling in your stomach as you look at him, sitting there on the couch, all closed off and ashamed.

“Oh, Charlie …” Your voice is soft, almost a coo, and you can’t help it. You reach out before you even realize what you’re doing, your hand resting gently on his knee. “My perfect Charlie …”

He flinches at the touch, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes are wide, panic still simmering just beneath the surface, but there’s something else there too — something softer, something that makes your heart ache.

“You don’t have to feel ashamed,” you tell him, your thumb brushing lightly over the fabric of his jeans. “You’re … you’re perfect, you know that?”

He shakes his head again, his throat working hard as he swallows. “I’m not.”

“You are,” you insist, scooting a little closer. “You’re so perfect. You’re so good at what you do, Charlie. Every time you’re out there, I’m in awe of you. And if this happens because of me — because of my praise — then I don’t mind. At all.”

His breath catches at your words, and he finally looks at you again, his eyes wide and full of something you can’t quite name.

You can’t help yourself. You reach out further, gently guiding him to lie back against the couch. He resists at first, just for a second, but then he gives in, too exhausted to fight you, too tired to keep up the pretense that he’s okay.

“Come here,” you murmur softly, coaxing him until his head is resting in your lap. You stroke a hand through his hair, smoothing the dark strands away from his forehead, and you feel him relax just a little under your touch.

“Shh,” you whisper, your fingers moving gently through his hair, petting him like you would a skittish animal. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He closes his eyes, his breathing still uneven, but he’s calming down, slowly but surely. His hands, still resting on his stomach, twitch slightly, but you can feel the tension leaving his body bit by bit as you continue to soothe him.

“You’re so good, Charlie,” you whisper, your voice barely above a breath. “So, so good. I’m so proud of you.”

He makes a small sound in the back of his throat at that, something between a whimper and a sigh, and you can’t help but smile softly.

“You’re always so focused out there,” you continue, your voice gentle as you praise him. “So calm, so in control. You handle everything so well, even when things get tough. I don’t know how you do it, honestly.”

Charles shivers under your touch, his body curling slightly into itself as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. But he doesn’t move away from you. If anything, he seems to lean into your touch more.

“I’m always so impressed by you,” you say, your fingers trailing down the side of his face now, brushing lightly over his jaw. “Every time you drive, you amaze me. And I know you think it’s all just — luck, or timing, or whatever, but it’s not. It’s you. You’re so talented. So brilliant.”

He lets out another soft sound, this time more of a sigh, and you can feel the tension leaving his body completely now. His breathing evens out, his eyes fluttering closed as you continue to stroke his hair, your other hand tracing light, soothing patterns on his arm.

“You’re perfect, Charlie,” you whisper, your voice barely audible now. “Just perfect.”

He doesn’t respond, but you don’t need him to. You can feel the way his body has relaxed, the way his breathing has slowed. You keep petting his hair, your touch soft and careful, and before long, you realize he’s fallen asleep.

You sit there for a while, your fingers still combing through his hair, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps. His face is peaceful now, all the tension and embarrassment gone, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable.

Your heart swells with something warm and tender as you look down at him. This is a side of Charles that not many people get to see — the side that’s vulnerable, that’s unsure of himself, that needs comfort and reassurance just as much as anyone else.

You keep stroking his hair, even though he’s asleep, your movements slow and gentle. The room is quiet now, the only sound the soft hum of the air conditioner and the steady rhythm of Charles’ breathing.

Eventually, you lean back against the couch, careful not to jostle him too much, and close your eyes. You’re not sure how long you sit there, with Charles’ head resting in your lap, but you don’t mind. You’re not in any rush.

You’ll stay as long as he needs you to.

***

After that night in the hotel room, everything shifts between you and Charles. What had once been professional, with the occasional friendly flirtation or shared joke, turns into something more — something neither of you fully acknowledges but both feel, constantly simmering just below the surface.

Charles no longer hides from you, no longer keeps his walls up. He starts to let you in, piece by piece, letting you see the parts of him that he keeps guarded from the rest of the world — the parts of him that are vulnerable, needy.

It’s subtle at first: the way he’ll lean into you a little more when you’re sitting together, the way his hand will linger on yours for just a second longer than necessary. Then, there are the nights he starts inviting you over to his apartment, no longer under the guise of needing help with something or work. He just wants you there.

It happens naturally — one night turns into two, then three, until you’re staying over more often than not. His place starts to feel like home, and you fall into a routine with him that feels both new and familiar, like something you’ve both been waiting for but didn’t know how to ask for.

You’ve gotten used to how he melts under your touch, how he craves your praise in a way that makes your heart ache with something tender and protective. He’s always been private, always been in control, but with you, he lets go. He trusts you in a way that makes you want to take care of him, to give him everything he needs.

One night, the two of you are curled up in his bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting a warm light over the room. It’s quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that comes with being completely comfortable with someone. You’re lying on your side, facing each other, your bodies close but not quite touching. His arm is draped loosely over your waist, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your hip.

You watch him for a moment, taking in the relaxed lines of his face, the way his eyelids are heavy with sleep but he’s still fighting to stay awake. He looks so at peace, so open, and the sight makes your chest swell with warmth.

“Hey,” you murmur softly, reaching up to brush a lock of hair from his forehead. “I want to try something.”

Charles blinks, his eyes focusing on you. “What do you mean?”

You bite your lip, feeling a flutter of nerves in your stomach, but you press on. “I just … I want to see something. Can I?”

His brow furrows slightly, but there’s no hesitation when he nods. “Yeah, of course.”

You smile, your heart pounding a little faster now. You shift slightly, sitting up just enough to pull the duvet down from where it’s wrapped around both of you. The cool air hits your skin, but you barely notice. Your focus is entirely on him, on the way his eyes widen slightly as he watches you.

“Relax,” you whisper, your hand finding its way to his chest, palm resting lightly over his heart. You can feel the steady thump beneath your fingers, but there’s something else there too — anticipation. “I just want to talk to you.”

Charles swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, but he doesn’t say anything. His breathing is a little uneven now, and you can see the way his muscles tense slightly, like he’s bracing himself for whatever’s coming next.

You lean down, close enough that your lips brush the shell of his ear, and you whisper, “You’ve been so good today, Charlie.”

His breath hitches immediately, and you smile to yourself, watching the way his chest rises and falls a little faster now. Your hand slides down from his chest, grazing lightly over his stomach, and you feel him tremble under your touch.

“You’re always so good, though,” you continue, your voice soft and low, dripping with praise. “So focused. So controlled. The way you drove this weekend? God, you were perfect.”

Charles lets out a soft, shaky exhale, his hands gripping the sheets beneath him, knuckles white. His eyes flutter shut, and you can see the way his whole body is reacting to your words — the way he’s barely holding himself together.

“You make everything look so easy,” you murmur, your hand continuing its slow, deliberate path down his body, never quite touching him where you know he needs it most. “But I know it’s not. I know how hard you work. How much you push yourself.”

His hips twitch slightly at that, and you can feel the tension building in him, the way he’s teetering on the edge already, just from your voice.

“You’re incredible, Charlie,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his jaw now. “No one else can do what you do. No one else is as good as you.”

A soft whimper escapes his throat, and you glance down, seeing the way he’s already hard, his cock straining against the fabric of his boxers. The sight sends a rush of heat through you, and you bite your lip, fighting the urge to touch him, to give him what he so clearly needs.

But you don’t. Not yet.

Instead, you keep talking, keep pouring praise into his ear, watching how every word affects him, how it drives him closer and closer to the edge.

“You’re so perfect,” you breathe, your hand skimming over his hip now, so close but still not quite touching him. “Do you know that? Do you know how perfect you are?”

Charles’ head tips back against the pillow, his lips parted, eyes squeezed shut. “P-please …” he whispers, his voice broken, desperate.

You smile softly, leaning down to press a kiss to his neck. “Please what, Charlie?”

He shudders beneath you, his hips lifting slightly off the bed as he tries to get some kind of relief, but you’re still holding back, still teasing him with nothing but your words and the lightest of touches.

“Please,” he breathes again, his voice trembling. “I can’t …”

“Shh,” you coo softly, finally letting your hand drift lower, brushing lightly over the waistband of his boxers. “You don’t have to do anything, Charlie. Just let me talk to you.”

He whimpers again, his whole body trembling now, and you know he’s close. So close. You can see it in the way his chest is heaving, the way his hands are gripping the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You’re doing so well,” you whisper, pressing another kiss to his jaw, then his neck. “So good for me. Always so good.”

And then, just like that, you see him break.

His whole body goes tense for a moment, his breath catching in his throat, and then he’s gone, spilling untouched into his boxers with nothing but your words pushing him over the edge. His hips jerk against the sheets, and he lets out a low, broken moan, his face flushed, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

You watch him, your heart pounding in your chest, a mixture of awe and affection swirling inside you. You’ve never seen anything hotter than this — Charles completely undone, trembling beneath you, just from your praise.

It takes a few moments for him to come down, his breathing slowly returning to normal, but even then, he’s still trembling, still so sensitive. You run your fingers through his hair, soothing him, whispering soft praises into his ear.

“You did so well, Charlie,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “So perfect. You’re always so perfect.”

He lets out a soft, exhausted sigh, his body finally relaxing completely as he melts into the bed, his head resting on your pillow. His eyes flutter open after a moment, and he looks up at you with a dazed, almost disbelieving expression.

You smile down at him, brushing a hand through his damp hair. “You okay?”

He nods, his voice hoarse when he finally speaks. “Y-yeah,” he whispers, still catching his breath. “I … I don’t know how you do that.”

You laugh softly, leaning down to kiss the tip of his nose. “I just know you, Charlie.”

He smiles at that, a soft, tired smile, and his hand reaches up to take yours, squeezing it gently. “I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs, his eyes half-closed, the exhaustion clear in his voice.

You shake your head, leaning down to press your lips to his in a soft, lingering kiss. “You deserve everything,” you whisper against his mouth. “Everything.”

He sighs contentedly, his body relaxing further into the bed, and you can see the way sleep is already tugging at the edges of his consciousness.

“Get some rest,” you murmur, pulling the duvet back up over both of you, tucking him in. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

Charles nods, his eyes fluttering shut as he finally lets himself drift off, a soft, peaceful smile on his lips.

You watch him for a moment, your heart full, and then you settle in beside him, pulling him close, knowing that whatever comes next, you’ll be there to guide him through it. Just like always.

[cultofcipher]

Bill Cipher thoughts (BoB Spoilers Ahead)

I'm really sitting on how Bill's displayed so much of himself indirectly in the BoB. How during the Love section he denies having exes, marking them out. How said exes show up SEVERAL times scratched out or are regarded with this bitterness of someone who did NOT do the breaking up part. Bill got dumped. Every time. And is desperately trying to bury his feelings.

And that's something I think the Book of Bill really highlights in a way. The fact that Bill has feelings. That deep down he's a broken triangle. It's all over the book's writing. Him pointing out how to use denial and rationalization and other bad coping mechanisms to basically ignore and lie to himself (and show us how to do it) and basically convince himself that he is as heartless as he tries to be. Him avoiding his exes. The tone he uses and the avoidance really giving the "I don't handle breakups well and I'm still petty about it". Him constantly telling himself that he's fine. He's not fine. Him crying over Ford leaving and getting wasted. Him being bitter about the henchmaniacs not calling. His regret over what happened to his world. His loneliness. GOD his loneliness. His self-hatred. His scathing remark about definitely NOT having some tragic backstory that humanizes him and how he's not an "I can fix him case". Calling himself a monster. His longing for home. The "Last one breathing". The "I tried to change the past". The "my hands shaking, as I realized I could never undo the". The "until there was no one left but me, covered in blood, alone in the universe". The goddamn "I don't want to die alone" Valentine's card. The last few pages. Just, the last few pages. That isolation, his pained "I'M FINE". The almost sad plea for someone to let him out.

Bill cares. He's fucked up, unstable, violent. But he does care about people he gets along with and he feels understand him. For every "I'm just playing the bit" and using people with nice gestures, I think a fraction of that is somewhat genuine. And he hates it. He hates his own vulnerability. He hates his lack of apathy. He's denying himself his own emotions constantly under so many layers of distractions, eldritch horrors, and repression. He can't think about home, about failure, about how every relationship he's ever had, platonically or otherwise, ended. And it wasn't on his terms.

Him talking about/to his mom when he's drunk. How his mom called him Billy as a kid. How his home life sounded simple. How Bill as an individual is anything BUT simple. And how his drunken state holds such fondness for that simplicity, yet it was suffocating. How he would've broken free eventually, inevitably, because he knew that's who he was. It's his nature. He was destined for more.

How it cost him everything.

How he's constantly chasing insanity like it's a drug. Like he needs the power trip to stay high. To not think too hard. To drown out his emotions and his self-reflections and everything he hates about himself.

How in Gravity Falls he still tried to get Ford to side with him after everything, cause that was his vulnerability showing, for the slightest glimpse of a moment. Cause he doesn't want to do it alone. Him reaching out to the reader in his book, because he doesn't want to do it alone. Can't do it alone. Even when he eventually betrays that person, I think him offering Ford that cushy spot alongside his henchmaniacs makes me think that yeah, Bill actually would've upheld his end of the deal.

He thinks he wants multiversal domination. He thinks Weirdmageddon is his Magnum Oppus. His purpose. But he's so lost. If he ever does get what he wants, he won't know what to do with himself. He'll be faced with the "Now what?". He'll hit the end of the road and realize how unsatisfying it is. How this isn't what he wanted.

How lonely it is to be God.

I think the Axolotl sees that in Bill. It's why he doesn't try to destroy him or attack him or anything. He sees that inner self of Bill. Sees him for what he really is. Someone who needs a LOT of therapy, a true, honest to goodness friend or partner in his life, and maybe a more sustainable life purpose or hobby. He has so much potential and in a way his pursuit of power, rather than being an actualization of his abilities, is a waste of them, because it gets him nowhere.

And he needs help, even if he doesn't think he does. He's a depressed alcoholic frat boy trying to drown his misery in a way that hurts and kills worlds. He's a girlfailure, a bisexual/pansexual disaster (he's at LEAST canonically bisexual or at MOST canonically pan cause this guy has dated both ways).

Bill's book is so incredibly amazing for what it is. All the lies, all the unrealiable narrator parts of Bill's facades and flaws and him being himself and all of his genuine thoughts and feelings bleeding through the lines and showing themselves but only in a way that you can really understand if you understand him and can tell when he's lying and when he's not. To see the real parts of him, and everything else. This book was perfect, and it was perfectly imperfectly him. This truly is Bill's book. It's so him in such a raw and genuine yet dishonest way. I'm gonna cherish this damn book forever.

[sweet-s0rr0w]

in the greek tradition

a little something silly for @peachydreamxx, after our chat about statues in British stately homes! with art by the lovely @faiell!😘

***

“Malfoy! Oi, Malfoy!”

Weasley’s shout is unexpected and yet somehow typically obnoxious, shattering the end-of-summer stillness as effectively as a Bludger through a window. Draco closes his novel carefully around a finger, optimistically keeping the page. “What is it?” he hisses – via Patronus, of course, since he refuses to screech back across the Manor’s gardens like an oik.

Of course, Weasley doesn’t get the hint. “Malfoy!” he bellows again, from somewhere behind the box hedge, sounding ominously full of mirth. “C’mere a moment, would you?”

Playing to an imaginary audience, Draco rolls his eyes heavenwards, testing the weight of his book in his hand and briefly considering the merits of telling Weasley to fuck off. Of course, in the end his curiosity gets the better of him, and so with a beleaguered sigh he gets to his feet and follows the sound of laughter all the way down to the herbaceous garden, where Potter and Weasley are loitering incongruously, their Auror uniforms a garish blood-red amongst the muted pastels of the foxgloves.

“Course your Patronus is a bloody great swan,” says Weasley, stating the obvious as usual, yet grinning away like he’s told the world’s funniest joke.

Beside him, Potter looks a bit sheepish. “Alright, Malfoy?” he asks, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

“What’s going on?” asks Draco, determinedly ignoring their antics.

“Right, yeah,” says Weasley, tugging his hand out of his pocket to gesture roughly past the alliums. “What we were wondering was – who’s this guy?”

Draco follows his gaze – and – ah. Weasley’s talking about the sculpture, then. The very striking, very buff, very naked marble sculpture, which towers over the garden with his wand caught dramatically mid-flourish, his head thrown back, and his eyes closed in some kind of ecstasy. Draco probably should have realised sooner, what with all the time he’d spent alone in the herbaceous garden as a sexually frustrated teen.

“What?” he asks, having now forgotten the question entirely.

“Because, right, I reckon it’s some ancient hero. Like Merlin, or something–”

“Really, Weasley? You think that’s what Merlin looked like?”

“–but Harry says it must be a Malfoy.”

Draco blinks.

 “The hair,” Potter says, quickly. “It’s the same as – you know, you’ve all got all that, like, loose, flowy, glossy… you know. Also,” he adds, “no offense, but having a sculpture of yourself in your own garden seems like kind of a Malfoy thing to do.”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “Plus you’re all dramatic as fuck. So who’s right?”

Draco considered the statue for a moment: even moss-stained and weather-worn, it did have excellent hair. Also, pleasingly muscular thighs. “Potter’s right,” he’s forced to admit – at this moment, his second least favourite phrase. “This is a young Xanthus Malfoy the second. An excellent hunter, by all accounts, and one of the last Malfoys to sit in the… what?” he demands, interrupting Weasley, who’s giving Potter what can only be described as a meaningful look. “What’s going on? Why are you both giggling?”

Weasley says nothing. His ears are turning pink: Draco hopes he’s getting sunburnt.

“Well,” begins Potter, nodding vaguely back towards the statue. “We were just saying that he’s… well. That he’s – that it’s a little–”

“You got that right,” Weasley mutters.

“What?”

Potter presses his lips together, avoiding Draco’s gaze. “Well,” he says, delicately. “The thing is. While I’m sure he was an excellent hunter, this particular Malfoy seems to be, well. Lacking something. Deficient, you might say. In one certain – area.”

“His cock, Malfoy,” Weasley adds, helpfully. “His cock’s miniscule, and while we’re at it, his bollocks aren’t much to write home about either. The whole package’s rather… unfortunate, I’d say. What’s going on? Are micropenises a family trait, or did they just run out of stone?”

“Marble,” Draco says, faintly. “It’s marble. And by the way, you two are children.”

“Come on, Malfoy,” says Potter, grinning. “You can’t pretend you hadn’t noticed.”

“It’s deliberate, you philistine! It’s sculpted in the fucking Greek tradition!”

“Right.”

“And while we’re at it, it’s symbolic! The… diminutive penis represents mastery over one’s baser instincts. The triumph of intellectualism over… animalistic urges.”

Weasley frowns. “What you on about now?”

“I think, Ron,” Potter says, “that what Malfoy’s suggesting is that the bigger the dick, the stupider the man. Explains a lot, you know.” He smirks, eyeing Weasley in a manner that makes Draco’s brain feel like it may be the wrong size for his skull.

“Oi,” Weasley laughs, reaching out gleefully to whack Potter, who dodges sideways, then turns his ankle on the edge of a flowerbed and falls neatly into a lavender bush.

“It half makes sense,” Weasley says, offering Potter a hand to tug himself up. “The tiny prick thing. I mean, Malfoy certainly thinks he’s clever.”

“He does,” Potter chokes out, clearly on the verge of hysteria. Draco throws up his arms in frustration.

“For Merlin’s sake, Weasley!” he cries, as Potter wobbles dangerously close to the ornamental fountain. “Just because the statue’s got a–”

“It’s alright, Malfoy,” Weasley cuts in, soothingly. “I’ve heard some people are into that kind of thing. Tiny dicks, I mean.” He turns back to Potter, voice strained. “Not that I’ve met any, obviously.”

“I don’t have a tiny dick!” Draco cries, outraged. “I’ll prove it! I’ll show you both! I’ll show you both right fucking now–”

It’s unfair, and unconscionable, and somehow Draco’s hand is down his pants before he can even help himself, and that’s when Weasley finally stops laughing. “Alright, alright!” he exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “Keep your fancy knickers on, Malfoy. We believe you. Right, Harry?”

Potter’s not laughing either, now, and he doesn’t reply; he’s too busy staring, as, jaw set, and mustering all the dignity he can manage, Draco releases his grip on his (perfectly decent sized) penis, and slides his hand carefully out from beneath his waistband. He glares at them both, tugging his robe tightly shut.

“Right?” Weasley repeats, louder this time. “We don’t need to see proof, eh, Harry?”

Potter’s eyes are still fixed on a point somewhere below Draco’s navel, and his cheeks are now stained a most fetching pink. The sun is rather strong today, Draco thinks, feeling his own face heating.

“Harry?”

***

tons of thanks to @tackytigerfic for looking it over 😘