#and i found SO many of this one spider that is SO soft and SO sturdy and the big ones are HEAVY and they are LOVELY and i want...

[fantabulisticity]

That said,

RED FLAT BARK BEETLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! LOOK AT HOW VIBRANT THIS BITCH IS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! NO FILTER!!!!!!!!!!!! ONLY BEAUTIFUL BUG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I forgot to post this for Flat Fuck Friday bc I was busy, but PLEASE appreciate!

[luveline]

Hi, love! Hope you’re well <3

Could we perhaps have some more single dad Spencer? I miss him and Amanda so much

tysm lovely❤️❤️ —Spencer misses you when he’s not working, so Amy tries to fix that. fem, 1.8k

Spencer thinks about quitting the BAU, sometimes. It was all he ever knew how to do for a long, long time, and the work is important. He’s not too shy to say they need him. 

When someone else needs you more, you start to wonder if work is all there is. 

“And… kiss!” 

Spencer scrunches his eyes closed as Amy leans across to kiss his cheek. She’s decided that every time they finish a drawing, they should kiss. Spencer’s enjoying it very much. 

“Good job,” he says, “that was your best one yet.” 

“I’m getting good at bugs.” 

To their left, they have opened a huge copy of The Modern Encyclopaedia of Bugs: Insects, Arachnids, and Myriapods. Spencer has purchased many, many books in his life, and this was somehow the fifth most expensive, but it’s worth it, because it’s what Amy likes. She loves laying down on her stomach with a pack of art crayons and drawing the intricate details of each creature. She is, as she said, getting very good at bugs. 

“I meant the kiss,” he says, leaning forward to tuck her hair behind her ears, mousy brown like his, twice as soft. “But the drawings are amazing every time.” 

“If I… if I draw this one for Y/N, do you think she’ll like it?” 

“She loves everything you draw her, baby,” he says softly, stroking another stray hair behind her ears. If she wasn’t so busy colouring the leg of a spider in concentrated strokes, he’d pull her into his lap for a cuddle. 

“I’m not a baby.” 

“You’re my baby,” he says, and she is. Spencer Reid has a kid. Who’d ever think it? 

The older she gets the more right it feels. He’s a dad. He was always meant to be one to Amy. 

“Amy, can I have a cuddle, please?” he asks softly. It’s fine if she says no. 

She throws her nice crayons down immediately. Usually he wouldn’t say anything, but they’re a gift from his mom, so he says, “Be gentle with your things,” as she climbs over her paper pad and the encyclopaedia to land in his lap. 

“So they’ll last longer,” she says.

He wraps his arms around her in a solid hug. “Exactly. The kinder we are to our stuff, the longer it lasts. That’s why–”

“Why you’re nice to your body,” she finishes for him. “Dad, I know.” 

“You know everything.” He closes his eyes and breathes her in. Amy’s hair smells like lavender kids shampoo, her clothes like detergent. They stood in the softener aisle and Spencer, on his knees to match her height, took down bottles for them to smell the caps one at a time until they found the best one, settling on apple blossom and jasmine. “You smell nummy.” 

Amy rubs her face into his chest. “What do I smell like?” 

“Really clean.” 

“So when I’m dirty, I smell yucky.” 

“You don’t ever smell yucky,” he mumbles, relishing the weight of her in his arms. “Oooh,” —he grabs her under the arms and ushers her right into his neck— “my Amy, I’m so happy to be home. I missed you sooo much this week.” 

“But you’re home next week.” 

Spencer has started consulting more and going on cases less. He’s glad to do it, he can afford it, and Amy will never be any younger. He’s never been happier balancing work and family, except… 

He used to see you everyday. It’s fine, he’ll choose Amy every time, but he wishes he didn’t have to, because he’s starting to miss you too. 

“I’m home,” he says. “For the next sixteen days. Maybe longer, if they don’t need me then. Hey, tonight, I was thinking we’d go swimming.” 

Amy makes a strange noise. “Um, well maybe not tonight.” 

“Are you kidding? You love swimming.” 

“I know, but I don’t want to go tonight.” 

“Why not, angel? We can get your pool noodle and the paddle boards.” He lets his nose wrinkle. “Is it your swimsuit? I guess we haven’t got a new one in a long time. We can go shopping first. We can go now, if you want to.” 

“Daddy, I asked Y/N to come over.” 

Spencer laughs. “What?” 

“I texted her.” 

Spencer realises she isn’t joking and holds her away from him. “You what?” 

“You left your phone in the bathroom,” she says defensively, her eyes on his shirt, “and I was washing my hands and it was boring and I thought you maybe missed her.” 

“How could you know that?” Spencer asks. 

“Because you talk about her lots, dad.” She shrugs. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry! No, no, it’s okay, it’s nice of you to think about me. That’s really kind.” Still, his stomach hurts thinking about it. “Did she… text you back?” 

“She said she’s coming over.” 

“She did?” Spencer asks. “Did she say when?” 

“She said five thirty.” 

Spencer checks his watch and feels his heart drop. “Oh my god.” He gets up with Amy in his arms, rushing to the mirror to see them both in their pajama’d disarray. “Oh my god! We need to get dressed. Amy, we need to brush our hair.” 

Spencer panics harder than he needs to, but seeing you in fifteen minutes when he thought he might not for another two weeks is stressful. He decides Amy will have to wear new pyjamas, that he’s going to have to put on jeans, and that both of them could have used a shower to tame the mess of their hair, his curly, hers fine. He sprays hers with detangler generously, brushes gently, and plops her in front of the air conditioning unit plugged into the window to dry. He’s barely raked a hand through his own hair when the door is being knocked. 

He can’t help squinting unhappily at Amy. She’s totally set him up. 

She smiles back, and he feels awful for not smiling too. 

“Amy, can you give me more warning next time?” he asks, crossing their living room to the front door. 

She smiles wider. “Yes!” 

“Okay, thank you.” 

He thinks, Ouch, I’m not very nice, then thinks Why would she do this to me? before settling on, Everything's okay. Amy didn’t really do anything wrong, Spencer isn’t mad at her, and you’re waiting on the other side of the door to see them. 

You smile on the stoop —how lucky is Spencer to have all these pretty girls smiling at him?— and adjust your bag over your shoulder, the cloth tote bag hooked on your elbow slipping and sliding with a rustle. 

“Hello!” you say. “Where’s the little lady?” 

“Hello!” Amy calls. “I’m by the air conditioner trying to get dry!” 

Spencer lets you in. You nod your head gratefully and put your bags on the sideboard, dumping your keys in the bowl beside his, and offering your now empty arms for a hug. “Hello,” you say, “you smell good.” 

Spencer panics. “You smell good.” Your arrival has brought the smell of Chinese food, and your jacket smells like perfume. 

“Dad says I smell good too.” 

You part from Spencer gently to bend down, meeting Amy at her height, arms out to offer a hug. “I bet you do. Hi, lovely girl, I haven’t seen you in too long.” 

You lean into her with care. Spencer suspects you think she’s much more breakable than she is, but you’re sweet about it regardless, giving her back a good rub and humming happily when she hugs you back. She’s way less careful. 

“Don’t strangle her, Amy.”

You pretend to choke. Amy laughs like a fiend. 

“I missed you,” Amy says. 

“Oh, sweetheart, I missed you too.” Spencer knows how good that must feel. “Can I get a good look at you?” 

Amy springs away to pose. Her damp hair kisses her shoulders, her pants hide her dirtied socks. Spencer forgets that he wants to impress you and instead sees how cute she is, laughing to himself as she does a swift spin and slips into the side of the couch. 

“Spence, she looks so much like you,” you say, grinning. “Don’t you think so?” You catch Amy’s eye. “You’re gorgeous! Can I see another one of those spins?” 

Amy spins. You nudge Spencer in the hip. “I brought dinner like you asked.” 

Spencer covers his face. “Was I polite?” he asks cautiously. 

“You said can I please have my favourite Chinese food and can I please have a soda,” you say, laughing, so at least it’s clear who was really texting you, “so yes, you were very polite.” 

“I don’t know what got into me.” 

“Guess you really, really, really missed me or something.” 

He loves Amy, and he wishes the wood floors beneath you would eat him whole; while it may be obvious that Amy’s posed as her father on the phone, it’s also clear that you, as a profiler, seem to have made assumptions as to why Amy would text you in the first place. 

“It’s okay,” you say, watching Amy as she races to her sketching papers and the encyclopaedia, “I really, really, really missed you too. Even though it’s only been two days. Did you get taller?” 

“No.” He gets the distinct sense that he’s getting flirted with, but he also doesn’t understand the compliment. “Same height, why?” 

“Feel like this is taking much more effort than usual,” you say, your hand on his shoulder as you lift your chin to kiss his cheek. 

Spencer follows you on instinct, not to kiss you or anything, but your elbow in his hand, almost begging for another. 

“Oh, no,” Amy says. 

Spencer feels your elbow but remembers himself, and raises his head. “What’s wrong, baby?” he asks, scouring her for injuries where she stands in front of you both, her drawing in hand. 

“Now you gave Y/N cooties.” 

Spencer blushes worse. “Oh, I didn’t kiss her! And I don’t have cooties, do I? I give you kisses all the time!” 

“You’re my dad,” she says. “But you’re a boy.” 

You pat him on his warm cheek. “He’s a boy, sure, but he’s not gonna give me cooties, don’t worry. I’m not here to see daddy, anyways,” you say, though your hand on his shoulder rubbing softly hints otherwise, “I’m here to see you. Let’s have our spring rolls before they get soggy, yes? Yum!” 

Spencer wants you to stay for much more than dinner, but dinner’s a good start. He swoops Amy up to carry her to the kitchen table —she’s such a babe, she deserves princess treatment only.  

“Kiss?” Amy asks. 

“Thought I had cooties?” he asks.

“Daaaad. I was joking.” And she wasn’t joking, but Amy gets her kiss.

[gloomwitchwrites]

Winter Gem

Thranduil x Female Elf Reader

Content & Warnings: soft!Thranduil, widowed!Thranduil, fluff, peril & rescue, mild hurt/comfort

Word Count: 1.8k

Seeking something precious for Thranduil, you're caught in a storm. When you don't return, he goes searching for you.

A/N: For @firelightinferno

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist

“The first snows have arrived.”

“It has come early.”

Thranduil inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed.”

You stand beside Thranduil outside the main gates. Five guards stand nearby but there is no danger. A steady snowfall drifts down from the sky. The snowflakes are slightly gray in appearance, almost like ash on the wind. You frown down at a few of the flakes that land on your leather vambrace.

“You look ready for your hunt,” observes Thranduil, gesturing toward your attire with the tip of his head.

“Yes,” reply softly. “I plan on heading out for a bit.”

His eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “In this weather?”

You glance up from the vambrace and meet his blue eyes. Thranduil’s gaze is startling and sharp. Piercing. Intense. It cuts right down to your heart. His gaze always holds you hostage, wrapping you up in his essence. Most might find Thranduil intimidating, but you know better.

“Is my king telling me I cannot?” You’re teasing him, and Thranduil knows this. His smile is one of soft amusement.

“As long as you return to me. You are free to do as you wish.” Even though Thranduil’s tone is gentle, you understand the deeper meaning.

Thranduil lost his wife many years ago. Other than his son, Legolas, you are his comfort. He wants you to be free, to enjoy the pleasures of life, but he also wants you to be safe, to return to him at the end of every leaving.

Thranduil glances over his shoulder. The guards on duty discreetly glance away, staring off into the distance as if they’ve suddenly found something of great interest. Thranduil leans in and shifts his body to block their view of you. He is close enough that it might appear that the two of you are kissing, but he does not meet your lips.

In the end, Thranduil is private about affection. He does not like to share your tender moments together in front of others.

“Enjoy your hunt. I eagerly await your return.”

You give him a half-hearted, sarcastic bow that immediately puts a wide smile on his face. Thranduil watches you until you disappear into the trees. Perhaps he lingers longer than that, wondering if you will turn around and come back to him.

It is true. You are on a hunt, but not for what he or anyone else is likely expecting.

Over a week ago, Thranduil went out in the woods with some of the guards on patrol. It’s the first time he’s been out beyond the walls in some time. Many patrols that ventured into the northern regions reported back on a strangeness in the air, and the scent of evil. Thranduil decided to investigate.

While tracking, he lost something precious.

Around his neck on a chain, Thranduil kept a silver ring. Within the ring is a precious gem, a blue stone so pale it almost appears white like a burning star. The chain that held it snapped while he and the guards chased a group of spiders that had made their way south.

He remembered it snagging, and while he did not show any distress upon telling you of its disappearance, you also know how much that ring and jewel means to him. It was a gift from his wife when they were newly married. She had a matching one, but upon her death, Thranduil moved it from his finger to around his neck.

This hunt—your hunt—is about that ring. You have a fairly good idea about where it might have fallen, and there is no reason for it to have moved since then. Few enter these woods unless they follow the road, and that is on rare occasions.

Tracking is your specialty, and your time is not limited due to the falling snow. But you’ve tracked in worse weather. The snow is unfortunate, but you can still search as long as it remains at its current pace. The tree cover will keep much of the snow in the higher canopy. There will be time yet before the snow completely covers the ground and you lose the trail.

Heading north, you retrace the path the patrol took. Yes, a week has passed, and nature reclaims much, but not everything is hidden so quickly. There are small disturbances that indicate the path ahead.

As you begin to draw nearer to the area Thranduil mentioned, the snow starts to pick up. It becomes thicker, not staying above in the canopy but instead making its way to the ground. It’s not ideal, but you can manage.

Thranduil mentioned two tree trunks growing together and then breaking apart. When you happen upon it, the snow comes down in thicker sheets. On the ground, it’s sticking. Collecting. Time is running out. Elves have good eyes, and you focus in on the ground, gnarled roots, and underbrush.

Near the base of the tangled tree, you notice a slight sparkle. Approaching it, you go down on one knee, brushing away some of the snow.

“Found you.”

The ring is there, resting in the roots. It appears undamaged, and that is a relief. Picking it up, you tuck it into an inside pocket, protecting it from the elements.

The snow crunches under your boots, and the wind howls. For the first time, you shiver. Cold is not and has never been an issue. Elves can withstand a great many things, including winter weather.

Frowning, you turn into the chilly wind. There is a disturbance. Something dark and foul. It sets the edges of your nerves tingling. A simmering suspicion bubbles up from somewhere within you, question whether this snow is natural or not.

Turning on your heel, you head back the way you came. But the snow is heavy, and your fresh tracks are starting to slip away, returning to the snow. As you walk, the snowfall becomes a storm. The wind whips up, swirling the snow around until you cannot see more than a few feet in front of your face.

Your instincts were right. This storm is not natural. It is too early for it, and storms like these are rare in the Woodland Realm.

The toe of your boot catches in a downed tree branch and you slam face first into the snow. It’s freezing. Temperature isn’t usually a deterrent for the elves, but this is beyond cold. It’s as if you’ve been swallowed whole by a massive glacier.

You walk and walk, and you have no idea if you’ve gained any ground. There are no visible signs, and you’re not sure how far you’ve gone, or if you’re simply walking in circles. The snow is deepening or perhaps you’re imagining it. Everything seems darker, like the world is closing in.

You’re not dressed for this sort of weather.

And you’re tired. So tired. Your knees and thighs burn, and sitting down for some rest doesn’t seem so bad. It’s fine. You can take refugee within the deep roots of a tree. You can stay warm there until the snow dissipates. Then, you can return. Thranduil will understand.

As if opening for you, the roots of a nearby tree expand, showing safety from the storm. You slink into it, curling up into a ball.

You drift in the howling wind. There is a haze that sits on your eyelashes. Whether you dream or not is irrelevant. Numbness oozes into your limbs, and that only forces you to curl up tighter, wanting to pull away from the cold.

A hand touches the side of your head. It is warm. Gentle. The fingers slide up to brush your hair out of your face. You hear your name but it is a whisper. Distant. So far away it doesn’t seem real.

There are arms around you. Lifting. Steady. And when you inhale, the scent is familiar. You know who it is instantly.

“Thranduil,” you murmur, and the answer is a gentle squeeze of your hand.

“I found you, my star.”

There are only short moments of consciousness. There is snow. Cold. The antlers of an elk. The gates of home, and then warmth. So much warmth that the numbness begins to recede.

You are brought back to the living world near a roaring fire. Beneath you is a makeshift bed comprised of pillows and soft blankets. You shift, and feel bare skin against bare skin. Slowly, you push yourself to sitting.

Your leather gear is gone, replaced with a soft robe that traps in the heat.

“You’re awake.” Thranduil’s voice is a gentle, comforting hug.

Turning toward his voice, you watch as he glides across the floor. Thranduil wears silver robes of starlight. In his hands in a small tray. On it is a steaming cup of tea and an assortment of food. Bending at the knees, Thranduil settles in beside you, placing the tray down on the blankets.

“You came looking for me,” you say, and your voice nearly cracks with emotion.

“Did you think I would not?” he asks, arranging the food around on the tray.

You know, deep in your heart, that Thranduil would come, but you also believed in your abilities as a tracker. “When did you start to worry?”

Thranduil lifts the cup off the tray and presents it to you. “When the storm picked up. Something about it felt unnatural.” You take it, and bring the warm beverage to your lips. “I gathered some guards and we set out. It is good that we found you in time.” He pauses. “I’m not sure my heart could take any more loss.”

The heat of the tea spreads throughout your body, the chill slipping away quickly. “I do believe you are correct. That storm was not natural.”

Thranduil nods. “There is a growing darkness to the north. The scouts on patrol have spoken of it often but have been unable to get close enough for more details.”

“Perhaps I strayed too close,” you murmur.

“Perhaps,” replies Thranduil, reaching out to take your hand. He lifts it, and brings it into his lap. Using both hands, he rotates your wrist until your palm faces the ceiling. Then, he guides your open palm to his lips, placing a soft kiss in the middle of it.

Instant warmth shoots out from that spot, running down your arm and piercing your heart like an arrow. Slowly, he curls your fingers in, creating a loose fist, and then brushes his lips against your knuckles before pulling away.

He does not release your hand. “I know why you left.”

“Thranduil—”

“You did not need to explain. I understand why.” Thranduil reaches out and cups your cheek, turning your face toward him. “I am thankful that you found it, but you are also precious to me, and losing you is a far greater loss.”

You turn into his touch. “That ring is important to you.”

“Many things are important to me. But the ring is just that. A thing. You are breathing. You are here. I would like to keep it that way.”

Your eyes drift close and you revel in the warmth of his touch. “Are you mad?”

“Never.”

“Will you hold me?”

“For as long as you like.”

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @ninman82 @therealbloom

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. “ professor's pet ” : 

﹙ top uni professor male reader x bttm bratty nerd hyrbid ﹚.𖹭 ݁

. . . rishen 781 x male reader !! 🍒 : ﹙ peppy nerd  ˖  brat  ˖  mantis-moth-spider hybrid ˖ hero character﹚

you've always had a soft spot for mr herrera. boy-genius and all. but there is something about the way he looks at you. speaks to you. one day - when he corrects you rather smugly during a lecture. you cannot help but decide to remind him who's the one with the phd. 

﹙ cws ﹚: explicit content ˖ prof/student ˖ rough sex ˖ brat taming ˖ classroom sex ˖ oral ˖ handjob ˖ use of boypussy | wc : 1.0k 

﹙ receipts ﹚: i've been wanting to write this piece with rishen for a bit because come oonnnn

꒰  other treats : guidelines ˖ m.list ˖ characters ˖ our lore  ꒱

he’s your favourite student. but oh do you hate him. those pretty doll eyes that greet you in combination with a bright smile whenever he enters your class. earlier than anyone else, as always. the way you have to look for mistakes in his exam papers. yet most importantly - that innocent way he has at correcting you in the middle of a lecture.

you would call yourself a modest man. one who can accept criticism. but it was different when it came from him. mister herrera. the pretty, preppy nerd of uni who just had so many different ways of making your heart stutter. the brat.

“Oh, I meant no disrespect, professor.”

Those thick lashes batting will be the death of you. Combined with those glossy lips you yearn to drown in?

He’ll make you lose your job. Surely.

“Really?” Is all you can muster, leaned against the edge of your desk. Anything to sate the burning desire in your palms to wrap around his throat.

“You know me, Sir. I am the most earnest.”

Earnest indeed. Earnest in how he presses up against you. Earnest in the way his hands slide onto the desk on either side of you. In the way his head tilts up so that his curls fall from around his face and he smiles oh. So. Sweetly.

“Forgot my assignment sheet.”

His murmur is all you can imagine the sweetness of his lips before he’s off again. How unprofessional.

Like the throbbing bulge in your trousers.

“Such a pretty boy,” you tut over him. One hand yanking on his curls while the other pistons behind him. Fingers curling into spots that nurse out whimpering moans and bucks of his hips against your desk. He’s spilling all over your test papers.

you tried with all your might. but it wouldn’t take long before you have him bent over your desk in the week to come. finally feeling the soft flesh of his thighs under his skirt. finally seeing the way his maroon eyes roll back as you finger his tight little hole.

“How can you be this tight? No one treating this darling hole right?”

“P-Prof - ah - Sir-!”

you quickly found out that he loves to fuck his hips back into you. especially when you got him full of your cock. the noises he lets out. what a dedicated student he is indeed. bouncing his pretty ass back onto you.

“Can you give me the answer now, boy? Hmm? Correct me now?”

well, until you’re shoving his head into the desk. holding him down and pounding his poor thighs into your desk. murmuring rough little degradations to his ear. making him cream all over the wood.

Your cock snaps into that one spot. Rough hands pulling his soft hips back. The wet plapping of his skin fills the classroom. If it weren’t for your hand wrapped firmly around the underside of his jaw - his moans would surely spill all the way down the hallway.

“A-Angh! Ah! Hng- S-Sir - siiirr - ‘m s- so - sor- fuck -!”

You palm along his dick. Stroking it into another squirt as you sneer into his reddened ear.

“Asked you a fucking question, pretty. Where’s that smart mouth of yours?”

through further escapades, you learnt that the most satisfying thing of stuffing him full is when you have fucked him dumb. with eyes rolled back and lips parted. unable to murmur out a single thing other than spluttered drool and a whining - “p-pro-prof-s-s-si-ah!”

another thing he is so earnest at? sucking your cock. you’ve had him under your desk more times than you can count. his glossy red lips wrapped so skillfully. eyes full of tears as your flex fingers into his curls and force his head down further. choke him all the way to your balls. until he’s whimpering. crying.

you always make it up to him by letting him bounce on your dick after. leaned back into your chair as he grips onto your shoulders and shows you that he’s more than just a pretty nerd. he always takes it so well.

amongst various other acts that are sure to get you fired once someone finds out - you must say that your favourite is when he calls you in the middle of the night. grinding into his pillow and pleading that you come up to his dorm and fuck his ass full.

“H-Hngh - an- p-please sir - fuck-!”

of course you do. you’re a good professor - after all.

Your hips drive his into the sheets. Pressing him down in his favourite position: prone bone. It gives you the perfect opportunity to bruise his soft skin with your merciless thrusts.

Rishen’s face presses into the pillows. Hands tightening around the softness as the headboard slams against the wall. His moans pouring through dorm room.

“Can’t even wait for after class tomorrow,” you grunt into his ear. “Jus’ need a cock filling you constantly huh pretty boy? Yeah? Yeaah,”

You rise up if only to crush him with your hips. Slamming into his quivering form with purpose. Stress from endless marked exams taken out on his supple flesh.

“Constantly need your physics professor’s cock pounding at your pretty boypussy huh? Fuck.”

He’s so small beneath you. So full of your cum. So fucked out.

You can’t help but grip his hair. Steer his crying face more into the pillows and plough him sore. Anything to see the way he’ll prance on into class with scarlet heels and a bit of a limp.

“S-Siiir - si -hiir - I-I - I can’ttt - dios-”

His whimpers are sinful. All of this is.

But you will risk you job for it any day. Any day if it meant having the little bratty nerd under you and hiccupping your name.

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[midastouch013]

Scars and All

Based on this request

Summary: You and Natasha have been dating for almost a year, and so what happens when you finally find out why things never get steamy

Warnings: Insecurity, Scars, Flashbacks of Redroom. Super soft Nat.

---

You and Natasha had been dating for close to a year now, having moved in a month ago to the floor Tony had given the both of you happy to see his, and you quote ' favourite spider' so in love, and though your relationship was incredible in so many ways, there was one aspect that sometimes caused a bit of frustration. Every time things got a little bit steamy, Natasha would freeze up. And every time it left you confused, more than before with every occurrence.

It happened again tonight. You were tangled up in each other, lips locked in a passionate kiss, hands exploring, when Natasha suddenly pulled back, her breath uneven.

"Stop," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

You froze, your heart pounding. You were frustrated, sure, but you respected Natasha enough to honor her wishes. With a heavy sigh, you pulled away, trying to hide your disappointment.

"Are you okay?" you asked softly, concern evident in your voice.

She nodded, avoiding your gaze. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… not feeling it right now."

You couldn't help but feel disappointed, but you didn't want to show it. Instead, you forced a small smile and said, "Okay. I'm just gonna… take a cold shower then."

Without waiting for a response, you got up and made your way to the bathroom, leaving Natasha alone on the bed.

The cold water did little to wash away your disappointment. You couldn't shake the feeling of frustration, unable to understand why Natasha kept pulling away.

After what felt like an eternity under the icy spray, you finally turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. As you dried off and got dressed, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

When you emerged from the bathroom, you found Natasha lost in her own world, her eyes unfocused as she begged someone she had only told you about once, Madame B, not to hit her.

Your heart broke at the sight. You knew Natasha was reliving a moment from her past, a nightmare from her time in the Red Room. Without a second thought, you crossed the room and enveloped her in a tight hug, hoping to ground her in the present, having it done many times previously.

"Nat, it's me," you whispered, your voice soft and soothing. "You're safe now. You're with me."

Slowly, Natasha's breathing began to steady, and the tension in her body started to ease. She clung to you, burying her face in the crook of your neck as she struggled to break free from the memories that haunted her.

You held her close, whispering words of comfort and reassurance until she finally began to relax in your arms.

After Natasha falls asleep in your arms, you gently tuck her under the covers, making sure she's comfortable. With a lingering glance, you quietly slip out of the room, closing the door softly behind you.

You make your way downstairs and pull out your phone, dialing Yelena's number. She picks up after a couple of rings.

"Hey," she says, her voice filled with concern. "Is everything okay?"

You hesitate for a moment, not sure how to explain what just happened with Natasha.

"Not really," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. "Nat had a flashback… to the Red Room, I think."

There's a pause on the other end of the line before Yelena speaks again. "Is she okay now?"

"Yeah, she's sleeping," you reply. "But… I don't know what to do, Yelena. Every time things start to get… intimate, she freezes up. I can't shake the feeling that it's connected somehow."

There's a thoughtful silence before Yelena speaks again. "Does my sestra shower with the door closed?"

You frown, confused by the seemingly random question. "Uh, yeah, she does. Why?"

Yelena hums thoughtfully. "And does she ever… mention anything about about her post-missions "

Your heart skips a beat as the pieces start to click into place. "No, she doesn't even let me see her till she's in pajamas. Why?"

Yelena lets out a heavy sigh. "Look, I think… Y/n, you're pretty smart, so I'm surprised I have to be telling you this, but my sister is insecure about something. And maybe, just maybe, that's why she keeps pulling away."

"But what insecurity?" you question," She-"

Before you can say anything else, Yelena interrupts you. "Sorry, I have to go. Kate's calling me. Just… be there for her, okay? She needs you."

After Yelena hangs up, more incidents with Natasha flash through your mind. Little moments that, when looked at together, begin to form a pattern. And suddenly, it hits you like a ton of bricks. Natasha's insecurity is about her scars.

Just as you're connecting the dots, Natasha comes downstairs to grab something to eat. Wordlessly, you grab her by the hips and lift her up.

"Hey, what are you doing?" she squeals, trying to wriggle out of your grasp.

Ignoring her protests, you carry her back upstairs to your room. Once there, you gently set her down on the edge of the bed, ignoring her playful protests.

"Okay, seriously, what's going on?" she asks, confusion evident in her voice.

You don't answer right away. Instead, you kneel down on the floor in front of her, taking her hands in yours.

"Tasha, I love you," you begin, your voice steady. "And I want you to know that you can talk to me about anything. I know… I know that something happened tonight, something that triggered a flashback. And I think… I think I know what it is."

Natasha's eyes widen in surprise, and for a moment, she looks like she might bolt. But then she takes a deep breath and meets your gaze.

"You do?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nod, squeezing her hands gently while taking a deep breath, trying to find the right words to say. "Natasha, do you not like your scars?" you ask gently.

Natasha's defenses go up immediately, and she tries to deflect the situation with humor. "What, these old things?" she says, gesturing to her scars with a forced smirk. "Just battle wounds, nothing to worry about."

But you're firm in your resolve. You don't let her deflect this time. "Nat, please," you say, your voice pleading. "I need you to be honest with me."

She sighs, the forced smile slipping from her face. "Fine," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Fine, you want the truth? I hate them, okay? I hate the way they look. I hate what they remind me of."

Your heart breaks at her words, but you keep your voice steady. "Why, Nat? Why do you hate them so much?"

And then she confesses, her words tumbling out in a rush. "Because I'm afraid, okay? I'm afraid that when you see them, you'll finally realize that you're dating a monster. A cold-blooded murderer. I'm afraid that you'll look at me and see nothing but a killer. And I love you so much, and I don't want to lose you. But I'm afraid that these scars will scare you away. That I don't look… sexy with my scars and all."

Tears fill her eyes as she speaks, and you feel your heart breaking all over again.

You feel a surge of anger and hurt at Natasha's admission. How could she think of herself like that? And how could she think that you would ever see her that way?

"You really think that?" you say, your voice coming out a bit harsher than you intended. "That I would see you like that? That I would ever think of you as a monster? God, Natasha, how could you even think that?"

Natasha flinches at your words, and for a moment, you regret the harshness of your tone. But then you take a deep breath and soften your voice.

"I'm sorry, It wasn't supposed to sound so rude, but… I get it, Nat," you continue, your voice gentle now. "I get that you're scared. And I understand why you feel that way. Even if I've not been through what you've been through, I'd like to think that I get it. But you need to know that I love you, scars and all. And I would never, ever think of you as anything less than amazing."

You feel Natasha's arms tighten around you, and you know that she's listening, really listening, to what you're saying.

"And another thing," you add, your voice firm now. "You need to stop calling yourself those hateful things. You are not a monster, Natasha. You are not a cold-blooded murderer. You are a hero, you are the role model to millions of kids out there, and you're my girlfriend. There's no way in hell could you be what you claim to be. Don't you ever forget that."

Natasha doesn't say anything in response, and for a moment, you worry that you've pushed her too far. But then she pulls back slightly, her eyes meeting yours.

"Thank you," she whispers, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you for… for loving me, scars and all."

You shush her with a gentle finger to her lips. " What have I told you about that?" you ask in a tutting tone.

She chuckled breathily, a faint smile on her face " Never thank you unless I don't want dinner that night"

You look into Natasha's eyes, your heart overflowing with love and reassurance. Without saying a word, you lift her (Well yours, but anything that was yours was hers) t-shirt and leant in to press a gentle kiss to one of her scars, then another, and another, until you'd kissed each one.

Each kiss is an act of reassurance, a silent declaration of how beautiful and attractive you find her scars. And with each kiss, you feel Natasha's tension slowly melting away, replaced by a sense of peace and acceptance.

When you finally pull back, Natasha is looking at you with tear-filled eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

"I love you" she whispers, her voice filled with emotion.

" I love you more"

"Willing to bet on it?"

--

[hobie-enthusiast]

ALEX I JUST HAD AN IDEA...

so you know how spidey sense like, lets the spider know that there's a danger nearby before it gets to them? what if there was a spidey sense but for like, not danger. yk. like. LIKE...

i imagined hobie sitting by himself somewhere, not really paying attention? and then he gets this feeling that envelopes him whole and gives him the warm fuzzies and makes him smile, and he doesn't get what it is until his s/o comes up behind him and hugs him from behind, or like slaps his shoulders trying to scare him and he just wuvs them so much

im so soft you made me soft for hobie look what you've done!!!!

- your friendly neighborhood 🕷️ anon [ idc if emoji anons are so last year im spider anon now >:) ]

THAT FUNNY FEELING !

— hobie brown x gn!reader

— fluff, just straight fluff, hobie being so in love its crazy, petnames and lots more fluff

— hobie's spider-senses were giving him a new sensation, but he couldn't really put his finger on what it was

— ANON THIS IS SO ADORABLE MUWAH! ALSO EMOJI ANONS ON TOP I LOVE IT

Hobie had been getting a new warm feeling that he didn't understand.

It happened whenever he was at peace. There was never any danger near him or around him. He could be sitting there, minding his business, only for this warm feeling to engulf his entire body. His mind draws blank as it’s engulfed with that damn fuzzy feeling.

He could never say he hates it though. It reminds him of you.

It comes at him whenever he’s somewhere with you. Whether the two of you are just hanging out, winning a battle, or walking around, he’s randomly hit with a wave of a good-feeling. One that stays with him for a small while, that feels like happiness spreading through his body.

That's how he mentally connected it to you. Of course, he didn't think for a while you truly were the cause. Not until recently.

You practically begged him to come over, to take the day off from being Spider-man and hang out with you. Hobie always had a hard time saying no to you, so he agreed.

You were out at the local shoppe by this point, so he let himself in (with the spare key you gave him of course). He looked to find ways to entertain himself, settling on strumming his guitar. He kicked his feet onto your bed as he lied back in your desk chair.

After a small while, he started getting that feeling again. That fuzzy one that engulfs him entirely, making him feel good. He glances up to look around, but sees nothing. He found it odd, but maybe it meant you were back home?

Nah, he was kidding himself. The connection was probably just in his head.

—

You place your groceries on the counter, ears picking up the sound of a guitar playing. You smile to yourself. Of course you know who the culprit was. He had a key because of you anyways.

Slowly, you creep up to your bedroom, carefully cracking the door. You keep quiet as you admire your boyfriend from afar. He seemed so relaxed, which wasn't usual for him.

Hobie deserved some peace and relaxation after saving so many people. You seemed to be the only one who truly thought that. Miguel didn't see it that way. The criminals among New York didn't understand that. And even Hobie himself didn't think he deserved a break for doing what he's supposed to.

So watching him so.. unaware for once truly was a sight.

You enter the room as quietly as possible, creeping up behind him to wrap your arms around his shoulders.

When you crept up, Hobie was engulfed by that feeling again. A warm smile crosses his face when he feels you lean against him, laughing in his shoulder.

"There ya are." He said with a small laugh. "I had a feelin' you were home."

You raise an eyebrow, smile never faltering. "What? No you didn't! You were so unaware when I snuck up behind you!"

Hobie raises his eyebrows, the feeling slowly fading from his body. So he was right! That warm and euphoric feeling did come from you, his lover. No one else could make him feel that way, not even close.

"Oooh, does the tingle work even for me?" You ask in an excited tone.

"The.. tingle?"

You nod happily, moving so you sit on the bed by his legs. "Yeah! You know, the thing you use to sense danger."

God Hobie found you so.. mesmorizing. Your truly somewhat childish nature that wasn't that but close, he loved it.

"Nah, only works for danger, love." He responds, looking down and strumming his guitar.

"Then you can't sense me! I'm like a ninja. This is perfect." You say, standing and grabbing Hobie's arm. "C'mon, I have some groceries for dinner."

He nodded and stood, guitar on the bed as he followed you to the kitchen. Of course he was going to keep the sensation a secret. He wanted to keep that for himself, a way you make him feel. And besides, what's the harming in letting you think that you could sneak up on him?

It could bring more heartfelt moments like that.

—

Ever since then, Hobie pretended to be blissfully unaware.

He pretended like he couldn't feel you sneaking up on him to scare him. He pretended he never knew you were right behind him, waiting for him to see you. He pretended like he didn't expect your "unexpected" or "surprise" hugs.

Because honestly, he loved you. Hobie loved these little things, even if it sounded weird in itself. He loved having a partner who was always catching him off-guard with affection, even if he was sensing it.

There are random times when the two of you are just sitting together, each one doing a separate activity. He would be on his guitar and you would be catching up on your latest game or book.

Then, that feeling would hit Hobie. He would feel the fuzies he felt from before, and a smile graces his face. It prompts him to move to hug you from behind, nuzzling his head into your shoulder or neck.

When you question him, "What are you doing, love?"

He just sighs, smile never leaving his face. "Just love ya, so damn much sweetheart."

Certainly enough to make your heart melt and cheeks go red. You always found these moments slightly odd, however. He initiated those moments whenever you planned to try and scare him or give him your own surprise hug.

He always beat you to it. Not that you could complain, oh no. If anything, you welcome this with open arms.

You had a slight feeling that Hobie wasn't being entirely honest when he said he truly never knew when you were behind him. Hobie was always aware of his surroundings. But that didn't make you think for too long. You chalked it up to Hobie just letting his guard down around you, and that made you feel nice.

This new sense of Hobie's was his personal favourite, one that he's glad comes from you, the very person he loves and appreciates so so dearly.

[stolasdearest]

is it okay if I ask for Alastor x Reader who is like angel dusts sibling and reader goes to Angel dust you talk about their lasting crush on Alastor?

Alastor x Reader ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

EVERYONE SHUT UP! YES I LOVE WINGMAN ANGEL

Not proofread + 4:30 Lilly so writing might differ

Reader is Gender neutral!

Being Angels sibling wasn't easy, at least within in the hotel..or outside of it for that matter; but in the hotel it was definitely better, at least everyone didn't try and talk to you about your brother and instead talk to you.

You however had your eyes on someone very specific, a person not many people would have their eyes on..well, Maybe your brother in a— joking fucking around type of way; but your eyes were looking at the Tall Red demon in a very different way; a fond way you weren't all that used to.

Thing is you were the youngest in your family, that didn't rid you of your family's habits and mannerisms, So you weren't surprised when you ended up in hell alongside most of your family but your brother had kept you away from many scenes, that included partners; so your new found feelings for the Demon were overwhelming, suffocatingly so and you had no idea where to go with it, that lead you to go to the only person you trust in this newly found shit hole

"Anthony?"

"what's up, sweet cheeks?"

Angel was still not used to being called by his real name, But it was allowed in private from prying ears; he set fat nuggets down and sat up on the side of the bed; patting a spot next to him gesturing you to sit with him, a familiar smile on his face while you scooted next to him

"what's on your mind?"

"Alastor."

"oh—"

Angel laughed as you covered your face with your hands, His name bluntly slipping past your lips as you cringed at yourself

"he's like the Boogeyman, don't say his name too loud or he'll appearrr"

You smacked his arm and laughed, watching Angel make "scary" gestures as you both giggled amongst one another, before you patted your thighs and dramatically inhaled and sighed

"yeah yeah.. Boy troubles aye? Been there"

"yeah so help me"

"with him, Sweetie I can pray that's it"

"Anthony!!"

"sorry sorry!!"

Your big brother kneeled over laughing as you scoffed at him, crossing your arms with a pout as you cleared Your throat

"ANYWAY, I need help, I have no idea how to approach him— if at all!"

It took the spider demon a bit to compose himself Before he ran his fingers through his hair before looking at you, a sincere genuine look on his face, his voice soft and gentle; just like you remembered

"I don't know mister cheeky Alastor that much, but he does seem to like you, so I'd say go slow; test the waters or he might rip you to shreds"

You tensed, he was right and you were playing a dangerous game trying to woo the radio demon and you knew that but what'd you have to lose?..oh right your life yeah yeah

Falling flat on the soft bed you groaned; Alastor was tricky especially for someone who'd never flirted in their life so this was uncharted territory and you weren't exactly starting on beginner mode, you skipped straight to expert. Angel soon joined you in laying on the bed, him to staring at the ceiling as you pondered and wondered, He was probably zoning out but whatever, but after moments of silence Anthony soon realized this was a heavy topic on your heart so he turned on his side, pulling you to his side; one of his hands ruffling your hair

"worry about that tomorrow will you? You need your beauty sleep; Alastor won't date a slob"

"what won't I do?"

"AAAAHHHHH"

Authors note: Sorry for the ending Im starting to get a headache😭😭

[k4lenz]

HIII, can i request hobie x reader nsfw but its not like all rough n stuff .. its gentle & caring basically “making love” or wtv from hobie’s POV

-🧼

making love ✮ hobie brown x fem!reader

a/n: HIII!! this is such a cute idea thankyou ! guys i <3 🧼 my requests r open if you like this content!!! word count: 1.4k!!! notes: soft, SMUT!!!, affectionate, 'making love', hobies pov, praise, bro is down bad n pussy whipped but also loves everything about you n would do anything for you, he's a cutie, unprotected, he nibbles on ya, established relationship?, bro wants to warm you up *eyebrow wiggle*, no use of y/n, praise ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 You were gorgeous. At least, that was the first thought running through Hobie's mind as you whimpered beneath him. You were both wrapped up in the blankets of your bed, it was a freezing cold night like usual in the UK, and you were cuddled up together for warmth. He'd wrapped his arms around you the minute he saw you shiver, and he'd even made you a warm drink earlier. "Ya cold, innit? Drink up. How's this gon' warm ya up? D'ya not trust me, honey?" He hated seeing you cold. You'd call him your heat pack, your teddy bear, more often then not, and he'd laugh it off but secretly? He liked it. He wanted to be your comfort. He loved being able to stay in with you, it was like all his worries and responsibilities faded away. He wasn't Spider-Punk, he was just Hobie. Nothing about the outside world came in between you two in the moments shared together. He'd claimed earlier, after you said that you were still freezing to death and his drink didn't work, that he knew the perfect way to warm up. So now here you were. He laid on top of you, you both wore pyjamas but he was softly rolling his hips against your own. Eliciting a soft shudder to run down your spine. He chuckled deeply against your skin, starting to tug down your pyjama pants. Lowering and pressing a slow kiss to your underwear teasingly, making you squirm as his lips applied pressure against your clit through the cloth. "So pretty, doll. You don't even realize it.." His cockney accent was soothing to your ears, he knew you had a certain fondness for it and he enjoyed teasing you with it. Let it be random whispers in your ear with filthy words, coming up behind you in the kitchen and murmuring a simple 'I love you'. Anything, really. He kissed along your thighs too, watching your eyes fog with lust. He liked making you react so well. "Hobie." You whined, and he found it adorable. You were irresistible.

"Mhm?" He had to stifle a laugh, you just looked so cute. "Please." And who was he to deny you? He pulled his pants and boxers down in one swift movement, his two-toned lips peppering your face with sweetness as you scrunched up, giggling a little. He couldn't help but look at you adoringly, you were just so.. Cute? Sweet? Everything he'd ever dreamed of? He smiled fondly, unable to take his eyes off of you. You smiled back. He pulled your underwear down teasingly, fanning his breath on your body as you made yourself more comfortable on the bed. Both of your clothes since discarded on the floor, neither of you were thinking about them of course. Hobie moved a little closer to you with a wink. He liked the contact, physical affection was his love language. His hands slowly parted your legs, always giving you a look to see if anything had changed in your expression or if you were feeling uncomfortable. Soothingly smoothing his hand over your thigh until he knew you were ready. He rubbed his throbbing hard-on up and down your slit, the tip catching on your clit and making you gasp. He slowly eased himself into your slick cunt with a pleased sigh until his hips met yours. Bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces, meant for each other. Soaking in your moan as he stretched you just like he had many times before, admiring you roll your eyes to the very back of your skull. "Ready, sweet lil'thing? Ay?" He observed you barely manage a "Y-Yeah." He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck as he started to push in and out so gently, his cock rubbing your cervix perfectly. And he knew it, smugly, because all he had to do was look at you to see the pleasure written on your pretty face. Rolling his hips back and sliding into you at a slow pace so he could hit all the right spots. This didn't need to be quick or rough, you two just needed each other. This wasn't just sex, it was soft and intimate. It was making love. You let out a whimper into his mouth as he thrusted steadily, but particularly deep. He groaned against your warm skin, obsessed with the way you felt against him. "Good girl, dove.." Neither of you felt a need to rush, more to be in the moment. He ran his hands along your hips, feeling your smooth skin. The only thing on his mind was you and your pretty little cunt.

Your lips were parted, taking heavy breaths. He listened to your breaths and watched you melt. He felt like he'd won the lottery with you. "Feelin' good?" He whispered in your ear, smiling and listening to your soft moans as he fucked you unrushed and good. It'd been a while since he'd been able to do it like this, you were both busy lately. Him being a famous vigilante, you with work. But you'd always make time for each other, and spend it in the right ways. "So good, Hobie— Mmmhh.." He felt your words echo through him, and your hands resting on his chest. Not digging your nails into his skin, just resting there feeling his heartbeat. Your body sinking into the bed and your eyes fluttering closed as you both really got into it. "Love ya, Shit. Love ya 's much." He mumbled, pressing kisses along your jawline and lower to your neck affectionately. The coil in his stomach slowly winding as your pussy clenched around his dick. He nibbled the skin of your neck when you clenched on purpose, watching you react gleefully with a giggle cut off by a moan. His own large hands rubbing up and down your waist, the cool metal of his silver rings against your heated flesh making you squirm. One of his hands traveled down, his thumb starting to gently stroke your clit so he could hit your cervix at the same time. Eliciting a mewl from you, which is all he wanted, really. He could tell the deliberate pace he was taking was driving you insane in all the right ways, he knew you loved when he did it like this. It was fuzzy and intimate, genuinely sweet and caring. Almost relaxing, like there was nothing else in the world but the echoes of your sounds mixing together in the bedroom walls. Your eyes quickly opening as you reached the brink of your orgasm. "Close.." You panted, rolling your head back. And he grinned. Your neck stretching back and complexion glistening with a bit of sweat. You were so god damn wet for him too, the only word he could use to describe you was ethereal. Hair messy, body stretched out, legs wrapped around his waist for the perfect positioning. Could this get any better? "That's adorable. You can do it, babygirl. Be good and come all over my cock. Hm?" He massaged your clit more, your thighs trembling as he pushed you over that edge you so desperately needed. Seeing your hips roll back in ecstasy? It drove him insane. "Fuckfuckfuckfuck.. H-Hobie! Ah!" You chanted, slurring a mix of his name and curses. Tightening hard enough around him as your orgasm hit for him to release too, grunting and spilling himself deep inside you. Pleasure racking through both of your bodies in waves as he rested on your chest. Slowly fucking you through both his and your orgasm with sloppy wet thrusts. Panting for air.

"Am I.. really that good luv?" He chuckled as you panted for air, although his tone was breathless as well. Leaving hickeys in his wake as he nipped and sucked at your skin. "Shut up, Hobes." You laughed, pulling him into you and moving so you were laying on the bed fully together and intertwined. It was practically impossible for you two to get any closer.

"Y'warm now?" "Absolutely. I'd say that's my new favorite way of warming up." He heard your voice get sleepier with each syllable. He'd be more then happy to lay like this for the rest of the night, and so he did. Minutes passing by like seconds. Staring at your relaxed blissed out face as your head rested on the pillow, eyes shut."G'night." He whispered, even though you were already fast asleep in his arms. He was slowly lulled to sleep by the sound of your breath and the rain softly pattering against the window.

[seradyn]

Fruit of Our Labor

Summary: Tav accidentally calls Astarion ‘pumpkin’ in a moment of thoughtlessness. What follows is a gentle baring of souls neither could have anticipated.

Pure tooth rotting fluff. Set in late act 1 although the relationship is much closer to where it is in act 2, but fuck it, we ball.

Also happy Valentine’s Day, this wasn’t meant to be a valentine’s fic but I just so happened to get a surge of motivation to finish it today so here we are.

Word count: 2944

Warnings: references to abuse

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It slipped out one night, while you were all sat around the fire.

The others were busy dividing up the spoils from the day’s adventures - equipment and coin passed around to those who needed it. A hearty stew, courtesy of Gale, sat warmly in your bellies, staving off the night’s chill while packs were passed around over idle chatter. The fire crackled and popped in the center of camp, but it was drowned out by the sounds of Scratch’s excited barks and the owlbear’s deep coos. They were roughhousing, no doubt.

You watched your companions fondly from your place curled up on Astarion’s lap, held snugly to his chest in a loose embrace. Surrounded by a nest of pillows that smelled of him, you felt pleasantly warm, despite his cold skin. He held a book out in front of you both, resting his chin on your head as he read, the rustle of pages being turned soothing you. You were sure if he was still alive, you could hear the gentle thumping of his heart beneath your ear, lulling you into a blissful sleep.

The evenings you two spent together, wrapped up in each other's scents, your shared warmth, had become a balm to your taxed souls. Some days it was all that kept you going, the promise of being soothed, comforted in a way that eased your wounds, either to your flesh or to your heart. His voice was a spell, his touch an enchantment, and you found yourself unable to resist his charms. He’d made you laugh on more occasions than you could count with his silver tongue, and his deep seductive purrs sent shivers to places you dare not name. Yes, you’d fallen for him. Hard.

Yet, you knew Astarion felt much the same way about you, even if he couldn’t admit it. You heard the soft sighs that parted his lips, saw the smiles that were real, like he’d glimpsed a piece of heaven, and it sat curled in his lap. The rays of sunlight he’d come to crave couldn’t hold a candle to your warmth, his undead body soaking it up greedily every time you were close. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine being embraced by the sun, with your voice a whisper on her gentle lips. He could never get enough of it. Of you.

It had taken many moons before Astarion was comfortable displaying this much affection openly. He kept the truth of his feelings close to his breast to protect himself, and from what he told you, you couldn’t say you blamed him. In his old life, before the mindflayers, affection was weakness, caring was weakness. And weakness was unacceptable, not for Cazador. He allowed no such things for his spawn, and if he found it, it would be corrected through nights of agonized bloodshed.

So you held Astarion’s hand as he learned. He was no stranger to intimacy, to late nights spent on his back, but this…this was all so very new to him. What was to hold hands, to hug, to cuddle? He may have known once, but that had been left in his grave, delivered from him by that kiss of death. You took care to remind him it was okay to take things slow, to not jump into anything he wasn’t comfortable with. You were patient. All you wanted was him to be happy, after all. Even if you weren’t sure he knew that, or would believe you if you told him.

Despite being his beloved partner, though, Astarion was still Astarion after all, and you found yourself on the end of no small amount of teasing. He always loved calling you pet names, clicking his tongue with a smirk as he purred ‘darling’, ‘beautiful’; a spider spinning a web around his unsuspecting prey. As much as it wounded your pride to admit it, you quite liked being his prey. You offered up your neck with growing delight, stifling moans and shudders each night he fed.

He enjoyed teasing you about that, too, much to your chagrin.

You weren’t going to let him have all the fun, though. Words were easy to coat in honey, and soon the whole camp rolled their eyes as you two bantered like a love sick couple. Worst of all was the pet names, which you two shot back at each other like arrows at waring rivals. ‘Little star’ made Astarion scowl in that oh so adorable way, while ‘honey’ had him preening proudly. It was fun, it was easy, and it made the unspoken emotions between you two easier to ignore.

Until it didn’t.

Once supplies had been distributed, the camp began discussing the plan for the following day. Moonrise Towers loomed far off in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, your fates locked behind its black gates. Your group would need to pick up the pace if you wanted to arrive within the next fortnight. But Lae’zel was adamant - she needed to visit the nearby crèche, and made it clear she would venture to it with or without company. She was stubborn as a mule, and Shadowheart was more than happy to seize the opportunity to lock horns with her.

You sighed as you watched the growing argument unfold. Those two could fight over the color of the sky, and somehow it always fell to you to make them see reason. Gale and Karlach tried desperately to keep things under control, but even Wyll had no luck with them. Halsin watched with a frown on his face, but knew intervening was futile. They listened to you - you weren’t sure why, but they did.

You felt Astarion turn his head towards the commotion, pursing his lips in annoyance. Normally, he delighted in conflict, especially between Shadowheart and Lae’zel, but now that he knew it would mean your own involvement, having you snatched away ruined any enjoyment he may have found in it.

“And what does our charismatic little leader think we should do?” He whispered, hoping it would distract you from your duties. You decided to let it too, burying yourself deeper into his chest, sighing deeply his scent of bergamot and rosemary. You did not want to deal with their bickering right now. You had yet to fight off a drowsiness that crept over you while you lounged in his lap, which was the only explanation you could think of for what you said next.

“We’ll just have to see what tomorrow brings, pumpkin.”

“Pumpkin?!” Astarion stiffened beneath you, a scowl appearing on his face as the tranquil atmosphere dissolved. You blinked at the clear offense in his tone, leaning back to gaze at his disgruntled expression, worry set in your own features.

“Excuse me, darling, but what exactly do I have in common with some unsightly gourd?” He huffed indignantly. The camp quieted from his outburst, several heads turning in your direction. They were wise enough to not interfere, though.

Ah, he thought it was a comment on his appearance, you realized with a sinking feeling. Astarion was sensitive to such things, as he’d shown when you learned he’d been unable to see himself since he turned. It was something he took pride in, one of the only things he could well and truly call his own. You hadn’t meant it that way, of course, but you weren’t surprised that’s how he took it, given his history. He hadn’t been overly enthused when you commented on his lovely laugh lines, or the adorable beauty mark just below his left eye, to put it mildly, and now you’d compared him to a lumpy, often deformed fruit. Guilt poked at your heart for your thoughtlessness.

“You have many things in common with pumpkins,” you said calmly. Perhaps he could see the compliment in it yet. He flared his nostrils, but you pressed on before he could protest. “They’re vibrant, beautiful, and tough on the outside, just like you.” You booped his nose playfully. “But they’re also soft, delicious, and wonderful on the inside, just like you.”

Astarion remained tense as he stared at you, scanned you, like a hawk does the calm fields for a stray mouse. The wrinkling of his nose furrowed his brow, and it took every ounce of willpower not to lean up to kiss his doubts away. His gaze slowly began to soften, a smirk spreading across his face.

“Well, I suppose when you put it that way, perhaps we do have some similarities,” he admitted with a huff. Relief flooded your veins as he settled back into the cushions, inviting you back into his lap once he was comfortable. He looped an arm around your waist, holding you close with a gentle squeeze - a silent thank you for the unexpected compliment.

Soon it was decided; you would be taking Lae’zel to see her kin the following day. There were grumbles here and there about acquiescence to the warrior’s demands, but you made it clear she was your ally as much as any of them. With plans made and bellies full, most retired to their tents, intent on getting some rest. You found yourself settling in Astarion’s, naturally. Honestly, you sometimes wondered why you bothered to put up your own tent at all. Even your small collection of books had come to join his, stacked unorganized in a corner. You carefully plucked one from the tower, sitting down with it as Astarion continued to fuss with the various blankets strewn about.

Eventually, you felt him settle, a contented sigh parting his lips. You peeked at him over the top of your book, and was surprised to find his eyes on you.

“So…about that, little pet name…” he began, his voice a low purr. You felt your cheeks flush a lovely crimson as you lowered your book, you weren’t sure if from embarrassment or from his tone.

“Ah - I’m sorry, my love,” you said sheepishly. Perhaps he was still upset about it. “I didn’t mean to say it.”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all,” he said, catching you off guard.

He wasn’t upset?

“I only hope you’ll try to refrain from calling me such things in front of our companions,” He explained. “I do have a reputation to uphold.” Another smirk spread across his face.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that. Appearances were very important to Astarion, and though you couldn’t say you understood it, you would respect his boundaries. “‘Course ‘Star, I’ll be more careful next time.”

“Good,” he hummed, planting a soft kiss on your temple. Your lips spread in an involuntary smile as you returned to your book, a calmness returning to the tent. Though, Astarion was rarely happy with silence, and you noticed him still hovering on the edge of your periphery.

“You know,” he drawled, ducking his head to catch your gaze. You locked eyes with him, those beautiful rubies, getting lost in how they nearly glowed in the dim light.

“You do call me an awful lot of pet names, darling. Why not settle on one?”

You lowered your book again, setting it aside to grant him your full attention. “And pass up the chance to tell you all the different ways I find you beautiful? I think not.”

Astarion seemed taken aback momentarily by your answer, before he quickly recovered, puffing out his chest and smirking pridefully.

“Darling, you’re allowed to just call me beautiful,” he said, examining his nails. “I certainly wouldn’t mind hearing it more.”

It was barely detectable, but you could hear a hint of bitterness in his voice. Your smile faltered. Astarion told you enough about his past for you to know how his looks had been twisted for his master’s use; put on display and paraded around like a beloved doll. Early on in your relationship, he had made it clear he thought your interest in him stemmed from that alone, his looks. It was all he’d ever known, all anyone wanted him for. It was natural for him to believe you were the same.

You vowed to yourself that you would always make sure to remind him that was not the reason you pursued him. Yes, he was handsome, that fact was undeniable, but it was not what led you to seek him out, what had led to your trysts that turned into something more. You made a promise to always remind him of that, no matter how long it took until he believed it.

“My love…” you said softly, the words falling easily from your lips as you grabbed his free hand and held it close to your chest. Astarion stiffened at the sudden contact, and you paused, allowing him to pull away if he so desired. He never did though, and you took that as a sign to continue, placing gentle kisses on the back of his knuckles. You had to hide a smile when you felt the tension ooze from his muscles. “There are so many things about you that are beautiful, simply saying it would be an injustice.”

Astarion’s eyes widened slightly, and they scanned you for any hint of deceit, any hint of motive behind your words. You smiled warmly at him, hoping he could see all the love and adoration you poured into it.

“I think it’s beautiful when you get excited whenever you snatch a coin purse out of someone’s pocket. It’s beautiful when you tell me about the books you’re reading, and when you pout whenever Gale opens his mouth.”

Astarion let out a sharp laugh at that. He made no secret of his distaste for the wizard.

“But most of all, I think it’s beautiful when you laugh, because I think, even for just that little moment, I get to see you happy. So yes, that’s why all the pet names. Because not one of them could fully capture how beautiful you really are.”

“Darling…” he whispered, sounding almost breathless. He sat up a touch, his hand coming up to delicately cup your cheek, his thumb gliding across your skin reverently. He leaned forward, and your eyes fluttered closed as his lips ghosted across your own. The kiss was soft and delicate, gentle in a way you knew he reserved only for you. Similarly, you hoped he could feel how much you cared for him in the way you moved your mouth against his.

When you parted, he rested his forehead against yours, breaths intermingling as you held each other close.

“What did I do to deserve you?”

His voice was barely above a whisper, and your heart cracked at hearing the pain etched into it, the disbelief. What didn’t you do to deserve happiness, you wondered, but you knew how he would respond. 200 years of luring people back to a cruel master, a cruel fate, and you knew why he had to ask.

You remembered something he’d said, when you asked him about Cazador and his past. Something that made your chest ache, like it was now.

It was about time those memories were replaced.

“You existed. That was enough for me.”

You could tell he recognized them, his own words. His eyes went wide, lips parting as he heard them echoed back at him. You smiled then, pouring all the unsung emotions into that expression. You hoped he could see it, how your heart beat for him.

And maybe he did, for he quickly pulled you into a nearly crushing embrace, burying his face in your neck. He breathed deeply your scent, your essence, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear should he let go. He couldn’t lose you now. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure his undead heart could take it.

You returned his embrace, sighing as you felt him relax into your form. You absentmindedly began rubbing circles into his back with the pads of your fingers, tracing the outline of his scars with unconditional reverence. You liked to imagine yourself massaging away some of the pain and torment of his unlife whenever you got the privilege to hold him like this. It made you both feel a little better.

Soon enough though, your body began to sag from exhaustion, the events of your tumultuous journey catching up with you. You leaned out of Astarion’s embrace, earning a slight pout from him, but you quickly assuaged his worries by placing a gentle kiss below his ear.

“We should get some rest,” you murmured, and he hummed in agreement. You laid down across your shared bedroll, opening your arms invitingly for him. He eagerly curled up over you, resting his head on your chest with a sound almost like a purr. Your arms returned around him, one hand coming up to delicately card through his silky curls, massaging his scalp as you closed your eyes.

It was moments like these you had to bite your tongue from saying the words that had begun to echo deep in the cavity of your chest. You called each other ‘love’ in teasing, but outright saying those blasted three words still frightened both of you. Even though you felt it every time you looked at him these days, your heart soaring as easily as an eagle flies, your very veins filled with nothing but adoration. But, you knew he wasn’t ready. He was still navigating the turbulent sea of his past, his present, and the rapidly approaching future. You had no desire to push him beyond what was comfortable for him.

So you would wait. You would wait until he was ready to love you. Ready to be loved. You didn’t mind, really.

You would wait an eternity for him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

First Astarion fic lets go. Will probably write more in the future, but will also probably focus on my long fic for another game first. Either way hope you enjoy 💕

[callsign-rogueone]

the spider - l.m.

Liam Mairi x reader When you find an uninvited guest in your room, you find yourself knocking on Liam's door to ask him for help. words: 861 🏷: no book spoilers at all, just fluff! mentions of spiders but nothing too detailed (mild arachnophobe here) and Liam handles it for you 🥰 reader is referred to as a girl once, but no pronouns used. this was originally going to be for someone else, but I realized I haven't fed the Liam lovers in a while, so here you go!

“I need you,” you blurt as soon as Liam opens his door.

He blinks, thoroughly confused. “What?”

You take a breath and try again. “There is a ginormous spider in my room and I need you to do something about it. Please.”

“And I was the first person you thought of?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He has a point — you hardly know each other. 

“You’re my neighbor, so yeah, you were,” you answer, your cheeks warming. “Please, Liam?”

He doesn’t think you’ve called him by his first name, ever. To hear you whining it as you blink up at him, pleading… 

“Before it crawls into my bed or something,” you add urgently, shuddering at the thought. 

“Well, we can’t have that,” he says with a soft laugh. “Lead the way.”

He knows where your room is, knows you’re right across the hall, but he still trails a few paces behind as you make the incredibly short walk over.

You unlock the door and usher him inside, remaining out in the hallway.

He steps forward, taking it in; he’s caught glimpses over your shoulder, but never set foot inside.

It looks… lived in. There’s a pile of boots by the door, tonight’s homework and yesterday’s notes spread over the desk, and he could swear that’s a romance novel on your nightstand — you’re almost finished with it, judging by the location of the scrap of colorful parchment you’re using as a bookmark.

The bed is unmade, blankets pulled back as if you’d just gotten out of it. A small stuffed dragon sits on your pillow, a soft green thing that looks remarkably like Blythe.

And everything about this room smells like you, soft and sweet — he’s never figured out how you manage to do that, to smell so good when everyone in this entire school uses plain unscented soap.

His eyes finally catch on the intruder. It’s an ugly little fucker, but nothing to write home about, just a harmless garden variety.

“You know, it’s probably more afraid of you than you are of it,” he says with a glance over his shoulder.

“I highly doubt that,” you huff. “There is no reason why anything on Amari’s green earth should have that many legs. It’s damn creepy. Can you just smush it, please?”

“That’s a fair point. But it’s too big, if I smush it you’re gonna have spider juice on your wall.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Ew, okay, fine, um. There’s paper on the desk, and an empty cup.”

“See, you have the tools,” he begins, grabbing the aforementioned supplies, “you just need to take the leap and follow through with it.”

“No, thank you,” you reply from the corner of the room you’ve pressed yourself into, as far away from the thing as you can get. “I’ve faced enough of my fears this year already. This one is gonna have to wait.”

“Understandable,” he acknowledges, trapping it inside the cup and sliding the paper overtop it.

You give him plenty of space as he walks out the door, not leaving the corner until he returns a few minutes later. 

He holds up the paper silently, showing you the front and back, and flips the cup upside down, shaking it to prove that the spider is, in fact, gone.

“Where did you put it?” you ask, still paranoid.

“In the bushes, as far from your room as possible. Clear across the courtyard.”

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He sets the paper and mug back on the desk where he found them, looking back at you. 

You pull him into a loose hug, wrapping him in that lovely scent — orange blossoms and vanilla, he decides. It’s intoxicating.

“Thank you,“ you say quietly. “For dealing with it, and for not thinking it’s dumb or making fun of me.”

He falters for a moment, but quickly brings a hand up to rest on your back. “I’d never make fun of you. And it’s no problem, really.”

You realize you’ve never so much as shaken his hand before. You pull away quickly, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, that was… forward of me,” you manage.

He laughs softly. “It’s okay. Come get me if any of its friends show up. I’ll give them a talking to.”

You can’t help but smile. “Thank you, Liam.”

There you go again, saying his name and making him feel things.

He offers you a soft smile that nearly brings you to your knees. “Goodnight, pretty girl.”

“Goodnight,” you breathe, shutting the door after he’s back in his own room.

“He thinks I’m pretty,” you whisper aloud, smiling.

“Of course he does,” Blythe says, amused.

You jump. “What have I told you about eavesdropping?” 

She sounds like she’s rolling her eyes. “And what have I told you about broadcasting your every thought to me?”

You sigh, conceding. “I’m still working on that. I’m sorry.”

“All in good time, soft one. All in good time.”

You kick off your boots, flopping down onto your bed with a sigh and picking up your book again, but you’ve lost interest. Knights in shining armor be damned; all you can think about right now is Liam.

[kiame-sama]

Tender Love and Care- (Yandere!Miguel x sick!reader)

Warnings; reader is bed bound by illness, helplessness, obsessive miguel, mention of kidnapping, yandere behavior, yandere tendencies, lovesick yandere, semi-soft miguel, scolding, confusion, fever, mention of death, possessive behavior, slight objectification,

~~~~~~~~

"Reckless and stupid, that's all it was! Do you not understand how stupid it was? Truly? You could have caused the multiverse to completely collapse!"

Miguel hissed as he paced in front of the three most recent spider-people to let him down. He thought that they would be able to handle a simple mission, but it was clear that he put far too much faith in those standing before him. Keeping the multiverse from collapsing was no easy feat, but so far it seemed like Miguel was the only one holding things together.

"But, Sir, the parameters of the mission were to deal with the anomalies."

"And did you deal with them? No! Ay, madre de Dios, now Noir and Spider-punk have to deal with the extras you all missed. If I have to step in again on another botched mission-"

The soft sound of coughing made Miguel fall silent, his head turning to the door at the back of his office where his most treasured possession lay. A soft whimper and croaking noise made his brow furrow in worry. The other spider-people standing at attention exchanged a look of confusion before his attention snapped back to them.

"Do better next time or there won't be a next time. Dismissed."

He held his stony demeanor for a moment longer as they shuffled out of his office with their heads bowed low, red eyes trailing the group with precision. The coughing sound came again, this time closer than before. Low ragged breaths were being gasped down as the raspy sound of labored lungs fought to inflate.

"Miguel..?"

"(Y/n)," the dark haired man turned on his heel and approached the now open back door, "you should be in bed resting."

Despite their sallow and sunken features, he still found his dearest to be the most beautiful person he had ever seen. It didn't matter how many universes he had to look through before he found them again, he was going to keep this version alive. Of course, the constant canon events were trying rather hard to take them away, but he wouldn't let that happen.

The current problem was a rather debilitating illness that wracked the body and lungs of his beloved, leaving them gasping for every breath. Each cough struck his heart with pain as Miguel heard the following whimpers that came with any fit. If he could only lift away the illness that plagued his dearest, he would happily do so. However, all he could do for them at this point was keep them comfortable and hope their immune system could fight off the worst of the virus they were plagued with.

"Come on, you need your rest."

They didn't argue or fight against his gentle touch as he herded them back towards the large bed in the room. Though the room had once been for Miguel alone, it was now less sparsely decorated and seemed to have a bit more life to it thanks to the new life he felt he received from his darling. Miguel was careful to keep an eye out for any sign of stumbling or struggling so he could catch his darling before they had a chance to fall.

As their foot caught on the corner of a carpet, he quickly caught them in his arms. He may not have the spider sense like many others did, but he was no less observant of his surroundings. His muscled arms were hardened after years of training and fighting, so lifting his darling the rest of the way into the bed was an easy task for Miguel.

The other spider people knew Miguel had someone in his room, though they didn't know the true origin of how that person came to reside in the room. Not that Miguel would tell them, but he had scoured the many universes for any incarnation of his beloved and only found them after months of searching. They were laying in bed, rendered helpless by the pandemic illness that consumed that universe. He couldn't just leave them laying there without any help or defense.

His universe had already mostly eradicated the virus in question, so he knew they would be better off with him instead of in their dying universe riddled with the aggressive virus. Sure, he hadn't exactly asked if he could take them away, but in their delirium they weren't exactly able to deny thier savior anyway.

Once he got them back to his home, he endeavored to keep them safe and sequestered until the virus passed. Lyla was both supportive and judgemental of Miguel taking and keeping his beloved from their universe, she also knew how it would destroy Miguel to lose them again. She brushed off any questions the other spider-people asked her and simply said Miguel was allowed to keep his personal life away from his work life.

"Miguel..."

The hoarse whine of his dearest drew him back to the present as he finished tucking them into bed, resting a cool cloth over their forehead. They rest their cheek against his hand, nuzzling into his touch affectionately as they stared up at him with a kind of feverish delusion. He let the small smile tug at the corner of his lips as he stared lovingly at his darling.

"Rest, I'll wake you up later with food, alright?"

"M'kay..."

"Te amo, (y/n)."

[luveline]

Gah, your Peter Parker leaves me sighing in the best way every time! If you feel like it, could you write a little blurb of him melting from fondness when reader gets bashful following him doing/saying something soft? It’s so sweet, seeing two people mutually melt around and because of each other. Even when it’s the smallest thing, it means so much more when it’s from one of YOUR important people.

ty for your request! <3 fem

Fuck, Peter Parker thinks, jogging up the steps to your apartment building, this is the life. It’s a hot day in New York City but there are cold drinks to be had and that electric fan in your bedroom is calling his name. There’s genuinely no better place to be than laying on your sheets in pyjamas you wash with that apple blossom laundry softener he loves, knowing you keep using it ‘cos you love it, and knowing you wash his pyjamas because you love him. 

Spidering is going well, he saved a kid today who nearly got crushed by a ten tonner, so he’s feeling pretty good about himself, or at least feeling good about his decisions. He made Aunt May lunch and took it down to the hospital, he flirted gently with the older nurses, and now he’s gunning up the stairs to your apartment, every step a crinkle. 

Your door is wide open (awful) but you have good reason —the floors and the countertops shine. The windows are open, and the room is fragrant with your oil diffuser. You’re on your knees by the TV wiping down the table with a damp rag in loose-fitting clothes, sleeves pushed up, brows puckered. 

“Hey, baby,” he says. 

“Peter, I’m not talking to you today.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“You know how many pairs of your socks I found when I was cleaning today?” 

He grimaces. “Two?” 

“Nine pairs of socks, Peter.” 

He puts the flowers he’s brought you down on the coffee table and his back on the floor. He’d been hoping to do a grand unveiling of the bouquet to surprise you, but he feels terrible. “I don’t even know how that happens,” he mumbles dejectedly, kneeling down behind you, his arms threading in front of your tummy to give you a backwards squeeze. “They just disappear.” 

“They don’t, evidently.” 

“I’m really sorry.” He kisses your cheek. “I’m genuinely really sorry. That’s sloppy. I’m not a kid.” 

“No, you’re not… I’m not that mad though, you don’t have to sound so serious.” 

He holds the place just under your breastbone in his hands. “Oh, you’re not?” He tugs you to his front to stop you from moving prematurely and reaches blindly behind him for the flowers. You laugh as he tips back, taking you with him, the sound vibrating through you and into him. “That’s good. Don’t need these then, do we?” 

He twirls the bouquet, pressing it carefully to your chest. 

You immediately relax in his arms. He treasures that feeling, your weight leaning against him, your cheek listing down into his arm. You raise a hand, his arm trapped in the crook of your elbow as you examine the lilac petal of a sweetpea. “I love these ones.” 

“I know.” 

You take more time than anyone else would sifting through the flowers of the bouquet, breath the only evidence of your delight. You breathe out slowly whenever one of the flowers is particularly beautiful, and then you hug the bunch to your nose for a mild sniff. 

“Thank you.” 

Peter kisses your cheek. He savours the feeling of it, your skin under his lips, being that close to you, his hair on your forehead and your eyebrow tickling him as he hugs you just that little bit closer. “You’re welcome,” he murmurs, affection in every word, and a little drop of shyness too, “I was thinking of you, and they looked healthy for once, considering they’re off of the corner by Mandy’s.” 

“They’re so pretty,” you mumble, turning into him as much as you can. He lets up his tight hold. 

“Like you.” 

You brush your forehead against his chin. Peter actually gets goosebumps, letting the flowers fall to the floor by your leg so he can hold you. “I feel bad for caring about the socks now,” you mumble. 

He laughs with lips still closed and offers you a soft kiss. 

[asumofwords]

Watercress

Warnings: She/her pronouns. Smallfolk OC, mentions of death and war, descriptions of injury and blood, slowburn. Tags will be added as the fic goes along.

Pairings: Aemond x She/Her

Summary: Raised in the Riverlands, near the shadow of Harrenhal, her life was one of endless toil and quiet resilience. Every day was the same—scraping together food, tending to the ill, and surviving the harsh realities of a land marked by struggle. But when war came, it brought horrors beyond anything she could have imagined. The skies blazed with fury, the waters of the Gods Eye churned with the echoes of battle, and then—just as suddenly as it began—the world grew eerily quiet. She believed the worst was over. That was, until a fateful discovery in the woods shattered her fragile peace and set her on a path she never could have foreseen.

Notes: Hello there my sweet angels! Thank you so much for your patience in me writing this. It has been such a long time since I have written anything and I am so excited to finally have a burst of energy (and the inspiration) to do it! As I'm writing this I'm like, is this similar to Lighthouse? And you know what, potentially? Lmaoooo. I'm not sure how many chapters this bad boy is going to be, but it will be a miniseries hehe. If you want to be tagged in the taglist, let me know, otherwise I hope you enjoy! <3

Chapter 1: Broken

Still and brittle air. A body of water that had rippled with anger, now calm and without falsely made tides. In the woods beside the ever stretching lake, there was food to be found, herbs to be foraged, and animals to be hunted. What she hadn’t accounted for was the discovery of a man.

As she moved through the nearby woodlands, her eyes diligently scanned the forest floor for edible plants to gather and bring home. She followed a slender stream that wound its way like a vein through the lush greenery. Below her, she spotted some watercress and knelt down to collect it.

The plant was easy to identify, its round, dark green leaves gleaming with a healthy shine, growing in plump clusters that resembled clover. A common enough find, watercress was versatile—its peppery flavour could be enjoyed raw or cooked, adding a subtle kick to various dishes.

With gentle precision, she cut the stems at their base using her blade, then placed the watercress into the small basket she held at her hip. The air filled with a faint peppery scent as her fingers began to feel the familiar tackiness from the leaves. She took care not to harvest too much, arranging the watercress atop the rest of her foraged goods before continuing along the well-worn path toward the lake. Beneath the cloth in her basket lay a worn net, neatly folded, its ends weighted by sinkers like the delicate strands of a spider's web.

A lot of trouble the lake had seen in the few days past. Troubles from highborn nobles who cared naught about the smallfolk who outnumber them. But now that it was still, it was almost eerie from how so much chaos can suddenly halt in its tracks from the actions of just two; how much destruction just even one could make. 

The soft chirping of birds echoed through the gaps between the trees, mingling with the gentle creaking of branches swaying in the breeze. As she neared the shore, the bushes and trees grew sparser, revealing the familiar lake’s edge. Stones of varying sizes scattered the bank, and the water lay calm, a deep shade of blue.

Her cottage was tucked behind her, deeper within the woods from where she had come. It was close enough to the village—a few hours walk—but far enough that few ventured to this secluded corner of the lake. There was an unspoken respect for the boundaries each had claimed, and everyone faithfully followed their familiar, ancestral paths.

Though autumn rapidly approached, and the nipping of the cold chilled her through her skirts, the woman still stripped her feet of her shoes and stockings, pulling up her skirts and apron to knot at the side, leaving her legs bare to the open air. 

With a swift flourish, she pulled the net from the basket and waded into the lake until the water reached her knees, disregarding the cold that bit at her skin. In the frigid depths, her feet slid over and between the rocks beneath, occasionally unsettling her balance and sending small ripples across the surface.

She stood motionless for a time, waiting for the disturbed fish to be lulled back into a false sense of safety. Once the water had settled, she cast her net, its pointed corners spreading like the limbs of an octopus before sinking below the surface. She gripped the long rope attached to the center and began to drag the net back toward her.

At first, the net yielded only a few stray leaves and a couple of twigs. Undeterred, she carefully ensured that the net was untangled before tossing it back into the water. Again, she pulled it in quickly, only to find the same meager catch. She repeated the process until her toes had grown numb and a dull ache crept up her shins from the cold.

Moving to a new spot, she threw the net once more, watching the weights sink swiftly as she pulled it in. This time, there was resistance.

The water rippled and splashed as she hauled the net up, revealing three small fish trapped inside. Their silvery bodies thrashed side to side, desperately trying to escape. With swift, steady steps, she walked back to the shore and dropped the net onto the dirt bank, watching the fish flop and struggle. Taking out her hunting knife, she carefully avoided cutting the rope as she held each fish down, driving the blade into their heads. The frantic thrashing slowed to a dull twitch, and then ceased altogether. She slit their bellies open, removed the guts, and flung them into the water, hoping to attract more fish—or perhaps even larger ones.

She placed them in the basket, but their sizes were nothing extraordinary. She thought that she could dry some for later, store them to eat dried or to soak in a stew with a thick bread. And though the coldness was beginning to get to her, she continued, walking straight back into the water to throw her net back in. 

Casting the net out far and pulling it back in, she managed to get four more fish which she killed, gutted and placed in the basket beside the other. Though not greedy, she knew that the winter months would soon be upon her and it was best to be prepared with an ample store of dried fish and foods, even more-so now after the war had ravaged so much of the Seven Kingdoms. She decided that if she was to have ten, she would be able to eat well that evening as well as have a fair stash to have ready whenever needed. 

Once more she stepped out into the water, though this time daring to wade deeper, the water coming to her mid thigh, the bottoms of her skirts and apron slowly became saturated, the weight pulling her body down. 

Another cast of the net, she watched as the weights sunk into the dark depths, the sun bleached rope disappearing into the lake before she began to pull at the rope, only this time the tension of the rope pulled taught and the net became stuck. 

With a huff, she blew a stray strand of hair from her face and yanked on the net, trying to dislodge it from whatever it had snagged on—a branch or perhaps a rock. But the net wouldn’t budge, and her frustration grew. She pulled harder, and the net finally came free, but the force sent her stumbling backward, her foot slipping into a small dip in the lakebed. Her hips plunged into the cold water.

"Fuck." she hissed as the icy water soaked her gown up to her waist.

In a surge of anger, she wrenched the net toward her, only to find her frustration deepening when she saw a rip in the netting. The frayed rope left a gaping hole, one that would take considerable time to mend—or perhaps force her to start anew.

“Fucking cunt.” She flung the net back to shore, the weights making a wet thud on the soil, as she looked to where the her net had got caught. 

With her dress already soaked, she made no quarrels with walking deeper, the icy lake now coming up to her chest as she tried to peer down into the dark depths to see what her net had gotten snagged on. Why she looked, she did not know. Perhaps to curse out whatever rock or object had ruined her perfectly fine net. At the very least she had caught enough fish to last her until she could mend the torn net, or start anew. Gods forbid she had to walk to a nearby town to buy one.

With careful feet she waded in the water, reaching her toes out first in search of the sunken object. Hands balancing her atop the waters surface, she reached further forward in search. Her toes touched small rocks, their broken edges skating against the sides or sole of her foot-- but still it was not what had ruined her net. There were many rocks in the lake, she knew this, the fishermen who had boats on the lake and drew trade knew this, but she frequented this spot enough to know that there was something new there that shouldn’t be.

Rough and smooth all at once she felt it, something before her nestled between boulders. As her toe searched the foreign object, a sharp sting radiated up from them. She hissed, pulling her foot backwards, wondering if there was something new within the lake that could swallow her whole. Her curiosity took over. Tentatively, she pushed her foot out again, finding the smooth yet bumpy object that seemed to be colder than the water itself. The more she touched it, the more she realised that it was not what she had thought at all. In fact, she was surprised to come to the conclusion that it was manmade. 

With her dress already soaked, she dipped her arm into the water, shoulder and breast dipping beneath the surface halting her breath as her fingers sought out what her toes had found. Cool metal met her hand, her digits wrapping around a cylinder shape, the feeling of spirals beneath. With all her might she pulled it, the weight of what she held making her strain, but as she lifted it she was able to see the glinting of steel beneath the water as it got closer to the surface. 

The sword hilt was black and gold, a sort of spiral shape at the top, its cross guards gold and in the shape of a head, a bird perhaps? Or a dragon? It was long and heavy, and just when she thought the rest of it would come to the surface, she was wrong. It was far too large and too heavy for her to pull it up out of the water. Stepping back carefully with the new found object in hand, she dragged it behind her, the point dragging over rocks and sediment alike until finally she was back on the shore. 

The make of the sword told her that it was worth its weight in gold, and even had gold upon it to prove her observations further. It would have belonged to a nobleman, or perhaps even a knight, though the closer the looked at it, the more features she could see that resembled symbolism of House Targaryen. 

So it was one of theirs, then. 

She let the sword drop to the sand, hands on her hips as she looked at both her basket full of food and fish, the broken net, and finally to the sword. The sword would be worth much, but she would have to travel far to sell it to anyone with the coin to buy it. But then comes the trouble of travelling with such a large, and if she was correct in what she thought it was, recognisable item. It would risk raiders, or worse, some overzealous loyalist who deigned her a thief and cut off her hands. 

Eyes drifting behind her towards the lake, she wondered what had happened those days past. 

She remembered the sound, the ear piercing shrieks from the sky, heat of fire, the smell of smoke and crashing of water. But she had run as fast as she would once she saw the great green beast fly overhead.

Nothing good ever came to the Riverlands when She was near.

Eventually though, having nowhere else to go, the woman had returned in the night, hidden amongst the forest and trees, listening for the sounds of roaring and flame which had ceased quickly as it echoed around the lake. And when she arrived back to the lake, it was quiet once more.

The dance of the two dragons above Gods Eye was no more, and she could finally go back to living her life; uninterrupted. 

She scanned the shoreline surrounding, eyes narrowing in the distance to see if she saw any signs of the dragons. Perhaps they had crawled out from the lake on the other side and had made their way towards her end? But the lake was so large and so deep, that none could even see to the other side.

Turning to pick up her basket and the sword again she was halted by the flickering of something shiny in the distance, the setting sun reflecting off of metal amongst tree root and rock. She wondered briefly if it was going to be another sword, or perhaps a helm. That would be easier to sell at the nearby town; a smith would certainly pay handsomely to melt down the steel and turn it into whatever wares he desired. She kicked soil over the blade and placed the basket full of greens and fish atop the hilt, covering the gold and reflective surface entirely before making her way towards the flickering light. 

Her dress pulled down on her shoulders heavily, water dripping from the hem with each step as a chill rose upon her flesh. But something compelled her further, despite all other instincts within, she pushed on, making her way towards the glinting metal which snaked along the rocky shore. The closer she got, the more she recognised that it was chains, draped and shining in the sun, some covered in dirt the rest leading towards the water. 

She thought of the many things she could do with the chains, what their worth could be, and whether or not it was worth going further to collect them, and yet still she persisted, feet muddy and wet, a slight sting from where the blade of the sword had cut at her toes.

She bent down to gaze upon them, strong, good quality steel it seemed. They had not tarnished, nor were their many marks upon them. The chain links were half the length of her arm and triple the width, its weight likely more than her own. They were far too large for her to carry alone.

A breeze rolled through the forest and across the water, sending goosebumps to rise over her body with a shiver. It was getting dark, she was drenched, and the best option was to leave the larger find behind and come back for it on the morrow, perhaps with a plan on how she would move the chain from water, to shore, to forest, to door. 

She turned to face the forest and was greeted with evidence of the destruction dragons could inflict. Trees older than her grandmother had ever been, their trunks as wide as horses, split down the centre and broken from the impact of a large body. Further within she could see the singed tree tops, where ash that had settled down atop the canopy. The eeriness of a broken forest and a broken realm, far too close to home.

And yet she was drawn to it, this destruction. It was unlike anything she had witnessed before; she was pulled forward. Feet crunching on the pine floor, the crunch of her steps deafening in comparison to how quiet it was amongst the carnage. The animals had not yet returned, the ones that had once been there dead, silent. 

Even with the trees that had somehow managed to survive, to stand tall despite the terror that had reigned above them, their trunks and leaves were covered in the evidence of what was. Ash, streaked each surface, and with a curious hand she place it atop the bark of a tree, brushing her finger along the ridges of the wood, watching as they turned grey. A quick rub of forefinger and pointer together made the ash smear, and as she stood by that tree, taking in the scene before her, her eyes focused upon a darkness behind the tree that should not have been there. 

Something that was not born of ash nor bark nor fur. 

Something human. 

Uncertainly she took a step around the tree to see the beginning of a boot, a leathered boot at that. And attached to it a leg, and then hips, and finally;

A man. 

Dressed head to toe in dark leather, now grey with ash, the man lay on his side. Her heart raced in her chest, though she had seen the dead before, this time was different. This time it was not a sick merchant, nor a child who had gotten the winter fever. It was not her father dying at the hands of a drunken fight, blood trickling from his mouth. 

This was one of them. 

Long silver hair lay knotted across the mans face, ash streaking the pearlescent tresses grey. His skin much the same, though the parlour was similar to a corpse; so pale, so almost blue that she could have mistaken him for one of Harrenhal’s ghosts.

Was he the man who had slaughtered the Strong family at Harrenhal?

Or was he the one who commanded the brutal rape and murders of those who opposed the Blackwoods? 

Did it matter? She thought to herself, They were all the same.

The leg she had discovered was bent at an unnatural angle, the shin snapped in two, broken in a way that if he had lived he would have been crippled for the rest of his days. The rest of his body did not fair well either, tears in his leather tunic and breeches given way to an attack, or a fall, or Gods knew what else. The famed silver hair which obscured his face from view was red at his skull, slowly seeping into a rust colour where blood had dried from a wound. 

Bare toes stood beside the pale mans head as she dipped to her knees, her wet dress sticking to the ash and pine coated floor. She observed him for a time, admiring the stitchwork of the tunic he wore, noting that it would likely be-- despite its conditions-- the nicest thing she could own. But she was no grave robber, and she had no desire to be haunted by his spirit after desecrating his corpse. 

Her curiosity however won out, and with an unsteady hand, unsure whether it be from the cold or the man, she reached forth to brush the blood crusted hair away from his face.

Despite its appearance, ash, blood and leaves tangled in the locks, his hair was as soft as silk as she brushed it with her hands. The skin of his ear was cold to the touch. She swept the tangled heap away from his brow and cheek, revealing a bruised and cut cheek, though that was not what had made her breath skip in her chest. 

The space where his eye should have been was empty, though not from this battle, but from one many years ago she supposed, the skin of the brow and cheek scarred deeply down his face. She could see to the back of where his eye would have once sat, the flesh darkened and scarred.

Aemond One-Eye.

Following the scar on his cheek, she looked to his lips, where dried blood had crusted at its opening and down his other cheek to the forest floor. His nose, aquiline and strong had bled too, as did his ears from what she would see, and through the centre of his face a cut sliced through the bridge where bruising and bone were visible. 

It was weird, to sit so close to a corpse of royalty, and she were sure that if he were alive he would have stuck her for daring to even touch him. For daring to even touch his pure blood, and his pure hair, and his purer skin. And this thought alone made her touch him all the more, tracing curious fingers across his cheek, his nose, the scar running through his cheek, and down to his neck, where his tunic had been torn and the pale expanse of his neck was visible. 

Her finger trailed down past his jaw, underneath it, wondering what in the world separated the two of them. They died just like everyone else. Whether that be in the birthing bed, in cups of ale, or fighting one another. What made the Targaryens so far removed from her? Besides their silver hair, their lilac eyes and their dragons, they were merely men, and all men died.

The King was proof of this.

A faint fluttering beneath her fingers made her lift her hand in shock, her digits hovering over the mans face as she looked at him in disbelief. 

He couldn’t…

She leant down, dipping her ear beside his lip as she rested a hand against his ribs. 

And there it was, a rattling breath so weak, so quiet, that had his lips not been pressed against her ear she would not have heard it. 

He was alive.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Taglist: Please ask if you would like to be added to the taglist

@thewriterthatghostedyou @sepherinaspoppies @insufferablelust @osferthswifey @persephonerinyes @ihadlife @aemondsfavouritebastard @thaisthedreamer

[ichangedmycornyahhname]

Miguel O’Hara x spider-person!reader

Summary: Reader returns to the web of life after a run in with another spider person. Miguel of course isn’t too happy to hear about them interfering with other dimensions.

Warnings: smut- slutty smut | Miguel using his fangs and Talons to tease | Backshots? 🫶 | A little degrading | Choking | Kinda fluffy ig? | Miguel might be outta character but whatever

She gulped, hands fiddling with one another as she walked through the twisting cavern where all of the other spider people resided. She knew she had screwed up, but she wasn’t about to let someone punch her and get away with it. Even if it may or may not have screwed up a timeline or two. Typically she’d find a way to avoid such a thing, or at least fix it. But this time, he had found out before she could do anything.

It’s not as though she didn’t like Miguel. In fact, the two had flirted once or twice. But it would seem their little fling was merely that. A fling. Which is why she was expecting a harsh lecture from the man.

She entered the lab he stayed in, the bright red, blue, and yellow lights beginning to overstimulate her eyes. Yet the large dark figure standing amongst it all is what kept her attention. “How many times do I have tell you?—“ He turned around, the lenses of his mask narrowing as he glared down at her. “You don’t go off without back up. Now you’ve gone and messed everything up Y/N.” He wasn’t wrong, and she knew it. That was why his words irritated her so. Her brows knitted, her twisting into a frown as she spoke up.

“You go out without backup all of the time Miguel. So how is this any different.” Her snarky comment seemed to do something to the Spider-Man, because he now found himself curling his hands open and closed as he inches closer to her. “Is that your excuse Y/N?” His curt response didn’t come as any shock to her, and all she could seem to do was shake her head and cross her arms. “That’s what I thought.”

That little comment only added more fuel to the fire. Her eyes narrowed beneath her mask, her arms unfolding as she turned around and began to walk away. She wouldn’t listen to his idiotic comments. Not today. Instead she attempted to excuse herself before she said anything she would regret. Although it would seem to be too late for that. In an instant she found her body being pushed against a cluttered desk, her cheek smushed against the cool metal. Her wrists were pinned beside her head, large firm hands grasping each. “Miggy— what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m getting sick of that attitude Y/N. Always rolling your eyes and making stupid jokes.” She jolted, the soft graze of a needle drawing her attention. Except, it wasn’t a needle. It was the small talons on his finger tips gently pricking at her suit. The odd feeling brought an even odder feeling within her stomach. And soon she found herself trying to look back at Miguel who was currently teasing at her shoulder blades with his fangs. They were sharp and prickled her back in just the right way. “Miggy..” She sputtered as her back arched, hips curving up in an attempt to get even the tiniest bit of friction. “Sit still.” Was all she received.

His hands traveled down her body, slowly trailing down her back, following the slight curve of her spine until finally his hands remained firm on her ass. His thumbs grazed over her bottom, squeezing and fondling as his kisses along her back trailed down. “Oh crap—“ Cool air slipped into her suit as the crotch area was torn through the middle and something warm intruded. Miguel’s finger rubbed circles around her sensitive area, the soft fabric of her panties drawing a chuckle from him. “So quick with comebacks, and now you’re wiggling your hips for me like a slut. How cute.” The sarcasm in his voice almost made her tell him to shut up, but his tongue interrupted before she could get another word out. The warmth of his tongue felt unfamiliar, as did the resounding slap that echoed through the place. Her ass stung, a whine leaving her as his thumb rubbed circles around the stricken area. “You’ll be fine.” He grumbled before he began to lap at her cunt. His tongue worked at her clit, licking and slurping lazily. And while he wasn’t even trying, she found herself humming softly at his touch. He continued to lap at her while using his hands to keep her in place. “Damnit wait-“

For once Miguel actually listened. His tongue no longer pressed pleasantly against her body, and he instead stood from his knees. “I didn’t mean literally- I just-“

Smack

A yelp of surprise bounced off the walls, her head lifting as Miguel’s hand remained stuck to her behind. A small smile was on his lips, the lenses of his mask narrowing ever so slightly. She knew that look. Miguel lifted one of her legs, hoisting it onto the table so that one leg was up and the other supported her. The bottom half of his suit was pushed down to his upper thighs, his happy trail peeking beneath the upper half of his suit. His meaty thighs flexed as he moved himself closer, and that’s when she felt the soft tip of his cock. It rutted against the side of her thigh, precum sticking to her skin as his hands found the small of her back. “Keep your legs spread like that. It might be a tight fit.”

-

“Miggy please! I can’t-“ Papers that had previously been on the metal desk were low strewn about, littering the floor. Her cheek was pressed against the desk, Miguel’s hand tangling in her hair as his heavy thrusts drew a moan from her each time. She could hear his hot breaths, and feel the way his abs flexed against her back as he leaned against her. Miguel’s fangs pricked at the top of her ear, his harsh pants making her clit throb. His hand that wasn’t occupied with her hair came down to squeeze at her curves, just as her pretty cunt squeezed perfectly at his cock. She gushed around him, squelches filling the room as he continued to pound into her.

Miguel was growing rougher, needier. He slipped his cock out and lifted her from the desk. Her feet met the floor, shaky and uneasy. “Spread your legs a little more. I won’t fit if you don’t.” He demanded as he kicked her legs apart a bit more. His hands returned to her body, one finding her neck while the other rested on her lower abdomen. “God, I was hoping you’d act like a bitch so I could’ve fucked that attitude out of you..but seeing how you melt for me..” His cock slipped back in, his hand trailing down from her stomach to her clit. He gave it the occasional rub, synchronizing it with every thrust. The act only drew more moans from her, her head lulling back onto his chest. “If you keep groaning like that I might cum mi amor..” His words, while a warning, only lured her in. She began to roll her hips as best she could, the friction causing Miguel’s breath to hitch. “Fuck you’re really are my slut huh? Cmere.”

His hips fucked into hers, the resounding slaps of skin being drowned out by their moans and groans. His cock throbbed inside of her as her orgasm caused her to tighten up. “Oh crap miggy…” She cursed under her breath. “Yeah I know baby..” He responded as his lips found hers, a slow sensual kiss ensuing. His finger swirled at her clit as he slipped his cock out, now fucking her thighs instead. The combined stimulation had her hunching over, her legs shaking as her orgasm crashed over her. “Y/N you’re spilling all over..fuck me.” Miguel groaned out, his head falling back as he bit back a moan. With his jaw clenched tight and sweat sheening his forehead, he came. Spurts of white decorated the messy desk, along with Y/Ns spider suit.

“Well fuck..if I would’ve known that was all it took to get you to fuck me then damn..” She chuckled breathily, her hands grasping at the desk as she attempted to steady herself.

“Shush, don’t ruin the moment..” Miguel placed a gentle kiss on the side of her neck, a groan leaving him as he wrapped his arms around her torso. “You’re still in trouble.”

[deanssluvr]

JOOST WITH A GIRLY!READER HCS

pairing: joost klein x fem!reader

content: RPF. sfw + nsfw. pre-established relationship.

a/n: randomly felt the urge to write this at 3am.

SFW

- your style was the first thing he noticed about you when you met. you were a pink floral dress and heels with ribbons that decorated your hair. he thought you were beautiful. you took his staring as something negative at first, but was relieved when he complimented your outfit.

- you were nervous to bring him over to your place, but he was absolutely mesmerized by the way it was decorated.

- one of his favorite dates with you was when you both went to build a bear. you had asked him to get matching bears with you to which he happily agreed. you both settled on getting frogs. his green and yours pink. you dressed yours like a princess and he dressed his like spider-man. at the end you both exchanged them, so you kept his and vice versa.

- you both send pictures of each other doing things with said stuffed animals. like he’d send a pic of him out shopping with it or you’d send a pic cooking with it.

- he noticed your love of decorating so he goes out of way to buy you things that reminds him of you. whether it be little trinkets, a stuffed animal, or a record that he thinks you’d like.

- you have heavily influenced his style since he’s been with you.

- he always handles your stuffed animals with care. talks to them as well.

“how do you think she looks?” he looks down at the stuffed bunny in his hand and nods as if listening to a second opinion. “me too. i think she looks beautiful.”

- he enjoys sitting and watching you do your makeup and skin care routine. likes seeing how much care you put into it. there are a few times where he asked you to do his makeup. sometimes it was just simple eyeliner, but he loved it.

- on that same note you asked if he wanted to do a face mask with you one night and his face lit up immediately. now every once in a while you include him in your skincare routine.

- he lets you paint his nails a new color almost every week and always lets you pick the color. sometimes he just matches with whatever color your nail set is at the time.

- ties your shoes and buckles your heels for you without asking.

- you never pay for anything while he’s around because he never gives you the chance. dinner? new clothes? a piece of jewelry you looked at for only a few seconds? he’s already got his card out for you.

- he sleeps better at your place. it’s mostly because of you, but also because of how goddamn comfortable your bed is. the thick soft comforter? the many fluffy pillows? the pink sheets? he’d always fall asleep quickly in your bed.

- enjoys taking baths over showers with you. loves the scent of your soap you use and the bubbles you put in it. loves the way your hands gently wash him.

- learns how to do your hair. watches so many videos and asked you one day if he could do it. you spent the day doing your hair with him. he looked so concentrated and you found it so sweet.

NSFW

- he is obsessed with how you look in your lingerie sets. he loves the way the delicate lace and satin looks on you. he’s always hesitant to take it off of you.

- although he loved everything you wore, he had to admit that you in skirts were always his favorite. maybe it’s because your legs just look so good in them, or it’s actually because he loves thinking about how pretty they are pushed up your hips while he fucks you from behind. who knows?

- he turns your stuffed animals around whenever you both fuck. he told you it’s because he doesn’t want them to watch.

- he actually prefers having sex at your place though he never tells you. your bed is just so comfy with all the pillows and soft blankets that you layer on it.

- nothing but praise. even when he’s pounding into you harshly or fucking himself further into your throat, he’s still whispering sweet praises into your ear.

“so pretty taking my cock like this.”

“fuck, you’re so perfect”

“you’re doing so good for me schat.”

- loves the way you say his name. you could just be trying to get his attention and he’d melt at how his name sounds on your tongue. but he especially loves hearing you moan his name when your fucking. how desperate you sound for him almost brings him over the edge every time.

- won’t admit it, but the way you smell turns him on. when you hug him or simply just sit next to him and he could smell that perfume that he loves, he’s already getting hard.

- eats you out like you’re his last meal. would do it for hours if he could. prefers giving you head over anything. just loves the way you taste and even more so the sounds you make.

[iamnotoriginalphil]

The Halloween Party (Lydia Deetz x f!Reader)

Synopsis: Your friend abandons you at a Halloween party. Luckily for you, you find someone far more interesting to spend the night with.

Words: 4k

Warnings: biting, blood, marking, smut, drug use mentioned, hair pulling, rough sex, mentions of alcohol

The lights and the music were overwhelming. With the tight corset binding your waist and the heels on your feet, you were trying not to look as uncomfortable as you felt. You should have never let your friend convince you to come to the party. You certainly shouldn’t have let her dress you up in something she deemed sexy before abandoning you with to a bunch of strangers.

You didn’t even know whose house you were in.

You perused the snack table, chuckling at the plastic spiders scattered over the bright orange table cloth. Snatching up a handful of chips, you turned, taking in the crowd. Bodies writhed together in time to the music, flashing lights illuminating flashes of skin here, groping hands there. Your cup of red liquid sloshed in your hand as you pushed to the edges of the room, looking for somewhere quieter to perch until you could leave.

The garden was quieter, although hardly empty. Someone had started a small fire, the scent of burning sugar making its way to your nose. Lingering on the outskirts, you curled around it, shivering in the cool air. You were too far for the light and heat to find you, watching the flames flicker between shoulders pressed together and cigarettes being passed from hand to hand. Cloves and smoke and weed, all mixing together with the sharp sweetness of marshmallows burning as they slid off sticks under inattentive cooks.

You lent back against a tree, keeping to the shadows, enjoying the sting of cold air on your bare skin. You tilted your chin up, taking a deep breath that burned your lungs, the stars twinkling high above you, the moon almost new.

“Not your crowd?”

You tried not to show how startled you were. You’d wrongly assumed you were the only one skulking in the shadows, leaving the revelry for the people who had wanted to be at the party. Turning your head, glancing down, you found a pale face full of flickering shadow, the light from the fire playing over it, still staring at the group of people laughing. Dark hair and darker clothes, if anyone belonged to the night, it was this woman.

“Not particularly,” you replied, keeping your voice steady.

“Why are you here then?” she asked.

“A friend needed moral support,” you replied, “is this the moment when you tell me this is your party?”

“Fuck no,” she laughed, “my ex thought I needed to get out more.”

“Your ex dragged you to a party?” you asked.

“No. He agreed to take our daughter for the night so I could come. It’s my producer’s party,” she replied.

You considered her a moment. She tipped her head back, leaning it against the rough bark of the tree. A flicker of familiarity went through you but you couldn’t place from where. Like a half remembered dream you’d had once many years ago.

“So why are you hiding from everyone?” you asked.

With face half in shadow, her dark eyes found you, leaving you a little breathless. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, the ache of the heels pinching at your toes more a nuisance than anything else. Even in dark she was undoubtably beautiful.

“Who said I’m hiding?” she asked.

“You’re skulking in the shadows. Is there another reason if you’re not hiding?” you asked.

“I suppose not,” she said, her gaze drifting away from you again.

You kept looking down at her, wanting to catch another glimpse of pale skin, dark eyes, lips curling in a scornful smile. She was still staring out at the group by the fire, a guitar having been pulled from seemingly nowhere, the soft chords so discordant with each other. Her nose wrinkled and you had to bite back a laugh. Even her disgruntled expression was compelling.

“Why aren’t you with your friend?” she asked after a few moments of silence.

“What?” you asked, blinking back to the moment.

“You said you came with a friend who needed moral support but now you’re here on your own. What happened?” she asked.

“Oh.” You perked up, “the moral support worked and uh, she abandoned me to go talk to Rick.”

“Rick? Why would she want to talk to Rick?” she asked.

“She called it networking but… I dunno. Do you ever get the feeling that someone is speaking the same language as you but with different meanings?”

You shifted your body, turning it towards her, shoulder resting against the tree. Her head rolled towards you, finally looking at you again. It sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the chilled night air.

“She’s fucking Rick to increase her chances of being in one of his projects,” she said.

“Yeah, which is not how I network but then.” You shrugged, “I don’t work in this industry.”

“You don’t?” Her interest in you seemed to increase.

“I’m in tech,” you replied.

Her interest immediately retreated again. A pang of disappointment went through you.

“I write a lot of code. I test firewalls for companies. Like a contractor. I get to hack into people’s websites,” you said.

That usually impressed people. Usually being the operative word. She couldn’t have cared less.

“So, I guess I just have to wait around until she’s done,” you said, hoping that would get a response.

“Shouldn’t take long,” she snorted.

“Do you… do you know that from personal experience?” you asked.

The look she gave you was so full of disgust you reared back. She didn’t bother trying to school her features, those eyes sweeping over you with a judgemental eye.

“Why are you wearing that?” she asked, derision dripping from every word, “I would have expected your friend was hoping you’d be the honey pot in her plan looking like that.”

“Oh, uh, I didn’t really come with a costume so… she dressed me in her clothes for the party,” you said, looking down at your body.

The tight corset nipping in your waist, the short skirt, the lace showing off your skin more than you were used to, you could understand what she meant. Wrapped up so pretty, and without a bow. You’d had plenty of interested looks as you’d lingered on the outskirts of the crowd. Too bad none of them had enticed you.

And the only one you had was looking at you like you were…

“What are you meant to be?” she asked.

“I’m told I’m a witch, but we didn’t have the hat so I guess it’s a pretty bad costume,” you said, “why? What are you meant to be?”

Your eyes lingered on her. She was hardly in anything you recognised.

“Nothing. I didn’t bother with the costume. My ex is the whiz at all that. I only promised to leave the house for something other than work,” she waved off.

“So this is just how you normally dress?” you asked, eyes doing another sweep over her body.

“Why?” she asked in response.

“It’s cool,” you said.

She seemed to not have an answer to that. She settled back against the trunk of the tree, staring out at the group that had moved on to singing off key but enthusiastically. You sighed, slowly sinking down until you were sitting too. Taking the pressure off your toes, you groaned, tugging the shoes off to massage the sole of your foot.

“Those things are death traps,” she said.

“I’m not exactly enjoying any element of this outfit,” you said.

Her low chuckle was only audible because you were sitting right by her.

“At least it looks good on you,” she said.

“Oh.” It appears as if you were forgiven for your misstep, “thanks.”

“I’m sure Rick would prefer I dress more like that,” she said, “I had to compromise in the end.”

“Why? You look good in what you’re wearing now,” you said.

She turned to look at you, a slow drag of eyes that made you shiver again.

“Call it the misogyny of the entertainment industry, or the creeps who need to want to fuck the woman to pay attention to them, but sex sells,” she said, “I put on the costume and I do the work and I thank them for the opportunity.”

“It doesn’t sound like you like your job that much,” you said.

“It has its upsides,” she said, offering you a small smile, “I get to be on television.”

“I wouldn’t want that. I’ve always felt awkward when a camera is pointed at me,” you said.

She hummed but didn’t give you more of an answer. Her eyes were studying you and you let her, giving her the space to stare at you to her heart’s content. You liked the thought of being looked at by this woman.

“You really don’t know who I am, do you?” she eventually said.

“Nope.” You popped the p obnoxiously, but smiled to let her know you weren’t making fun of her.

“Lydia.”

She offered you her hand. You took it, the warmth of her skin almost burning yours. Your name fell from your lips, almost breathless from the feeling of her palm against yours. Her lips quirked up, not quite a smirk, but something approaching it. You couldn’t get a read on her, so aloof from the rest of the gathering and yet you had to wonder if she kept away for another reason. People pushing you to go socialise usually meant one of two things. Either you were some kind of hermit who refused to leave the house, or you didn’t like going to social gatherings. Which spoke to something else usually. The moment spun out for longer than you’d been expecting.

“You don’t know Ghost House?” she asked, finally letting your hand go.

“Sorry,” you said, shrugging, “I’m not much of a television person.”

She made a soft sound and lent back again, slightly closer than you were expecting, her shoulder brushing yours. You tucked your feet underneath you, letting yourself gently tip towards her, wanting more of her touch. With both of your faces turned towards the fire, it was easy to pretend like it was purely a coincidence. That you didn’t feel like she was a black hole, drawing you in with little more than a moment of her attention, dark eyes assessing you. Why did you want it to be a positive assessment?

“Do you think they understand how tragic they are?” she asked.

“I think they’re drunk and high,” you replied.

Her laugh was throaty, raspy, like a ghostly finger stroked along the length of your spine. She rose, not quite as elegant as you’d imagined, and yet your stomach dropped with disappointment.

“Are you coming?” she asked, turning to look at you over her shoulder.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” you said, scrabbling to your feet.

You followed her on bare feet, past the tree, further into the shadows of the garden. It opened up farther, more expansive than you’d first thought. She seemed confident in the direction she’d chosen, striding through the darkness.

“Rick likes to think he’s sophisticated because he buys art but he has no eye. After all, he has one of Delia’s pieces around here somewhere,” she said.

“Delia?” you asked.

“Delia Deetz,” she said, pausing for a moment to let you catch up, “you really don’t know anything about me or my family.”

She seemed pleased by that. You offered her a small smile, feeling better about where this was going now. Any misstep had been passed over, leaving a warmth growing in your stomach.

“I’ll show it to you,” she said, reaching out to grasp your hand and tug you behind her.

She wound her way past one statue after another, growing further and further from the lights and sound of the party. The cool night air and the silence was appreciated, exactly what you’d been looking for when you’d slipped outside. Her hand was warm in yours, chasing away the chill that threatened to sink into your bones.

“Isn’t it just horrific?” she asked, coming to a stop in front of something you couldn’t conceptualise.

It was spiky and abstract and not like anything you’d ever willingly seek out to look at. You titled your head, trying to understand what you were looking at. Nose wrinkling, you shook your head, giving up on trying.

“I know art is subjective but I really don’t get this,” you said, “I wouldn’t pay money for it.”

A warm hand landed on your cheek, turning your head, chapped lips landing on yours. You gasped, startled, not sure if that was what she’d meant to do. She pressed closer, more insistent, teeth nipping at your lip until you kissed her back.

Her hands were gripping your cheeks while yours slid around her waist. She was so warm under your touch, so soft, so supple. The way she kissed you was like she was trying to possess you, to own you, and you were willing to give her what she wanted. You hadn’t expected this turn of events, your hope nothing but a pipe dream, or so you’d thought.

Her tongue was in your mouth, fingers digging in, rough and harsh and so perfect it made your head spin. You were making small noises, muffled by her mouth, almost begging her for more. It only made her kiss you harder. She tasted of cigarette smoke and sugar, dreams of something dark and dangerous at the edge of the moment.

She dragged you down to the grass, ignoring the damp collecting on the blades in the cold night. She straddled your body, knees either side of your hips, pressing in to keep you pinned underneath her. You whimpered when she trailed her lips over your skin, teeth scraping before sinking in at the junction of your shoulder and your neck. The noise you made was embarrassing in its wantonness. Her tongue soothed over it but you knew there would be a bruise there tomorrow. Or maybe later today. You’d lost track of time.

Her hands shoved under the skirt of the dress you’d been forced into, nails dragging over the vulnerable skin of your inner thigh. Your legs parted, falling open to give her more access. Her teeth were still making a home on your skin, lips trailing over whatever bare skin they could find. Sinking in at the soft skin over your heart, the flesh of one breast pushed up from the tight corset digging into your ribs. Her name was a gasp before it devolved into a filthy moan.

She shifted, fingers pressing at the throbbing between your legs. Your hips rose, meeting her touch, asking for more. Pushing your underwear to the side, you sighed at the feeling of her hand on you, no barriers in place, nothing but skin against your slick heat.

Pinned in the damp grass, skirt hiked up around your waist, beautiful woman on top of you, your night had significantly improved. Your fingers had found their way into the hair at the nape of her neck, tugging on it as her fingers swept through your folds. Wetness gathered on her fingertip, she was rough on your clit. The high whine from the back of your throat only seemed to spur her on. Her teeth sunk in deeper, right over your heart, a soft growl coming from her.

When her fingers plunged into you, you cried out, arching up into her mouth. She wasn’t soft with you, no longer exploring as her fingers thrust into you. Your hips met her hand, a strangled noise coming from your lips when her palm ground against your clit. You were panting, the electricity in your bloodstream all consuming. You’d never felt more alive than you did, there in the grass, abstract statue looming over the shoulder of the woman with her mouth on your body and her fingers inside you. Clutching at her, you rode her hand as hard as you could.

When your orgasm hit, it rushed over you. Your inner muscles clenched around her fingers, almost strangling them while your fingers tightening in her hair until you were pulling on it. Your hips were pressing up into her, seeking out every drop of pleasure you could find. It had never felt this intense before, this good. You wanted more of it.

“Fuck,” she growled into the skin of your neck.

Her hand retracted from between your legs, glistening with your arousal in what little light there was. Her tongue dragged over her skin, cleaning herself up. It was the single hottest thing you’d ever seen, which was saying a lot given what you’d been doing only moments before. Her dark eyes watched you with every lap of her tongue. You felt boneless and fucked and so turned on. Whoever this woman was, whatever her damage was, you wanted more.

Her leg swung around and she sat beside your splayed body. Wiping her hand on her skirt, she stared up at the statue in front of her, menacing in the shadows.

“Sorry about that,” she said, “I’m sort of going through something.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” you replied, slowly sitting too.

She looked over at you, a smile flirting with her lips.

“I suppose you’re not.”

Her eyes dipped down and something on her face changed. Her hand reached over, hovering before it made contact with your skin.

“Sorry about that.”

You looked down, finding a stark bite mark on the skin of your breast. Your thumb wiped away a drop of blood from the wound.

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, “it was kind of hot, actually.”

“You’re being surprisingly calm about this,” she said.

“A beautiful woman just ravished me in a garden. It’s the stuff dreams are made of,” you said with a small shrug and a smile.

She shook her head but didn’t disagree with you. The cool night air washed over you. You shivered. She shuffled closer, arm pressing to yours, her warmth seeping into you. You lent against her.

“So who is Delia?” you asked, staring at the statue.

“My step mother,” she replied.

“You don’t like her?” you asked.

“It’s complicated,” she said, “I don’t hate her. It’s just…”

“Complicated,” you said, nodding.

You sat in silence for a while longer. You wanted to reach out, to taste her, to know what she sounded like as she came. You thought she might not want that. She’d been so quick to put space between the two of you after your earth shattering orgasm. Even leaning on her, you weren’t sure she was completely comfortable with the casual touch.

“You are alive, right?” she asked after the silence had settled over you.

“What?” you laughed.

“Just tell if you’re actually alive or not,” she demanded turning to look at you.

“I’m not like a zombie or a ghost,” you said, still laughing.

The way she was looking at you had the laughter die on your lips. She was serious. Deadly so. You blinked. Her gaze was lingering, open and wide and vulnerable. Your heart clenched.

You grasped her hand, pressing it to your heart. Her palm moulded to the curve of your body as she pressed down. The sting of pain was worth it when her shoulders relaxed at the feeling of your heartbeat.

“See?” you murmured, “alive.”

She sat there, her hand on your chest, dark eyes watching as your chest expanded with every inhale. You let her, not sure what she was going through but letting yourself be there.

“Sorry,” she said, “sometimes it can get…”

“Get?” you prompted when you weren’t sure she was going to continue.

“Overwhelming,” she said, “that’s why I have a show. I can talk to ghosts.”

“Oh,” you said, not sure what to make of that, “cool.”

“You’re not going to tell me I’m crazy?” she asked.

You considered her for a moment.

“Nah. There’s enough out there we can’t explain that I’m not willing to dismiss anything yet,” you replied, “it’s not crazy to experience the world differently from me.”

Her hand tightened on your skin, the pain causing a hiss to fall from your lips. She looked down, flipping her palm to find your blood smeared over her skin. She brought it to her mouth, licking your blood away, holding eye contact with you.

A shot of pleasure went right between your thighs.

“You should probably go find your friend,” she said, ignoring how breathless you were.

“If she’s not still busy with Rick,” you said.

“She won’t be,” she said.

“She definitely won’t have had as good a time at this party as I have,” you said, smirking over at her.

“Come on.”

She stood, holding out a hand to you. You let her pull you to your feet, staggering into her body. Her fingertips were soft as they brushed over the apple of your cheek, lingering for a moment before putting more space between your bodies.

You followed her back to the party. The singing had only grown louder, the words slurred and indistinct, a wall of noise you weren’t interested in. You paused for a moment, scooping up the heels abandoned at the foot of the tree, Lydia lingering with you.

“I think I’ll return home now,” she said, almost absentmindedly, “Richard left candy when he picked up Astrid.”

“Pop on a horror movie and relax,” you said with a small laugh.

“Exactly.”

Looking at her, you could imagine she would be the exact kind of woman to relax to a good slasher movie. Something about her spoke to the darker side of things, the strange, the unusual. You liked it.

Your friend was in the doorway, staring out at the backyard, eyes searching. They alighted on you, relaxing before a look of surprise passed over her face. As you stepped into the circle of light spilling out of the house, her mouth fell open.

“What happened to you?” she asked.

“You mean after you abandoned me?” you replied, “I made a friend.”

Her eyes dragged from you to Lydia, still at your side for reasons you hadn’t yet worked out. Your friend’s eyes widened and she seemed speechless. Not an easy feat, if you were being honest.

“Are you done? Can we go now?” you asked her.

“Uh… yeah, sure,” she said, still looking to Lydia.

“Great.” You turned to Lydia, “if you need to work through more shit, come find me.”

“I might just take you up on that,” she said, the corner of her lips curling up in a smile.

You reached out, brushing your fingertips over the apple of her cheek, a mirror image of the softness she’d shown you earlier. Her hand caught yours, pressing her lips to the centre of your palm before she let you go.

You grasped your friend’s elbow and steered her towards the front door. The house spat you onto a dark driveway, empty and long, the perfect setting for a horror movie ending to the night. After all, you’d sex. That was, like, horror movie 101.

“Did you seriously fuck Lydia Deetz?” your friend asked in a hiss of a whisper.

“Well…” you said, thinking over it.

“You know she’s a total con artist, right? She tells people she talks to ghosts,” she said, a judgemental edge to her tone.

“She told me,” you said.

“And you still fucked her?” she asked.

“Yeah, I did.” You jutted out your chin, crossing your arms over your chest as you stared at her.

“Didn’t know you were into that freaky shit,” she said, eyes trailing down to the wound on your chest.

“Hey, I don’t judge you for sleeping with some slimy producer. Don’t judge me for what I get up to,” you said.

“Fine,” she said, “but you’re not really going to see her again, are you?”

“I hope I do,” you said.

And when the phone rang, you jumped at the chance to help her work through more of her shit.