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gay-dorito-dust · 7 months ago

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You may request A batboys reacting to the death of the reader

First time writing for Tim, so he’s probs ooc in this one.

Dick feels as though he’s failed you.

He tries to act like he was fine but he was far from it and everyone knew it as they stepped on eggshells with him during this time.

Dick would often find himself sat on the very rooftops where he’d take you on countless dates or just to star gaze and talk as though you were still with him.

It was his own way of comforting himself with your loss but that was never enough to stop the tears that fell from his eyes when he spotted a bright star he’s never seen before until now, and laughs humourlessly.

‘I see you’ve finally made your way amongst the stars huh sweetheart?’ He’d say as your star would twinkle in response, making him chuckle. ‘You’re so beautiful, the brightest of your kind.’ He adds sombrely as he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand as he felt his heart sing out for you, only to receive nothing in return.

Reality was often disappointing but with you it was a fairy tale.

Waking up to you was a dream within itself and getting to do mundane things with you before heading off to work was something that could only exist in a daydream.

He knew Hayley misses you as badly as he does with how he’d hear the poor dog whine and whimper at the door, as if waiting for you to walk through it and tackle her with kisses and love like you always did, only to get nothing for hours.

‘I know, I miss them too.’ He says against Hayley’s fur as she whimpers and whines at the door. ‘I miss them so fucking much it hurts.’ He adds as he allows himself to mourn for you alongside his dog long into the night.

Jason blames himself for not being fast enough or strong enough to keep you protected and safe.

The apartment you once shared with him that only recently had started to feel like home to him now felt cold and haunted with the ghost of you, so much so to the point he avoids it at all cost.

Nothing felt right without you, everything felt wrong and unjustified that he became more ruthless then before on patrols just to let off some steam and would come back from them more beaten and bruised then normal.

He didn’t care, he couldn’t feel anything anymore with how numb he became after loosing you.

Dick and Roy would stop by to see how he was doing but each visit was the same with Jason refusing his older brother and best friend entry as he held one of your plushies tightly against his chest. He knows they mean well but he just couldn’t find it within himself to hear the same thing he’s heard from everyone else; It just felt disingenuous after a while and didn’t feel as though people truly understood the impact that you had on him throughout your time together.

Jason would become more destructive with himself and going headfirst into danger without a second thought and damns his teammates for dragging him out by the scruff of his neck as he fights and kicks out of their hold. He doesn’t want to be saved! He just wanted to be with you again, why couldn’t they see that?!

After loosing you Jason becomes more prone to angry outbursts and often lets them out on the wrong person but he couldn’t care less at this point, his favourite person was gone and he was left back where he was before you.

Lost and deeply afraid.

Tim would retreat from everyone and everything by cooping himself into his room, rarely to come out.

He’d rather rot in his bed and on his phone, looking through all the photos you’ve taken together and seeing just how happy you both were, all the while a pit in his stomach grew at the thought of all the plans you’ve made but would never get to do.

He hated how easily he gave you his heart and hated it even more at just how easy it was to loose you that he wishes that he could stop himself from meeting you for the first time, just so he could selfishly save himself from the best moments of his life and the inevitable heartbreak he’d soon suffer.

Tim would do anything in his power to get you back but knew that it just wasn’t possible.

He knew Jason was given life by the Lazarus pit but he wasn’t willing to subject you to that even if he was held at gunpoint. He’d rather you rest in peace than force you to live with the knowledge that you should technically be dead.

Tim would remain in his room, wondering about the what ifs and the what could’ve beens if you hadn’t died. Would someone have taken your place? Was your death an unchangeable fixed point in time that was meant to happen?

He would only be reunited with you in his dreams where he has saved you and you had gotten to live out the rest of your life happily, rather then left for dead in an alleyway not too far from the place where you were originally going to meet up for date night.

Damian dedicated his life to getting revenge.

He had lost the light in his life, so why should he think his adversaries should live when you weren’t even given the option?

There will be more bodies pilling up on the streets of Gotham at a faster rate than normal whenever Damian is on patrol, much to Bruce’s dismay.

His anger and grief was all consuming and that left little to no room for logic to make him stop and see what he was doing was no better than the thing that took you away.

Life was black and white for a long time for Damian and you were the colour.

You were the air he breathed and without you he was gasping.

He knew about the Lazarus pit in his grandfather’s possession and its mythical properties and how it gave Jason a second chance at life. However he was at a cross roads on using it for his own selfish gain, on one hand he could have you back and everything would be fine again, but on the other hand you wouldn’t be the version of you he fell in love with…

Damian didn’t know what to do. The grief, the anger, the sadness…it was all too much for him. He felt as though he apart of him was missing and he would never get it back, it just wasn’t possible.

Bruce feels as though nothing has changed since his parents death.

He may be older, faster, stronger and wiser but that didn’t mean nothing in the face of death, and your death only proved that to be true as he held you in his arms, holding you close to his chest as he quietly sobs into your cold neck.

Much like Tim, Bruce doesn’t take care of himself anymore and it was up to Alfred to make sure that he doesn’t keep over and die unexpectedly.

‘They wouldn’t want this for you sir.’ Alfred would say as Bruce slams his hands down on the surface of his desk. ‘And what would you know that they want for me Alfred, y/n’s dead and it’s my fault.’ He would bark and bare his teeth at the only father figure he had in his life, a father figure whom has seen this expression bore on the young master’s face more times then he could count, but it still hurt him to see Bruce in pain and heartbreak.

‘They would want you to take care of yourself, sleep proper hours, eat full meals, shower, reach out to anyone,’ Alfred began to walk towards Bruce and place a hand on his shoulder, where he could practically feel the unbridled anger and pain radiation through him that he kept under control. ‘They wouldn’t want you to wallow in pain alone, Gotham needs you.’

‘And I needed them.’ Bruce replied sharply, aggressively wiping his eyes with his hand as he looks over at a framed picture of you that he always kept nearby. ‘All I wanted was them.’ He adds softly this time as he looks at Alfred, lost and confused at what to do now that his anchor was gone. ‘I miss them so much Alfred.’

Alfred brings Bruce into his arms, much like he did when he lost his parents, when he lost Jason and now you, allowing him to burrow his face into the Butler’s shoulder and softly sob into the fabric. Alfred felt his heart break even more as he rubbed Bruce’s back in an attempt of bringing him comfort. ‘I know master Bruce, I know, but you’d be doing their memory a great disservice by destroying yourself.’ The older man started as he looked over at the framed picture of you and smiled soberly, you were a beacon to Bruce and Alfred wasn’t afraid to say that he viewed you as his in law with how happy you made Bruce and that was all Alfred could ever want for him.

Now that you were gone, Alfred couldn’t help but feel that the manor got just that little bit lonelier without you.

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zeedist · 2 months ago

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MAD AT HIM .ᐟ — ALHAITHAM

when you're angry at him : summary: you're mad at him. he wants to die. that's it. sfw !! fem!reader x alhaitham, academic setting, several mentions of "i want to die" but playfully [i am not sure if that should be warned, but now you know] word count: 1.2k proofread: yup.

“Hey, Alhaitham,” the blond calls for him. Kaveh squints his carmine eyes, looking at his usually collected friend spilled on the table, head buried in his arms. He forms a question —though it lingers more in him being weirded out rather than worried, “Are you sick?”

He hums. He feels sick.

“Yeah,” the gray-haired agrees. With a tilt of his head, Cyno calmly remarks, “You look like shit.”

He grumbles. He feels like shit.

Elongated black ears perk up and twitch the slightest, interest peaking at his clearly disheveled state as Tighnari agrees, “Yeah, you look like you are about to die.”

He doesn’t make a sound. He feels like he is about to die.

Eyeing him sideways while placing down a card, the dark-haired ventures to ask, “Did you mess with that weird rat you showed me last time?”

He lets out an offended pff. Like hell he was stupid enough to touch that fucked up rat —one that you, in the kindness of your heart, took in to heal and take care of; and one he couldn’t wait to chug back into the wild. Seriously, that thing was weird.

“Of course not,” Tighnari reads through his muffled sound, guessing again, “You caught a cold?”

“That would be a first,” Cyno remarks as he makes his move, chuckling with satisfaction when the blond complains before taking four more cards from the deck.

“Gah, I was so close to winning,” Kaveh grumbles as he organizes his cards, settling them down. Without resistance, he takes the deck from the miserable man’s hand and plays his turn for him. After double blocking the other two, he smiles smugly and returns to his own deck. Only then does he add to their conversation, joking lightly, “It isn’t like the world is ending, or like your girl is breaking up with you, so what makes you like this?”

Alhaitham makes a sound between laughter and crying. The first thing is happening currently. And if the second ever became a reality, he would have been on raw knees begging for a second chance or he would be digging a hole to bury himself alive in. Maybe both, in that order.

The other three continue their game —taking turns to play his part—, trying to nudge a response out of him with questions and little jokes. After several attempts and only receiving incoherent and downcast grumbles as a reply, they gave up on trying to make him speak it out. Minutes smoothly pass, the round ending with Kaveh holding half of the deck. Their conversation starts drifting from their days to their current projects, still trying to rope in Alhaitham with questions he only shook his head to. In the end, it’s Tighnari that carries the dialogue, sharing about a research that he is carrying out about a newly discovered sub-species of a fungi.

And it isn’t that he’s arrogant or an attention-seeker, Alhaitham simply can’t place the turmoil inside of him with words. How is he even supposed to explain the pit in his stomach right now?

His entire existence [you] crumbles into dust, disintegrating like fragile debris slipping through weakened fingers [ignoring him] as if the universe itself is conspiring to forsake him. All because of one unforgivable misstep —a moment of tragic weakness when exhaustion claimed him [he dozed off in the library when he was supposed to meet up with you] and made him fail you. Now, the very foundation of his world is unraveling, rotting from the core, decaying into nothingness beneath the weight of his regret.

He decays. He rots. He hopes he dies.

Only when Tighnari comments to him that he should bring you along to hear to his presentation, Alhaitham lifts his head, hands dragging across his face as he mumbles out with a hoarse voice, “She is upset at me. I think I should go die now.”

“Oh, what did you do?” Kaveh asks, sincerely worried now. Though his hands keep mixing the deck of cards, preparing to deal them for another round.

“I didn’t sleep at all last night and passed out when I was supposed to see her,” he replies, sounding so miserable even he cringes at his own roughened voice. But he continues, knot on his throat as he grimaces, “And now she won’t even reply to my messages.”

“Oh shit,” Cyno comments, very helpfully.

“Have you tried looking for her?” Tighnari offers, very helpfully. His brows are furrowed, but he doesn’t exactly look panicked, “I am sure she will understand if you apologize sincerely.”

“I left her waiting for so long,” Alhaitham sighs, heavy and annoyed with himself, flopping his head back down to the table and lamenting, “And I never showed up. I want to die.”

“If you do, can I perhaps keep your body for study purposes—”

“Cyno!”

“What? I can't stop him, look at him, Nari.”

The ever composed student with a straight posture and grades, slumped and sulking as if he prayed the ground would split and swallow him straight to hell. Time doesn’t allow him too much of his self-hating session, though, as the break reaches its end and the shattering sound of bells ringing throughout the cafeteria announces it.

Kaveh sighs as he gathers the cards he just dealt back into their deck —an elegant way to refer to the barely-holding together package it originally came with. It now held on masking tape and their suffering. He stuffs the item inside his briefcase, locking it with a click before he stands up. With a low sigh, he offers his miserable friend a pat in the shoulder, “It’ll be okay, you guys will talk it out. Gotta go now, my professor will skin me alive if I arrive late again. See ya!”

Alhaitham manages to murmur a goodbye right as the blond waves and runs away. Always rushing, always late. Tighnari found this amusing again, chuckling at that as he collects their trash from the table to throw away on his way out. With a pat on the shoulder and a gentle smile, he tries to reassure him with, “It’s not unfixable. Think it out and apologize.”

He thanks him for his sincere words, though his chest stirs with an unhappy feeling. It isn’t fear, he isn’t afraid. Your relationship had been going strong since the first moment, steadily growing closer with everyday you spent together. He trusts you, trusts the bond you share. He can say he loves you now. Which is precisely why it breaks his heard so much to fail you like this.

Cyno watches him returning to his sulking form, sighing heavily while brushing his hand through faded locks. He’s torn, not knowing exactly how to comfort or advise him, so he does what he can. With a nudge to his arm, he asks, “Want me to walk you to your next lesson?”

Alhaitham remains silent for a second, before grumbling, “The love of my life is mad at me. I’ll die now, thank you.”

#alhaitham x female reader #alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x y/n #alhaitham x you #imagine if you aren't replying because you are working in a lab with no phone #the poor man #🌱﹕academia days

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maxlarens · 2 months ago

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perhaps bsf!reader and ibiza!lando in a sitch where like, lando isn’t getting girls in the clurb bc everyone thinks reader is his girlfriend and he ends up pushing her away????????

-🧃

perfect and beautiful thank you!!! i feel like it’s been five hundred years since i wrote or posted anything, i sooo hope u guys enjoy this! not much lando when i read it back but i guess i had some emotions to hash out here?🤨

There's a certain level of willingness to be observed that you have to subject yourself to in being Lando’s friend. You know that full well. Have been more than aware of it in the past few years, as Lando performs better, becomes more and more known.

You’re used to it for the most part.

The wandering eyes that slide right off you and Fewtrell, to instead favour Lando’s head of dark curls. The skeptical ones that linger, wondering what someone like you is doing around someone like him.

At least you have Max to commiserate with. To share that pulse of shame that beats like a second heartbeat occasionally. To remind yourself that Lando is your friend, not some burning star whose wreckage you’re caught in.

You’d never want him to feel like his success is a burden, or that it’s not always the easiest thing in the world to be his friend. That’s not really the case anyway— you’ve never had a friendship like the one you have with him. Max might be a close second, but it’s not the same. Point is, you’d move heaven and earth just to continue being friends with Lando.

It’s just— the eyes—

There are a lot of them on you here.

Appraising (but never of you independently, always in relation to Lando. You can tell), skeptical, jealous, bitter, even pitying. You think it must have something to do with Lando and the way he’s got his arm slung over your shoulder. The way you’re leaning into him as he bops to the beat of the music. The way you’re holding his drink in your hand, lifting it up for him occasionally so he can gesticulate in his conversation with some friend of his that you’re only vaguely acquainted with.

You feel the eyes on you as you half listen to them chat. Something dislodges, seems to wriggle around under your skin, or settles in the pit in your stomach and gnaws. Anxiety, something like it. Shame again perhaps? You just know Lando’s arm feels heavy. Your clothes don’t fit right, on your body or in this club. You’re suddenly sure that you’re an imposter, a fraud.

You look for Max, eyes darting around but only find unfamiliar faces looking back at you.

It’s not that your chest starts to feel tight or anything like that, it’s just that out of nowhere there seem to be one million ants crawling around inside your body. You take a deep, steadying breath and it burns. The back of your neck seems to give way, your head spinning.

You blink hard, bring yourself back.

You duck out from under Lando’s arm and mutter, “Be back soon. Bathroom.”

Lando nods absently, lets his arm drop back to his side. You’re not sure what to do with your drink or his, he doesn’t seem to care. So you drop them on an empty bar table and flee to the toilets.

They’re semi-private, dark and (best of all) quiet. Apparently soundproofed from the club outside of it, there’s some crackling lo-fi playing on low volume and blissfully no one else seems to be in here with you.

Because it’s apparently a bathroom for the upper-echelon, there’s a plush armchair in the lounge section that you immediately collapse into. You shove your face into the cushions and breathe slow until your heartbeat returns to what feels like an appropriate pace.

You pull out your phone to text Max,

Ever reliable and always understanding, Max talks you down from the proverbial ledge. He convinces you to go back out and to talk to Lando, who’s always been able to kill the nervousness in your gut when he puts his mind to it. If that fails, then Max promises to order you a taxi back to the hotel.

You thank him profusely, apologise for interrupting anything he was doing with Pietra and gather yourself as effectively as you can—

(“Hey. Is she your girlfriend, man?”

Obtuse as ever, Lando frowns, eyebrows furrowing with it, “What? Nah, she’s my best mate.”

Tony, tips his head back and laughs, “Doesn’t look like it to me. Are you sure?”

Lando nods, crease creasing even harder, “Definitely.”

“Dunno mate, you’re all cozy with ‘er,” Tony shrugs, “If you’re looking to get some this weekend you might want to dial it back.”)

—and back into the crowd.

You fight through to the booth where Lando, his friend and a few others, that you’re again, only tangentially acquainted with are. Lando has moved to sit down on a couch, still wrapped up in conversation with the same guy. He’s got another drink.

You’re half-expecting him to hand a vodka soda with lime to you when you sit down next to him. You feel a confusing mix of guilt and upset when he doesn’t, only barely turns his head to acknowledge you. You sit for a moment, adjusting your dress your bag. Not needing him to stop talking altogether, but hoping to be brought into the conversation. Even for Lando to move so you’re not just staring at his back.

Okay, you blink, maybe this is on you? Maybe you shouldn’t expect drinks from him like that, maybe you should be grown up enough to know how to enter a conversation. Maybe you shouldn’t be sitting here feeling sorry for yourself as you watch him lean over and talk to a girl on the other side of the railing.

You’re ignoring the burning thing in your eyes as you survey the back of Lando’s head and the pretty girl that he’s hanging out of his seat to talk to.

She doesn’t look anything like you.

You feel pathetic just watching them. Especially when her eyes flit briefly to you and you offer up a well-meaning smile. It’s a little weak, a little cobbled together but you’re not a bitch. She might be though— she sneers at you. Only for a short moment, when Lando’s not really looking, but you see it nonetheless.

Oh. Alright. That one’s gonna stick with you.

You turn away immediately, blinking quickly, but tears dropping anyway. You pull your phone out, admit defeat and try to at least quell the thing that’s lodged itself in your throat all of a sudden.

You sling your bag back over your body, then reach out to grab at Lando’s shoulder. You squeeze a little, wait for him to turn his attention to you while you press a knuckle not-gently into your eyeball.

He half-turns, looking up at you but holding a hand out to someone who’s talking to him. Still half-listening to them. You frown, feeling confused over anything else. This… isn’t like him. You don’t get it, why isn’t he treating you like he normally is? You’d understand if he wanted to spend time with other people over you, you get that. Why wouldn’t he just say that if that’s what he wanted? Because that’s clearly the case.

You manage to choke out, “I’m gonna head off.”

Eyes glittering and huge in the dancing lights of the club, his mouth parted, he nods up at you in confirmation. Briefly, you make eye contact before he’s being drawn back into conversation by a shout.

“Sure, yeah. See you later,” he says, patting the hand on your shoulder, then dismissing you as he turns away to pay attention to someone else.

You can’t tell if he’s being a total asshole or you’re pathetic. You know what Max would say. And you’re leaning towards the same thing right now— he’d have known. Seen it plain as fucking day in your expression when he’d looked at you. You don’t know what to make of it. You think you just feel sick.

It’s not like you need him to cater to your every whim. You’d just expected a little bit more. At least for him to notice that you’d nearly had a panic attack in the bathroom. At least for him to not go from being totally normal to icing you out all of a sudden—

and you know he’d done it on purpose, intention aside. You know. Because, historically, he’s been no stranger to it. He knows exactly how it feels.

You’re more hurt by that than anything else.

this turned out longer than i expected lol. but yeah, angsty sorry i didn’t prepare u guys😵‍💫 i’ll either write a part two or i’ll write something else for them in ibiza that isn’t so angsty soon!!!!!

#💌asks #lando norris x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #formula one fanfic #💫drabbles #drabbles:ln4 #best friend!reader #ibiza!lando

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escespace · 3 months ago

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Merlin and Arthur but someone help me I can't get it out of my head:

A threat, Merlin is going to face it, Investigate, fight, yadyadayada... The only solution is to make a deal that, in exchange for keeping Camelot safe for another day, Merlin must give up all the memories of his most precious person.

Obviously after running out of memories of ☆Arthur☆ He doesn't understand the importance of returning to Camelot, why is he still there if Gaius has taught him almost everything he can, Even kilgharrah isn't there anymore. For some reason, moreover, he feels that he often causes the poor physician more problems that should be... And all this without mentioning that before he wanted to see the world, he wanted to explore, to know and who knows? He might even make a name for himself... At least that's what he dreamed of as a child.

Again, why is he still in Camelot?

THEN HE GOES. JUST LIKE THAT

The next day Arthur can't find Merlin anywhere and we all know how he gets. He searches for him, he stresses, he screams... But it is not until night comes and he speaks with Gaius that the old man breaks his facade and Arthur notices the concern, that something is not right. He presses and presses until Gaius finally admits that he hasn't seen Merlin since the previous evening, that Merlin didn't sleep there and that he didn't even know where Merlin had gone.

It is canon that Arthur would immediately lose the marbles. As prince regent he order a wanted party. Nothing can stop him because *the power of the script*

Weeks go by with no sign of Merlin. Search efforts are dwindling as there are other priorities These priorities include certain strange occurrences in border villages.Some of these strange occurrences include a group of knights who were defeated by an entity they failed to see or recognize when they went to pick up an accused sorcerer. In addition, in the town next to that one, an entire family suspected of magic disappeared.

The council agrees that action must be taken or the people will begin to see those signs of weakness when it comes to responding to the law, with a sick king and having faced a mini conquest (I don't remember the chronological order of certain events, apologies); They must make it clear that Camelot is still the same as always...

Then, by the power of the script, the prince argues until he is the one who is designated to command the patrol of knights who will go to the villages in question (for honor, to make the people see him as a prince who executes his own orders or whatever)

Between surveys in the villages, some talks with peasants, follow clues... GUESS WHO THEY FIND?

Merlin has been wandering here and there, posing as a herb seller (because that must be good for something), Coincidentally, he has not left that specific town where the suspicious events occurred (he is that stupidly confident)...

He seems to vaguely recognize the knights. One of them he met in a tavern, another fighting a griffin, another is the brother of someone he met who-knows-where; and the other... He can't remember where he knows him from. That makes him feel strangely dizzy, there is a pressure in his head and there are pits that he does not want to question himself.In all this, Arthur does not stop shouting a thousand and one things at him. How stupid he is, how careless he is, how much work he has put in the backlog while touring every tavern in Albion...

Then Merlin says the three words that put Arthur's world Heel over head:

«who are You?»

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imfoive · 1 month ago

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2:14

Bang Chan x Reader (fem.) Genre: Established Relationship au!, Fluff Warnings: suggestive, somewhat proofread WC: 719 A/N: I couldn’t get this idea out of my head all day! Inspired by my 6 billion alarms lmao Feedback, Reblogs, Likes are greatly appreciated! Happy reading! ── MASTERLIST

DRABBLE ──────────────────────────

It started out as a reminder.

A Valentine’s Day message.

The time felt romantic, the words even more.

It started as an alarm that was forgotten.

The first time Chan set it, he was kicking his legs in the air, giddy at the mere thought of the idea the following day.

Texting Y/N a simple message.

Words he hadn’t uttered yet, planning to do so on Valentine’s Day.

And the next day, when the alarm rang at 2:14, he grinned widely, his fingers flying across the screen. Typing out those letters. Words he would say to her in person later to watch her reaction in real-time. Words he would repeat throughout the night as he wined and dined her, special plans on this special day for his special person.

“I love you.”

Then the following day it rang again, waking Chan from a blissful slumber. They had spent all night, all morning tangled in each other’s limbs from their eventful Valentine’s Day the evening prior. And as Y/N prepared for the day in the bathroom, he stared at the ringing tune, his heart still full from their eventful celebration. He had realized he had forgotten to set it as just a one-time thing. Yet couldn’t resist as he reached over, his fingers began to type, sending a message. Watching her own phone screen come to life with the notification of a message from him just next to.

He grinned once more, wide. Just imagining her face as she opened the message. Reading three words he had repeated as he seared kisses onto her.

Of course watching her reaction was rewarding. Her smile bloomed as she fell back onto the mattress, playfully tackling him. Responding to his message.

And then it became a cherished routine.

Every afternoon at 2:14, the familiar tune of this one alarm jolted him into thoughts of her. Chan would reach for his phone, fingers ready to type the words he longed to whisper into her ears.

His friends would stare at him, wondering why he had such a specific alarm, such a specific task he had to do every single day. This new, peculiar thing that would soon turn into a habit.

He’d simply smile and shake his head, sending the message before returning to his work, awaiting Y/N’s response that never failed to brighten his day.

And he did receive a response.

He always received a response.

Watching his screen light up a few minutes later with those heartfelt words returned.

When he would huff and puff, rubbing at his face after an argument he had with her one morning over something he didn’t even remember anymore, his alarm would remind him that it wasn’t that deep. That it was something stupid they had gotten all worked up over, such a trivial thing that shouldn’t ruin their days. He would sigh, glancing at the lockscreen of their picture together, smiles and dimples, before guilt ate away at him.

His fingers danced over the screen.

“I love you”

And soon enough, her response would bring warmth back to his heart.

Chan would return home, and immediately go into Y/N’s arms, the two of them apologizing for whatever had made them bitter towards each other only hours ago. Melting into each other.

Then the messages evolved.

From simple, “I love yous” to “I love you, I’m sorry.”

“I love you. Don’t forget to take your medicine.”

“I love you. Doctors appointment today, I’ll pick you up.”

“I love you. Baby’s the size of a peach pit now.”

At 2:14, his phone would buzz again, and knowing smiles would pass between his friends as he sighed, feeling the weight of his busy life. From the strenuous task he didn’t realize he was drowning in, he’d glance at the snapshot of the new picture on his lockscreen. His lips would thin into a sweet smile as he stared at the screen, at the love of his life, his daughter cradled in between their grasps, twinkling eyes staring into the camera.

And suddenly Chan felt extra fluttery. Those feelings he felt the first time he set the alarm, the first time he sent the message, surged back with its familiarity.

His fingers typed.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.” ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ end.

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mischievousmoony · 4 months ago

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𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜

⟢ james potter x reader ⟢ your boyfriend doesn't mind getting his hands a little messy for you ⊹ 794 ⟢ warnings/tags: intoxication, james is taller than reader, knife (used to cut fruit)

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

“Cherries, Jamie!” you cheer, your head popping up from its place in the refrigerator.

James stands behind you, holding the fridge door open as he endearingly watches you stick your head deeper than necessary into the fridge, fitting your face between the shelves, in search of a midnight snack.

His amused expression falters as you pull out the basket of cherries you bought at the market yesterday.

James closes his hand over the side of the basket, intent on taking it from you, “Ah, how about we do the raspberries instead, yeah?”

Your grip tightens on your snack, giving it a futile tug that causes you to stumble back.

After a night out with your friends, you’ve returned to your shared flat, fairly drunk and quite famished, your tastebuds craving something sweet.

James frowns as images of this drunken version of you clumsily cracking your tooth or choking on a cherry pit swirl around in his mind.

A pout overtakes your lips as you complain, “Don’t want ‘berries, want cherries.” Your downturned lips don’t last long when you suddenly snort at your accidental rhyme, “Berry, cherry,” you repeat, giggling.

James tries to pry the fruit from you while your distracted, but your grip remains strong as the papery basket bends from your collective tugs in opposite directions.

“Baby, I don’t want you to hurt yourself,” he tries to reason.

“On fruit?” you ask incredulously.

Maybe it was a little silly, but James’ protective nature knows no bounds.

“I just want cherrieeees,” you whine and James has never been good at saying no to you.

“Okay," he gives in, "but give them here first.”

“You’re gonna put ‘em where I can’t reach ‘em!" you accuse.

“I'm just gonna wash them for you," James says in a soft, reassuring voice, "Can you let me do that please?”

You squint at him skeptically, but you release your hold.

James holds the basket in one hand, the other finding its way around you to press against your lower back, guiding you away from the fridge to let it close behind you.

He sets the cherries on the edge of the sink and you in front of them as he moves to rummage through the cupboards for a colander to rinse the cherries in.

James has to suddenly return to your side, steadying you by your waist when you fail to hoist yourself up onto the counter.

A stressed sigh leaves his lips as he dips his head down so that his eyes are level with yours. "You wanna sit?" he asks, giving your waist a squeeze.

"Mhm."

James lets his forehead tap against yours briefly, a sign of his affection, "Okay, hop up for me."

You jump again and with James' help you land on top of the counter this time. He kisses your temple before resuming his mission to recover the colander.

He's quick to dump the berries from the green fiber basket into the strainer and rinse them in the sink. Once the water is off, you're already reaching for a cherry and he lifts the dripping bowl out of your reach.

You look at him with an expression of utmost betrayal.

"I'm gonna give them to you, baby, just give me a minute. Trust me?"

"Trust you," you grumble a confirmation.

James places the wet colander atop a dishcloth. He keeps a close eye that you don't sneak any bites as he takes out a plastic cutting board and a paring knife.

Soon, James falls into steady a rhythm of plucking stems, depitting little stone fruits, and popping the halves into your mouth as he goes.

It's tedious— slicing the cherries around their pits, twisting the halves apart, and driving out the pits with his thumb. Not to mention, it's messy, and even while applying his most delicate touch, fruit juices are spraying everywhere. On top of that, the stones keep trying to roll onto the floor.

The ordeal has the whites of his nails pink and his fingertips stained red, but the way you giggle happily each time he feeds you another piece makes it all worth it.

Once your sweet tooth is been satisfied, he pecks your crimson stained lips, and rinses excess fruit juice from his hands.

He returns to you, placing his now dry hands atop your knees and he traces little shapes on your skin with the scarlet pads of his thumbs.

You beam up at him, and his chest swells with a profound, all-encompassing love.

"Happy now?" he asks, his eyes lovingly studying the crinkle of your eyes and curl of your lips.

In response, and as a thank you, you scoot closer and press another sweet kiss to his mouth.

He smiles against you and he tastes cherries.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

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venus-haze · 5 months ago

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Playing Pretend (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: Homelander’s secret identity is an ill-fated experiment in normalcy for a man who had grown up with anything but. He manages to keep his story straight until he runs into you in the hallway of your building one night, assuming the blood on his face and clothes are his and not the low-level criminals he’d just taken care of. While you’re playing nurse, Homelander’s playing John, but he’s not sure how much longer he can keep up the facade around you.

Note: Gender-neutral reader, and no descriptors are used. So Casual!Lander got me thinking about secret identity!Homelander again. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.2k

Warnings: Hurt/comfort. Some emotional manipulation, but this is on the fluffier side of things I've written.

Homelander hadn’t expected the blood on his civilian clothes to be much of a problem. It was late, he reported the incident to Vought and would be up a few points when the story hit the news in the morning. Typically, he returned to the Tower when something like this happened, but instead, he was drawn to the apartment he’d been set up with as part of his undercover identity.

A secret identity was exciting at first, a brand new challenge for him. Except he didn’t entirely get it. Wasn’t the point of everything he’d been through so that he could be Homelander? The best of the best, America’s savior? Not some guy named John living in a crappy apartment downtown. But Edgar wanted it, and so it was done.

The apartment itself didn’t feel like home. The pictures on the wall, knick-knacks on the bookshelves, they weren’t his. But the man he was pretending to be had a dizzying backstory that he found difficult to keep track of at first, and then irrationally jealous of once he got the hang of spitting out anecdotes about family barbecues and youth basketball leagues. Stuff everyone else got except for him, apparently, because they were always met with mind-numbingly boring stories of other people’s mirrored experiences that he had to “Oh?” and “Wow!” through like he actually cared.

“John!” You called out from down the hall as he approached, laundry basket in your arms.

He smiled. A real one. At least in all of this, he met you.

“Hey neighbor!” he greeted cheerfully, as if it were bright and early and not nearly midnight.

“What are you—” Your face twisted as he approached. Your heart thumped almost deafeningly. “Oh my god, what happened?”

“What?”

“John, you’re bleeding. Let me take you to the emergency room.”

“That’s not necessary. I–I don’t like doctors,” he said, the statement not feeling as much like a lie as he thought. “Most of it isn’t even mine.”

“I have a first aid kit in my bathroom. At least let me clean you up a little?”

“Alright,” he reluctantly agreed.

You practically kicked open the door to your place, throwing your laundry basket aside and making a beeline for the bathroom like his life depended on it. If he were anyone else, it probably would have. He caught his warped reflection in your stainless steel refrigerator and cringed a bit. It did look pretty bad.

He inexplicably tensed upon seeing you return with the first aid kit, your brows knit together in worry.

“Sit, please,” you urged as you laid out the contents of the kit on your kitchen table. “Oh John, what happened?”

“You know me, I always gotta get the story,” he said, his cover as a crime reporter not having failed him yet.

Your eyes watered as you looked at him. “One of these days you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“What I’m doing helps people. It saves lives. That’s worth it to me.”

You picked up a cotton ball soaked in peroxide. “Let me know if it hurts, okay?”

He hesitated. That kind of thing had never been up to him. It either hurt or it didn’t, and if it didn’t hurt, they’d find out how to make it so it did.

“Okay,” he said, tense as your hand approached his face.

Even thinking about the doctors he grew up with made an ugly pit settle heavy in his stomach. But you weren’t a doctor. You were you, and it was cute how you played nurse. Tended to his wounds like they were real, like the blood was his. Did you notice how quickly they disappeared beneath your cotton-padded touch, leaving no trace of cut or bruise behind?

“It looks a lot worse than it is, don’t worry,” you assured him.

“That’s good.”

He had plenty of practice sitting patiently while being poked and prodded, but never with the unnecessary care you used.

He wanted to tell you. But then it’d defeat the purpose of a secret identity. Besides, just outright telling you wouldn’t be the grand, romantic gesture he pictured.

Late at night. You. Alone in the city for god knows what reason even though you know better. He’s told you enough that you should know better. It wouldn’t matter. Because he’d be there. The Homelander swooping in to save you from some thug on the street. It’d be then that you’d see him for who he really was, who he was made to be instead of the pitiful facade you were presently tending to. So taken by the act, by him, your hero, you’d melt in his arms and let him take you away from the hovel of an apartment building you two shared and into bliss.

A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.

“I’m sorry,” you cooed, dabbing just above his eyebrow with a cotton ball. “I’m almost done.”

Sorry? Oh. You thought you hurt him. “I told you, I can take it.”

“I still feel bad,” you said. “Did you go to the police?”

“No, you know I usually don’t bother with that. Interferes with my own investigations,” he said.

You pursed your lips. You didn’t quite believe him, or were at least frustrated with his lack of personal safety. Worrying you wasn’t something he wanted to be in the habit of, but you poured out attention and care for him in such a way he could feel himself itching for more. It’d been like that since he first met you, the only kind and welcoming person in the damn building. Perhaps that was why he kept up with his secret identity for so much longer than he wanted to, his attachment to you, to this fake life he led with you in it.

But he could just as easily make a new one, a better one for the both of you once you knew the truth.

“You made out alright, John,” you said, glancing over his face. “Really well, actually. It doesn’t even look like anything happened.”

“I’m tougher than I look,” he joked, hoping to dissipate some of your suspicion.

He heard you swallow roughly.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

You reached out, caressing his cheek. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I can’t help it.”

Silence fell between the two of you for a few moments, and you began to pull your hand away from his face until he caught your wrist and spoke your name softly.

“I have something to tell you.”

“What is it?” you asked.

He hesitated a moment. I’m The Homelander. Instead, he pulled you closer, his gaze falling to your lips before kissing you.

You kissed him back softly, with an otherwise foreign tenderness that made him especially conscious of how he held you. His physical control was better, almost perfect. No more accidental bone breaking or spine snapping. He wouldn’t be The Homelander if he couldn’t control himself.

But it was hard, with how deeply he felt for you, how much his emotions threatened to overtake years of practice and conditioning to manage his sheer strength. The Homelander didn’t have any weaknesses—save for seeing through zinc—but he was certain none of the scientists who poked and prodded him for years on end would have ever bet on you.

#homelander x reader #the boys x reader #homelander #homelander the boys #the boys #the boys amazon #the boys tv #homelander imagine

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inkwolvesandcoffee · 9 months ago

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How John Comes Home from Deployment

CoD ML

John hates coming home from deployment during the cold periods of the year.

Don’t get me wrong, he loves the sight of you asleep in your shared bed, wrapped up nice and snug in the thick comforter. A smile never fails to spread on his lips when he notices the pattern of your shirt, barely visible in the dusk yet enough for him to notice. Fortunately he has his flannel shirts to keep you warm when he can’t.

John knows you’re more than capable to take care of yourself. Nevertheless, he can’t help but grit his teeth at the thought you had to tuck yourself in yet again. That’s his job!

But the annoyance, as per usual, subsides at the scene in front of him: you snuggling with the warmy (a stuffed animal that contains a bag with cherry pits you have to heat in the microwave) he got you. He vividly recalls how you giggled that day, the way you compared him to the brown grizzly bear in your hands. “A rather striking image, innit? It’s like looking in the mirror.”

“That how you see me?”

“Especially in the morning when you haven’t had your cigar and tea yet.” He wrapped you up in his arms, pride swelling in his chest as you snuggled into it. “You’re my bear.”

My bear.

It’s the nickname he never envisioned himself liking. However, now, there isn’t anything else he’d rather be called.

Aside from Daddy.

John has embedded the way you say it in his fantasy and often thinks of it, plays it like his favourite song over and over. Out in the field, it’s a sure fire way for him to not lose morale. Moreover, it fuels his determination to return home, no matter the cost.

(And the rest of his boys too, of course!)

He has to.

If only because there is an important question he needs to ask. Should right now, after months of gathering the courage.

But he lets you sleep.

This can wait until the morning.

Quietly John puts his stuff in the corner by the door, grabs a shirt and pair of sweats out of your shared wardrobe, and slips into the bathroom to change. However, not before he has caressed your cheek, made sure he’s kept his promise. The talon of anguish lets go of his throat when he finds your skin dry and free of the little salty black rivulets that stained it last time. Thank God, he hasn’t made you cry again.

“The next time I do, I’ll retire,” he recalls telling you when he lifted you off of the couch. You’d fallen asleep there, wrapped up in your favourite white fluffy blanket like a burrito.

For as long as you could, you stayed awake to welcome him home in person. Unfortunately, you lost the fight around one in the morning. Two hours later, John stepped through the door, knackered and a little heartbroken at the sight of you clutching one of his shirts like it’s your lifeline. He didn’t mind the stains your mascara had made on it.

The same can’t be said for the fact your act had crumbled behind his back yet again. Time and again he’s told you it’s fine to cry, to tell each other you miss them, to not always pretend to be fine.

Because he knows you aren’t.

And neither is he.

Yet the decision he’s made might change things, bring some peace. Even if you tell him he’s insane and shouldn’t do it because it will be like throwing away everything he stands for, he stands by his word.

This was the final mission.

From now on, he’s simply John Price.

A man craving to settle down with his beloved.

The girl who instinctively snuggles into him the moment he lies down. Whose presence soothes and dispels the worst of his ghosts. Who drives his determination to improve himself day by day.

To do better as a man rather than a captain.

To be the best husband he can be.

Until then, John is as he is now.

Exhausted yet perfectly content.

Next to his fiancée.

Home.

#John Price #Captain John Price #Captain John Price x Reader #John Price x Reader #CoD x Reader #CoD MW #CoD MW Price

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bg-brainrot · 10 months ago

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Failed Every Insight Check and Fell all the Harder (Astarion x GN!Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Companion piece to: Failed a Dex Save and Fell for You

Summary: After a few months of traveling together, Astarion has begun to experience some new feelings around you. After one fateful day in Moonrise Towers, he finally figures out what those feelings are.

Tags: Astarion POV, POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Awkward Fluff, tw: mentions of astarion's past and all that comes with it, tw: mentions of araj scene, Feelings Realization, Jealousy

A/N: here comes the awkward, fluffy Astarion figuring out his feelings Valentine’s special. He’s a hot mess, of course. (happy Early Valentine’s because I will be busy on Valentine’s) And thanks to everyone who voted for this one!

Word count: ~4.8k

Ever since your group entered the Shadowlands, something has been bothering Astarion. He hadn't noticed at first– or rather, had tried his best to ignore it. But, as time goes on, he’s finding it more and more difficult to brush aside.

It had started out small. An odd pain in the pit of his stomach.

What was that? he'd thought, holding a hand to his abdomen in concern. Perhaps he was just hungry, but it certainly didn’t feel like the ever-present hunger in his belly. No, that was a dull, continuous ache. This? This felt like something was weighing him down. Maybe I’m ill. I shouldn’t mention it to anyone, lest Lae’zel slit my throat in my sleep.

Besides, the pain didn’t happen often. He noticed it a distinct few times.

Once, when you first entered the Shadowlands. He’d just watched you bend down, hands plucking at something off the side of the cursed lands’ road. He thought momentarily that he ought to stop you, that none of you knew what could be lurking in its magical darkness. But that tinge of worry was promptly replaced by that same gods awful pit in his stomach.

Because there you were, presenting your party’s cleric with your spoils. You were gifting Shadowheart a night orchid– had remembered that she mentioned loving them. You bore the woman’s wretched joke with a smile. Disgusting, Astarion thought. No wonder my stomach feels uncomfortable, what a pathetic little exchange.

Like everything that had bothered him in the last couple of months since finding himself free of Cazador, he decided to forget the feeling. Life is his to take full advantage now, why let something like that affect him?

Or so he thought until the next time the feeling made its return.

You had just arrived at the Last Light Inn as a group, found shelter through the Harpers’ well-established safe haven. Astarion was quite happy to be rid of the shadows, content to cozy up in an inn. He figured, if he played his cards right, you may even let him partake in your blood or ask for a bit of fun.

Then your party found Dammon. Equipped with Infernal Iron and one blazing hot barbarian, Dammon made magic happen in a matter of moments.

Astarion was glad. As much as the group was a bit much at times, he understood Karlach’s struggle with her body all too well. She deserved this small victory in reclaiming her body.

His feelings of genuine sympathy were short-lived though because a moment later you were wrapping your arms around the tiefling’s body. It was a test, of course, to see if Dammon’s fusing had worked. But there it was again, the feeling in his stomach. This time it felt twice as heavy, a lead ball in his guts. Maybe I should let someone know, he thought. This can’t be good.

But the sensation was soon forgotten as your group settled into the Last Light Inn. Old allies were in some miserable new states– requiring even more help, gods– and new acquaintances were made. It was all rather dull for Astarion.

The one time Astarion perked up was when you went head-to-head with the head Harper. He chuckled under his breath when you outsmarted the old crone, Jaheira. That’s right, Harper. Don’t mess with my protector.

Your first night at the inn was capped off with a bit of revelry: a game of Truth or Dare.

Astarion could sense your reluctance to play. You’d been acting odd all day, stiff and awkward around him. He saw this as the perfect opportunity to tease you to the high celestial plane– in fact, he already knew what he wanted to ask you. “You are going to regret this so much," he'd said to you from across the table.

Then the game began, and the deep, uncomfortable feeling never left his core.

Each and every companion received your attention throughout the game, in one way or another. Even that damned smith, Dammon, was given a dare from you. And Astarion just sat there, not even earning a glance, his mood growing more and more sour.

When, at last, he was able to taunt you with his question, you were far too in your cups to give a proper response. He sat on your lap, placed there from one of Shadowheart’s dares, staring into your surprised, open eyes, wishing that he'd thought of an easier question for an inebriated version of you.

The group had shooed you both out of the game upon seeing your state, though Astarion didn't mind. He'd much rather leave the lot of them and tease you by himself.

Once you were alone, you answered his question. That he, Astarion, was your favorite and for all manner of incredulous, unbelievable reasons. He’d expected you to say him. He’d asked to hear your praise, confirm your attachment in the name of his plan to seduce you. All the same he was left uncomfortable, juggling the sudden and unabashed flattery. Being praised for his looks was one thing but for being… himself?

The feeling in his stomach grew. Suddenly his lungs felt it, his undead heart felt it. What in the sweet hells is the matter with me? he thought, as he helped lay your drunken, passed out form to bed later that night. He hadn’t felt a sensation like this before– he hated it.

Then you reached out to him in your sleep, and he froze. Something about the touch quietened the pain under his ribs, and so he extended his fingers, gently touching your brow as you fell asleep. See? I’m fine, he assured himself. I truly am just ravenous.

He continued this way for several days in the Shadowcursed lands.

One moment, he was perfectly fine, hacking and slashing at a Shambling Mound with abandon. The next, he would look over at you, see you laughing at something Karlach said, and it felt like an iron ingot had made its way into his insides.

Damned tiefling woman. I’m far funnier than her, you know, he thinks, resheathing his knives with a little too much gusto. The sound of your laughter rang in his head for the rest of the evening, as if he were being driven to insanity by it.

The next day, you had fought a horde of Meazels. At first, Astarion thought the fight was delightful fun– the tiefling woman and the cleric kept getting teleported against their will and after his recent annoyance with both of them, he found it quite amusing. That is, until you found yourself garrotted, teleported as far away from him as possible.

He was on you in mere moments, ripping the creature off of you with his blades. It was almost as if he’d reacted instinctively and, as someone whose instincts typically led him away from danger, he found the sensation quite off-putting. Nevertheless, he'd freed you, asking, “Are you alright, darling?”

Astarion couldn’t remember what you’d even said because once he saw the marks the creatures left on you, the pit in his stomach dropped. Where there had been a heavy pressure before, there was now a sharp feeling. His eyes carefully trailed over your injuries, trying his best to focus on you and not the phantom pain building inside him.

You had been fine, nothing that a quick heal from Shadowheart couldn’t fix, but that feeling stayed in his stomach the rest of the day. It’s simply the Shadowlands, he'd thought. They not only play tricks on the mind, clearly they’re playing tricks on my body.

It was a few days later, as you helped the Harper’s deal with their lantern problem that the sensation shifted again.

Astarion watched, eyes glued to your form, as you dispatched the hideous drider, your twin blades piercing the creature in its most vulnerable spots. He’d seen you kill many monsters before, hundreds likely at this point. But something about the way your body moved in the Moonlantern’s glow, the way your face lit up as the creature’s body crumpled to the floor, caused the vampire to stop and watch.

This time, he’d felt the heavy sensation move up, somewhere just below his throat. He tried against all odds to gulp it away, but nothing seemed to work. We need to finish our business here and get out as soon as possible, he thought now, convinced it was the shadows warping his senses…

But as your travel continues, the feelings never go away.

It’s a different pressure, it builds, it ebbs, it flows between his heart, his stomach, his torso– and each time he brushes it off. Stewing in these uncomfortable feelings, Astarion spends the week in a hazy mire, not unlike the shadows that surround you all.

Then your group finally infiltrates Moonrise.

Moonrise Towers, the seat of the Absolute and a once grand fortress.

Now, Astarion can’t help but think it seems rather underutilized. Your group is walking along the empty parapets outside, which are woefully missing any sense of grandeur or ornamentation. “Darling,” he says, leaning into you slightly. “Don’t you think we ought to just kill everyone now and take the place for ourselves. Might be quite fun.”

You bark out a laugh, which he feels proud to have produced, and reply, “Maybe later. This is an infiltration mission only. Besides, once we defeat the Absolute, I’m sure there will be a vacancy.”

Astarion laughs back at you. Gods, he enjoys this. The way that he can say something that others would balk at and you will miraculously not only appreciate it, but also play along with it. Having fun with them is so easy, he thinks. And look, I’m still wearing all of my clothes! What a novel idea.

The thought is cut short when your group walks through an outside doorway into a room that can only be described as grotesque. Whoever works here clearly has some knowledge of arcana, if the ingredients and alchemical tools are anything to go by, but it smells utterly foul to Astarion.

It’s when you spot the drow woman hunched over a table in the corner that he realizes where the stench is coming from. Hells below, that woman reeks of something truly awful, he thinks, recoiling. He’d grown used to following behind you closely, but as you step forward to speak to the woman, he finds himself taking a step back instead.

The woman introduces herself as Araj Oblodra, a trader of blood– a rather poor trader, by the smell of it. She takes note of Astarion, who shuffles back instinctively, before you and her go about some kind of business with your blood. Astarion contemplates speaking up, shooing you away from her, but decides to stay back, as far away as he can remain without arousing suspicion. They can handle themselves.

Then, after the woman looks back toward him one too many times, he hears you snap, “And why are you so interested in my pale friend?”

“Ah, yes. Perhaps there’s one more thing we could discuss,” she begins, her voice a dangerous drawl. “He’s a vampire, no? Or one of their spawn at least.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Astarion says, all-too-ready to fill his role. “We’re all friends under the Absolute. I won’t bite.”

“Oh, I’d prefer if you did,” she’s quick to respond. Her eagerness picks at Astarion’s nerves, and he raises an eyebrow at her. Araj doesn’t deign to give him another moment’s look though, as she turns back to you. “I assume he belongs to you?”

“Excuse me?” Your voice sounds offended– on his behalf, Astarion wonders? “He’s his own person.” Your words cause the feeling in Astarion’s stomach to flip, and, as much as he wants to come to his own defense, he finds himself quite content to hear you do it for him.

“I’m sure he really believes that. How utterly adorable,” she says with a snide chuckle.

Adorable? he thinks, but he’s unable to interject before the woman continues to barrel forward.

The blood trader turns back to Astarion, face wrinkled with distaste as her tone changes to something a bit more confrontational, “Do you have a name, spawn?”

Her sudden shift in attitude, the proud tilt to her head, it all throws the vampire off balance as he goes to answer, “Astarion, b-but hold on!” Astarion holds up a hand to try to slow this woman’s tirade, all to no avail.

“Good. Now, Astarion, I’ve dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl,” Araj begins, laying out the scene for her request.

Too bad that the scene sounds quite ridiculous to Astarion. Surely he heard her incorrectly? “I’m sorry, you want to be bitten?”

The woman goes on a new insane diatribe– something about dancing with death– but Astarion can hardly be bothered. All he needs to know is that she’s offering some measly potion for being bitten and, gods, does he not want to bite this woman’s disgusting neck. Or wrist. Or really any part of her. “I will have to decline,” he says, with a gracious little bow. Your group is still infiltrating the towers, it wouldn’t do to tell Araj exactly how horrid she smells.

It’s entirely more grace than she deserved, that much is clear because she presses him again. Again, he refuses. “I gave you my answer.”

The drow scoffs, turning back to you once more, “Can’t you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?”

You, for your part, look confused. There’s a line of concern in your forehead as you look between the woman and Astarion, wondering what it is that you’re missing. “I’m surprised, Astarion. I thought you’d enjoy an opportunity like this.”

What?! he thinks, a sudden, sharp spike of anger shooting through him. He tempers his immediate rage and speaks to Araj with that same, false pleasantry she doesn’t deserve, “I’m sorry, but could you excuse us a moment?”

Astarion, not waiting for her response, pulls you aside, away from the drow’s nosy eyes and ears. Once you’re alone, he turns to you, his voice a hiss, “Are you actually asking me to do this? Trading me for some-some-some potion?”

“What’s the matter? Why would she be different from any other enemy?” you ask, leaning toward him.

Your voice is full of genuine worry, and some of his anger abates as he meets your eyes. Of course, they don’t know what they’re asking. How could they know? “Because there’s something wrong with her blood. I can smell it from here. Ugh, it’s rank.”

Now your brows furrow, and a sharp edge enters your eyes as you ask your next question, “What do you mean? What’s wrong with her blood?”

“I can’t say. It just smells… wrong. Unnatural.” His words sound pathetic to his own ears.

Of course that’s not an excuse, Astarion laments. What am I even thinking? The potion is clearly useful. They are going to make me do this, and I may as well prepare myself. I’ve put up with worse after all.

So, he stands straight once more, ready to put on the performance of a lifetime. His tone takes on a resigned tone as he continues, “Drinking it wouldn’t kill me, but it would not be pleasant.”

You both hear a sigh from behind you. “I don’t have all day, True Soul,” Araj calls, impatiently.

Your eyes remain focused entirely on him, ignoring the woman’s irritated sigh, her entitled words. “Astarion,” you begin, and he takes a breath in preparation for your other foot to drop. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to do. And if she refuses to take no for an answer again, we’ll simply have to start our assault on the towers a bit early.”

The breath leaves him.

"Alright. Uh, thank you,” he says, feeling the tension drop from his shoulders. He’d been prepared to acquiesce, to do exactly what you’d asked of him. But this? This is something he hadn’t been prepared for.

In a daze, Astarion makes his way back to Araj, putting on as polite of a facade as he’s still capable of making, “It's still a ‘no’, I’m afraid.”

“How very disappointing,” the blood trader says, shooting you both a disgusted look. She turns away in a huff, leaving your group alone to recover from the exchange. And leaving Astarion floundering in another new sensation.

Because once more, the feeling in the pit of his stomach has reared its ugly head– only this time it shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. He's not sure what it is, but it's stunned him into slipping off his carefully crafted mask. He turns to you once more, voice soft around its usual edges, "Thank you. I… appreciated that.”

"You have no need to thank me. It was always your choice, Astarion."

Huh.

The feeling sinks into him, settling deeper and deeper as you continue through Moonrise.

That night, you go to bed in your own bedroll, leaving Astarion to his meditations with a smile and a wave. It has been a long day for all of you, and it's clear from the way you take a glance back that you're worried about him.

Gods, he's worried about him.

After dealing with that vile drow woman, you'd all continued about the tower, ingratiating yourselves with even the most repugnant of creatures to appear faithful to the Absolute. But Astarion paid attention to almost none of it.

He'd stabbed when you told him it was time to stab, he'd joined your side when you called him to you, but his mind had been wholly preoccupied.

They didn't make me do it, he'd thought, as he unlocked some chest.

Well, isn't this exactly what I wanted? he'd thought, following you down some stairs.

Clearly they just fell for my charms, my masterful seduction, he'd thought, flanking a prison guard for you.

So why do I feel like this? he'd thought, staring at your back as you led the way before him.

Now, he lays here in his tent, staring at the fold of its ceiling in a rapt fascination he doesn't feel. The feeling in his stomach has stayed all day, tethering him to his thoughts with its continuous pressure.

When did I get to the point where I would follow them anywhere? Is their lack of self-preservation contagious? he asks himself, eyes narrowing in frustration. I shouldn't have gone into that horrendous tower in the first place. Then I wouldn't feel like this.

But he had.

And you'd not forced him to do so.

You'd not forced him to do anything.

They're a fool, an utter fool. I could have bitten that drow, as easy as breathing, he thinks, rolling his eyes at the thought. Close your eyes and push through, that's what I always say.

But did you want to? something in the back of his mind asks.

Of course not, but when has what I wanted ever mattered–

It may not have mattered under Cazador's grip, but it has always mattered to you. You're nothing like that evil man. You'd always been there for him, had managed to find trust in your heart for him, and had been genuinely kind to him.

The now-familiar feeling in his stomach seems to spread to the rest of his body, a warmth that doesn't quite feel warm. It bleeds all the way to his face and his lips curl up into an involuntary smile at the thought of you.

You– you, who had only ever been meant to play a bit role in the tragedy that is Astarion’s life. You, who had transcended your part, leaving Astarion contemplating every aspect of you in the stark solitude of his tent.

Your beauty when you're covered in blood after a battle, the mischievous glint in your eye when you're teaching a child a sleight of hand trick– even when anger pulls your brows together and you're yelling at him for saying something particularly naughty. Each and every one makes his smile grow wider.

You, his chosen protector, are so much more than just that.

They are incredible. The thought comes to him unprompted, truly as easy as breathing.

His eyes widen in alarm, staring blankly at the tent above him.

The feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t an illness. Nor was it hunger. No. It was guilt. It was jealousy. It was…

Oh fuck, Astarion curses to himself. Am I in love?

Now that he has a word to the sensation, that the feeling is in his grasp, he knows he's right. He doesn't have a lot of experience with love, if any– he'd never had the luxury under Cazador's cruel gaze and he can't recall much from before that– but he knows he's right.

And hells does he wish he could crush the feeling in his hands right here and now.

Gods, you complete and utter imbecile, he thinks, hitting his head against the floor. You have things to do, goals to accomplish. They were only supposed to be a means to those goals, not a – a–

Astarion’s mind blanks as he thinks of you again, your charm, your wit, your damnable caring.

Not a companion. Not a friend. Not a lover. When did those late night trysts turn from an obligation, a part of his simple, perfect plan, into something more?

Even now, as he thinks of those nights, he brings a hand to his lips, recalling a night where you had simply stayed in his bedroll. You had kept all of your clothes on, as had he, and simply held each other as you fell asleep. Their kiss that night was delectable, he recalls, tracing the line of his lips, as if he could still feel the ghost of yours on them.

Fuck, he thinks again, dropping his hand in frustration. How could I have been so blind? How did I not nip this in the bud before it got to this disgusting pining?

But he hasn’t nipped it in the bud. The feeling has grown, unfettered, quick as a druidic plant growth, all unbeknownst to him. It has been nurtured by your attention. It has been watered by your kindness. It has become unruly in the safety of your arms.

Now what? he thinks to himself bitterly, wiping a hand across his face with a sigh. What use are these feelings when everything they were built upon is a lie? You are, after all, still playing the role he set out for you.

He considers overlooking the feelings, just as he has inadvertently done in his ignorance. It wouldn’t be of any use to tell you, of course. You could hardly feel the same way about him as he does you, and he’d rather not add another nuisance in the fight against the Absolute.

Besides, if he told you, he would have to fess up, explain his entire plan to you. What would even be left of the two of you after that?

But, he thinks to himself. Let’s say I did tell them. What could they possibly say…

“I was pretending all along too.” – gods, that would break him. That much is all too apparent from the way his undead heart aches at the thought, with a pain he couldn’t possibly feel.

“I like you, but not like that.” – maybe this was worse. Actually, it was definitely worse. He may never recover. His ego would certainly never recover.

“I have someone else that I love.” – honestly, reasonable. What did he have to offer you after all? A bloodthirsty master and the occasional snarky comment? He wouldn’t be surprised to find you in Karlach’s tent at this very moment…

“I hate you.” – he might be able to take this the best. You should hate him. He’d done nothing but lie and manipulate his way into your bedroll. Hate, well, that he understood.

“I love you, but…” – every single 'but' cut like a different, jagged blade. But we’re in danger every day? An excuse, surely. But you come with too much baggage? True, but not something he would be able to resolve. But I don’t want to be with a monster? Again, reasonable, but out of his control.

Astarion runs through scenario after scenario, each one playing with his own emotions in a new and horrendous way. In the end, he all but slaps himself out of it.

No, I cannot tell them. I absolutely must take this to my second grave, he determines, shaking the thoughts away with a few hard blinks.

But the feeling in his chest is more persistent than ever. As if giving it a name and meaning has given it a new, annoying life. He laments to himself aloud, "I may never feel like myself again.”

If this is what love does to a person, he wants no part of it.

The vampire didn't have a restful night's reverie, that much is apparent. His mood is foul, his body tense, and his eyes are trying their damnedest to avoid yours.

No way, he thinks as you all set off for the day. I spun myself into a frenzy last night. Clearly. I feel absolutely nothing–

Then you turn back to him, concern lining your eyes as you address him. What had you just said? He had found himself somehow lost in your eyes, your lips, the turn of your nose…

Shit, he thinks to himself. No, get back in control. You have only just reclaimed yourself, you can't lose yourself to something as cruel as love.

But, try as he might, his eyes can’t avoid you.

All morning, he continues to sneak glances your way. Despite his roguish nature, he finds hiding his stares to be impossible. After all, you are the group’s leader. You are at the front, you are at his side, gods, you are everywhere. This feels like some kind of divine punishment…

You catch him looking, of course. And each time, he curses himself, gods, you idiot. You may as well broadcast your feelings to the world. And hells, how long have you felt this way?

Astarion tries futilely to act normal. This is just another day with the group in the Shadowlands. He’s not thinking about holding your hand in his. He’s not thinking about the way you look when you sleep. And, above all else, he is not thinking of your lips or the way that they move when you say his name.

Despite his inner turmoil, the world moves on. You lead the group through the Mason’s Guild, and you all manage to clear the place out easily enough.

The vampire thinks he’s finally reaching some sort of peace. Yes, this routine work he can do. No problem at all.

Then, you say something kind to Karlach, that infernally charming woman, who continues to support you at your side. Who, for all intents and purposes, should be the person who warms your bedroll at night, now that you can touch her. Not him, the man who can only make your bedroll colder. Who, even now, is avoiding your every glance.

Oh hells, he thinks, face dropping. The realization that he’s right is too much for him to bear.

Astarion stalks off, annoyed at himself and his thoughts, needing a moment to recollect himself. I can do this, he thinks. I can do this. I can–

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath once he knows he’s alone. “You’re supposed to get over this, you stupid fool. Shit. Gods dammit.”

He hears your familiar footfalls approaching and freezes, his shoulders tense with anticipation.

You find him in a pool of shadows away from the others, and he can’t help but feel like a beast that’s been cornered. He’s certain his face reflects that, reflects every bit of emotion he’s feeling as plain as could be, but your patience with him has apparently worn thin for the day. Your voice is less kind than usual when you say, “Do you need to talk?”

Seeing the anger in your face, the way that your hands are placed on your hips in annoyance, he knows he can’t keep his feelings to himself. He’ll only continue to push you away, into the strong, red arms of another.

No, he thinks, in a panic. I should– I need to–

He needs to do something about his feelings, unwanted or not. Really, he needs to tell you, regardless of what your response may be. If not, he may regret it for the rest of his undying life.

Now that he is in control of his own choices, he supposes that means all of them, for better or worse. That means even the most difficult ones. This is one of those difficult ones, isn’t it?

So Astarion swallows his pride, his anxieties, his insecurities, and settles his fate.

“Later,” he says, barely getting the words out. He blinks, and tries again, pleading with you with his eyes, “Please, just come by my tent later.”

Later, I will tell them. Everything.

#astarion #astarion x tav #fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x reader #rogue + rogue #astarion fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion fluff #astarion x gn reader #astarion x gn!tav #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion pov #astarion is bad at feelings #astarion feelings realization

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soft-girl-musings · 9 months ago

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Stranger Danger

Steven Grant x Fem!Reader

cross-posted to ao3

MK Spring Bingo entry #5

tags: reader is being stalked & responds in a way the author (a woman) has been taught to, emotional protector steven grant to the rescue, no use of y/n

wc: 1,138

fic summary: There's safety in numbers, do you want mine? (too soon?)

_____________________

“Oops, careful!”

Steven drops the last of his veggie wrap as a pair of kids rush past the bench he’d been hunched over. As he picks up the debris, he sees where one of them dropped their hat. He picks it up and half-jogs after them to return it.

“Gotta stay aware of our surroundings, yeah? Don’t want to lose our valuables.” The kid rolls their eyes but thanks him before running off to catch up with their friend.

“Oh my gosh, hi!”

Steven turns around to find you walking swiftly toward him, your smile too wide and tone too familiar.

He’s never seen you before.

“... hello,” he answers cautiously, taking one step back but failing to put much distance between the two of you. You practically cling to his side when you approach, takeaway cup and phone in hand.

“Sorry I’m late, but you are terrible at giving directions, mister.” Taking his arm, you begin to walk away from where you’d appeared.

This wouldn’t be the first time he’s forgotten conversations or plans. But as he racks his brain for something, anything tied to you in his memory, Steven notices the panic in your eyes and the slight waver in your voice.

Your hands shake a bit as you unlock your phone, passing your cup to him. He takes it, still bewildered but obedient. “I swear, the cafe never spells your name right. Let me make a note for next time.” You type swiftly, showing him the screen.

being followed, please pretend you're my boyfriend

Steven doesn’t know you.

But he nods, grasping your arm closer with his free hand and gives his most convincing grin. “Steven with a ‘V’, love.”

Relief instantly washes over your features and you relax a little. “Right. I’ll remember that… Steven.”

His smile grows before he remembers why you're holding onto him. “Do you want to sit down? Or go somewhere else, maybe I could call someone–”

“N-no, it’s fine. Let’s just sit. In plain sight,” you half-whisper. Steven nods, ushering you back to the bench in the middle of the busy square. When you sit, you don't let go of his arm.

Instead, you type into your phone as you speak. “Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?” Steven glaces at your notes app again.

do you see a man in a black jacket?

Steven scans the area, careful not to look too suspicious. Unlike the person he’s sure you’re referring to: a man in dark clothes, hands shoved into his pockets and rigid as he looks around with increasing urgency. His prominent frown grows when he sees Steven next to you.

“Yeah,” Steven says to both your questions. He looks away from the menacing figure, but sets your drink down and wraps his arm around you. He's glad to feel you settle into his side, still shaking but catching your breath.

“I take it you don’t know Mr. Black Jacket?”

“No, I do. Sort of. He’s a regular customer of mine,” you sigh. “One who doesn’t know how to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Ah.” Steven keeps the guy in his periphery, splitting his focus between him and you. “Stalker, then?”

You freeze up at the term. “Yeah… he’s been pretty relentless.”

You meet his eyes, which are swiftly filling with concern. “Thanks again for… this. I usually find a mom or another woman to walk with me until he leaves, but I saw you with those kids and just… panicked, I guess.”

“S’not a problem, love.” Steven knocks your foot with his, drawing a small smile from you. “Glad to help you feel safe.”

You laugh a little. You let your gaze drift over to the man in black, an uneasy pit growing in your stomach when you briefly make eye contact.

“He usually goes away after a while. I've told the police, but they can't do anything unless he… you know.” Your brow furrows as your grip loosens. “I don't mean to take over your afternoon, but would you mind waiting with me?”

In that moment, you could have asked Steven for the moon and he'd find a way to lasso it down for you.

He squeezes your hand. “‘Course I can. Lovely day with lovely company, quite the ideal afternoon in my books.”

Steven dives right into talking about anything and everything that comes to mind– which, as you learn, is a lot. Normally he'd hit a wall after a few minutes, either because he'd realized he had talked himself in circles, or his less-than-captive audience was visibly zoned out. But you hang on his every word, grateful to be arm in arm with a stranger describing the supposed viscosity of ancient Egyptian embalming oil. It's a welcome distraction.

So distracting, in fact, that after an hour you realize the crowd has thinned around you. With Mr. Black Jacket nowhere in sight.

“I think he's gone,” you sigh with relief. Steven stands when you do, handing your things back.

“Patience won out in the end,” he beams. You see a brief look of panic cross his features.

“He doesn't know where you live, does he? Do you need an escort?” Steven's already taken a ludicrously long lunch break, but the inevitable lecture from Donna would be worth it if it meant ensuring your safety.

You shake your head. “I've been careful.” Extending your hand, you smile. “It was nice to meet you, Steven with a ‘V’.”

“Likewise, love.” He shakes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Another look crosses his face before he continues.

“Do you want my mobile number?” His words come out too fast; if you hadn't spent the past hour listening to him, you might have missed what he said. “Just in case you need someone to wait with you again, or keep an eye out. Would that be alright?” He shakes his head, stepping back. “'Matter of fact, forget I said anything, don't want you to think you've traded one creep for another–”

“Sure.”

Your simple answer stops him in his tracks. “Oh, you don’t have to–”

“No, it’s fine. Really. When you offered, it felt nice to know someone could be in my corner on this side of town.”

You take out a scrap of paper and a pen from your bag. “How about this: you write it down, and I’ll add your contact if I ever need my knight in shining armor again.”

Steven concedes, pen and paper in hand as he scribbles his number down (then asks for a new paper in case the first was too illegible).

When you leave, he watches until you turn the corner. He goes the opposite direction, back to the museum. Part of him hopes you’ll never have to reach out, for your own sake. The rest of him hopes you do anyway.

_____________________

A/N: oh steven, the man that you are. a couple more bingo prompts will be focused on this dude, which is excellent practice for some exciting projects down the line...

as always, ty for reading <3

event tags: @moonknight-events @spacecowboyhotch @juneknight

addtl tags: @mrs-lockley @lunar-ghoulie @shadystarlightgentlemen @casa-boiardi @nerdieforpedro (lmk if you'd like to be added to/removed from this wee tag list)

#my works #just edited the word count lol #mk spring bingo 2024 #moonknightevents #moon knight #steven grant #steven grant x reader #steven grant/reader #steven grant x fem!reader #steven grant/fem!reader

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catiuskaa · 1 year ago

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audio creak file.mp3 [1:07]

PAIRING! pervy?Chan x roomate!reader

SUMMARY: Chan struggles to make music, and you, his friend and roommate, try to help him when you can. Say, Chan also struggles to keep his cool whenever you’re near… what will you do to help him feel better?

WC: 3.2k

CW: convenient minsung because I say so, angsty(?) (reader is just kinda dense and Minho screams the truth to her), smut: mentions of soft dom!chan, mentions of panty stealing, Chan’s a pervy simp (he’s just soooo down bad), and I just really got carried away writing on my notes thinking about when Channie smiles hearing the creaks in heyday...

A/N: basically, if being inocent was a crime, i’d be imprisioned for tax evasion, lmao. kinda perv!chan thoughts to soothe the iching that the mosquito bites give. have fun!

[☆☆★☆☆]

He let out a frustrated groan, fingers digging into his curly locks in a sign of desperation. He had listened to every single audio sample Changbin had found. Twice. But no, nothing screamed “This is it” to his perfectionist self. And it was getting him fucking desperate.

He wasn’t wearing headphones because of the company he had been with not too long ago since Changbin and Han tried to help him —keyword: try—, and also knowing that you wouldn’t be home for a while meant that there was no one he could disturb, the sounds coming from his laptop not nearly loud enough to reach to the neighbours. He scrolled down the same folders again, wondering when you would be home in the back of his mind.

You and Chan had been roommates for a bunch of years now. You two had met at Han’s birthday party thanks to Minho, as he introduced you, one of the first people he had ever danced with and even won competitions with to the leader of the Korean boyband.

You clicked almost instantly, sharing anecdotes from each side of the industry. He, a famous idol, and you, a backup dancer for many groups in different companies.

It was unknown to both of you that Han and his cat-like soulmate had tried to matchmake you that day, as you just stayed like close friends. Minho laughed at Jisung as they both returned from your shared apartment the day you moved in, like two years after. Now that you’d split the rent, considering neither of you spent that much time home to pay a large amount, you paired up.

“At least they like each other, silly,” he mentioned, his tone of voice sounding soft, a smug smile on his face. He was so winning the bet.

“Nooo!” Han whined, much like a toddler would when toys were taken away. “Those two are meant to be, Hyung. They are literally each other’s type!”

“Well, I don’t think they’ve noticed,” he chuckled, thinking about what he would buy with the ten bucks Han would owe him. And Minho would’ve been right.

But then, the sex dreams started.

“Chan, I’m back!”

He blushed, quickly shoving those thoughts into a bottomless pit in his mind.

“How you doin’?” You grinned, your head popping inside his room, leaving your bag on your own, next to his, before coming back and leaning on the door frame.

Your wet hair made the top of your summer dress fabric somewhat sheer, his eyes trailing your figure before clearing his throat.

“I’m stuck,” he admitted, dimples on display as he smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve been looking for a sample I thought existed, but maybe I just made it up in my head.”

“That does sound like shit,” you mentioned, leaning down just enough to rest your forearms on the back of his chair. He felt tiny droplets falling from your hair onto his shoulders and back, making goosebumps trail all over his body.

“But how… how was the… the swimming pool?” He quivered, trying to hide the flustered quiver in his voice. And failing, hoping you wouldn’t notice.

“It was good! It felt sooo nice.” You stretched, whining as you extended your arms, making a mess in Chan’s head, who struggled to hide it. “I’ll go get changed, and then I can help you. Sounds ok?”

“Yeah.” He leaned into your touch when you ruffled his hair, leaving his room.

He sighed as he rested on the back of the chair, arms thrown over his eyes, and swallowed dry. He felt like such a perv, his insides churning and turning whenever you were near, making him feel like a horny teenager.

It all started one night when he woke up in a sweat, hard-on nearly hurting underneath his boxers. Pictures of you still reeling in his mind, legs wide open for him, eyes pleading, begging for release.

Then, two nights after, dreaming about your body pressed on top of him as you straddled him, clenching on him, fighting for dominance in a sloppy kiss.

Later that week, you in that cute summer dress you bought with him, letting him fuck you and manhandle you in his car, the apartment too far, and your bodies too horny that the drive home felt impossible.

Seeing you every day with those thoughts in mind was difficult, sometimes having to escape your sight so you wouldn’t see him getting hard just by you doing the slightest things that weirdly turned him on.

“The one you dream about is back,” you teased, now wearing an oversized shirt and a towel over your shoulders. He gulped as he looked at you, not only for what you had said unknowingly but also because of your shirt, long enough to cover your thighs, giving the illusion that you were almost naked. In his room. Sitting crisscrossed. On his bed.

He felt blood on his cheeks and some running down, headed south. He giggled halfheartedly, the sentence ‘don’t get hard’ echoing in his head.

After playing the samples again, tricking himself into thinking he might have skipped one just so he would keep searching, he started getting frustrated again. But nuh-uh. Nothing.

“Ok, this is trash,” you blurted out.

With a smile on your face, before he could even ask you what was wrong, you grabbed his chair from behind, pushing him far from the computer, saving the files and then closed it with a slap.

“Break time, Mr Producer. We both need a coffee.” He snickered, shaking his head sideways as you both went to the kitchen.

“Can’t say no to that, can I?”

You laughed. “No. Too late, anyways.”

He started getting the milk from the fridge, pouring it on the mugs you handed him, and settling them in the microwave, a small smile on his features accenting his dimples.

“Audio sample related, can’t you just make your own?” You asked Chan, not entirely curious, question directed to find a solution for his issue rather than learning that piece of info.

“I mean, yeah, sure, but it’s simpler this way,” he shrugged, eyes confused about where to look, not daring to stare at you for too long. “If not, I just have to keep recording random stuff, hoping to find something that sounds like what I want.”

“Isn’t that easier? Not like it’s something you can brag about, but there’s a ton of creaking shit in this place,” you pointed out thoughtfully. “Like… that!”

In the blink of an eye, you crossed your way until you were directly in front of Chan, and you turned around, leaning on the counter before you as you opened and closed the cabinet's door on the wall.

“See? It creaks,” you said from above your shoulder.

But just when you stood back on your feet, you realised how close you were to each other. And it hadn’t helped that when you leaned towards the cabinet, your shirt had followed along with your body, letting Chan see your lack of pyjama pants, instead being welcomed by some cute cotton panties. Ones he knew well because, uhm… he uh… may have used them for a wrong purpose.

Yeah, fuck, he had come on those.

You hadn’t realised how little space had been between him and the counter and attributed that to your head, not knowing that Chan had unconsciously moved towards you, like metal to a magnet. You wiggled on your place, your personal space suddenly far away from you, caged in Chan’s presence. He stopped your tiny motion by gripping your waist, letting out a gasp, blushing. He turned you around so you wouldn’t feel his hardening cock on your upper thighs.

When you both locked eyes on the contrary, the tense atmosphere shot up, turning even thicker when he rested his arms on the counter, at your sides, thumbs casually stroking short lines on your waist.

No words were said as you got lost in his brown eyes, deep chocolate-coloured orbs, not needing any kind of golden or honey stripes on them as they drew you in, gorgeous eyes so raven that it was hard to distinguish where the iris was. Then, your eyes trailed off at his mouth, your breath hitched, rose-coloured plush lips so enticing. He licked them, and you swore you heard him swallow dry.

You pressed your body on him, getting closer and closer, and suddenly, he let out a small whimper. The sound made you shiver, heat pooling in your lower belly. He blushed furiously, not daring to move from his place. You could feel it, feel him.

The sound of your phone chiming in your room made you both aware of the situation —and position— you were in. You got shy, quickly letting him have his personal space back, both of you missing the other’s warmth on your skin as you blurted out something that sounded like “gotta go walk my fish” as you run to your room, slamming the door close, frowning as soon as you were alone.

“Fuck.” Both of you said at the same time, having the same thoughts.

“I fucked up.” Chan stared at the hot mugs on the counter, both waiting for someone who had run away.

[☆☆★☆☆]

“He’s just scared, girl,” Han said through the phone after letting you ramble and blurt about what had happened barely twenty minutes ago. “I promise, if you make him feel safe, like he won’t lose you, he’ll melt on your hands.”

"...I don't think so," you mumbled, picking on your nails.

"You called me because he got hard," he sighed, not bringing his statement to a conclusion just because it was so painfully obvious. "I know you're the only one who thinks otherwise."

You were about to reply with a snarky comment about how he should just 'stick simping about Minho' when you started to hear said man speaking to Jisung, and then with all the calm in the world, ignored him when he went straight to the phone.

"...Minho?"

"Leave my boyfriend alone and go fetch yours," he replied as you heard Han groan in the back. It was almost as if you could feel him deadpanning from the other side of the phone.

You frowned even if you had a smile on your features, not taking the comment completely seriously. "Ok, rude. What a meanie."

"Jokes aside." You heard him breathe in from the other side of the phone. Oh boy. "The interminable teasing and bickering between you and Chan were amusing at first, but it's getting very stale and surprise, fucker, you live together!" He paused, clicking his tongue. "So, why don't you two cut the bullshit and admit your sexual and non-sexual feelings for each other?"

"My what?!"

"This is getting old really quick, goddamnit." You could feel him getting worked up, not just because of his tone but because he kept ignoring Han, whose comments echoed at the back of the phone call.

But Minho was serious. He was not gonna get cockblocked for ten bucks. Not tonight.

"You're getting kinda off-base, buddy!"

"Oh, it's almost one o'clock, fucking spare me!" He grumbled, getting slightly angrier. "Yeah, I get it. It's Chan. He can be a dick sometimes because of his severe self-esteem issues and how he doesn't know how to communicate his feelings all that well. But I kinda think he reminds you about that other guy you dated in our dance team, who was an absolute son of a bitch, and we can agree that you deserve to be with someone who's not that complicated or whatever, but still, you can't get Chan out of your head, can you? Don't answer. We know it." He interrupted you, unable to speak as you were just getting bombarded with facts you didn't want to deal with.

"But you? I've known you for years, yet you're still being a dumbass. You're behaving like a baby who'd rather act tough than show her true feelings 'cause last time, you got hurt! Owie," he cooed, tone still angrily mocking. "And now you're just dancing around the other in this pathetic act you're tryna put up to hide your pent-up feelings, SO, AGAIN, for my sake, either deal with it and stop bitching my man about it, or get over with it already!"

"Minho, I-!" You turned silent as you heard a beeping sound coming from your phone.

He hung up.

You stared at the screen, eyes almost out of place, as you muted the device, letting it vibrate with the unread texts Jisung sent, apologising in every way he knew.

"A baby?" You muttered, the word almost sickening in your mouth. "I am not a baby!"

You laid back down on your bed, rolling on your sides, Minho's words echoing in your mind as you cursed under your breath. Almost unconsciously, you stood up, left your room and approached Chan's as if wanting to enter just to get his confirmation regarding his allegedly existing feelings for you.

He startled you when he closed his door, meeting you in the hallway, his eyes glued to yours as soon as he saw you.

"Oh. Hey." You mentioned awkwardly.

"Hey," he said, tensed-up shoulders visible due to the lack of sleeves on his shirt. "I just... uh..."

"I... wanted to say that, uh..."

"I am sorry if I... uh..."

"It's ok... I uh... don't... I mean... I know that you can't really uh... control... it?"

You could almost hear Minho's laugh in your mind.

"Right," he sighed. You smiled reassuringly, and he did the same in an uneasy stance.

"Right. I mean, for all I know, it could happen for whatever reason."

"I uh, kinda, I guess."

"But never mind. I uh... 'm glad we feel the same way."

You both smiled sheepishly and headed to your respective rooms.

Chan sighed, hurriedly getting back to bed, wishing to get weird ideas out of his mind, not bothering to check his computer again. He rolled in bed, hand anxiously travelling through his hair so frequently that it was starting to get greasy.

He frowned, passing his hands through his face, the scene in the kitchen crossing his mind again, his already weak excuse for not being so clearly attracted to you crumbling when he remembered the eagerness he thought he had seen in your eyes.

He stood up again and went to open the door just to go check, because what if he hadn't just made it up in his mind?

But then, he met you right in front of his room.

Before you could escape or come up with anything, he approached you and pecked your lips, feeling his heart skip ten beats when you pushed him away.

His eyes locked into yours, a sight of contentment leaving his lips as you grabbed his shirt and pulled him back in, smiling in the kiss. It heated very quickly, a sloppy kiss with all tongues and teeth, both fighting for dominance. You went to get the edge of his shirt, but instead, he gave you a light smack on your thighs, and you jumped, legs crossing around his waist, arms around his neck as he guided both of you into his room, closing the door with a kick.

The two of you breathed heavily, the air thick with anticipation and lust. He pinned you up against the closed door and kissed hard, feeling the heat rising as your bodies tightened against one another. Your tongues met, mingling in an intense way that drove you wild. You let out soft sounds of pleasure, suddenly changing sides, pulling him away just enough so you could have access to his neck, your teeth trailing from his jaw, trying to find a sensitive spot.

He whined, barely moving away, trying to calm himself down, the sudden blow of emotions too intense for him. He then panted, and you quickly went back to that spot you had found, nibbling on it. "What are we- fuck- what are we doing?"

You set a finger on his lips, your face going back to his. "Shhh. Let's just... enjoy it," you whispered, leaving a small chaste kiss at the corner of his lips, tempting him. You then flinched, moving away "Unless you don't want..."

He let out a groan, deep and enticing, hungrily going back to your mouth. You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him back, your lips pressing firmly against his.

"No... I want you."

"And I want you too, Chris." You admitted, doe eyes trailing down to his lips, licking your own. "Now."

[☆☆★☆☆]

Your schedule had gotten filled up to the brim, chances of meeting Chan reserved for the ungodly hours of the night, which were used to get some well deserved sleep. Rehearsing over and over left your body exhausted, your mind clouded in the remaining work you had left, only the most sinful parts of it replaying the encounter that had happened barely three nights ago.

It was obvious that he was awake, the light in his room shining from underneath the door, knowning that he’d probably be working on his samples.

And he had tried, looking for one of the files he had recorded that delicious night. But something felt wrong. He frowned, looking at how long the audio was.

He played it before using it, at first just hearing random noises he was recording. Then he heard himself groaning, the sound of the bed sheets moving with his body, and then, after some loud steps, the door creaked open.

And those voices were you and him, that was no doubt. He blushed, the sound of the door slamming close getting his mind back to three nights ago.

“Ah, fuck, Chan!” You moaned through his headphones.

The bed creaked under both of you in rythmic beats, matching each thrust, your moans decorating the purple-lit room.

As both an idol and a producer, Chan had listened to many voices and samples for a long time, ears used to the constant stimulation, but the sound of your needy whines as he slowed down in hopes of not coming too soon made the task even more difficult.

“Don’t- ugh, fuck-,” he whined, hearing the heavy breathing through the recording. “Let me hear you, baby, please.”

Chan tried to pause the recording, a flustered mess, but instead accidentally unplugged his headphones, the sound of creaks and moans filling his room once again.

He paused it, mortified. Where you home? Fuck, he didn’t want you to think he was recording you in secret.

He turned around slowly when the door creaked open.

“What's going on here?” You walked in with an oversized top on, the cut of the sleeves made so that your body could be seen through the sides of the tank top.

“I-i uh…”

“Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“Chan? Are you listening?” Changbin questioned, frowning.

“Uh?”

He remembered that he wasn’t inside his room, like the night before, your thighs straddling his, but in the studio, showing his friends the audio he had put together. He couldn’t help but smile and get lost in his thoughts when certain creaks came out.

“We like it,” Han repeated. “We can get to writting lyrics soon enough.”

Chan’s phone chimed next to him, his eyes trailing it with no thoughts to it.

Let’s have fun again tonight.

He bit his lip, turning his phone off.

“I’ll call it Heyday,” he mentioned to his friends, renaming the new audio file.

He’d keep the other one a secret.

[☆☆★☆☆]

[hard hours]

~Kats, who came up with this idea on the beach and has had it stuck in her head since day one.

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keilanana · 7 months ago

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𝑻𝒐 𝑫𝒆𝒇𝒚 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒆

ᴏ. ʀᴇɪɴᴄᴀʀɴᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ɪs ᴀ ᴛʜɪɴɢ, ᴀᴘᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛʟʏ

You find out reincarnation actually exists the hard way and sort of maybe go through the five stages of grief?

Your death comes to you in the most embarrassing way on your thirteenth birthday.

On your way home from school, you had decided to take the long route and found yourself walking across the edge of a bridge, arms held out to help you keep balance and your mind somewhere far away.

Unfortunately for you, though, your far away thoughts cost you your focus, so you failed to remember that it had rained last night, and the bridge was still wet from the storm's assault in result.

All in all, your realization came too late in the form of you slipping and falling into dark, deep, rushing water that sung with triumph when your form fell into its embrace and sunk into its depths.

Death didn't last long, luckily enough, but that was only because you somehow opened your eyes just after closing them in acceptance of your inevitable end.

Needless to say, when you woke up—expecting either the gates of Heaven, the fiery pits of Hell, or perhaps nothing—to find yourself staring up into the eyes of two women you had never seen before in your life, you were pretty confused.

One of the women, who just so happened to be holding you, for some reason, had [S/t] skin, long, [H/c] hair, and fox-like [E/c] eyes that stared down at you with such pure adoration, you nearly did a double take to see if maybe your eyes weren't working as well as they used to due to, you know ... dying.

The other woman was quick to take your focus from the other one, though, and that was probably because of the fact that she had horns and goat ears??

Maybe you were right about your eye sight, after all. It clearly must've had something wrong with it now, if you were starting to see people with horns and goat ears.

"[Y/n] ..." The whisper of your name makes you return your attention to the woman holding you, and she smiles down at you, emitting a sort of warmth that had you snuggling closer to her before you could even think of stopping yourself. The action seems to please her, because her smile grows and she pulls you closer, placing a kiss atop your head.

You hear the other woman chuckle, the noise fond and just as warm as the presence of the one holding you, and then watch her from the corner of your eye as she draws closer and slips her arm beneath you, wanting to cradle you as well.

"Welcome to our world, little one," you hear her say, and with their combined warmth, you can only keep your eyes open for so long before exhaustion consumes you once again.

(In the back of your mind, the horned woman's words echo; "Welcome to our world"—something meant only to be a greeting to the new being they've brought to life, yet despite this, you can't help but feel as though it also alludes to something deeper.

But for now, sleep comes first, and you promise yourself that you'll only feel semi-disappointed when you wake up and learn this was all only a dream.)

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You're going to lose your shit.

It was not a dream. This is not a dream.

You end up balling your eyes out for hours. The two women you had thought to be mere figments of your imagination (your new parents, apparently) panic throughout the entire ordeal and do everything they can to get you to stop, but for as bad as you feel for making them worry, you just can't stop because you were dead you were supposed to be dead how is this even possible—

The only peace they get is when you're asleep, but even then, those moments can only last for so long before the nightmares—the memories have your eyes shooting open to fill with tears in seconds, and then the cycle starts all over again.

Your parents (no they're not they can't be yours and you can't be theirs oh god do they even know what's happened to you back home what happened to your body) are, understandably, very concerned. Since coming home, you've done nothing but cry and cry and cry, and nothing they do can get you to stop. They've already tried taking you to the doctor, believing for a horrifying moment that you must have been painfully ill, but the appointment only ended with the man—eyes filled with sympathy for the couple—telling them that you're actually perfectly healthy.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that there isn't anything that I can do to help you," he'd said, your cries just as loud as ever and making the [E/c]-eyed woman holding you—Penelope Ophelia—gather you up from where you were sitting on her lap to rock you gently in her arms in a desperate attempt to soothe you.

"Really?" Penelope's lover, the woman the horns (that the doctor doesn't seem to notice, mind you), sent the doctor a pained, frustrated look. "Nothing at all?" she asked.

He only shook his and apologized again.

You don't know how long it's been, nor do you care. All you know is that you were dead, and then you weren't, and now all you've ever known most likely doesn't matter, because who knows if you'll ever see it again?

But then one day, as if your world couldn't be turned upside down anymore than it already has, you manage to catch Penelope's loud gasp above your crying, and then—

"Willow! I think I know why [Y/n]'s been crying!" she says, suddenly rushing over to you and lifting you up for a closer look at your head. "They have horns coming in!"

You hear someone—Willow, obviously—spit their drink out from the other room, and the shock you feel at Penelope's words turns out to be all it takes for you to finally stop crying.

'Horns'? Did you hear that right?

Clearly taking your stunned silence as a sign for whatever reason, Penelope begins to coo at you and bring you close to caress your head and kiss it, and—Oh. Oh.

You can feel them: the horns, small bumps on your head (for now), everytime Penelope's delicate hands brush over them. The movements are gentle and careful, obviously out of fear of accidentally hurting you and setting your constant crying off once more, and your mind is so caught up trying to piece together an explanation for—for all of this—that you don't even notice Willow coming into the room, a bright grin on her face as she takes in the small nubs growing from your crown and says:

"Would you look at that?" She laughs and takes you from Penelop's grasp to hold you up in the air like that monkey from The Lion King did. "Looks like I win the bet after all! Ay, little satyr?"

Willow laughs again when she sees her wife playfully roll her eyes, and you—for the first time since you've been brought to their home—remain silent while your entire world crumbles around you.

Satyr?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The Percy Jackson series was a gift to you from your grandparents on your eleventh birthday, and you've been obsessed with it ever since.

When you found yourself sighing over the boring, mundane life you lived, you would open the books and get lost in the world of Camp Half-Blood: imagining yourself as a camper, wondering who your Godly parent would be, and grinning at the idea of getting to befriend the main cast and join them on their adventures. While you were stuck inside doing homework, Percy and his friends were out fighting monsters and meeting Gods, and a part of you—the part that always longed for something more—would wish you could reach out and join them.

And now here you were, in a world clearly not like your own, and one of your new mother's is apparently a satyr.

(You are, too, but you're not really ready to process that just yet.)

It wasn't possible—it couldn't be possible. It's not like satyrs were only relevant in Percy Jackson, after all; there are plenty of stories out there that included the mythological race! You couldn't have possibly just so happened to get reborn into the world of the book series you've adored for two years! It just—it wouldn't make sense! Clearly, one of your new guardians being a satyr was a mere coincidence. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Chiron wrote to me, recently," sighs Willow as she plops down onto the couch Penelope had decided to read a book to you on. "Looks like the camp's satyr situation is a lot more serious than I thought, if he's sending me letters and asking me to help out again."

You choke on your own spit and have Penelope frantically patting your back before the woman can even respond to what her wife just revealed.

Then, when that whole ordeal's finished, Penelope lays you down in your crib after her and Willow take turns kissing your forehead, and now you're left alone to stare up at the canopy painted to the ceiling, losing yourself to your thoughts.

This ... isn't a dream. Yeah, that's been pretty obvious for a while now, but the assurance made your shoulders feel a little lighter. This isn't a dream and ... it's a lot.

You ... What should you do? You don't know how you got here, and you honestly doubt that there's a way out, so ... Again, what should you do?

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes and decide, for now, to just go over what you do know:

1. You've been reborn (no duh, but sometimes you just have to repeat that to yourself to properly get it through your head).

2. Your 'parents' are two women by the name of Penelope and Willow Ophelia. Willow is a satyr, and Penelope (as far as you know) is a human.

3. Again, you've been reborn, and into the world of Percy Jackson of all places.

The bigger, more logical part of you kind of wants to start crying again. Out of literally anyone in the world—your world—why was this happening to you? Everyone you've ever known, all you've ever known, are suddenly gone, and all because you decided you wanted to walk along the edge of a stupid, slippery bridge.

It's just ... so frustrating. You were never perfect, you never wanted to be perfect, but you liked to think you were a good person, at least. What could you have done to deserve this? Who could have thought you deserved this?!

Yet, still, for as badly as you want to freak out (to cry, scream, break something) you can't deny that there's a small part of you—the part of you that always knew, even if you didn't want to fully admit it to yourself, that you could never conform to what society expected from you, that wanted nothing more than to just jump into the pages of your beloved books and live out the rest of your days in Camp Half-Blood, fighting monsters and challenging Gods—that feels just a little bit ... giddy about this. Because for as much your old family tried, for as much as they loved you, they just couldn't understand why you were the way you were; couldn't make you feel seen in the way Percy, Annabeth, Nico, and all of the other demigods did.

And, Gods, that was just the biggest part of it, wasn't it?

Even after everything they'd gone through—the ignorance of adults not willing to understand, the apathy of other kids who thought lesser of those not like them, the loneliness and confusion because you didn't know what was wrong with you—they had still found a place to belong. Found people to belong to. And ... and ...

And you wanted that. More than anything in the world, back then.

But this was not your world anymore. This was theirs.

And now that you've thought about it, you realize that there's one more thing you can add to the list of 'Things I Know':

4. You've been reborn into the world of Percy Jackson, and you've already read a step-by-step guide on how to live in it.

(That morning, when Willow comes into your room to bring you down for breakfast, her forest green eyes swell with tears.

Your smile was just as beautiful as her and Penelope knew it'd be.)

Next Chapter ->

#to defy fate #percy jackson and the olympians x reader #heroes of olympus x reader #pjo x reader #various x reader #percy jackson x reader #annabeth chase x reader #luke castellan x reader #thalia grace x reader #nico di angelo x reader #will solace x reader #calypso x reader #jason grace x reader #piper mclean x reader #leo valdez x reader #hazel levesque x reader #frank zhang x reader #reyna ramirez arellano x reader

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theorphicangel · 4 months ago

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dilemmas and pancakes | sukuna x reader

“Look who’s finally awake.”

You haven’t even taken one step out of your bedroom before you hear a low voice fill the room.

Hands rubbing at your eyes, you can just make out a tall figure by the kitchen counter. You can just about make out Sukuna’s glorious back tattoos and muscles which flex sharply with each movement that he makes.

You make no reply, standing in your doorway with the hem of Sukuna’s t-shirt tickling at your knees. You attempt to rub away the last remnants of sleep in your eyes.

Checking your phone before you got up, it was only just 9am but knowing Sukuna all too well, he’s probably been awake since before the sun had even risen.

Without another spoken word, you shuffle over to the dining table, picking up a scent that you can’t quite identify lingering in the air. Bananas…maybe?

Glancing over before taking a seat, you manage by squinting to see a plate stacked with pancakes near his elbow.

Ah.

Banana pancakes. Your favorite.

You say nothing more as you sit, letting the early morning silence crash over you like a gentle wave. It refreshes you actually, bathing in the sunlight as it streams in from the windows. The warm energy hugs you close like a long-missed friend and your excitement for the season of summer begins bubbles within the pit of your stomach.

“What are you smiling at?”

Distracted by thoughts and the early blue sky outside of the window, you failed to notice your boyfriend approaching your table. A plate stacked high with pancakes in one hand and in the other a cup of steaming hot coffee. Gently, he sets the cup down in front of you before the pancakes. The mug displays your name, a well-loved gift from last christmas.

You hadn’t noticed the cheesy grin which swept over your lips as you gazed out of the window. Currently, you had been fantasizing about the future plans for the summer, sunny and well-rested days at the beach, vacations, barbeques, summer markets and—

“Nothing.” you reply, your voice coming out croaky and scratchy from sleep.

“Doesn’t seem like it was nothing.” Sukuna notes, “Don’t expect this shit every morning.” Your boyfriend quips, assuming you were smiling about the pancakes. You’re met again with the view of his back as he fetched plates for the both of you and honey for the pancakes.

He’s quick to return, not wanting to keep you waiting for too long and sits directly opposite from you.

Another comfortable silence settles between the two of you as you dig into the breakfast. The scent of the pancakes and the smell of fresh coffee beans lulls your excitement to a calm. If anything, you loved mornings like these. Ones where you did not have to maintain a conversation or overwhelm yourself with thoughts about future tasks of the day.

The two of you sat in your usual silences, diving into your well-prepared breakfast. And not that he would actually ever admit it to you but Sukuna felt the exact same. He loved nothing more but your presence near him, as if your sole energy was enough to heal him. And as much as he complains, he actually enjoys domestic tasks such as making breakfast for you.

“Thank you ‘kuna.” you murmur after taking a sip of your coffee.

He says nothing more but a hum as a response.

Despite his words of not ‘expecting this shit every morning’, his brain rattles around to figure out a breakfast to make for you tomorrow. Avocado toast? No, maybe scrambled eggs on toast or he could spoil you again with waffles?

Sukuna shakes his head, picking up his cup of coffee and taking a sip.

That’ll be a dilemma for him to figure out tomorrow at least.

join my summer event!

#angel writes #sukuna x gn!reader #sukuna x you #jujutsu sukuna #sukuna ryomen #sukuna x reader fluff #ryomen sukuna #jjk fanfiction #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk fluff #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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ashisgreedy · 1 year ago

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Theo Nott x F!Reader "Revved"

Modern AU Biker!Theo

A|N: At the end

WC: 3272

Sum: Her Biker boyfriend, Theodore, takes her on a ride on his motorcycle. However, the bike feels a bit too good… making her feel all kinds of pleasure as they race down the winding roads.

She rapidly swipes an extra coat of mascara on her lashes upon hearing a knock on the door. She tosses the tube back in her makeup bag and gives herself a final once-over in the mirror.

A more insistent knock echoes just as she approaches the door.

“I’m coming!” She shouts, checking out the peephole to make sure it’s who she thinks it is.

She recognizes his messy brown waves and his signature sunglasses. Throwing open the door, she pulls him in for a hug. “Hey!”

Theo smiles as he hugs her tight. “Hey, bella.” He holds his motorcycle helmet in one hand and wraps his free arm tight around her waist. “Are you ready to go?” He looks down at her as he rubs her lower back

“Yeah, let me just grab my helmet and we can be off.”

The two share a quick kiss before she reaches for the helmet on the coffee table in her living room. His smile lingers a touch longer than usual, prompting her to narrow her eyes in suspicion.

“You’re earlier than you said you’d be.” Her gaze slides to him after glancing at the clock on the wall.

“No traffic.” Theo returns the look.

Holding her helmet, an exact match to the one Theo is clutching—a gift from him on their last anniversary—she leads him out the door.

“What’s that look on your face?” She tries to see his blue eyes beyond the dark sunglasses. His smirk grew the closer they got to his bike.

“What look? I always look like this.” He chews the gum in his mouth to one side.

She knew him well enough to know something was up. “What’s going on, Theo? What are you up to?”

“Nothing,” He puts on his helmet, hiding the grin he’s sporting. “I can’t be happy to see my girl?”

She narrows her eyes again before putting on her own helmet. Theo climbs onto his bike and waits for her to do the same.

“I suppose…” She's only halfway convinced. Despite that, she decides to let it go for the moment, fully aware that she'll revisit the topic later, perhaps after their first pit stop.

Silently, he waits for her to mount his bike. It's a routine they've repeated a dozen times, exploring the city and venturing into the mountains together. The scenery never fails to amaze her, and the sheer excitement of speeding down the road with the wind in her hair never loses its thrill.

Theo glances back, keeping a watchful eye to ensure she doesn't struggle while swinging her leg over the bike. Earlier, he had suggested she wear a flowy skirt for their evening ride. It was normal for him to request certain clothing items from her. However, as she attempts to arrange the ends of the fabric under her legs on the seat, she's already regretting the choice. The skirt proved to be a bit of a challenge for a motorcycle ride. Mindful of avoiding any unintentional flashing to passers-by, she took her time ensuring every part was neatly tucked in.

Theo was patient and waited for her to tap his shoulder to indicate she was ready since the helmet muffled her voice.

Tonight's plan was to take a ride along the meandering roads leading toward the mountains just as the sun began to set. It had been some time since they last took this route, and she was excited to see the breathtaking views again.

Once satisfied with her modesty, she tapped his shoulder and wrapped her arms around his waist.

Theo braced the bike and the engine roared to life. Nestling her face into his black leather jacket, she inhaled the familiar oaky fragrance that mingled with the metallic scent of the open air, creating a comforting warmth in her chest. With her knees snug against the back of his jean-clad thighs, she readied herself for acceleration.

A thunderous rev echoed as he zoomed down the street, sending her heart racing with adrenaline. She smiled wide from ear to ear as he picked up speed.

In the blink of an eye, her neighborhood vanished, and they found themselves on the expansive open road. The sky painted in hues of blues, oranges, and pinks washed over the landscape. He took a right turn and then they were off on the long stretch toward the mountains where he picked up speed.

She held on to him tight, keeping her weight on the bike's center. Her hands idly rubbed his chest while she enjoyed the surrounding scenery—countless trees and valleys on one side and massive mountains on the other.

At a red light, Theo reached up to his chest, gently intertwining his fingers with hers. Hugging him from behind, she showed her affection through 'I love you' squeezes. He reciprocated, squeezing her hand in return.

They entered the mountain roads, speeding past forests and lesser-known hiking trails, with no car in sight for miles. It was nice getting away from it all, leaving behind the stresses of the week as they sped past streetlights gradually illuminating their path.

Beneath her, the bike hummed pleasantly, the absence of her usual thick denim pants allowing her to feel the vibrations more intimately. Then Theo revved the engine, and the sensation escalated to something pleasurable. The vibrations surged through her like an electric current, causing a blush to creep across her cheeks.

The only thing between her clit and the seat was her cotton panties. She breathed through it and tried to relax against his back.

The engine revved higher and her fingers dug into his chest. She held him in a vice grip and shifted in her seat. The bike wavered and Theo turned his head for a moment to look back at her. He quickly moved his gaze to the road and continued the ride.

The bike seat’s vibration felt even more incredible. She shifted minutely, trying not to make the bike come unbalanced but the assault on her clit was becoming too much.

He sped off down the mountain road, but she wasn’t paying attention to the beautiful scenery anymore.

Her legs were shaking and her stomach muscles clenched as shockwaves rippled through her core. The orgasm hit her like a bus. She gasped and clung to Theo, fighting the urge not to rock her hips for some delicious added friction.

The pleasant release was quickly thwarted when the bike's unrelenting vibrations assaulted her now oversensitive clit.

She couldn’t stop the moans that escaped her as another orgasm was pulled from her. Her thighs clamped down on the bike as her body pulsed. Her cries of pleasure were audible in the wind as one orgasm melted into another and another.

The seat and her panties were soaked from the wetness making it harder to stay on. She felt herself sliding, but the death grip she had on Theodore kept her centered.

She must have been knocking the air out of his lungs with the strength of her grip but there had been no reaction from him at all, even when she screamed in pleasure.

The vibrations changed slightly giving her a break from the strong ones she’d been accosted with, and the orgasms finally stopped. She was sweating and gasping for breath.

She smacked his chest and could feel his body rumble with laughter. She smacked him again and he revved the engine higher and, oh, fuck… he was doing this on purpose.

Her clit throbbed to the point of pain as her body responded to the higher vibrations. She was on the brink of madness as more orgasms piled on top of one another.

She started paying attention to her surroundings again when the bike began to slow, striking gravel. Her panting was more audible without the motorcycle engine and wind whipping past to drown her out. Rapid breaths fogged the visor of her helmet.

The bike came to a stop on the side of the road next to an impressive view of the mountains and forested valley below.

She was limp against his back as the bike came to a halt. Small tremors ran through her body with every breath she took. He cut off the bike but her body hummed with the ghost of the intense vibrations.

Theo waited a moment before carefully peeling her hand off his chest. The kickstand came down and he slid off the bike. Removing his helmet revealed his messy brown waves. He spit out his gum onto the gravel and set the helmet down carefully.

As he walked around to her, he wore a shit-eating grin.

She glared at him, but it wasn’t effective with the helmet on her head. She yanked it off and Theo carefully took it from her, setting it on the ground next to his.

Her hair was a mess sticking to her sweaty forehead, her cheeks sporting a deep red blush, and her lips plump and swollen from biting them.

“You did that on purpose!” She spat, placing her hands in front of her on the seat to hold herself up.

He lifted his brows with a smirk.

“How many times?” Theo asked in a cool tone.

“What!?” She huffed, still glaring at her boyfriend.

"How many times did you cum on my bike? How many?" He took off his sunglasses and hooked them in his back pocket. He wouldn’t need them again tonight as the sun was setting. She could see the spark of excitement in his eyes.

"I…. I don't know.." she adjusted in the seat and felt how slick it was.

She was in a state and wanted him to be just as much of a frazzled mess as she was.

Her legs were like jelly as she tried to stand. She would not be embarrassed by the wetness she left on the seat, she refused.

Before she could get off the bike, Theo crouched down and looked at her at eye level.

His eyes looked almost predatory as his finger slid over her bare thigh. Her skin ignited with his touch as he moved up and up, pushing her skirt the farther he went.

She could feel the slickness all over her thighs and knew her panties were absolutely done for.

“How many?” His tone was serious, sending shivers down her spine.

She held her breath as his fingers reached the soaked fabric. He pushed where her clit was and her body jerked.

“I-I don’t know! …I lost count.” She trembled under his touch and gaze.

He hummed and a small smile tugged at his lips.

“Get off the bike, amore mio.” He raked his hand through his messy hair as he stood and waited for her.

She tried again but her legs were trembling so much it took her a moment. Her skirt was sticking to her thighs and she looked a mess.

Theo helped her, placing his hand on her waist and guiding her off the bike. Her feet slid on the gravel as he pulled her against his body.

“You made a mess of my seat.” His lips twitched in a smirk.

It was very obvious just how much of a mess she’d made thanks to the state of the dehydrated leather.

The world tilted and her chest was pressed down to the wet seat, ass in the air. She braced her hands on the bike to hold herself up.

Theo flipped up her skirt and tugged her panties down to her ankles. Then his mouth was on her and she gasped. He licked her wet slit eagerly, pushing her thighs apart to go deeper, to lick more of her. He latched his lips on her clit and he sucked hard.

She fell apart, legs trembling as she gasped his name. She ached, but the release by his toungue was well worth it.

He lapped at her until she was soaked anew, making her aching cunt quiver. She was a blubbering mess, writhing in the firm grip he had on her thighs. She hissed as he dug his fingers into her leg, pressing harder, keeping her in place. He held her apart and ate her out more lively than she’d ever seen.

Theo moaned against her pussy and she arched her back. His tongue felt like sin and she couldn’t form words.

"The way you taste…" Theo didn't comment further. He just hummed a satisfied sound.

A cool burst of air struck her dripping heat and she groaned at the loss of his mouth.

She faintly heard the sound of a zipper over her own hysterics. Then the thick head of his cock pressed against her wet aching hole and her whimpering became begging.

“Oh! Yes, please!”

“Gods,” He murmured

Theo pressed in and the blunt head of his cock popped inside her tight entry.

He took far too long to press his cock into her. She wanted to be filled, she was begging for it, dammit!

He sucked in a breath and grabbed her hips firmly. He pulled her body, forcing her to take him to the hilt as he stood completely still.

It was a snug fit and he waited a moment, lightly rocking his hips while her body accommodated him. Her feet slid on the gravel trying to find purchase.

Theo angled himself and then struck that one spot that counted. He wasn’t gentle with her, his thrusts were hard and fast as his fingers dug into her hips.

“I have every intention of fucking you until you scream.” His voice was gruff as he slammed home over and over.

She knew what he was capable of. He would absolutely fuck her until nothing else existed but his hand digging into her hips, his cock filling her pussy, and her voice horse from screaming in pleasure.

Thank fuck they were in the middle of nowhere on a lesser-known road. She wasn’t capable of caring a single bit if a van full of camera-caring tourists drove by at this moment and watched. She wasn’t herself and neither was Theo. He fucked her primally, rough and hard.

She had no idea how the strength of his thrusts hadn’t tipped over the bike, she certainly wasn't helping matters. Her walls fluttered with the relentless pleasure and Theo hissed. She could feel it… she was right there yet again.

“Cum,” He growled. He panted as he yanked her hips back in tune with his thrusts.

It was like a switch was flipped and she was flying, screaming, cuming so fucking hard around his cock. Her whole body shook from the force of the orgasm, the bike and Theo’s vice grip being the only things to keep her upright as he continued to fuck her.

His strokes were long and gentle as she rode out the last of her climax. She was almost sobbing, moaning in pleasure, and feeling the pain of just how overworked her poor pelvic muscles were. She was going to be sore for days.

She whimpered, catching her breath, and finally looked up to see the gorgeous view before them. Gods, she wished she cared, she really did, but he was picking up speed again. The wet sounds of skin on skin and her cries echoing were the only noises around.

She pressed her forehead to the seat and hung on for dear life. He pulled her hips to meet his thrusts and she was grateful. Her legs were so weak, there was no possible way she could do it on her own. She lived for the soft grunts that escaped him, his small moans and heavy breaths as he used her body to seek his own pleasure.

He squeezed her hips again, digging his fingers in hard. She couldn’t possibly cum again, but he reached around and started teasing her clit, and… fine! She guessed she could cum again, and, gods, it hurt so fucking good.

Her vision went blurry and her eyes filled with actual tears.

Theo's grasp tightened one final time, his hips meeting hers with a resounding slap. A moan escaped him, and he pressed his chest against her back, his heart racing as he gently rocked his hips.

Tears fell from her eyes and she tried wiping them off on her sleeve. It was too much from the start. All that was left of her mind was a ball of mush.

He panted into her hair as he caught his breath. Her heart pounded against the seat, blood rushing and throbbing behind her eardrums.

Finally, Theo released his bruising grip from her hips and rested his forearms on the seat, caging her in with his arms.

A quiet moment passed over them as they caught their breath. Theo began leaving soft kisses all over the back of her neck. He nipped behind her ear, making her tremble once again.

Wetness started cooling on her thighs as they settled there. She wanted nothing more than to be back at home in her bed with him, curled up and falling asleep in his arms.

Theo exhaled and stood up, pulling out of her more carefully than usual. She nearly fell to her knees but he caught her. He chuckled, pulling her close, his arm wrapping around her waist as he glanced down at her. His chest rose and fell rapidly, a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

She adored the way his brown waves clung to his forehead, and his cheeks displayed a delightful rosy hue. While he wasn't as disheveled as she was, it was still satisfying to see.

“Think you can survive the ride back?” He gently kissed her forehead.

“Do NOT do that thing again!”

He laughed and picked up her helmet off the gravel. “Fine, fine.” He smirked.

“How did you even figure something like that out!?” She took her helmet from him.

“One of the guys mentioned that a bike could rev at just the right frequency for-”

“Okay, okay,” She cut him off. Of course it was his friends. They were always giving him the most insane advice. She glared at him for good measure before putting her helmet back on, making sure it was the last thing he saw.

He threw her a rag from his back pocket for her to clean herself, then picked up her panties from the ground, swiftly tucking them into his jacket pocket.

Theo smiled wider and kissed the forehead portion of her helmet before placing his back on.

“…So romantic,” She said in a monotone voice, taking the rag to her thighs then to the seat.

He observed as she cleaned up, resting his arms on the bike handles before pointing to her inner thigh. “Missed a spot.”

She smacked his arm away. “Start the bike, Asshole!”

His laugh rumbled from under the helmet, then the bike roared to life.

A|N: I like how the first words she says are the entire theme of the fic. That was a total accident.

Thank you for reading!

If you recognize the story, I wrote this for Seb a while back as well. It’s also inspired by a fic I read 5 years ago.

#theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodorenott #theo nott #slytherin boys #theodore nott smut #theodore smut

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