#I hate writing y/n

[sailor-aviator]

Lmao????

Don’t read it then??

It’s literally fiction, my guy. I wasn’t exactly going for complete historical accuracy, and why are you looking for that in fanfiction??

Like the AUDACITY of some people is astounding. Do you think if I was writing for real it would be in 2nd person with y/n? What?

Fuck outta here with that bullshit. Idk why you felt the need to actually comment something except to be mean.

[acid-ixx]

a loving family, an unpalatable desire

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

a/n: would anyone hear me out if i ever wrote romantic yan! bruce (ft. platonic yan! batfam AND romantic yan clark kent alongside the superfam ofc) with a neglected spouse reader... because uhm, i've been thinking about it lately just yk... so anyways PLSPLSPLS send in asks about this, ive been thinking about it so much lately.

imagine wanting to raise a family so badly with a man who adopts problem children as a side hustle. you're not some invasive spouse, you've always been good, always been loving, so... so accepting, never questioned where or how he picked them up from the side of the streets, never once complaining about the hickeys on his neck or the once neat tussles of his hair now tangled accompanying lipstick stains on his white suit.

you love your children, you tell yourself all the time. you love them, you love bruce— even if he doesn't love you. you said it in your vows, despite it being scripted, despite your family finally sighing in relief in the sidelines at finally being able to sell you off to one of the wealthiest man in the world, rather than being wasting off under their care— your vows are real.

you wanted someone to love you, unconditionally, so viscerally eternal that it eats you up.

really, all you wanted was to play that fantasy life of trophy house spouses. all you wished for was a loving, healthy relationship. the american dream: the picture perfect family frames, your husband kissing you on the cheek as he leaves for work, your children bickering at the dining room, with the scent of homemade meals wafting about the vicinity. all you wanted was the warmth in your chest to flicker like candlelights. all you dreamed about was that domestic life, an escape from the abusive household you were raised in.

yet the manor is too cold, too unforgiving for a soul such as yours.

the longer you stay inside claustrophobic, yet oh-so large hallways, the quicker you drown in a neverending pool of self-hatred.

but you're not allowed to show them your sufferings. they've been through much worse, you tell yourself. they've suffered more, and as what good spouses do, as what you're taught, you stay silent, enabling them to turn you into their own emotional punching bag.

you only allow yourself to cry at the dead of the night, under the sheets of your too-cold blanket and your too-hot pillows. when the manor is filled with deathly silence and a looming sense of dread and ill fitting thoughts of ifs and when they'll come back in one piece, will you grant yourself temporary respite; worry for a family who never even called you their parent.

yet you've always been so considerate. despite the pang in your chest every time bruce flirts with anymore potential love interest at a gala, you chose to instead monitor your chaotic children, who have always never bat an eye on you despite you always gazing lovingly at them.

you know of their interests, they don't know yours, yet you still give them extravagant gifts on their birthdays, with tired, yet glinting eyes, and a silent excuse to return to your room; one separate from bruce.

you know of bruce's hardships, but you don't push too hard, don't force him to talk, only provide him your silence and an offer to serve him dinner; all the time he refuses without looking at you. you give him comfort only if he ever allows you, only if he allows his walls to crumble— but not even his spouse can amount to a warm, crackling fireplace. to him, you're probably only a matchstick under the deadbeat glaze of the snow in a winter night.

maybe that's why you're such a ghost in the manor, stalking through the hallways, looking out for any of your children in case they come across you with any injuries. maybe that's why eventually your resolve weakened.

and maybe the absence of familial love led you to find comfort in another man's arm.

''til death do us part,' is such a tragic saying in your case, because you know it in your fragile heart that bruce's love for you was never alive in the first place. and yet you allow him to play you like a fiddle, allow him to slowly allow you to slip away from his nonexistent grasp.

and now, you're a stand-in parent for clark's son, jon, after the tragic loss of his wife. now, your world seems a lot less bleaker, as you play the fantasy of a loving house spouse, fully abandoning the life you left behind, a life you've never been gifted with until now. you want to feel guilty, you want to feel absolutely terrible but the heartache of neglect has become too much and all you do was allow clark to warm you up each night, kissing away your tears and spooning your deep-seated anxieties away.

you don't let the past eat you up, not when the present is too perfect, too freeing, too delusionally beautiful.

your son, jon provides you every joy a parent could have. parent's day gifts, heartfelt letters at every nook and cranny of your shared bedroom with clark— even reading him bedtime stories, allowing him to sleep in your lap after he slowly nods off, with clark knocking softly on polished wooden doors, greeting you with a loving kiss on the lips and a bouquet of your favorite flowers in hand—

it's everything a parent wants, needs even.

and you're everything clark, and especially jon wants, needs in their life.

so it's such a stupid mistake, really. a slip of the tongue, a too-enthusiastic smile, incredibly bright, shining eyes. it's not jon's fault, you still love him either way. but it's an error still— one a complicated matter at hand, so dreadful for you, that jon accidentally, all-too-suddenly, mentions you as his parent to damian.

a loving, wonderful parent, he says, with a picture of you in his wallet shoved right in front of his friend's face.

[sttoru]

‘the markings engraved on the wood hold unspoken memories; ones that will last forever.’

☀︎｜tags. dad!toji x female reader. fluff. you’re married. based on a request i got a while back; reader and toji marking megumi’s changes in height throughout the years to record how much he’s grown.

“oh, it’s already time to do that stuff ‘gain, huh?” toji grunts as he was lazily slumping back on the couch — rough hand cradling the head of his three year old son.

megumi was surprisingly quiet whilst laying on top of toji’s chest. the reason why probably being the dancing fruits and vegetables on the television. those videos was pure entertainment for the little guy.

toji’s eyes follow your movements as you grabbed a sharpie and walked towards the door of the living room. you had purposefully grabbed the special sharpie that existed only to fulfil one, sole task;

which was to mark megumi’s current height on the doorframe.

“yep.” you nod enthusiastically. you were excited to see how much megumi had grown since the last time you measured his height. it was a fun thing to do, yet also bittersweet.

toji looks down at the little boy on his chest. he grins like a proud dad once he notices how content megumi was in his embrace, “c’mon, bud. y’r momma wants to see how much bigger and stronger you grew.”

megumi’s attention was instantly drawn to you at the words uttered to him. in a sudden burst of energy, he jumps off toji’s torso — running your way. he was bouncing up and down like his favorite candy was about to get handed out.

“alright, alright.” you giggle softly and tenderly rub megumi’s cheeks with your fingers. toji gets up from the couch and joins the two of you, crossing his arms over his chest whilst leaning against the wall.

your husband’s focus was elsewhere; his gaze following the previous records that were left on the wooden jamb. there were dates assigned to each line — each holding a precious memory of their own. toji lets out a deep breath, closes his eyes and allows all the happy memories to flood back into his mind for a good moment.

he can’t stop the fond smile from forming on his face as he squats down to megumi’s level, “i bet ya grew a lot considering how much veggies y’ve been eatin lately.”

“yeah! big boy!” megumi grins back at toji — his playful grin resembling your husband’s. his tiny hands pat his belly, causing both his parents to laugh at his actions.

you pull off the cap from the sharpie and properly align your toddler against the doorframe. toji helped megumi stay still for the sake of measuring his height as accurately as possible.

you try to get the perfect dot right atop of megumi’s head. once you get it, you draw a straight line from that point to the end of the jamb. it’s then that you notice the difference between the previous blue line and the newest one you had just placed on the wood.

you stay silent for a few seconds after taking the tip of the sharpie away from the door jamb. there it was; that bittersweet look in your eyes. one that toji knew very well. he understands your emotions and doesn’t ever invalidate them since he feels the same deep within.

that beautiful and proud yet also surprisingly sad feeling. the one you get when you realise just how fast time flies.

“mama! mama! look!” megumi excitedly points out the obvious difference between the two lines, clapping his hands out of pure delight, “i’m shtronger! bwigger!”

the pure face of joy that megumi made, was enough to put a smile on your face as well. you instantly scoop your son up in your arms and hug him tightly to your body. megumi’s nose scrunches up, left cheek squished against your chest with a faint giggle escaping his lips.

toji’s expression was one of content in the meantime. a content man whom had finally found the reason as to why life was worth living.

his hand reaches out, index finger curling around the collar of megumi’s shirt from behind. he gives it a small yank as if trying to catch the boy’s attention. once toji gains exactly that — he opens his arms and motions for a hug;

“what ‘bout papa, kid?” your husband raises an eyebrow. he tries hard to fake a pout, though only ends up looking quite silly, “can papa get a big ol’ h—”

before toji could finish his sentence, megumi unexpectedly jumps into his arms. this causes toji to actually stumble back — falling out of his squat and into a sitting position on the floor. that was quite the surprise, but, a pleasant one it sure was.

the dark-haired man rolls his eyes before nuzzling his nose into megumi’s hair. his strong arms engulf the toddler completely—not wanting to let go any time soon.

“y’re gonna need to eat a lot more so you can grow up ‘n be as tall as me.” toji teases after a few seconds of comfortable silence. he squeezes megumi’s cheek and looks down at him fondly, “i’m sure you’ll even outgrow me ‘n your momma one day.”

the mention of your son one day growing up and becoming taller than you makes that solemn look return to your eyes. your bottom lip sticks out and your eyebrows furrow.

toji notices and regrets saying what he said whilst already knowing you were in a sentimental mood. plus, you always got even more emotional when talking about how quick megumi was growing up. it was like he was a newborn just yesterday.

“wah! mama. . .”

even megumi notices the change in your expression and he huffs. his eyes dart back towards his dad’s and his tiny fists (softly) land on toji’s chest twice. like he was giving out a punishment for ‘upsetting’ you.

“papa make mama sad! papa bad!” megumi sticks his tongue out at toji and runs back towards you — tiny arms circling your neck as he clings onto you in hopes to make you feel better.

your son’s cute antics were enough to lighten up the mood, causing both toji and you to laugh again. even if a tear had already rolled down your cheek from before.

you were about to wipe it away yourself, though was stopped by two hands: a large one and a small one. one belonging to toji and the other to megumi.

“aht aht,” toji narrows his eyes at his kid, “i’m the one who made y’r momma cry, so i gotta be the one comfortin’ her to make it right.”

“no! papa made mama sad. i make mama happy ‘gain. not papa.” megumi does the same back, though adds fuel to the fire by sticking his tongue out like earlier.

and. . . there they go again.

your husband and son go back and forth about who gets to wipe your tear away and comfort you. you knew toji was competitive - even with his own son - but it was funny to see how he still argued with a three year old like it was some serious business.

you couldn’t even be sad any longer as the squabbling makes you giggle — though also leaves you with a giddy feeling in your chest.

time seems to slow down when you’re engrossed in rememberable moments like these.

and all you could do was wish that they would last forever.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

Crying bc that could never be me bc I never really had close guy friends when I was young please write a one shot or something of childhood friends y/n and Katsuki of Katsuki being immune to cooties and bringing these tendencies to UA together 😭

eeeee i was secretly hoping someone would ask me to talk about this more tehhehehe here you go ! I didn’t rlly get what you meant with him carrying the cootie thing to high school so i wrote this around your ask a lil, hope you don't mind ! i tried honoring your request as best i can, hope you enjoy !

fem reader, polar opposite’s trope except not POLAR opposite’s cus yn is a little shit on the low, mitsuki favoritism lol, mitsuki and katsuki arguing n bein sassy, katsuki gets embarrassed, mitsuki is mischievous, katsuki calling his mother old, yn calls mitsuki ‘miss’, pure fluff honestly, say it with me CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS TROPE WOHOOOO, mentions of making out n kissing, established relationship, cooties lol, lemme know if i missed sum else <3 !!

katsuki wants to do one of three things right now : dissapear, sink into the floor or die—and the more he hears his old hag babbling on and on to you with a familiar photo album in her lap, the more he's starting to find the all three options tempting.

" oh look, this was at you guys' kindergarten graduation ! you were both soooo small, do you remember that ?! "

he hears his mom gush from the other bigger living room couch she's sitting on with you. it's been 15 minutes since you had come over to his house and the plan was for you guys to hang out, watch a movie and get a make out session in before you leave or preferably have you sleep over.

that was the plan, until his old hag came and fucked it up.

15 minutes since she'd dragged you over to the couch and talked your ear off about whatever the fuck moms talk about and you, being the sweetheart that you are, listened patiently the whole time, chatting and giggling out jokes easily. katsuki really, really doesn't know how you do it but he sure as hell respects you for it.

you'd always insisted on being polite with his mom, something about staying in her good graces after you guys had started dating. katsuki thinks that's extremely stupid because his mom has loved you since that day in elementary school when he'd dragged you over to her, his little hand gripping yours tightly and proudly exclaiming you were the one he was gonna marry. you were sweeter and calmer than he was by far and she was immediatly enamoured with you. katsuki's damn near sure she loves you more than she loves him. that in itself isn't the problem. the problem was that she's been hogging you ever since you walked in the door.

usually, katsuki's fast enough to drag you up to his room before she can get her claws in you, but he wasn't fast enough today and that's how he ended up in his current predicament.

" and this one when you came over for christmas—oh, katsuki begged me to let you stay over, you know ? you cannot believe how loud he can get when he doesn't get his way, started rolling around on the floor n' everything ! "

katsuki feels his ears redden the more he listens to this conversation and he wishes so bad for you guys to just fucking go. he could go to his room and avoid this entire conversation in theory, but he'd rather avoid his mom telling you some other embarrassing stories that you absolutely do not need to know about, so he concedes and tries his best to drown the conversation out, scrolling on his phone.

"ou, i have an adorable picture of katsuki in the bath let me find—"

" DON'T FUCKIN’ SHOW HER THAT, HAG ?! " katsuki shrieks, startling you, his mom looks surprised for no more than a milisecond before shooting him a nasty glare unphased by her son's outburst. "what's got you pipin' up now, brat ?" she asks unimpressed.

katsuki practically zooms over and snatches the album away from his mother's grip, shooting her a glare identical to her own. " i'm gonna burn this in your sleep one of these days, i swear. " he grumbles, trudging off to put the album back on one of the shelves of his living room and ignoring his mom wishing him good luck with that. katsuki feels like he's lost a battle when he hears you giggle quietly when he turns away, no doubt his mother had said something about how he was embarrassed to have you see his baby pictures. he vows to get revenge and thinks the best way to start is by throwing this cursed collection of pictures on an open fire. he decides to just put it back on the shelf for now.

“ what a spoilsport, am i right ?” mitsuki nudges you with her shoulder and you giggle at what katsuki personally finds a horrible joke. to each their own though, or whatever.

katsuki scoffs to himself. he makes his way back to the couch and stands in front of you both, arms crossed.

“you done hoggin’ my girlfriend now or are you gonna keep yappin’ some more ?” mitsuki scoffs at her son’s words, wrapping her arms around your frame and pulling you against her tightly when she sees katsuki’s hand creeping towards you, assuming he'd try to pull you away.

“ i’m sure you can be patient for a little longer, as hard as i know it is for you.” you hear katsuki scoff out an insult under his breath, mitsuki pays it no mind. “besides, yn has been enjoyin’ our conversation so far, haven’t ya sweetie ?” she asks. you, again, being the sweet thing that you are, happily nod with a smile. mitsuki looks up at her son with a smug look, her expression screams “see ?”.

“ she’s only agreein’ cus yer fuckin’ holdin’ her hostage.” katsuki grumbles. he feels his patience dwindling at a pace that should definitely be alarming. he looks at you and feels his heart flutter when you offer him an apologetic smile. his patience returns the slightest bit.

“hostage ? don’t be ridiculous katsuki—” then it’s as if a lightbulb goes off, katsuki can practically see it gleaming above her head and he really doesn’t like it.

“he’s always been like that y’know ? all clingy—you remember that right ?!”the excitement in her voice becomes more prominent when she sees you nod enthusiastically. katsuki has a strange, foreboding feeling about this.

“ i remember he’d constantly want you around holdin’ his hand everywhere. one time—" she pauses as she bursts into giggles that, to katsuki, sound more like witch cackles than anything.

“one time you refused to hold his hand because you got scared he’d get cooties” she chuckles. katsuki feels his stomach drop.

“but he said that wouldn’t happen because he was too strong to get them !”

fuck patience.

katsuki grabs you and stalks off so fast you feel like you’re floating a little bit. he quickly yells out a “we’re goin’ to my room, don’t fuckin’ bother us !” then he’s quickly running up the stairs with you in tow. it’s only when you get to the hallway that leads to his bedroom that he looks back at you. he rolls his eyes when he sees you clearly fighting back a laugh.

“be quiet.”

“i didn’t even say anything yet !” you defend, giggling at the same time. katsuki fights back a smile at the sound.

“yeah, but you were going to and i don’t wanna hear it.” he bites. he squeezes your hand afterwards, telling you it was a joke in his own way. in actuality, katsuki could listen to you talk for hours and hours, days on end without getting bored. you’re being a brat right now though, so he won’t tell you that.

you smile at his back as katsuki drags you along muttering to himself about how he “never should’ve left you with that old witch for so long.”

“i remember that, y’know ? the cootie thing.” you admit jokingly. walking up a little faster you catch up to him and walk side by side. he glances at you from the corner of his eye then looks away and scoffs “of course you do.” he groans.

“ you’re mom didn’t mean to embarrass you, i’m sure.” you try to console him despite still snickering at the memory of his face going beet red after his mom had ‘exposed’ him. “and it was nice to see those pictures. it felt all...nostalgic.” you reminisce about the summer days you’d spent over the years with your katsuki with a smile. remembering the days of adventures and melting ice cream. of waterparks and bandaged covered knees.

katsuki doesn’t make a sound next to you and you think he’s just ignoring you until he speaks again, the scowl on his face threatens to melt away. “that old bat had it out for me the entire time. she’s fuckin’ evil incarnate, just doesn’t show it to you.” he feels prideful when he hears you laugh “that’s mean !” you scold through giggles, but his smirk says he’s seen through you. he comes to a stop and backs you up until your back is against the wall.

“yer laughin’ though. not as much of an angel as you’re pretending to be, are ya ?” he teases, leaning in closer to you until your noses brush. you try to fight back the smile that pulls at your mouth but it doesn’t work and after a moment you’re giggling again. katsuki swears every time you laugh an angel gets its wings. he steals a sloppy kiss to hear the sound again.

your hands play with the hem of his plain black shirt. he’s handsome, too handsome. his outfit consisted of a plain black t-shirt and some sweatpants yet he still looks like a model and it makes you want to kiss him silly, call it revenge for looking so good.

“ i’m not pretending to be anything, definitely not an angel.” you chuckle “unlike you, i’m just being nice.” you stick your tongue at him and he chuckles. rolling his eyes, he scoffs. his warm hands reflexively start running up and down your waist.

“yeah well, that’s cus unlike me your ass gets to go home. you’d be less nice if you were stuck in here like i am.” you playfully roll your eyes at his dramatics

“i doubt that. besides, miss mitsuki likes me !”

“she’ll get mad at you for callin’ her miss again.” you gasp, quickly clasping your hand over your mouth as if his mom would hear you from here. katsuki’s snort makes you snort as well.

“c’mon” he urges after a minute, grabbing at your hand and tugging at it “we’re goin’ to my room.” he mumbles out a “fuckin’ finally” and you laugh.

then you get an idea.

you suddenly rip your hand from his and katsuki immediately stops dead in his tracks to stare back at you like you had just insulted him. you let out a tiny snort at his expression.

“the hell are you doin’ ?”

you clasp your hands behind your back and sigh, even looking down at the floor sadly for extra dramatic effect “we can’t risk it, suki.”

“hah ?” katsuki fully turns to you, slowly starting to grow worried at your sudden shift in attitude. “what’re you talking about ?”

“i mean..if we hold hands..” you slowly look up at him, revealing your shit eating grin “you might get cooties..”

katsuki looks at you for about 15 seconds with an incredulous look on his face and you burst out laughing. he’s definitely one of the most expressive people you’d ever met, so seeing what kind of faces he’ll makes next is always fun.

he walks over, grabs your hand and squeezes hard, as punishment you assume. you yelp through giggles.

you hear him let out a disappointment sigh when he turns his back to you and drags you to his room again. you happily follow along behind him like you’d done for years now.

"i really shouldn't have left you with that old hag for so long." he mutters bitterly. you let out a snort and smile to yourself, content that your plan to mess with your boyfriend ended up being succesful. you perk up when he suddenly huffs out a laugh.

" and anyways, i won't be gettin' any cooties. m'too cool for 'em." you laugh out loud and the way he grips your hand a little tighter tells you you don't need to see his face to know he's proud of that.

"what if i have them ?" you challenge in between snickers.

katsuki scoffs dissaprovingly, you can basically see him rolling his eyes despite his back being to you.

"you don't. only losers get cooties. and as far as i know, you're not a loser." he's a little embarrassed because this is reminding him too much of when you were kids and it makes him cringe. when he'd come up with excuses like him being 'too strong' or 'too cool' to get cooties because he just couldn't admit he simply wanted you close. "yer anythin' but." you hear him mumble.

you walk up next to him with a somewhat shy smile "i'm flattered you think of me that way." you confess.

"don't let it get to your head." katsuki quips. you respond by sticking your tongue at him again. he tries to ignore the loud thumping of his heart but it's not going too smoothly for him. his cheeks slowly redden and he looks away from you again, not before shooting you an eyeroll.

"hope you know you owe me extra cuddle time for wastin' it talkin' to my ma." katsuki adds, changing the subject. you smile up at him in response and offer him a sweet 'mhm !'

his mom may have embarrassed the shit out of him, but he figures it wasn't all bad. he's still deadset on destroying that photo album before she ends up showing you that picture of him in the bath, though. he'll think about a plan later but right now he plans to enjoy his cuddle time with you, cootie free.

[jinkicake]

Forced / Arranged Marriage Trope 

Diluc, Ayato, Pierro, Zhongli x Reader

A/N: this took me ages to write (cough cough ayato) and even longer to edit but i dont care i love this trope... i hope you like it too </3 i love mean m3n! the whole ‘oh i dont think he loves me but he actually does’ is so fun.... so fun

fem!reader bc I like the use of ‘wife’

WC - 3.3k

~~~

Diluc R. 

“Where is my wife?” 

The echo of Diluc’s demanding tone as he enters the Winery almost makes Adelinde flinch. From all her years of caring for the young owner, she knows too well what a sensitive spot you are for the man. The head maid tends to keep a watchful eye on you both out of the kindness in her own heart even when you and Diluc are in somewhat of a quarrel. 

“In your study,” Adelinde doesn’t look at Diluc as she continues to dust a lamp, she works diligently but keeps her ears sharp all the same. Nothing ever slips out from under her nose. 

A gentle smile appears on her lips as Diluc passes her and heads straight for the large doors of his office. 

“Where were you?” Diluc’s anger is something you’ve come accustomed to lately. Over the course of your relationship from mere acquaintances to forced husband and wife, you’ve never noticed how well you manage to step on his toes. 

“Where was I?” You repeat while continuing to flip through one of the romance novels Jean recommended to you. Your husband came in at such an awful time, right in the middle of a scene full of tension and declarations of love. A quiet sigh leaves your lips as you close the book in hopes of picking it up again later. 

“We have an arrangement at six o’clock in front of the gates every day,” Diluc does little to hide his frustrations, that much is clear to you as you finally run your eyes over his tensed form. He stands tall in front of you on the opposite side of the desk, his large arms flexed from where they’re crossed over his broad chest. “have you forgotten?”

No, you have not. 

Today of all days, you wanted to have a few extra minutes to yourself so you left work early and practically ran home. It’s not that you didn’t want your husband to accompany you like he does most days but, you really wanted to finish your new novel in peace. You never imagined that Diluc would care this much about your absence. 

“It appears to have slipped my mind,” You try to give him a kind smile, an innocent gesture but Diluc knows you too well. He sighs before pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ease the headache that is forming. 

“I thought something had happened to you,” His outburst surprises you but, you don’t let it show on your face. Diluc’s protectiveness is something you’ve always been aware of yet it manages to catch you off guard every time. As time goes on, you think you’ll start to become more accustomed to it. “you know of the dangers that lurk out there.”

“I am capable enough to make it home by myself, Master Diluc,” You reach for your book again but Diluc is quick to clasp his hand over your own, he pins your wrist down against his wooden desk and tries to keep the anger in his eyes leveled with his fiery hair. 

“I told you not to call me that,” There’s a slight defeat in his voice, one that almost makes you feel guilty for teasing him. He hates it. The name makes him sound like a stranger to you, it makes him think that you don’t see him in the same light. Diluc always hoped that you would return a mere flicker of affection in the candle that is his love for you. However, he doesn’t like to fool himself. “do not leave me waiting tomorrow. I will pick you up at six o’clock.”

“Alright,” You sigh and gently place your chin on your palm, elbow resting against his large desk. Diluc looks you over with hard eyes as if he is mentally contemplating his next move. You expected him to head straight for the door and leave, to start the same nightly tasks he always runs off to when he drops you off at home. He doesn’t. 

Instead, the winery owner takes a step closer to you and grits his teeth. He bends down with little hesitation and places a harsh kiss on your cheekbone before leaving the study with a soft click of the door. His affection catches you off guard, causing your heart to thump in your chest. 

Every day he wins your heart over a little more.

By the time Adelinde pokes her head in a few minutes later, you’re still not sure if you have wiped the surprise off of your face. The head maid gives you a gentle smile as she pretends to dust a book, offering a piece of advice and a grim reminder. 

“Lady (Y/N), please try to understand where he is coming from. If something were to happen to you, Master Diluc would lose his family all over again.”

K. Ayato

“Your marriage cannot fail.”

There were many rules and guidelines set for you and the Yashiro Commissioner on the premise of your alliance. Above all, you were sworn to protect the name of the Tri-Commission. The two of you are to maintain the facade of a happy marriage in the face of the Narukami population and the entirety of Inazuma. 

The rule itself is very simple but, places an uncomfortable weight on your shoulders. You fear that you’ll one day be crushed by the severity of the situation. 

At least, your husband tries his best with you.

“Are you retiring for the evening, dear?” In passing, Ayato stops you as he heads for his office. He offers you a kind smile and a delicate brush of his fingertips against your elbow. You nearly shiver at the contact over the material of your clothes. 

“I am. Will you be joining me?” Eight months of being married to him and you have learned not to expect anything. It prevents the bitter heartache that forms every time his face slightly drops and his ounce of affection for you reverts back into professionalism. 

“Forgive me but, I will not. I need to finish reviewing a proposal from the Kanjou Commission.” His hand leaves your arm and falls pitifully back to his side. It’s as if the mere thought of being a husband closes him off to you. 

“I see.” You know how he despises small talk and would just rather get to the point so you ultimately end the interaction for him. There is no fight coming from your side, no fit that is thrown, you simply continue on with your life. 

“Good night.” As Ayato leans down and gently kisses your cheek, he firmly holds onto your bicep with a soft squeeze. It’s a flash of love that leaves your cheeks warm and your heart fluttering as he excuses himself and makes his way toward his office. 

No matter how much you want to believe in him, you can’t help but think that everything is all for show. 

Sleep doesn’t come easy for you that night, it never does when you’re set to spend it alone. The utter silence of the bedroom causes your boredom to hit an all-time high as you stupidly decide to seek out your husband.

Hours ago you were mentally cursing his existence while simultaneously bathing in his affections and now, you’re reaching out for him again. 

Do you want him or not? Do you love him or hate him?

You really don’t know. 

“Wife, you’re still awake.” It takes Ayato a few moments to greet you after you enter his office. The quiet noise of his door sliding shut pulls him away from his work for the briefest moment as his blue eyes glance over your body. Ultimately, he looks back down at his paper and then attempts to organize his thoughts and desk by neatly stacking the scrolls. “Are you having trouble sleeping?”

Ayato holds his hand out to you and you hesitantly place your fingers against his own. He takes the inch you give him and turns it into a mile as he tugs you toward him. 

You kneel beside him now and through the force of his pull, you begin to lean against his shoulder. Under his touch, you become stiff and it causes your husband to laugh. 

Your head starts to hurt at trying to read him.

“You confuse me,” You whisper as Ayato cups your cheek, despite how you keep your eyes glued to his table, he has no problem selfishly forcing you to look at him. 

“I confuse you?” He repeats and slightly tilts his head while looking you over, like this his face is inches away from yours. “How can I possibly make myself clear to you?” His quiet murmurs don’t distract you from the way he’s lowering his face. You stop him before he can get any closer. 

“That is what I mean, if you touch me so easily I will misunderstand your feelings.” You attempt to move from the tight grip he has on you but, you can’t get free. “Don’t kiss me if you don’t love me.”

Ayato merely hums and loosens his grip on your shoulder. At the chance to put some much-needed space between the two of you, you ultimately fall back against the floor. Your husband follows quickly and once again latches onto you as he places his arms on either side of your head. 

His soft lips hover over your ear, brushing along your cheek before he places a soft peck on your jaw. 

“I kiss you,” He watches your every move as his hand cups your cheek. The slight of you nervously squirming does more to him than he cares to admit. “because I love you.”

Pierro

“Enough with the unnecessary dramatics.” Scolding you is something of second nature to the first of the eleven Fatui harbingers. He picks you apart and molds you into the perfect shape until that shape no longer holds any value to him. When he finds a flaw, Pierro starts all over again. “Crafting when there is work to be done, have you no shame?” 

For as cruel as he acts, your husband is utterly obsessed with you.

He glares down at you, and at the ceramic flower pot you poured your heart and soul into creating for him, with hostility in his eyes. Your caring hands shaped a perfectly sized holder, one in perfect condition and your husband will be sure to put it on display within his office. It will be perfect on his desk and when he misses your companionship, he will be sure to look at it and remember the fondness he holds for you.

Even if you hate him all the same.

“What work do you expect a lonely housewife to be doing?” The fire in your eyes rivals the flames that once burned his nation to the ground. Despite the fight in your soul, Pierro will have no trouble shaping you back into order. You grit your teeth at him, nearly barring your anger and the harbinger finally puts his paperwork down to look at you. 

You’ll never understand him and he’ll never understand you. 

All this started because you wanted to give him a stupid gift that you now deeply regret. You thought that if an ounce of kindness could touch his heart then maybe he would show a drop of affection, a mere plop of something that isn’t disappointment towards you.

“I expect you to keep this house in order.” His voice is hard, set in stone, as he shifts his shoulders back to sit up even straighter in his head chair. “You can’t possibly be doing that when you are distracted by irrelevant tasks.”

“You are a stupid old man,” Your glare is fierce as you curse him and mentally curse the Tsaritsa for setting your fate. This is a loveless marriage, a misalliance. How could she have done this to you? 

Pierro’s eyes narrow towards you as he waits for you to finish your tantrum, it ends with a loud slam of his office door. You have, no doubt, retreated to the room you call your ‘own’ despite being forced to share a room with him. The man would lock your door if he could, to keep you out of your room and instead by his side. But, above everything, your husband does deeply care about you and tries to respect your space. 

His affection has since grown for you after he met you, months before he lifted the veil off of your face during your marriage ceremony. Only the Tsaritsa could have blessed him with such a gift, a treasure that he will be sure to spoil until the end of his days. 

No matter how strongly you fight him, how much you resist, his love will never dull. If only his feelings were strong enough to get through to you. 

Later in the evening, Pierro finds you again. He discovers you curled up under your blankets, a pillow hugged to your chest and another pressed against your back. He has no issue ripping the pillow away from you as if the offending piece of furniture was daring to hide you from him. There’s little struggle in the way he picks you up in his arms, scooping his large forearms under your thighs and back to hold you against his chest. 

He doesn’t blink as he walks past stationed Fatui subordinates to your shared bedroom, he doesn’t even flinch when you jolt awake and then sulk in his arms. Without a fight, you let him place you on the right side of the bed before he heads toward the door and locks it. 

While Pierro gets rid of his daily attire, you choose to glare at the duvet. Your frustrations don’t last long when you catch onto his armor now painting the floor. The sensual drop of each article catches your attention quickly and you don’t hide the way you stare. Anger be damned, you want him. 

Your husband has to pretend not to notice your lustful gaze. Somewhere in his chest, his pride surges at the way your eyes run over his tanned skin. He teases you and takes his time with finding his spare clothes for sleep. 

But before the harbinger can even think about getting into bed, you’re already behind him and wrapping your arms around his thick waist. You don’t shy away from your affections as you press your face into his muscular back and dip your hands down towards the front of his pants. 

It’s as if the beloved and feared Tsaritsa knew exactly what she was doing when she paired the two of you together. Through love and hate, she made the perfect match.

Zhongli

“Please get those glaze lilies out of my sight.” The beautiful flower, delicate and pure, reminds you of all the things you are not. You can’t stand to see them paraded in a vase, decorated by your husband as he tends to the flowers more than he has ever tended to you. 

Zhongli freezes at the harsh tone coming from your lips, he turns to you slowly with confusion etched into his features. His hand which was once gently holding onto the petal of the flower falls to his side. 

“I don’t understand.” Although he tries to read you and figure out where you are coming from, he simply can’t. 

“I am tired of those flowers and I hate looking at them.” Resentment pours out of you in buckets, years and years of self-hatred boils over at the mere glance of a petal. You accepted that you would be stuck in a loveless marriage the second the Adepti arranged this misalliance. In their eyes, and all the eyes of the archons, you are nothing more than a tool. Almighty Morax needs to produce offspring, who better to satisfy him than a healthy human?

But, much to your relief (and despair), you’ve never once spent the night with the man yet. Not in all seven years of your marriage have either of you gotten as close as a kiss. There must be another in his heart, someone he cares for but could never have, you’re sure of it.

From the beginning, you accepted that he would never love you or cherish you the way you secretly wish that he would but, that doesn’t mean you can stand to watch how he fawns over fucking glaze lilies. 

“Where is this hostility coming from?” Zhongli rises from the floor, from where he was on his knees tending to his beloved bouquet. Anger courses through your veins and causes the tips of your fingers to shake. How could you ever explain it to him?

“Are you married to those flowers?” Your question makes the archon tilt his head before he glances back at the large vase. 

“I am not.”

“Then why do you touch them more than you touch me?” Through your frustrations, you missed the slight widening of your husband’s eyes. For a mere second, he finally got through to you. “You love those flowers more than you love me!”

If you’re getting this upset because of him, feeling jealousy and envy to the point that it nearly swallows you whole because of him-

“Does this mean that you have feelings for me?” Zhongli calmly looks you over but, he is anything but calm on the inside. Nothing about him right now is rational as he mentally fights back the primal need to have you. He has adored you since the second he laid eyes on you, not that you would ever notice. 

You look absolutely revolted by his question and you try to swat it away with the back of your hand. 

“What?” Nothing about you is prepared for this situation or the way Morax is closing in on you. For each step that your husband takes, you take a step away from him until your back hits the window built into your wall. Zhongli towers over you and braces some of his weight on his hands placed on either side of your head. 

“Do you love me, wife?” He shifts his head forward, tilting his face down so that his hair covers his eyes. You hold your breath. His sharp nose runs along your jaw before guiding your head to tilt back. “Do you acknowledge me as your husband, finally?”

You place your hands flat on his chest to try and push him away but try as you might, Morax does not budge. 

“W-Why would I love you? You don’t even love me?” Your scoff and lies do little to hide how fast your heart is racing, to hide the flustered state you are in. 

“I don’t love you?” He murmurs before his fingers come up to cup your jaw. “You were the one who picked those flowers for our wedding, it is through my love and my love alone that they’ve been preserved for so long.”

“Your love for another.” You confirm with hard eyes and the sight, along with your answer, makes Zhongli click his jaw. He tightly presses his lips together before letting out a quiet and defeated sigh. 

“My love for you.” At long last, the truth is out. The secret Zhongli has cultivated and tended to for years is revealed because of your childish outburst. “Don’t you understand?”

You can’t form any words back as all you do is gape at him like a fish out of water. Zhongli takes the matter into his hands furthermore. His fingers tilt your chin up and force you to look up at him. There’s nothing but pure adoration in his bright eyes. 

“If I may, allow me to show you, dear wife.”

[bruisedboys]

looking after hobie brown with a split lip and an almost black eye and he won’t stop touching you. it’s extremely distracting and you’d tell him so but you’d hate to see the look on his face when you admit he’s flustering you. so you let him be and scrub at the stream of blood trailing from his lip to his chin. you shuffle up his lap (yeah, you’re in his lap, and what about it? he was the one who put you here. he hadn’t given you much of a choice. insisted it was easier to reach and pulled you into him before you could protest) to get a better angle and his fingers press harder into your hips, his grip on you tightening as he tugs you up his lap, somewhat helpfully. you try to ignore the way it makes you feel. the way you’re now practically chest to chest and he can probably hear your heartbeat, it’s so damn loud.

and then, the very tips of his fingers dip underneath the hem of your shirt and brush your warm skin, and you decide you just can’t take it anymore.

“hobie,” you chide, soft and entirely too flustered.

“what?” he says back, dripping with ignorance, and you’d think he was genuinely clueless if you didn’t know him so well. he pushes his hand further up your back, his rough calloused fingers practically burning a mark on your already hot skin.

“quit it”, you say, though you don’t sound very convincing at all.

“quit what, babe?” hobie presses his palm to the small of your back, forcing you ever so closer. you gasp, pressed up against him, your hands braced on his shoulders, but he only smirks knowingly. “m’only helping you out.”

[atlaswav]

CATACLYSMIC ☾

INFO: 5252 words..... dr ratio x fem! reader SYNOPSIS: You hate him, of that you're certain. You hate the man behind the alabaster figurehead, and you want to see him unravelled, but you don't know exactly what you do to him. WARNINGS: um alcohol and one kiss. also some swearing but mostly fine AUTHOR'S NOTE: rising from the grave to bring to you this thing i found this in my drafts from who knows how long when I was obsessed with this man (still am). someone help. i can no longer write this much for one fic. what was i on.

Veritas Ratio made it no secret that he despised those who lived in ignorance. He openly shunned those who were stupid enough to turn their eyes from knowledge – they’d be beggars in due time. They didn’t know how the world was governed, and ignorant fools would play victim to fate’s cruel touch.

With this philosophy of his, you often wondered whether or not his ivory figurehead would soon burst with the tumultuous storm of the man’s self importance. You wondered what would lie underneath. Surely, the divine makers would’ve allowed balance in his creation – surely, his face was horribly disfigured in exchange for such otherworldly intelligence. 

He was both delightfully astute and horrendously ill mannered at once. Brighter than your entire class combined – your entire university combined, no doubt – but his pretentiousness was overflowing, and you believed he was in dire need of being put in his place.

Arrogant and pretentious were two of the words that came to mind when someone mentioned Dr. Ratio, and you were sure you weren’t the only one who refused to worship his word like the gospel. In turn, he seemed to despise your very existence, as if you were merely a faded annotation in the footnotes of an ancient epic. Vandalising a work of art. A moustache on the Mona Lisa. Circe in the Odyssey, if she’d welcomed sailors with open arms, allowing them to degrade her as they would a common concubine, not a descendant of the gods.

Yet instead of sharing the witch’s beguiling, seductive nature, you only shared her mortal voice. Thin, reedy, quiet, compared to the booming voices of gods. The voice of Veritas Ratio. Your achievements could only pale in comparison to his, and it took everything within you to clap politely as he received his third – fourth? (you weren’t intent on keeping track) – diploma.

God you hated that man. You’d muttered as much under your breath countless times.

“Dr. Ratio is fine. No need to worship me.” he’d once corrected. But the attempt at humour was lost on you as your classmates began to laugh. The divine makers likely brought him into existence just to spite you. Oftentimes, you fought your urges to hurl the nearest textbook at his caricature head and watch the plaster crack, fall to the floor, and reveal his disfigured face. 

Not that you’d seen it before – lingered around him enough to see it disappear.

His scorn held no favourites, and certainly not when it came to you. He’d openly dragged your work through the dirt a couple of times before, and it was only a matter of time before he did it again. His words were scalding, leaving burns across your thin skin and leaving your mouth tasting of ash. Your voice, faint and human, fell quiet at his ‘gospel’. 

If it weren’t obvious, the hatred was mutual. He’d never admit it outright – he was far beyond these meaningless, trivial things such as immature hatred – but you felt his scathing glare in your soul, even through that perturbing headpiece, and that was enough. 

“Have you found it?” 

You turn around, meeting the cold, blank, unseeing gaze of his caricature head behind you. It was disconcerting to say the very least, but no one else had asked him about it, so you never pushed him further. None wanted to invoke his wrath, no matter what circumstance. It was a miracle neither of you had exploded at each other yet, but you suspected that he’d gladly put aside any type of loathing he harboured for you so that this project would get done faster. 

You were happy to oblige as he took the lead. A free credit was a free credit. But you did have your limits.

“Nope. The text is ancient. I doubt this library has it.”

“Nonsense.” he clicked his tongue, glancing to the side. “I’m asking the professor. Go work on your part.”

Patience is a virtue, as you keep reminding yourself. 

“Sure. Let me know if you find anything.” you say instead of the retort that sits on your tongue. False niceties and biting, underhanded remarks. This charade was entertaining, at the very least.

How did everyone love him? There had to be people like you who shared your dislike towards that conceited scholar. With a long suffering groan, you took a seat at one of the plethora of tables in the university’s library, clicked your pen and began to write. 

Maybe the reason he despised you so was because of your ideas, arguably the opposite of his own way of thinking. Where his twisted logic, rearranged rationality and pulled apart natural reasoning to formulate new material, you cut and stitched the work of others together to create your own emulations. (Frankenstein's monster. Was that a cliche? For Ratio, it probably was.)

He’d likely scrap what you’d written as soon as he returned, but that didn’t stop you from trying to spite him anyway. You hoped your readings wouldn’t go to waste as you recorded your findings, then started to draft an outline for your project. 

The scratch of paper became white nose, your hand struggling to keep up with the pace of your mind – was it even worth it? He’d likely call it worthless, snatch it from you and throw it into the recycling bin, then start writing his own outline. It only angered you further as you frowned at the page, wondering how he’d approach the project. 

The thump of a heavy tome on the wooden desk snapped you out of your sombre thoughts. 

“Here.” Ratio took a seat at the chair opposite of yours, brushing the dust off the thick text, leafing through its yellowed pages. “I told you they’d have it. You just need to search better.”

You offer him a tight smile. “Noted.” More false niceties, more flat remarks.

Then the figurehead disappears in a blink, and you nearly drop your pen. He barely pays you any mind as he runs a hand through his hair, flipping through the text. You’d heard the rumours of the handsome face beneath the statue, but you’d never have imagined him to be so disgustingly perfect. 

Statuesque. 

His deep violet locks looked unbelievably soft. His crimson eyes showed laser focus as he scanned the text in front of him, ignoring you completely as he noted something down. After a brief silence where you skim over your outline and he presumably attempts to decipher the undeniably unreadable and ancient text which you were opposed to reading in the first place, he turns to you with a sigh. “What did you do while I was gone?”

“I wrote an outline.” you hand the papers to him begrudgingly, fidgeting with the pen in your hand. You don’t meet his gaze, afraid that his calculating gaze might see too far into your soul. 

“This?” his distaste seeps through his tone. You don’t need to look at his face to know that he’s frowning. 

You say nothing as he skims through your work, twirling your pen between your fingers.

“...It’s not the worst thing I've ever read.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. 

“It’s not good, either.”

You scowl at him. 

“I can salvage it.” he nonchalantly throws it back onto the table, returning to the text at hand. 

You want to shove his grotesquely perfect face into the book. He really was put on this earth to spite you.

“Don’t just sit there. Go look for texts on criticism of our stance.”

You don’t know how you’re going to find the patience to survive this project. If anything, it irked you further to find that there wasn’t some monstrosity hidden behind that figurehead. In everything he did, he seemed to be inventing new ways to get on your nerves. However, unbeknownst to you, Veritas Ratio held you higher than you gave yourself credit for. He believed your ideas to be invigorating. Refreshing, almost. A welcome reprieve from the same reiterated, chewed, swallowed and regurgitated approaches that your other classmates had. 

You weren’t like the rest of the mindless, studying machines at the university. You could be brilliant, and it annoyed him that you didn’t know this. He’d admitted as much to himself before, but he’d never tell you. But it was still not good enough for his standards – far better than what the imbeciles in your class could’ve come up with – but still far behind him. Or so he kept telling himself. 

Days passed by without a word from either of you. You were content to write your part in the solitude of your dorm, and he seemed perfectly content mulling over whatever he’d found in that indecipherable ancient text. By the time you’d nearly finished your part, he decided to meet with you once again to share your findings. 

His definition of deciding to meet with you meant simply cornering you after class and asking you to follow him. 

You started to protest, but he’d already turned and briskly walked out of the classroom, so you groaned and followed after him, winding up in the library again. This time, in a secluded corner with the late afternoon sun pouring through the window, illuminating the small table and workspace with a warm glow. 

You wondered how he wasn’t winded after trekking across the entire campus. You certainly were. His muscled build suggested that a mere leisurely walk couldn’t possibly have tired him out. What did he eat? Was he what Nietzsche had in mind when he wrote of the Superman? 

“What are you doing? Sit.” he gestures to the seat across from him, and you sink into the armchair, taking out your papers. His headpiece disappears once again, and your breath catches in your throat. 

His hair cast a faint shadow across his face, and his eyes seemed to glow. As you leaned in closer, you realised there was a thin ring of gold around his pupils. 

“Are you done with your part?” he demands, breaking you out of your trance. 

You silently hand over your drafts, watching his eyes flit across your paper. His eyebrows furrow slightly, eyes narrowing, but he remains quiet. Were his eyelashes always this long? They created an indistinct shadow on his cheeks. His skin was pale, fair. Not the sickly kind of pale you thought he’d be. Did he exercise? You wouldn’t be surprised, with all your classmates always fawning over his broad, strong chest and narrower waist. 

Was it your imagination, or were his cheeks slightly flushed? It might have been the light. 

“It’s deplorable.”

Your heart sinks in your chest as you sit back against the armchair. 

“Your ideas are rudimentary. Have you been reading at all?” he sighs, holding his head in his hand. “No matter. I can fix it. I don’t need you to do anything anymore. You can go.”

You stay seated in shock, unable to move. You’ve heard the anecdotes of people crying over being scolded by him, but was he always this harsh? 

“You know it’s a group project, right?” you begin before your better judgement can decide against it, “My work is just as important as yours, it doesn’t matter if you think my work is ‘deplorable’. I’m in the same class, I take the same course, I learn the same things as you do, you don’t get to look down on me no matter how stupidly smart you are.”

He raises an eyebrow, unamused. “Why not?”

“Take that stick out of your ass, Veritas Ratio. Get off your high horse.” you snatch your papers out of his hands and take your leave, ignoring his calls of your name. 

Were you dramatic? Yes, but not without reason. Given Ratio’s reputation for prioritising academics over everything else, you suspected that it wouldn’t take long for him to find you, either. 

You were so wrong. 

More days passed with no contact. He didn’t seem to be affected by your dramatics, and never once batted an eye in your direction unless necessary. It seemed your hypothesis of him inventing new ways to get on your nerves was on the track of being proved correct. But if you didn’t do something within the next few days, you trusted him to turn in the project without your name on the paper, resulting in a zero. 

He was just as stubborn as you, and though you were nothing compared to him in actuality, you were so close to grabbing his face and forcing him to look at you for who you were.

Seemingly, even in the battle of wits, he seemed to emerge victorious. 

“Ratio.” 

He barely glances up, engrossed in his writing. “What?”

“Are you done with the project?” Biting the bullet stings your teeth and left a bitter taste on your tongue. 

“No. Not yet. Why? You’re finally going to help?”

“Are you going to stop looking down at me?” 

The library is nearly empty. The sun is barely a sliver on the horizon, and the voices of students float down the corridor beyond the grand stacks of books, yet you’re here. Why do you bother? Are you really that desperate for his validation?

“Are you going to keep writing such reprehensible work?”

You glare at him. “Guess not.” you turn on your heel.

“You’re absolutely infuriating.” he sighs, leaning back in the armchair. “You’re not aware of what you can do, are you?”

You glare at him. Your chest stings. 

He looks at you, then. Truly. His complexion relaxes, and he rubs his temples. “Sit. Let’s go through your part.”

“Why?”

“I mulled it over. Your part is brilliant.”

Your eyes widen.

“But your expression and research is appalling. Have you learned how to write academically at all?”

You’d never simultaneously wanted to slap and kiss a man at once until today. “What happened to getting off your high horse?”

“I got off it. Now sit and listen, I won’t repeat myself.”

You supposed that was the closest to an apology he’d ever give you, so you sat. It pained you, but you did. Besides, he had called you brilliant – your part – but still, you couldn’t force the smile from your face as you listened to his instruction. 

“Your ideas in your introduction are well formed, but from there, it all goes downhill. You have to reorder your logic for it to make sense, and we will be deducted points if you don’t elaborate on the principles of your concept first.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “So how would you do it?”

“For one, I’d restart completely and get straight to the point.”

You sigh exasperatedly. “Show me, then, if you’re so good.”

His eyes narrow at you, but he says nothing as he motions for you to come closer. 

The librarian was likely too scared to kick either of you out after closing time. Your arguments were heard by all of your neighbouring desks, and whenever there was a break in conversation, it seemed as if everyone held their breath. There was pin drop silence except for the two of you – but neither of you realised it. 

He was blunt, and had no idea what you were thinking, but perhaps this is what entrapped him. 

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about how he had called your ideas brilliant. 

You quickly learn how good of a teacher he is. Maybe it’s his forced patience or once-in-a-millenium genuine praise that spurs your decision, but you find yourself so willing to prove yourself, and he finds himself willing to help. 

Maybe this wasn’t so bad. 

“Just fix it, stop arguing with me. I’m right.”

“Why? Do you know every single thing about our topic?”

“No, but I have four degrees and more experience than you.”

“Jackass.”

“Change it.”

You grumbled another insult under your breath, yawning as you scribbled out the section you wrote and began to reword your thoughts. The sudden quietude was jarring, and as you looked around, you realised the overhead lights were off, the only source of light from the lamps illuminating the desks. 

“Is everyone gone?” you ask, sitting up straight and stretching. 

“Who cares? Finish up, then we can head back.”

“Fuck you, give me a break. I don’t write at the pace of a robot.”

“Then learn.”

“Fuck you too Veritas Ratio.”

“Expand your vocabulary while you’re at it.”

“Why are you so intent on irritating me?”

“You get irritated easily. Not my problem.”

“If you know I get irritated easily, why do you keep provoking me then? Do you want me to hate you more?”

He seems to pause. Minisculely, almost unnoticeable had your gaze not been trained on him for the past few hours. He had a habit of pausing and furrowing his brows when you said something slightly out of line. 

“Just finish the paper. You talk too much.”

You sigh and get back to work as he leafs through his own research. 

Amicable silence passes. The night is alive outside, gleaming and glistening with the touch of benevolent gods and whispers of long gone wishes – pearls stitched by fate’s knowing hands. 

“I’m done.”

“Show me.”

You pass the paper to him as you watch his expression carefully. 

Crimson eyes flit across your work, gold ringed irises flickering in the scarce light. If you could capture the way the light reflected in his eyes in a jar, you think wishfully that you’d stare at it forever; Until the light died out, or it decided to escape the ephemeral glass confines. 

But you’d never admit it out loud. It was wishful. If Veritas Ratio could read minds, he would undoubtedly reprimand you.

He clears his throat, and you snap to attention, swatting away your fantasies of stealing and bottling evasive light. 

“It’s good.”

You wait for him to speak further, but he says nothing. “Just good?”

“Well, by my standards, no, but for you, it’s good.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean,” he leans on the table, forearms flexing. “That you’re finally starting to live up to your potential.”

“Huh?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“What potential?”

He shakes his head absently, almost in disbelief. Forget light, you’d barter with the lady of fate to let you preserve this moment in a frame so that you could glimpse this expression forever. You’d never seen him so dumbfounded and awed at once – you doubt anyone ever has. He’d always been a man of knowing, and whatever he didn’t know, he would find out. Nothing was ever a “maybe,” or a “probably,” it was always absolute. It had to be absolute in his philosophy. 

You happened to be the one exception. 

“You’re not aware of the potential you have?”

“You think I have potential?”

“Aeons,” he murmurs under his breath, before standing and gathering his belongings. “I’m going to bed. See you in class tomorrow. We’ll finish up then.”

He leaves before you have the chance to question him, but as you slump back in your armchair, you can’t help but smile. 

Potential was as close as you’d ever get to a compliment from Veritas. 

—

The lady of fortune and lady Themis looked him in the eyes and saw their mortal emanator at his birth. He’d never been certain what he was made for, but he never let it burden him. Things like these weren’t made for him to ponder, that was up to the dreamers and inventors. 

He was a being of logic. A doctor of calculations and reason, and everyone knew him as such. 

But he simply couldn’t figure out what it was about you – your naive gaze or that pout that absently curved your lips – that had your words and scent and eyes lingering in his mind like a vengeful phantom. 

You were the being of all chaos and irrationality, but you were so bright. Unhoned, rough and unhewn. A gemstone shining with impurities but shining still, casting a beautiful mosaic cast across the ground with indecipherable shapes and patterns. 

It was deplorable. He hated you for being on his mind, and hated you even more for your wasted potential. He hated how you stared, how his cheeks would redden from the intensity of your gaze, and how he’d have to pretend he was unfazed, because he couldn’t afford any distractions. 

You were the being of his undoing, he was sure. You were brought into existence to spite him, to bring an unaccounted variable into the equation of his being, and present a causality dilemma for all he was. 

He wanted you gone, but he wanted you closer all at once. 

He hated it. 

It wasn’t common for him to sleep in either, so when he woke five minutes before class was supposed to start, he cursed you with all the spite in his heart and rushed to class, clutching papers from the night before, still imbued with traces of your lingering fragrance. Just how long had you pored over those papers for your smell to latch to them? It should be impossible. Fate was clearly against him. 

Fate brought you back together as he entered the brimming lecture hall, and the only vacant seat was the one next to you. 

“Did you get the papers in order?” you asked, glancing at his dishevelled state. The Dr Ratio you knew was never dishevelled, but this was the closest you’d ever seen him to it. 

“Yes. Just write your name on your bits and sign the sign off sheet and it’s complete.”

You take the paper from him, scrawling your name across your work, then handing it back. 

With your project finally submitted, you could breathe easy again – never endure his biting remarks and criticism again. 

But as the class progressed, you realised you were in trouble. 

The professor was merciless. He flicked through the presentation on the new topic with haste, rushing through new concepts, formulae and calculations with record speeds. You’d nudged Ratio, whispering for help, but he rolled his eyes and kept his stare attentively on the presentation. 

You wanted to slap him. 

Was he tolerating you because of the project? Was he going back to cold stares and dismissive glances?

You wouldn’t allow it. Not when you were so close to discovering the man behind the alabaster figurehead. As soon as the professor signalled the end of the lecture, a collective sigh was released from the class. 

You turned to Ratio, and he was already staring at you. 

“What was it you wanted to say?”

“Tutor me please.”

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“Because you’re smart.”

“Pick someone else, then. I don’t see why I should.”

“You asshole, I’ll buy you lunch if you tutor me.”

He frowns at you as he begins to leave. You trail after him. “Please?”

He sighs deeply. Like a man burdened with the weight of his own world on his shoulders. Byron’s brooding, romantic hero, in his melodramatic glory. “Fine. Stop annoying me.”

You smile. “Thanks. Meet you at your dorm after dinner?”

He sighs again. “ Don’t be late or I'll lock the door and go to bed.”

He watched the seconds tick by in agonising motion – a man awaiting his sentence, but also his reprieve. Is this what his classmates felt before they took tests? It certainly seemed like it. Relief was on the horizon, and yet great suffering was imminent. He’d never known the feeling until now.

But as they say, the harder the rain, the sweeter the sun, and he wasn’t about to relinquish his quest to decipher you. 

It seemed mutual as he paced in front of his front door, having eaten dinner at the cafeteria early to mentally prepare himself. 

When your knock finally sounded at his door, he sighed, checked his watch, then reluctantly opened the door. 

You were a picture to behold. 

Hair slightly damp from a shower, drowning in loose, oversized clothing. It was all painfully domestic to see you walk through his doorway, scanning his living space. In the back of his mind, he thought it felt right, but he shook his head. 

You were messing with him again. 

Two could play that game. 

“Take a seat.” He pulled out a stool from his kitchen island. “Want a drink?”

“What, like alcohol?” you huffed. 

“Are you an alcoholic?”

“Only if you want me to be.” you shrug, setting down your notes on the bench.

He sighs exasperatedly, already berating himself for agreeing to this. He never agreed to tutor anyone. Why were you the exception? You shouldn’t be. 

His hypothesis: you were trying to get something out of him. A way to cheat the class, his academic favour, something hedonistic, even. It seemed plausible enough, but you listened intently as he explained the concepts the professor spoke of in the lecture, asking questions and actively engaging with his explanation. 

It didn’t seem like there was any ulterior motive. So why was he letting you break his rules and defy his nature?

“God, why didn't the prof explain it during that lesson? Everyone struggled.”

“You’re not smart enough to understand his concise methods, then.” he huffed. 

“You’re too smart.”

“You’re not smart enough.”

“Smart ass,”

“Get back to work. You did that question wrong, by the way.”

You groaned. “Where?”

He was so caught up in your quarrels that he didn’t notice the time grinding away at the pestle. It was nearly midnight when you’d finally caught up with that day’s classwork, and he sighed in relief. 

“You understand?”

“Yes. You don’t have to worry now.”

“I won’t. Now get out.”

“No drink?” you frowned, pretending to sulk at his expense. He simply stared at you, getting up from his stool and walking to the fridge. 

Remarkably, he pulled out two beers. 

“Don’t speak. If you do, I'll regret allowing you over again.”

A smile befell your lips. “I’m not saying anything.”

“I don’t like the look on your face.”

“Wipe it off then.”

A frown.  His new hypothesis: you were trying to seduce him for better grades, more tutoring sessions, or for his own downfall. 

“Drink and leave.”

“If you say so.” you take the chilled bottle and drink. He watches your throat move, and he thinks of himself as pathetic as he drinks as well, wincing at the bitterness. 

“Do you live by yourself?” you ask, head propped onto your hand. 

“I do.”

“Are you lonely or something?”

“No, people are irritating.” Like you.

“What a ray of sunshine you are.” You’re not much better.

“I don’t have to put up with any idiocy.”

“If you say so.”

Quiet passes as beer fizzes in the bottles, golden liquid sloshing at the sides of the glass. 

One thing you learn that night is that Veritas Ratio, the famed multiple time valedictorian of your university, is an extreme lightweight. His cheeks become red quicker than you can finish your bottle, and he starts to grumble nonsense under his breath. 

“You’re really smart, you know?” he suddenly says after mumbling something about quantum physics.

“What was that?” 

“You’re really smart. Really smart. Impressive.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you idiot, how many times do I have to repeat myself?” he leans on the bench, not entirely aware of his surroundings as he does so.  He squints at the ground. 

He’s a cute drunk, you realise begrudgingly.

“Thanks, Veritas. You’re smart too.”

“I know.” he drinks from his bottle again, swirling the dregs. “But I can’t figure you out.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“Do you hate me?”

You hesitate for a moment. “Yes.”

“Then why are you like this?”

Your eyebrows raise. 

“You’re making me irrational. I can’t figure it out.”

“...Sorry?”

“You should be. You know, I was nearly late to class today because of you. You kept me awake.”

“Really?”

“I couldn’t stop thinking. Thoughts. And things.”

You laugh at his predicament, draining your beer and gathering your things. Trying to leave before he said anything that could turn the encounter south. 

“Wait. Don’t go.” he slams his palm onto your notes, determination in his eyes. 

“I need to go to bed.” you say as if scolding a child.

“I need to figure you out. You’re still an enigma to me. The anomaly of my behaviour. Is this your intention?”

“What are you talking about? You’re drunk.”

“I can think. I can move. I can see fine. I’m not drunk. Answer me.”

“Maybe I'm just so mesmerising to you.” you joke, but his brows furrowed in thought. 

“Maybe.” he retracts his hand from your notes, and you stow them away into your bag, slinging it onto your shoulder before he can do anything else. 

As you’re halfway to the door, he pushes you against the wall. 

You never realised how tall he was until then. How much of a height difference you had, or how muscular he was. He had to have worked out on a daily basis. The pungent smell of alcohol lingered on his breath, and his cheeks were tainted with deep red as he searched your gaze. 

You decide he’s officially lost his mind, but who were you to complain?

“Are you mesmerising?” he whispers, eyes trailing down your face, examining and analysing, his hand tracing down your body with those slender scholar’s hands.

“You tell me.”

Then he grabs your face and mashes your lips together. The kiss is rough, biting and rushed. You freeze for a sliver of a second before returning it, letting him decide your allure with his own devices. 

He pulls away almost too fast, lips kiss bitten, breath fast. 

“You’re a siren.”

“Am I?”

“You’re going to ruin me.”

“What a weak man you are, if it only takes one woman to ruin you.”

“I hate you.”

“Really?”

“I hate it because I’d probably let you.”

“Are you a masochist?”

“Not in my right mind. I’ll wake up and regret everything, but it’ll all be the same, fundamentally.”

“So what’s your conclusion?”

He still has you pushed against the wall, caged within himself. “You were put into this world to bring about my destruction.”

“How? Why?”

“You’re my opposite. Brash, naive, carefree.”

“Are you normally this analytical of people?”

“No, which supports my point.”

“I see. So you’re going to let me ruin your image?”

“No. I hate you for it.”

“Let me go then.”

He wordlessly steps away, and you stumble to the door. 

“So what are we?” you ask, turned away from him. You can’t see the way he drinks in your visage like a starving man, and the small, sober part of him is grateful for it. 

“Polar opposites.”

“I mean who am I to you?”

He’s silent for a while, so you turn back to him to find him leaning on the wall, gazing into space. 

“Veritas?”

“You’re my undoing. A catalyst, maybe, for my downfall. But there must be balance, right? So what are you?”

“What am I?”

“I don’t know.”

You knew then that he was beyond reason. Was this what you did to him? You took some sadistic pride in seeing a man such as himself reduced to a mumbling, questioning, incoherent mess. You were somewhat pleased with the effect you had on him., but you could never let him know this. 

He crumpled to the floor, back to the wall, clutching his head in his hands. “I’ll figure you out.”

“Sure you will. Goodnight, Veritas.”

“Night.”

Your smile was brighter than the morning as you left his apartment, embracing the night’s welcoming chill. 

written by @atlaswav , published 15th of July 2024

[rafeandonlyrafe]

obsessive love

words: 2.1k

warnings: 18+ only!!!, smut!!!, MURDER!!!, SERIAL KILLER!RAFE, PSYCHO!RAFE but sweet with reader, best friends to lover, DESCRIPTIONS OF BLOOD AND STABBING, physical violence, psycho!reader as well!, romanticization/sexualization of murder?, mentions of stalking (in the past), road head, blowjob, p in v sex, semi public sex, rafe beating up your dates tehe, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT (advisement to take caution and heed warnings! ty)

rafe is only half paying attention as the movie plays out on the screen. he’s far more focused on the way you’re tucked into him, squealing every time a jumpscare happens and ducking your head into his chest with a wide smile on your face.

it’s not unusual for you to get touchy with him, to cuddle in bed after a day together or hold hands when in a crowd. but lately rafe has found it difficult to not take things further. he has loved you since first grade. not had a crush on like some people like to say. no, rafe only knows deep, obsessive love for you.

it’s why you barely dated anyone high school, rafe was always there to beat your date up and make sure they didn’t reveal it was him. afterall, you’re his best friend. he just wants you to be happy. happy and with him. no one else deserves you, or can protect you the way he can, go to the extreme lengths rafe will.

rafe realized he was in deep shit when he was stalking one of your dates that he wasn’t able to get to. he dropped you off on your front porch and had the audacity to kiss you. rafe exploded the second you were inside. you found your date a bleeding and bruised pulp still on your doorstep the next morning.

“its not even that scary.” rafe chuckles, teasing you as you grip onto his forearm.

“yes it is!” you love getting scared. it’s what you often say is your worst feature. you may scream your head off at horror movies, but you’ll still drag rafe along to haunted houses come halloween and stay up late binging your favorite thrillers with a smile on your face despite the chills down your spine.

rafe forces himself to pay attention to the last couple minutes of the movie. its entertaining enough to distract him from wanting to pull you closer to him, to never let you go, to always keep you by his side where you're safe and happy.

an idea forms in rafes head as he watches the two characters finally kill the serial killer that had murdered all of their friends and tried to go after them. he watches the way they embrace, relief on their faces as they kiss, bonded together forever from the shared trauma.

rafe smiles as you ask him if he’s up for another movie, purposely navigating you to one involving an in love couple and people getting mysteriously murdered in their small town. rafe knows what he’s going to do to keep you close, to play into your fear and need for him.

--

“holy shit!” you grab the remote, unmuting the tv. you would apologize for using the language in front of wheezie, but she has just a bad of mouth as you do, and very little supervision now that ward is dead and rose fled with what little money she had left.

you both watch the news report on the edge of your seat, the anchor giving details on the recent murder in kildare. it’s a boy you went to school with, but haven’t spoken to since graduation. when the anchor begins to go over details of the murder, you click the tv off.

“hey!” wheezie argues, scrunching her brow as she looks at you, but you just shake your head. “you don’t need to be watching that kind of stuff, wheeze.”

you stand up to find rafe, eyes glancing around nervously, as if whoever murdered the boy could be lurking inside tanneyhill. you don’t realize that the murderer is just the man you want to see.

“rafe, oh my god!” you cry out when you round the corner to find him walking down the hallway. you fling your arms around his shoulders. he’s shocked for only a second before pulling you in, holding you by your waist as the words spill from your mouth, recounting the news to him.

“oh, that’s terrible.” he frowns, hand gliding up and down your back. “you better stay the night tonight, yeah?” he offers. it’s hours away from dark, but you certainly don’t want to venture home after hearing the news.

“yeah, if you don’t mind.” you feel your cheeks blush slightly, knowing you’ll end up sharing a bed with rafe as always.

“i never mind.” he smiles at you.

--

you wrap your arms around yourself as you watch the news report. the third murder in just under a month just took place last night. you lean against rafe, who presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“i can’t believe we knew all three people killed.” they weren’t particular gruesome deaths, most just a couple stabs with a sharp knife and leaving them to bleed out, there was no passion in the murder itself, no torturing or postmortem injuries.

“i know, it’s scary.” rafe is glad you can’t see the smile on his face. you already spent most nights anyways, but now you’re over more and more, only feeling safe when you have rafes arms around you. it makes it a little hard for him to slip away, but he finds the time.

“and not the fun kind of scary.” you pout. “although…” you trail off, almost like you didn’t mean to say it.

“although what?” rafe questions. 

you sit up a little straighter, wiping your hands on your pants. “it’s a little exciting, isn’t it?” you admit. “that makes me sick, doesn’t it?”

rafe shakes his head, pulling away slightly to see your big innocent eyes blinking up at him as you continue to explain. “obviously it’s terrible these people are dead but… god, it’s exhilarating!” your words switch to rambling as you finally get your feelings out. “like the thrill of knowing there’s someone out there killing people, it just makes me feel so alive! as long as i don’t get killed or anyone close to me-”

“i won’t kill you.” rafe says the words to stop your rambling, not even realizing his slip up. “i won’t let you get killed.” he quickly corrects himself.

“i know.” you look rafe up and down. he can tell when your face shifts into one of sheer concentration, mind slowly piecing the puzzle together. rafe needs to do something now before it all comes together.

he could scream or yell for wheezie or… rafe leans in and presses his lips against yours, mouths molding together. you hesitate for a moment before kissing back, much to rafes relief.

“i won’t let you get killed because i love you.” rafe says, hand cupping your jaw to bring you in for another kiss.

“oh, rafe.” you coo, smooching all across his face before landing on his lips again. “i love you too!”

--

it’s harder now that you’re moved in. you went from spending most nights in rafes bed to making tanneyhill your home as well, cuddling and kissing every night until you’re off to sleep.

he doesn’t need to kill as much now anyways, besides he’s got most of the boys from high school who looked at you a little too hard in your shorts for gym class, or said lude things about you when you weren’t around.

you’re well and truly his, but rafe can’t help himself. he loves the way you hide in his arms when a murder happens, how you kiss him deeply and tell him you love him so much, how you’re so glad that something good came out of something terrible and that you’re together now.

rafe waits until you’re fast asleep before slipping his arm out from under you. he grabs the knife from the back of his closet before heading out. he just needs someone. to stab and maim someone. it’s been months since the serial killers last appearance, and people are starting to relax again, including you, even asking if rafe minded if you went out with your girlfriends without him.

rafe does what he needs to do. he doesn’t enjoy the act itself, but he doesn’t dislike the feeling after either. he walks back into the house, knife bloody but wiped off on the victims own clothes as to not drip all over the house as he sneaks in.

his footsteps pause when he sees you standing there, robe wrapped around your shoulders. he knows you see it. he knows you know everything.

“baby, please don’t leave me i-”

“can i come with you next time?” 

“what?” your question shocks rafe, his voice raising before glancing up the stairs to make sure he didn’t wake wheezie.

“next time you kill someone. will you take me with you?” you ask, glancing at the knife, hating the rush you feel over your whole body when seeing it. it’s the last confirmation you needed for what you have been suspecting.

“i-baby, i don’t need to kill anymore. i’ll stop, it was just-”

“no.” you shake your head. “rafe, i don’t care. you can keep doing it. it’s… exciting.” you’re not ashamed this time when admitting it. you used to be worried about the murders but now you know there’s truly no need. rafe would never hurt you.

“okay.” he swallows, stepping closer, glad that you don’t turn away as you accept a kiss pressed to your lips. “okay, i’ll bring you next time.”

--

“shit, that was exciting!” you squeal, smiling as you turn to rafe. “seeing the life drain out of his eyes? and god, you were so hot when you stabbed him!”

“baby, you sound crazy.” rafe chuckles, easily gliding the car around the turns of the backroads, heading back towards home.

“rafe, you are a literal serial killer, i don’t think you should lecture me on sounding crazy.” you giggle, not even tired despite the late hour from all the adrenaline. “and god, you looked so hot stabbing that guy.”

you reach over and run your fingers down his forearm, remembering the way his muscles bulged and stretch when swinging the knife. your hand moves from rubbing his arm to his thigh, only pretending that your movements are innocent for a minute before you slide your hand up to his crotch, rubbing at his length, feeling it harden in his pants.

“baby-” rafe groans, eyes flicking between you, your hand, and the road in front of him illuminated by his headlights.

“just keep driving, it's okay.” you unbuckle so you can lean across the center console, lips pressing against his neck, tongue darting out to taste his skin.

you tug at the front of his sweatpants, rafe lifting his hips to assist you as the car engine roars. you grip his cock, teeth running over his jaw teasingly, never biting down as you stroke him eagerly, wanting to thank him for continuing his killing spree, for starting it for you and allowing you to take part.

“let me suck you off.” you gather your hair to one side, fucking your head until you're bent sideways. you hold rafes cock with one hand at his base while your lips sink down around the head, moaning at the familiar taste on your lips.

“fuck.” rafe swerves slightly, glad there's no one else on the road as you suck and lick at him, not caring that you're dripping spit down your chin from your movements.

“lemme pull over baby.” rafe says. he knows how much you like the excitement, the rare possibility someone could drive by, but he needs you hop0ing on his dick.

“fiiiine.” you say dramatically, going right back to sucking him off until rafe pulls on a dirt road. you work your shorts and panties off so the second the car is shifted into park, you swing your legs over to straddle rafe.

“shit, you're so wet.” rafe groans as you rub his cock through your folds.

“i told you.” you smirk at rafe. “you looked so hot killing that guy.”

you sink down before rafe can reply. 

the murders shift from rafe doing them in secret to make you rely on him, to force you closer, to something you do together, you often doing the planning while rafe finishes the task with violence.

you barely get back to the car before you jump on him, needing to feel his fingertips digging into your hips while he fucks ever, even if there are still specks of blood on him.

you know you won't get caught. no one would expect the former troubled teen turned happily domesticated man, raising his little sister after his father's death with his faithful girlfriend, to be the one behind the violence.

you see no reason to stop as rafe wipes his knife clean for what feels like the hundredth time.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @rafeyslove @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart @pradabambie @tobesolovelysstuff @alexiskirkland @rafestar @brioffthegrid @juniebugg @magicalyoura @cokepewpsii @mysticallystilinski @luvdella @aerangi @vogueprincess @auryyz @mayhem-72 @thestarlithideout @marvelfanfics1recs @rafesgiirl @ditzyzombiesblog @chiaraanatra @tobiaslut

[sacharinee]

pranking peter asking him to try not to annoy you today has me crying

pairing: bf!peter parker x reader

w/c: 600

a/n: hiii anon thank u very much for requesting! based on that trend on tiktok :)

you’re feeling mean today.

after waking up so early, you’ve scrolled through countless videos of girls pranking their boyfriends with just a simple line, and seeing their priceless reactions.

and what better use of your time than to prank your ever so lovely boyfriend.

you’re up in the bathroom, washing your face and getting your makeup done for the day when peter walks in to greet you.

“g’morning baby,” he mumbles and wraps an arm around the side of your hip, sloppily kissing the side of your forehead.

you take a look at him through the mirror. he’s got bedhead, his curly hair all messy, shirt wrinkled, and he’s rubbing his squinty eyes from the bright lights. his cute little pout makes your heart skip a beat and you almost feel bad for what you’re about to do. 

“hi petey,” you greet, you’ve got your brush in one hand, blending out the makeup on your skin.

and he’s reaching for his toothbrush, squirting some toothpaste on when he asks you, “d’you sleep good?”

“it was okay,” you respond with a shrug.

“just okay? what happened, y/n/n?" he asks, his voiced laced with concern.

you tap your fingernails on the countertop as you take a deep breath, “look, pete, i have a big day ahead, so can you just try not to annoy me today please?”

peter freezes as his jaw goes slack with the toothbrush in his mouth. his eyes stare up at you in shock and confusion while you’re none the wiser, looking straight ahead, curling your lashes up closely against the mirror, “what’d you say?”

you let out a sigh as you switch out the curler for mascara, “i said, try not to get on my nerves today.”

"today? but the day just started," he's dumbfounded when he looks at you.

you shrug in response, "still. you've been really annoying lately."

you resist from looking at peter. one quick glance and you know you would break.

“oh…” the boy mumbles, looking down at the sink confused, trying so hard to figure out where he went wrong, “m’ sorry.” you feel like a monster.

but when peter steps back to sneak a peek at you, he notices your uncomfortable stance. you’re squeamish, biting your lip, as you avoid eye contact with him. 

his eyes narrow down at your figure, “and how exactly have i annoyed you lately?”

you take a second to think of a example, “just, everything. like right now, when you ruined my makeup or when you’re asking me stupid questions.”

“stupid questions? ruined your makeup? wait, what, you mean when i kissed you good morning??” your boyfriend laughs in amusement. 

“m’ just saying.” 

“huh okay,” peter spits the toothpaste out in the sink, “you wanna talk about silly questions?" he wipes his mouth with a rag and turns towards you, gets up real close to the side of your face.

you pinch your brows towards him, “what are you-”

“who was the one that asked me if italy was in spain?”

“peter-”

“or if milan was in germany?”

“are you ser-”

“or if australia and austria were the same thing?”

“peter!”

“i’m just saying!” he’s mocking you, a smug smirk on his face, and he knows he’s got you.

“yea whatever, einstein,” you bump him out of the way wanting to use the mirror next. you’re crabby your little prank backfired while peter’s having the time of his life, laughing at your embarrassment. 

he stands behind you wrapping his big arms around your front and resting his chin down on your shoulder. he’s got this irritating sardonically sweet smile on his face that makes you wanna kiss or slap it off, you can’t decide. he’s gazing with loving eyes at you’re adorably grumpy pout in the mirror and kissing the side of face, smudging your makeup once more.

“it’s okay baby, you can get on my nerves all you want.”

[florencemtrash]

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Fifteen

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: ANGST... that's about the only major warning I can think of

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Jurian and Vassa took the attic and became scarce, but when night and day slid into one another you still heard her painful screams, muffled as they were by the magic that encased their room. It was a feeling more than anything else. A tension that gripped the House until it seemed to be sobbing. At sunrise and sunset without fail, Vassa’s body broke and rearranged itself, flesh turning to feathers and feathers to flesh. Before it had been a painless process where her body came and went in its various forms, but no longer. Now she felt everything alongside an itch deep within her bones that couldn’t be satiated by food or drink or anything else. 

Go to the lake! Her body screamed. Go to Koschei! And then punished her when she didn’t comply. Like a beast had sunk its claws into her flesh, its waiting mouth only inches away from snapping. To stay away was a slow, agonizing march to death. To move close would be swift, but final, and somehow Vassa knew that if she gave into Koschei’s call, she would be lost forever.

You lingered at the base of the attic's staircase, your bare feet sinking into the soft rug until the sounds of cracking bones finally ceased. Three pairs of feet shuffled above your head and you heard Jurian’s faint whispers like a gentle push of air. When the door opened and Lucien emerged, you saw Vassa crumpled on the floor, now a bone-thin woman with dull, coppery hair and skin ravaged by scratches and pockmarks. 

“Shhhh. It’s ok.” Jurian whispered, encasing her in his arms. 

“I can’t,” her voice trembled. “It hurts. I-I-I’m burning.” 

“Y/n?” Lucien frowned. The door slammed shut with a bang and you jumped backwards. You clutched a velvet pouch close to your chest and then slowly held it out to Lucien. 

“It’s for Vassa,” you explained, trying to keep your eyes on his mismatched ones — one russet as river stones, one gold like the sun. He opened the bag and stared in confusion at the fine, white powder within, giving it a tentative sniff. “Morphine. Humans use it for pain.” 

“I know of it.” Lucien’s frown deepened. “They get addicted. Take too much and they die.” 

“She’s already addicted. That’s what’s happening isn’t it? Koschei’s drawing his power away to get her to return to the lake and every day that passes she’s dying.” Lucien tightened his fists around the bag, still skeptical. Vassa had endured enough. He didn’t want to have her endure this either. “The bag is enchanted and will never allow her to draw too much. Just enough to calm her hunger. If we’re lucky it might help her sleep too.” 

Lucien stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists from around the gold drawstring, waiting for Vassa’s cries to cease. But they never did. And there you were standing in front of him, unwavering and expectant. There was a glimmer of stubbornness in your gaze. A sign of the hours you’d spent researching Vassa’s condition and acquiring the strange human drug, and your disapproval if Lucien didn’t accept it. 

“Thank you, Y/n,” he whispered, “But please go. Vassa hates for anyone to see her like this. Even Jurian and I.” 

You swallowed thickly and nodded, disappearing down the stairs as quickly as you could. The next morning when the sun rose over the mountains and Vassa changed, you heard only the House’s usual breathings. 

The House buckled under the weight of the Inner Circle’s secrets and the sheer volume of history that had occurred within its walls and between its occupants. It utilized its magic in clever ways — your door opened with a creak that wasn’t there before so that Azriel would always hear your comings and goings. Lucien would suddenly find his door locked and the curtains drawn on the days when Helion made surprise visits to see Y/n. Nyx would find himself ushered around by a broomstick that swatted his ankles when the adults were discussing private matters. It was all a great deal of work. 

So it was a relief when Rhys and Feyre quietly moved their children to the House of Wind with Nesta and Cassian, and when Mor and Emerie took the final steps in emptying their rooms and went to hide out in their city apartment. It was even more of a relief when Helion returned to the Day Court, but not before throwing a heavy threat in Azriel’s face that if he should ever hurt his daughter again in any way, shape, or form, he’d strip the wings off his back. 

Meals at the House were tense, quiet affairs, something not even Feyre, Elain, and Nesta’s sisterly conversations or Cassian’s light-hearted humor could ease. Elain stayed close to Lucien’s side, one hand always on his arm or resting against his back or brushing against his, but that didn’t erase what the Blood Duel had done to his trust in Elain. He was kind, but guarded, especially when Azriel was in the room. But it was more than she could ask for because it was more than she’d ever given him in the beginning. 

You and Azriel were worse off.

You were speaking once more, but your words were always laced with a bit of apprehension and Azriel’s were always filled with sorrowful hope. Conversations were dull, short, and didn’t even begin to brush the surface of all the things you should have been talking about. You were terrified not of the Shadowsinger, but of his opinion of you. Did he want you so he could fix you? So that he could feel needed? So that you could be another one in a list of females he burned through? 

It never truly seemed like that was the case, but you also didn’t trust yourself when it came to your emotions. You had told him once that you couldn’t imagine having a love like Feyre and Rhysand’s, or Nesta and Cassian’s, and you still meant it. You were a matchstick and he was flint, and you didn’t know what would happen to you after he had lit you aflame. For all you knew, you were already burning and this wonderful thing you’d had with Azriel would live and die with nothing more than the memory of an embrace in Rhysand’s office to show for it. 

But oh how you ached to touch him again. To hold him like you had before and to have him return the gesture just as strongly. 

You stiffened when Azriel’s hand brushed your arm, warmth bursting out from the point of contact. 

“I’m sorry.” Azriel whispered, and he was talking about more than the wine he spilled when he reached over the table.

You spared him a glance, the first real look you’d given him in two weeks. The flagon slipped from his hands, and if it weren’t for his shadows catching it an inch above the floor, the room would have been doused in burgundy red. 

“Does Lucien know?” 

Rhysand looked up from his papers. Missives from the Darkbringer army and Illyrian troops up north clogged his desk, all begrudgingly accepting his orders to prepare for what could amount to another lengthy war. Letters thrown back and forth between the seven courts added to the chaos, all of them war-weary and desperate for a path that wouldn’t lead to bloodshed. 

You took up the center of his room and stood so quietly he hadn’t even noticed you until you spoke. It had been eating away at you for days since Lucien’s arrival. Every time you two saw one another or spoke, you tried to scrounge for clues that would reveal whether he knew he was Helion’s son and whether he might suspect you were Helion’s daughter as well. The other members of the Inner Circle had been tight-lipped about that secret, a skill you now knew they all possessed with alarming dexterity. 

“Does Lucien know he’s Helion’s son?”

Rhysand slumped back in his chair, rubbing his temples with one careful hand. Finally he said, “Yes.” 

The answer knocked the breath from your lungs. You’d been expecting the opposite. “Does he… does he know about me?” 

Rhys sighed and shook his head. You didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved. 

“How long has he known?” 

“Six years. Feyre was the one to tell him. She was actually the first of us to recognize the similarity, believe it or not. But then, no one ever dared to give weight to the rumors surrounding Helion and Aurelia Vanserra while Beron was alive.”

You rocked back and forth on your feet, breath shaking as it entered your body. “Six years. Six years and you never thought to tell Helion that he has a son? I thought you two were friends?”

Rhysand tensed. “I’m Lucien’s friend as well and he begged us to never speak of it - to live as though we’d never learned that secret. And I keep my secrets. We all do.” 

“You and your family have made that very clear in the time that I’ve been here.” 

“If you mean Azriel—”

“Don’t play dumb, Rhys, you know I’m talking about him.” Tears pricked at your eyes, adding to the humiliation that had coated you like a film ever since you’d seen his memories about Mor, Elain, and Gwyn. “I don’t—” You swallowed thickly, “I can imagine how you must have all been whispering behind my back about Azriel and I. How you must have found it so pathetic the way he charmed me when I was really his fourth choice.”

“That’s not true.” Was what Rhysand was going to say. But he didn’t need to. Azriel said it for him. 

Your face lost all color, any bravado melting away at the feeling of Azriel’s shadows wrapping around your ankles like ribbons of silk. You could feel him in the room and that quiet darkness he carried around with him as inherently as if it were stitched onto his body. 

Azriel was shaking. Shaking. With anger, turmoil, or grief — you couldn’t name it. All you knew is that one moment you were standing in Rhysand’s office, all velvet upholstery and suave, expensive taste, and the next you were in Azriel’s room. 

Everything smelled like mountain air. Maybe it was the gothic windows that stretched into the vaulted ceilings, stained glass opening out onto a personal balcony with deep blue curtains fluttering in the breeze. But you were sure that even with the windows barred it would smell the same. It would smell like Azriel. If you threw open his wardrobe you’d come face to face with a wall of black. Lots and lots of black. Black suits he hardly ever wore. Black fighting leathers. Black leather jackets for everyday. Black trousers. Black boots on the floor. Very practical. Very Azriel. 

If you dug through his dresser drawers you’d find black boxers and socks to match and no shortage of knives and daggers hidden behind wooden planks or in leather sleeves nailed to the bottom of his desk. But at first glance you only saw three weapons in plain view — Truth Teller, blade down and stuck in the wood grain of his desk beside a pile of reports, and two obsidian blades hanging from the wall beside his midnight blue bed in the shape of an “x.” 

The smell — Azriel’s smell — calmed you, at least up to the point where you turned to find him standing less than six inches away, hazel eyes boring into yours. Then your pulse skyrocketed. You were certain that if he only looked down to your heart he’d see it pounding against your chest like a drum skin ready to burst. 

“That’s not true,” he repeated earnestly. “And don’t you dare believe it. Not even for a second.” 

His eyes jumped back and forth between yours and before he could stop himself, his hands were grasping yours in a gentle hold. The leather gloves were soft and supple beneath your fingertips. You wanted to rip them off so you could feel his scarred hands again. 

“You weren’t meant to hear that,” you whispered, suddenly feeling small. That angry humiliation went up in a puff of smoke and left you shy and uncertain. 

Azriel gripped your hands a little tighter and you watched as tendrils of shadow worked their way up your arms and got lost in your hair. “But I did,” he said breathlessly, “And I need you to know that it’s not true.” 

“Azriel—”

“I know—” he was shaking his head, “I know what Helion said and I won’t lie and tell you that I’m perfect or that I’ve made any smart decisions about love in the past — I’ve not make a single one — but… but Y/n you’re not a fourth choice. You’re not something broken that I’m trying to fix or some fantasy I’ve fallen for.”

His hands shook and despite the gloves his hands still felt sticky and wet. Slick with your blood. The burning scent of iron in his nose.

“You’re the most real thing in the world to me. You’re—” You’re my mate. The words crawled up his throat like acid and it just felt wrong. He would say those words to you. He would. But not now. Not like this. He came up with something else. “Y/n, please tell me you believe me. Please.”

And there you were. Falling all over again. Burning like a matchstick on fire. The flames slowly eating away at you bit by bit. You wondered what would happen when you finally hit the ground, or when you ran out of length. Would he still hold you like this? Would you still feel real to him? 

“How am I meant to know, Azriel?” 

You’d always been good at books. You knew the ways in which these stories worked where the themes and plot points had been preordained and written with the purpose of being tied up in a neat package by the final page. People were very different. They were unpredictable and chaotic and they could lie through the skin of their teeth and believe they were telling the truth. And that was the problem wasn’t it? Because you still believed every word that came out of Azriel’s mouth, and his hands still felt like they were keeping you tethered to this earth when sometimes your powers and the memories that came with them made you feel like a whisper on the wind. Weightless and at the mercy of something you couldn’t control. 

“You can trust me. You can know for yourself.” 

He pressed your hand against his cheek and you wanted to cry at the faint pricks of stubble beneath your skin and the sharp curve of his jaw. 

He wanted you to use your power on him. He wanted you to learn all the ways he wanted you. All the ways he loved you.  

But you couldn’t do it. 

Azriel panicked when you remained silent, staring at him and at his hands like you were frightened. All at once he was back on the streets of Velaris, cobblestones shaving away at the skin of his palms as he dragged his way up to you inch by bloody inch, fighting against a body that was too broken to move. 

He couldn’t remember what it felt like when he’d stabbed you through the chest and dropped you on the street. Everything between the moment he saw Andrian’s clear-cut eyes to the moment he saw Rhysand’s horrified gaze was fuzzy and dark. But that made it worse because now in his nightmares he could imagine all the ways he’d hurt you, each version teeming with the same level of horror and possibility as the previous one. 

He let you go and hated himself when you stepped back, your hand slipping away. 

“I won’t… I won’t hurt you again, Y/n. I swear on my life. I’ll-I’ll make a bargain, I don’t care. I would sooner die than let something like that happen again.” 

I don’t know what I’d do with that kind of love. If I’d be able to handle it. It might be too much for me.

“Y/n, please.”

 I am not broken. But I am afraid. 

You fled from his bedroom. 

The air had a bite to it now with winter descending. The snow line on the mountains dipped lower and lower each day, creeping like ivy down a brick wall. 

Elain never wore gloves. Not when she was gardening. It was something she and Ione had in common. She liked the feeling of her strong hands, the callouses on her palms and fingers that she’d earned all on her own. She grunted, slamming her shovel into the soil and feeling the microscopic chips of ice give way when she kicked down on the blade. It was too late in the season to be planting tulip bulbs. If she’d been in Velaris she would have done this four weeks ago. But it was alright with her. She knew the value of hard work, and she had enough hope for the future to believe that even though she was late, she’d have something beautiful to call hers come springtime. 

“It’s time for that conversation I was telling you about,” she said cryptically, as was her way. 

Lucien dropped the final basket beside where Elain now knelt in the dirt, her pale pink dress dirtied and littered with her own handprints. The brown bulbs rolled around like oversized chestnuts, the kind that he’d be roasting over a fire right now if he were still in Autumn Court. Instead he was here, lingering in a Court that had never felt like home. Then again… he’d never felt at home in Autumn, Spring, or the Human Lands either. 

He straightened up and wiped his hands clean on his trousers, golden and russet eyes trailing over the River House’s grounds for this mysterious person he was meant to speak to.

There. 

The faint swishing of black robes behind a dark green topiary tree. He should have known Elain had been talking about you. 

You cracked your knuckles and rehearsed the words you’d scribbled out earlier that day and then set to fire in a maddening loop. You’d been restless with the truth of Lucien’s parentage and you couldn’t believe that the others had held their tongues so readily. As it was, without Azriel’s company to help quiet your mind, you’d dug into this new piece of information like a starving animal and couldn’t let go.

Was this a good time to tell him? Would there ever be a good time to tell him? You had no idea. 

Somewhere in the attic, you knew Vassa was itching to take to the skies like the burning comet she was. Every night she shivered in Jurian’s arms, the morphine barely able to take the edge off the humming in her bones, and every morning she let him lock her away in her cage. It was getting worse and worse trying to keep her from succumbing to Koschei’s influence. Even now you thought you could hear her keen cries whistling from the attic like ten thousand arrows launched into the air. 

Somewhere else, in a secret, hidden place you knew nothing about, Andrian had finally been imprisoned. Andrian with his bent neck and silver, candy-floss hair and bloody little hands. 

You shivered and jumped back five feet when Lucien called your name, kind eyes narrowed in concern. His shirt was loose and open and the sweat on his body rose like mist off his skin. He was his mother’s son first, Helion’s child second, and fire still ran through his veins. The chill did not touch him. 

He tipped his head to the side, red hair spilling out from the messy way he’d tied it up and away from his face. A brutal scar ran through his eye like a fissure, starting at the center of his brow before clawing its way down his jaw like a lightning strike frozen in time. But for all the cruelty he’d been dealt with in life, his eyes were gentle, even the mechanical one that whirred and flashed in the sun. 

They were even kinder when he looked at you. You with your inquisitive gaze and curious nature, like a stray cat that couldn’t help but linger too long at doorways. One foot inside, one foot ready to run and hide. He’d caught you watching him at dinners, and he’d catch himself staring when you walked around the house with a book in your hand, so utterly absorbed that you would bump against doorways and bang your hips against sharp corners. 

“Elain told me about you. Did you know that?” 

You blinked in surprise. “What did she say?”

“Elain… Elain doesn’t always speak clearly. Much of what comes out of her mouth can feel eerie or discomforting. But, she told me before we left for the Night Court that I would be happy I came. That I would never regret the things I learned on my trip.” He tilted his head even further, looking more and more like a fox with each turn of his face. “And she mentioned a bird. A bird with ink-tipped wings and eyes like a crow.” 

You flexed your fingers, well aware that the tips were smudged with ink, the nails bitten down to the quick. 

“Someone clever and cautious who’d been hidden away their whole life and needed to see the sun.” 

You felt stripped bare. That strange vulnerability that comes with being summed up in so few words had you feeling airy. Like one sentence could be enough to carry the weight of the three centuries you’d lived and never buckle. 

“I know you’re Helion’s son. I recognized it the moment I saw you.” 

Lucien stepped back, scarlet brows shooting up into his hair with alarm.

You hesitated, then continued on cautiously. “I recognized it because I would know my father’s face anywhere.” 

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

I KNOW IT'S A CLIFFHANGER ENDING BUT I NEEDED TO BREAK EVERYTHING INTO CHAPTERS SOMEWHERE AND I'M GOING TO TRY AND GET CHAPTER 16 UP BY WEDNESDAY SO I DON'T LEAVE Y'ALL HANGING FOR TOO LONG. HAVE MERCY!!!

The good news is that Chapter 16 is already mostly written, I just need to edit it all to make sure things flow smoothly. Also, LUCIEN KNOWS NOW AHHHHHHHHHHHH

Sorry for the Azriel angst... but it's delicious, no?

[thebiggerbear]

"I hate you." "You have a weird way of showing that." - Dean Winchester Prompt Response

Summary: You and Dean refuse to speak to one another after an argument and Sam has finally had enough.

A/N: Prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting (#941). I loved writing this but I always love it when it comes to Dean. 😊 And of course, I couldn't resist when it came to Sam in the end. Brothers, gotta love 'em. ;)

Thank you to my beta @rieleatiel for her services. You rock, girl!

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader; Dean Winchester x Female!Huntress!Reader

Warnings: mentions of implied sex

Word Count: 1449

Taglist: @avada-kedavra-bitch-187

Dean Taglist: @heartlessdelusions; @nancymcl; @brightlilith

Jensen Taglist: @samanddeaninatrenchcoat; @deansbbyx

"I hate you." "You have a weird way of showing that."

Soldier Boy version ✨ Beau version ✨ Jenny version ✨ Jason version ✨ Tom version ✨ CJ version ✨ Rachel version ✨ Anael version ✨ SDV Leah version ✨ Alec version

Dean snuck a glance at you only to quickly look away when you looked up from your lore book. In return, you snuck a peek at him but pretended you were looking at something else when he lifted his head from one of the hunter’s journals he’d found in storage. 

Sam had watched this infuriating dance happen at least twelve times by now and it was getting on his last nerve. At first, he thought it was hopeful. Then heartbreaking. Now it was just damn aggravating, more so because he knew his older brother was being his usual stubborn self. All he needed to do was come out and apologize already, and Dean knew that yet still refused to budge an inch.

You and Dean had gotten into an argument during the last hunt. He’d been upset that you had taken on three vamps by yourself—something you had done back in your high school days, along with killing other creepy things that slithered out of the dark. You were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, which you had proven multiple times, and you knew when to ask for help. Dean didn’t want to hear it, claiming you could have been killed had he and Sam not been close by. You both dug in your heels no matter what Sam said, and you two were still at an impasse, giving each other the silent treatment. Still, that didn’t stop the longing glances Dean gave you when you weren’t looking, or the sad looks you gave him when he was none the wiser. It was driving Sam nuts. He had never met two people who were so stubborn—aside from his parents, of course—and now that he thought about it, stubborn or not, you and Dean were well-suited for one another.

“You know,” Sam broke the silence. “At some point, you two are going to have to talk to each other again.”

Dean shot him a surreptitious glare. You had no problem offering a withering glare of your own.

“Look,” Sam continued. “Y/N is right, she can take care of herself and if she needs our help, she’ll say something.” At your triumphant smile, Dean’s gaze darkened.

“No one asked you to butt in, Sammy,” he warned.

Sam nearly rolled his eyes. “If I don’t, this won’t get resolved because you both are too hard-headed to make the first move. Y/N,” Your eyes darted over to him. “My idiot brother won’t say it but the reason he got upset is because he’s scared.”

Dean’s free hand clenched into a fist and he gave a subtle shake of his head. Sam ignored him and continued, “He’s scared something is going to happen to you and he won’t be there to stop it. That’s why he freaked out that night. He’s not trying to tell you what to do or be a controlling jerk. He just wants you to be safe, that’s all.”

You bit your lip and turned your attention to Dean, who suddenly seemed very interested in the book in his lap. “Is that true?”

After a moment, he ground out, “Yeah. It’s true.”

You stood up, letting the book in your own lap fall to the ground with a heavy thud, and made your way over to Dean. You ripped the book out of his hands, tossed it to the floor, ignored Sam’s irritation at your carelessness with such old tomes, and crawled into Dean’s lap, his hands instantly coming around you to support you. You wrapped your arms around his neck and leaned down to kiss him. You felt him immediately begin to relax under your touch and only when his lips were completely pliant and moving with yours did you pull back, staring into his green eyes.

“Why couldn’t you just tell me that?”

He slid his hand up your back and to your hair, tenderly rubbing the strands between his fingers. “I don’t know. I just… That vamp had you in a hold and it scared the crap out of me when I couldn’t reach you fast enough. What if he had gotten more of a drop on you? What if—”

You gently placed your fingers against his lips, stopping him from finishing that question. “He didn’t. I killed my first vamp at 12, took out my first nest when I was 16. Hunting’s in my blood just as much as it is yours. I know what I’m doing.” You ran your fingers through his hair reassuringly, scratching at his scalp, and watched him lean into the touch. “But if you want, we can talk about it. We’ll come up with a plan that makes you feel better and works for both of us. Okay?”

He gave you a dopey smile that melted your heart. The magic touch had worked; the tension from before had finally lifted. “Okay, baby. Sounds good to me.”

You kissed him again, this time with a little more passion. “You know what else sounds good?” You murmured to his lips when you both needed a breath.

Those green eyes you loved so much immediately lit with an all-too familiar fire. “Do tell.”

You leaned in and whispered your plan into his ear, making sure Sam wouldn’t overhear. By the time you pulled back, he was grinning like crazy. Clearing his throat, he helped you off of his lap and back onto your feet as you both turned to face Sam, a mischievous smirk fighting its way onto your face. You knew that would get him going.

“Actually, I just remembered I left the…stove on in the kitchen. And Y/N here has to go call Jody to…give her an update on the case and how it’s going.”

Sam gave you both a look; he wasn’t buying it. You turned and gave the same look to Dean. He really hadn’t come up with anything better than that? “I hate you.”

“You have a weird way of showing that,” he teased, subtly rubbing up against you and smirking. This man was so lucky you loved him.

You shook your head and looked away, your cheeks growing hot. The bastard was turning you on even more and he knew it. It’d been almost two weeks, the longest you’d gone without since — well, since meeting him.

Sam was the one to clear his throat this time. “Whatever. Happy you both are talking to one another again. Now, go do what you’re going to do but just not in front of me, please. Okay? And you’re welcome.”

Dean shot Sam a look but he was too happy to care what Sam was intimating about his being the one who settled things between the two of you. He gave his younger brother a wide smile. “If you need us, we’ll be…” He trailed off, gesturing to the hallway that led to the rooms.

“Oh my God,” you muttered in embarrassment as you grabbed his hand and pulled him after you.

“Oh, hey!” Sam yelled. “Keep out of my room this time, Dean. I mean it!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean called back.

You had just turned the corner when Dean immediately had you up against the wall, kissing you passionately and picking you up, prompting you to wrap your legs around his waist. When you pulled back for air, your brow furrowed in confusion at seeing Dean move past his door. “Dean,” you panted. “Where are you going? You just passed your room.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled.

“Okay, then where are you taking me?”

His smirk was so wicked you knew what the answer was before he said it. “Sammy’s room.”

“Dean, are you kidding me? No!”

“Relax, we won’t be in there long.”

“You know how upset he was last time and he just said—”

Dean came to a stop and kissed the crap out of you, effectively silencing you. You may have been a little dazed when he finally let you get some air. “He’s got the better bed and I want the very best for you, baby.” He then gave you a salacious smirk and leaned in. “Plus I know how much you love that headboard.”

He waggled his eyebrows at you as certain memories replayed in your mind. You were able to hold onto that headboard for a long time, it held you up well, and same for Dean…oh shit. Sorry, Sam.

“What are you waiting for?” You bit out impatiently, slipping your tongue into his mouth and swallowing his chuckle. As he walked you into Sam’s room, shutting and locking the door behind him, you made a mental note to later google the hell out of this headboard and find one for Dean’s bed.

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[sttoru]

satoru hums a tune as he adjusts his sunglasses — putting them on the top of his head. he’s in a happy mood today; nothing or no one could wipe that big grin off his face. the reason?

“. . . gojo, hurry up.” megumi calls out whilst idly standing at the foot of the staircase that connected to the roads outside campus.

you smile as you see your lover gleefully walk down the stairs — jumping from one to the other. satoru’s smile was one you wish would never fade. ever.

“oh!” the white-haired sorcerer suddenly stops in his tracks. his sparkling eyes take in the sight before him and his heart skipped a beat at the realisation:

two of his favourite people were standing next to each other. waiting for him so they could go on their little (family) trip. satoru just had to capture this moment and put it in the album that’s dedicated to the both of you. it’s a must in his eyes.

“megumiiii,” satoru fishes his phone out of his pocket and puts it in landscape mode, tongue peeking out at the corner of his lips to show just how deeply he was concentrating on getting the perfect shot, “step a bit closer—yep! jus’ like that!”

“can we not do this? we’re gonna miss the train and—” megumi starts off with a sigh and a faint embarrassed pout, though was quickly cut off as you pulled him closer to your body — coddling him like he was still the little child satoru and you had met a couple years back.

the blue haired boy sighs once again, however eventually gives in and awkwardly puts up a peace sign. you smile brightly in return and satoru was absolutely cheesing behind his phone.

“awwww, how adorable!” satoru grins once he has taken about twenty different pictures — each one special and a treasure he will forever cherish. after putting the best one as his phone’s new lock screen, he rushes down the stairs and steps in-between megumi and you.

one arm holds your body close to his by the waist, the other arm wraps around megumi’s shoulders. megumi reluctantly allows it since he didn’t want to ruin the light-hearted atmosphere. that fact alone makes satoru even happier;

“let’s go — i can’t wait to finally spend some quality time with two of my favourite people, hehe.”

[doomsdaybby]

i’ve been plagued by the thought of steve cumming in your underwear and making you wear them for the rest of the day. so of course I had to write it 🤭🫶🏻 [1.7k words]

You had a bad habit of interrupting Steve at work. Not like Family Video had him rushed off his feet or bending over backwards, but he seemed to always point it out anyways.

“You’re gonna get me fired one day,” he’d jab under his breath, loaded with that honeysuckle sweetness that could make your teeth rot, not a hint of malice behind the words.

“Doesn’t sound too bad to me” you fired back, leaning over the counter with your chin propped up in one hand, elbows keeping you upright, busying the fingers of your other to twirl innocently through strands of your hair.

Somewhere between the shelves of the horror section, Robin was dry-heaving, having been forced into listening to your flirtatious conversations at least three times a week.

Which is how you ended up in the employee bathroom, Steve’s jeans and boxer shorts pooled around his ankles, your shorts discarded somewhere forgotten on the floor, panties peeled down your legs just enough for Steve’s weeping cock to slip through your slick folds without restriction.

Steve had already made you cum like this once already, having hiked up your leg so the back of your knee sat snugly in the crook of his elbow. A large hand cushioned your lower back, skating down to bruise the fat at the back of your thigh.

Steve had you standing on tip-toe, your hands buried in the hair at the nape of his neck, relying wholly on him to keep you upright. The odd squeak of your sneaker against the tile was the only noise that could be heard over the tangles of panting breaths and heated smother of kisses to exposed skin.

You were a moaning mess, the trust you had in yourself to stay quiet faltering, finding purchase in the juncture of his neck. You pressed hot open-mouthed kisses there, lungs working double time, the top of your ass burning where Steve had you anchored against the ceramic sink.

You would be bruised come morning, you could feel the promise of the blooming purple hues in every rut of Steve’s hips. Though the discomfort was drowned out by the sound of heavy huffing in your ear, his lips were so close he merely needed to whisper, the rhetorics flowing through his teeth with vulgar ease.

“You feeling good? I know, my girl, I know. You can’t get enough can you?”

Steve chuckled something wicked when a rather rough buck of his hips knocked your strained legs further apart, his bulging shaft running in and out of your slit at a pace that had you dripping down your thigh.

“God, Steve. Steve, please. Steeeve.” His name came out tightly strung, your pitchy mewls causing his cock to twitch at your entrance, dipping the head in just the tiniest amount, the lewd slip of your arousal making it far too fucking easy for him.

Steve could fuck you raw right here in the employee bathroom, but he couldn’t let you get away with being the only tease in this relationship.

How could he let you show up in your shortest shorts and cropped spaghetti strap shirts, making his work day all the more unbearable, just to give you exactly what you were after?

To his dismay, Steve was determined to show you that he had just as much power over you as you had him.

“Ssshhh, baby. You gon - fuck - you gonna get me into trouble, huh?”

Your mouth was then clamped shut, his palm pressing snugly against your lips, and Steve couldn’t help but roll his hips up that tad bit harsher to slide the head of his cock right over the bump of your clit.

“That’s it, pretty girl, gotta stay quiet f’me, okay? I know you can, you’re being so good for me” he cooed, tipping your head back away from the security of his neck to press his plush lips to your forehead, bestowing the gentlest of kisses there.

All you could do was nod your head dumbly, feeling the pull of his lips into a cocky smirk when you did so, glassy eyes rolling into the back of your head. The overstimulation was almost too much, causing tears to collect at the corners of your fluttering lids.

Steve’s breath was hot in your hair, stifled curses passing his kiss-bruised lips that were every so often interrupted by a hiss through the teeth.

You were burning all over, especially so where Steve had his hands on you, a blazing sun beneath each one of his fingertips. Steve was scorching twice as hot, cool waves of shaky exhale escaping your nostrils scattering goose-flesh down his forearm.

“Mmmm, mmm, mmmm” was all you could mumble over and over again behind the restriction of your gag, wiggling your hips to angle them up a little higher, lost in total euphoria when Steve’s cock slid down and the first few inches slipped in.

“Fuuuuck, baby,” he drawled low, sickeningly lustful, “You’re being a greedy fucking girl” Steve released your mouth then, inhaling a broken breath as he moved his hand down to grasp midway up his length, squeezing a little brutal. Your cunt fluttered, aching for him.

“This what you want, huh?” he teased your hole, the head of his cock barely disappearing into where you needed him most. Steve pressed further into you so you were chest to chest, pulling at your hips without mercy.

Forehead to forehead, shiny lips merely inches apart as Steve smirked when your mouth opened in a silent ‘O’, groaning a devilish rattle in his throat when your back arched somewhat grotesque as he slapped the tip against your sodden clit.

“This is what I want” you agreed, in complete mumbling nodding disarray, unable to change the angle of your hips now due to the threatening looming spasm in your calves, wishing that he would just give in already and fuck you like you both wanted.

“Please. Please Steve, I need you. I need you” your begging trailed off into fucked out drawls, air-headed demands dripping from your lips, another orgasm looming on the horizon as promising as the rising sun, cheeks flushed scarlett.

But obviously Steve wasn’t going to let you cum again. That would just be greedy now, wouldn't it?

Steve cursed, hitching your leg up even higher, marking the outline of a red handprint into the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. It took everything in you not to cry out, sobbing because it felt so fucking good. Too good, a shock rolling up into the pit of your stomach at every drag of Steve’s weeping tip over the hood of your clit.

“Gonna paint this pretty pussy, honey. Gonna keep my cum in these little panties f’me, yeah? Keep ‘em on until I can fuck you like you deserve later” Steve grunted, nosing at your hairline.

You watched as Steve hauls himself back, granting you some relief when his weight wasn’t crushing you against the bathroom sink. Both sets of eyes snapped down to where you met, mouths dropped open and heaving as he took his cock fully in his fist, ensuring you remained nice and spread open for him.

Steve flicked his wrist once, twice, three times. Swearing and whining something filthy, taking his bottom lip harshly between his teeth. The neediness in his moans had you squeezing around nothing, and Steve saw the throb of your entrance. That alone was enough to have him keening.

“Fuck, fuck. Oh my god, i’m cumming i’m cumming for you” Steve’s jaw falls slack, eyes squeezing shut in almost pained release.

Just as he promised, Steve’s warm seed spurts just above your clit, flooding down the seam of your slit to puddle at the center of your underwear.

You wrap your arms around his neck again, pulling him into you so you can press sloppy kisses into his neck. Steve is almost wheezing, short-winded and completely drunk on the buzz of his orgasm.

“Such a good girl for me” he laughed quietly, finally releasing your aching leg so he could pull your panties up. The feel of Steve’s release slick in your underwear felt foreign, strange. But you knew that if you didn’t follow through with his orders, you would face the consequences for it later.

Which was both a good and bad thing, but you enjoyed the fizzing giddy warmth that encompassed the space between your ribs when Steve showered you with praise. It was a high you never wanted to come down from.

After some soothing backstrokes, and when you felt secure in the fact that you wouldn’t topple over when Steve no longer held you upright, you both apprehensively filed out of the bathroom.

Your legs were wobbly, though you played it off rather well. Steve was still fixing the wild strands of his locks that were now uncharacteristically out of place when you approached the front of the store.

Back to the counter, arms folded and looking far from impressed, Robin watched as the two of you reappeared, her brow quirking when you adjusted the strap of your shirt.

“You guys are disgusting” Robin tutted, her top lip curling upstairs to bear her top row of teeth, button nose wrinkling in repulsion.

“Can you please refrain from covering any other surfaces in bodily fluids whilst I go on break?”

“Oh my goooddd, Robin!” Steve’s eyebrows sank, drawing his forefinger and thumb across his eyelids to pinch at the bridge of his nose, the tips of his ears dusting the prettiest shade of pink.

She tapped at the non-existent watch on her wrist, “Twenty minutes!! Twenty minutes ago I was supposed to be perusing a Bill’s Deli turkey sandwich!” her gravelly voice cracking slightly under the pressure, “And where were you? Sucking face and becoming parents in the bathroom? Life is good for some!”.

Your cheeks filled with a laugh you couldn’t hold in, between Robin’s blatant abhorrence and Steve keeling over from cringe-induced nausea, you could barely keep it together.

“We’re so sorry, Robs. It won’t happen again.” you assured her through a giggle, rubbing your legs together to feel the now cool collection of cum sitting snugly there, running a comforting hand up Steve’s arm in an attempt to resurrect him from his premature death.

It won’t happen again, will it?

[suicid6-s]

To anyone who writes Naoya smut, please PLEASE DO NOT make this man dom, I want that man to pathetic as possible, crying, begging, tearing his shirt like that one alpha meme

Like this one

[flwrcyt]

𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠.

(contains spoiler from jjk chp270!)

𝗳𝘂𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗴𝘂𝗿𝗼 𝗺𝗲𝗴𝘂𝗺𝗶 𝘅 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

"from now on, I'll be your right hand man, kurusu." megumi says as he looked into hana's eyes. he didn't mean anything by that other than... exactly that. he felt guilty, feeling like he's the cause for her arms being bitten off by sukuna.

however, hana seemed to take his words the wrong way.

"when's the ceremony!?" hana asks eagerly, her cheeks flush and eyes widened innocently, megumi's lips pursed into a thin line awkwardly.

a wall of silence filled the room, before megumi spoke again.

"not..... not in that way..." he said awkwardly, and hana's face turned redder as she looked away, but not missing to catch the glimpse of megumi glancing over to you, talking and laughing with nobara and yuji.

"i have someone I'm already serious about, anyways" megumi quietly said to her, and hana just nodded in understanding, her heart going miles per hour out of embarrassment. It didn't take long before megumi went over to you and his gang, joining the three of you.

[hobiebrownismygod]

Hobie brown x mute reader?

AHHHH WHAT THE FREAK THIS IS SO CUTE I CANT ANYMORE WHY IS IT SO PERFECT 😭😭😭 IM GONNA SOB

my new favorite Hobie Brown dynamic thank you for this image and thank you for requesting <3

I made this fem reader because that's easier for me to write btw!!

________________

Hobie Brown of Earth-138, was currently on the run.

Well...sort of on the run.

As he stumbled around a corner and raced down Main Street, with a small group of cops chasing him, he began to realize that spray-painting in broad daylight may not have been the best idea he'd ever had.

He ran through the door of a bakery, quickly greeting the cashier before jumping through their back door into a darker alleyway.

"GET BACK HERE YA PUNK!"

He just laughed as he kept running throwing spray cans behind him to throw the pigs off his trail. He was so focused on the people behind him that he didn't even realize that there might be someone in front of him.

BAM

He slammed into someone, sending both of them toppling to the ground. He groaned stumbling to get back up, looking down in horror when he realized he'd nearly killed a girl. He roughly pushed his elbows into the floor to push himself up, but when his eyes met yours his mind suddenly went blank.

You clutched the back of your head in pain, wincing silently as you looked up at him, wide-eyed in confusion.

"Oi!" Hobie was broken out of his trance by the voices of officers behind him and he immediately scrambled around the corner, grabbing your arm to pull you with him as he hid behind a dumpster.

He covered your mouth with his hand to make sure you stayed quiet as he peered from behind the trash can, eyes scanning over the officers who walked in the other direction, fuming.

He sighed, pulling his head back to catch his breath for a moment before looking at you, a slightly apologetic grin on his face. "Sorry 'bout that, dove. Didn't mean t'scare you. You alright?"

You nodded, pulling back slightly to stand up, brushing your clothes down. You looked back at him, cocking your head to the side slightly before you began moving your hands.

What was that about? Are you okay?

He stared at you blankly for a second, before his eyes widened, like a light bulb had lit up in his head. "Is that sign? You're deaf?" he asked, standing up, a curious smile on his face. Suddenly, he brought his hand up to his forehead, shaking his head. "Ah, you probably don't understand what I'm saying, d'you? Stupid." he muttered to himself.

He looked back at you in shock as a noise left your mouth. It was an odd noise, like a quiet wheeze, but when he saw the smile on your face, he realized...you were laughing. His eyebrows shot up. "So you can hear me?" he asked, chuckling in response.

You nodded, a smile on your face. "But you can't talk?" he asked, leaning in a little as if he was inspecting you.

You shook your head, smile dropping slightly. "Ah. I see. Uh...what's your name? Can you like write it out for me?"

You hesitated for a moment, before you began tracing the letters of your name into the air while he stared intently. "That's pretty. It suits you." He said endearingly, reaching his hand out towards you. "My name's Hobie. Hobie Brown." he took your hand in his and pressed his lips to the back, eyes boring into yours.

It's nice to meet you, Hobie Brown.

He laughed. "I don't speak sign, so I guess all I can do is hope you said something nice back." he teased.

You laughed again, brushing your hair back. His expression suddenly dropped when he noticed a light scratch on the side of your neck. "Shit...did I do that?" he asked, peering a little closer.

"Can I see?" He asked. A little confusedly, you nodded, pulling your hair back a little more as he put his hand on the small of your back, pulling you a little closer. "Must've happened when I rammed into you. Sorry, dove." He said sheepishly, his finger gently flicking across the cut. "Did I scratch anywhere else?"

You shrugged your shoulders, putting your hand on that part of your neck as well, trying to feel the scratch. You shook your head, putting your hands in front of you as if you were telling him, it's okay.

He hesitated before sighing, putting his hands on his hips. "Alright. How can I make it up to you then?" he asked, cocking his head to the side. "How bout a coffee?" he waggled his eyebrows at you.

He watched in delight as you laughed a third time, your face scrunching up slightly as you looked away, shaking your head. He thought it was the cutest thing. "What? is that a yes?" he asked, leaning in towards you as you pulled your head back, a coy smile on his face.

You stared at him, still smiling widely before nodding. "Hah! I knew it. Ladies can't resist me." he grinned proudly, offering you his hand. "I know a great place nearby...join me?"

I don't like coffee. Can we get something else? You signed.

His eyebrows furrowed. "Uh...what?"

You shook your hands, trying to find a way to explain to him. You gestured towards yourself and made a drinking motion before shaking your head and making a grossed out expression.

He stared at you. "You...don't like coffee? Is that what you're saying?"

You nodded furiously, smiling in delight at his realization. "Yes! Another point for me." he laughed, pumping his fist out. "Alright...do you like tea?"

You nodded this time. I know a place.

"I'll take that as a yes?" he asked. "You have a place in mind?"

You nodded again, taking his hand, moving your head to the side as if gesturing for him to follow you. He smiled, putting his other hand in his pocket as he squeezed his fingers around yours. "Perfect. It's a date."

___________________

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