#don’t mind the inconsistency of his hair

[lilythelitten]

So if you know me on AO3, you’ll know I’ve gotten super into Murdle. I’ve gotten so into it, in fact, that I’ve done the unthinkable, broke out a few graphic novels for reference, and (gasp!) drew fanart.

Here’s an expression sheet for Inspector Irratino! Done primarily so I didn’t have to draw hands (and then I drew him in a pose requiring me to draw a hand :V) He’s wearing a shawl, hence why you can’t see his arms in most of them. For someone who’s fairly new to art, I think I did a decent job overall ^^

[fuumiku]

Mickbell Tomas it seems I’ve grown quite fond of you you come to me as a long lost friend whom I once picked apples with in papa’s orchard

I headcanon his nose scrunches up and he bites his tongue sometimes when he’s reallyyy laughing… And he’ll snort sometimes of course. Free serotonin. Yk I connected the dots recently that since my twst 2nd top fave is Ruggie it was truly only a matter of time before the Mickbell brainrot got to me. Little "shhh-shh-shhh" laughs please and thank you

[bowtiepasta]

‘EVERYTHING’ ON THE MENU nanami’s favorite bakery always serves… cunt? in more ways than one. ❤︎

WORD COUNT: 2,697

INDULGING: smut! afab and f!reader, close proximity, mild language, bakery owner reader, he’s a corporate slave w a 9 to 5, pússy starved kento, cunnilingus, praise, p in v, unprotected, food play, creampie, hair pulling (his), tense usage inconsistent. sorry.

ROMY’S NOTE: goooooood day/night nanami nation. the art you see in the header is by mineco000 on twitter, please go send them some love. heart divider is by enchanthings. happy reading!

CONTAINS EXPLICIT NSFW CONTENT, MINORS DNI

nanami kento was completely, and utterly, screwed.

he hadn’t expected the day to end like this: slouched in a corner of his favorite bakery, tie crooked, hair tousled, and his head — oh, his head was pounding.

it was meant to be a quick stop, a coffee or a pastry to settle his nerves before heading home. but somehow, merely walking into the place had set him off.

something about the warm, cinnamon laced air, the subtle wafts of vanilla, and- no. it was the baker. it always came down to you.

you stood there, apron tied loosely at the waist, a few stray strands of hair falling from the knot at the back of your head. your hands moved fluidly as you worked, effortlessly elegant, the tip of your finger brushing along the top of a pastry in a way that made his throat close up. you were so unnecessarily beautiful.

he should’ve known better. should’ve just ordered what he wanted and left, but your presence made everything else fade into the background.

“nanami,” you said, voice gentle, like you were pulling him out of some kind of daydream. your eyes flicked up from the lattice pie crust you were arranging, a flicker of admiration? worry? maybe it was his wishful thinking. “you look real tired.”

he cleared his throat, adjusting his collar, though he knew it was a losing battle. it had been one hard fucking day, and now, for some reason, every part of him felt more exposed in this small, intimate space. “long day.” he said, keeping his tone even as he gestured to your current project. “came for a slice.”

you smiled, a smile that seemed to know exactly how much he was trying to hide, a soft weight pressing against him. “I see,” you said slowly, eyes trailing over his figure long enough to notice. he shifted uncomfortably, looking away, but not without catching the faint smudge of flour on your cheek.

he wanted to reach out, to brush it away. though he wasn’t sure how he’d explain it to himself if he did.

“you’ve been working long hours?” he asked, trying to shift the focus on something, anything else.

you looked to the clock on the wall behind him, then back to him. “a few,” you said casually, before adjusting something behind the counter. “but I don’t mind.”

you paused, “seems like you could use a break.”

a fork falls, and when you bend down to pick it up, the slight shift of your body catches his eye. the position, the curve of your back — it gave him ideas. unwelcome ones. blood rushed south, and suddenly, it wasn’t coffee he was craving.

entirely uninnocent, you continued. “you’re always in and out so quickly,” light but pointed. “you can take your time here, y’know. it’s nice and quiet.”

the moment stretched on, more awkward than it had any right to be. he could practically taste the tension when you reached for a plate by the register.

“I’ll take two slices and an americano,” he said suddenly, voice significantly hoarser than intended.

there it was again — the curve of your lips, the small, satisfied grin you sported that made him feel like a schoolboy confessing to his crush.

“coming right up,” you nodded, and he’s almost certain you slowed on purpose, taking your time slicing, each motion deliberate and unhurried.

and before either of you could fully process it, the lights above flickered, darkness swallowing the room. the hum of the machinery, the mixer blades, the ambience — it all came to a quick halt.

for a moment, it was eerily silent.

then he heard your voice, exasperated undertones evident despite the lack of visuals. “sorry, I know you need to get home. I swear I pay my bills.”

he could make out the sounds of you feeling around the tables to navigate the room. probably in search of the breaker box, if there was one at all.

in the pitch black of your company, he still couldn’t find it in himself to leave. at least not yet.

there was a shuffle — your footsteps barely audible over the stillness — followed by the unmistakable squeak of something giving way beneath you, the muted thump of your body hitting the ground, and the clatter of a metal tray toppling from the counter.

“shit-” he moved before he could think, reaching into his pocket and swiping his phone’s flashlight on. the glow sliced through the dark, casting long, uneven shadows against the bakery walls.

his beam found you sitting on the floor, palm braced against the tile, hands cradling your ankle. near your feet, a smear of something glossy: a dollop of custard or maybe an egg wash.

he crouched, assessing you. “are you hurt?”

you blew out a breath, turning over your hands, not so clean anymore. then your foot, which you carefully flexed. “I don’t think so,” you frowned, but when you shifted to stand, a quiet hiss escaped.

nanami didn’t hesitate. “stay put.”

you blinked at him, clearly taken aback. the dull throb in your ankle kept you from arguing. you pointed your thumb towards the back. “fridge,” said through a wince. “there should be an ice pack on the freezer shelf. do you think you could-”

without a word, he pushed to his feet, phone leading the way. he navigated past the swinging doors, slipping through the narrow doorway that led to the storage pantry. the air there was cooler, lined with metal racks and ingredient bins.

he spotted a blue industrial fridge and heaved it open, the faint chill seeping into his sleeves as he reached inside. a few conveniently placed ice packs accompanied by ziploc bags of strawberries.

less than a minute later, he returned, earnestly kneeled beside you once more, gingerly pressing the ice pack onto the afflicted area (your left foot).

“you really didn’t have to,” you mumbled, voice softer now, edged with something he couldn’t quite place.

“of course I did,” he said simply. and despite himself, despite the long day and the exhaustion catching up to him, he didn’t move away.

nanami propped his phone up against the closest cabinet, illuminating your expression — clearly very grateful, maybe a little surprised.

it also made him really want to kiss you.

you sighed, watching him. “you’re really good at this,” you said, quieter now, calmer.

“taking care of people, I mean.”

nanami exhaled sharply through his nose, grip tightening for a fraction of a second.

“you should elevate it,” he grunted, voice jaggy, words landing somewhere between nervous command and gentle suggestion.

you countered, tilting your head at him. “you didn’t leave when the lights were still on.”

he could have. should have. instead, he was here with you — pulse hammering in his throat, stomach twisting at the way you looked at him.

your hands moved with a mind of their own, fingertips brushing against his wrist. fleeting, yet it still burned. nanami was already stiff, and that simple contact made something snap inside him.

the ice pack is forgotten when he presses his palm flat against the floor beside you, leaning in enough to feel the warmth of your breath against his own lips.

“you must’ve really had a long day.”

the corners of his mouth twitched. god, has he always smelled this good? “you could say that.”

he hesitated, and then your fingers curled around the front of his tie, hardly grabbing, and he was a goner.

it wasn’t rushed. nanami kissed like he meant it. no frantic clashing of teeth or fumbling for control — he had thought about it for far too long, and now that he had finally allowed himself to indulge, he wasn’t going to waste a single second of it.

you made a soft sound against him; his forehead, like clockwork — rested against yours, breath uneven.

you swallowed, eyes flickering down to his mouth again. “not gonna blame this on exhaustion?”

his lips quirked — not a smirk, but close. “no.”

it was too easy, too natural. he’d been standing on the edge of this moment for far too long, waiting for an excuse to finally fall. and now that he had, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to find his footing again.

“good.” and before either of you could think better of it, you pulled him back in.

-

his hands, broad and greedy, spread you apart, thumbs pressing in, keeping you exactly where he wanted. a curse rumbled in his throat at the sight of you — glistening, open, waiting for him. so fucking pretty. he leaned in, let the heat of his breath fan over you, teasing, testing, before dragging his tongue up the length of you, slow, deliberate, savoring.

your thighs trembled at the first stroke, fingers clawing hard at his hair, tugging in pure, mindless desperation. he groaned against you, vibration sinking deep, right where you needed it. didn’t stop you. didn’t tell you to be gentle. he let you take what you needed, let you use him however you’d like. “nanami-”

his fingers dug in harder as he sucked. “call me kento,” he kissed the inside of your thigh, lips warm and damp, “go ahead, do it again.”

you barely had time to register it before he was back on you, everywhere — open mouthed kisses, slow, obscene drags of his tongue, sharp edge of his teeth scraping sensitive skin, just to see you jolt.

“if I’m doing this,” another deep, wet lick, “we’re far past formalities, don’t you think?”

your answer was in the way your body reacted, hips rocking into him, desperate little whimper breaking from your throat. it only spurred him on.

“that’s it,” he mumbled from under you, voice half praise, half tease. his tongue flicked against your clit, pressure building. “let me hear you.”

his hands kept you wide open, holding you still as he worked you over; he buried himself in you like he’d been starved. (he had been.)

he’d been letting his own discipline choke him, and you wanted him to lose it, he’s sure.

he yanked your top apart, fabric jerking from your shoulders. the buttons of your blouse popped free one by one. the clasp of your bra released with a quick, almost inaudible snap. a hand rested on your thigh as the other reached past you.

a cabinet door creaked open, and a slow hum rumbled from his chest, thoughtful.

“ah,” nanami mused, pulling down a familiar canister. he spun it in his palm, reading the label as if he hadn’t already made up his mind. his thumb flicked idly against the cap before he met your eyes, mischief replacing his usual composure.

“I assume this is for coffee,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners while he turned the label towards you. reddi wip, made with real cream.

“can I use this?” he coaxed when you didn’t answer, free hand skimming along your side. “please?”

you nod.

“I’ll be careful,” he murmured, eyes hazy as he bit the cap off. “unless, of course, you prefer otherwise.”

nanami’s jaw pulled taut as he watches the first dollop of whipped cream land. it pools, soft peaks forming against the curve of your chest.

his breath shuddered, a rough, unintentional inhale, fingers flexing. his cock gave the faintest, needy twitch in his slacks, heavy against the fabric, but he kept placid — for the most part.

his palm scaled up, fingers brushing under the swell of your breast as he leaned in, mouth a breath away from the mess he made. “can’t let this go to waste,” he murmured, voice thick, nearly lost to the sound of his own restraint. “stay still, sweetheart.”

a beat, then his tongue flickers out — devastatingly intentional as he licked a long, deliberate stripe through the sweetness, from your stomach up to your tits — lips trailing along the sticky trail.

you grappled at the neat blonde strands at the nape of his neck, tugging enough to make him groan again, the sound vibrating against you. he tilted his head, pressing his lips over the soft swell of your nipple, gently sucking and biting like he’s working overtime.

“mm- been thinkin’ about this all day,” he panted, voice dripping. “needed to get my hands on you-” another lick, another groan, “needed to taste you.”

the way he looked up at you, lids heavy, pupils blown — pooled between your legs. you swallowed, breath hitching as his lips brushed higher, dangerously close to your throat. “gonna take your time with me, kento?” you rasped out as he palmed at you again.

he chuckled, breath at your pulse. “oh, baby,” he murmured, kissed below your jaw. “you have no idea.”

he traced over the sticky remnants on your skin until he dragged his thumb over your lips, prodding.

“open,” he ordered, and when you did, he slid his thumb past your lips, watching as you closed around it. he staggered, hips rolling forward in insensible need. “fuck, sweetheart — gonna ruin you, y’know that?”

a hand slipped between you, unfastening his belt with a quick pull. the clink of metal echoed in the charged air, and then — zzzt! — the sound of his zipper sliding down, agonizingly slow.

and when he finally sinked into you, raw, he swore you were trying to swallow him whole. it doesn’t take you long to adjust, and it doesn’t take long ‘till he’s rutting into you, frenzied and desperate, spasming inside you.

“goddd- you’re so. hah- fucking. tight.” he leaned in to kiss you, practically drooling all over your tongue.

you were milking him, the strangled noises both of you made not exactly helping his case. he grinded and pumped into you until the cabinets start creaking, thrusts growing lazier and lazier.

soon enough — you were seeing stars. your back arched as his knees buckled, hand moving to brace on the counter while he fucked you through your high.

“juuuust like that, good girl,” nanami cooed, nipping at your collarbone as he started back up again, his precum collecting at his base as he did.

his forearms slipped under your thighs, tilting your pelvis up as his hips smacked over and over against yours. “so good to me, baby. you’re-” thrust. “so,” thrust. “good,” thrust. “f’me.”

nanami’s face grew hot as he chased his climax, muscles tightening as he emptied himself inside of you, spilling out and moaning into your mouth when your eyes rolled back during your second.

he gently pulled out, thumb grazing the back of your hand. “feeling okay?” his eyes were locked on yours, waiting for an answer.

you nodded, closing your eyes, letting yourself breathe. “better than okay.” he didn’t let go of your hand. instead, he reached over to where his button up laid on the counter, draping it over your shoulders.

“I didn’t mean to—” nanami started, voice hesitant.

“you don’t have to apologize,” you interrupted, squeezing his wrist. you pulled it to your chest, your heart still beating, now a steady thrum. “I trust you.”

a breath of relief left him then, shoulders relaxing, weight lifted. he smiled, sincere. “thank you.”

his fingers traced slow patterns on your skin, touch anchoring you in the moment.

“if you need anything,” he whispered, “I’m here.”

you shifted, leaning in towards him, lips brushing his ear as you spoke. “and if i need more than anything?” you teased, laughing into another kiss.

nanami raised an eyebrow, lips curling as he fake-checked his watch. “I’ll need to check my schedule.”

he turned away to grab a clean towel, quietly dampening it with cool water. he looked like he belonged in there. in your bakery, your life. you fidgeted with his shirt, pulling it tighter around you.

nanami wiped the sweat from your brow, hand brushing against your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. he leaned in, pressing his mouth to your forehead before moving to grab a glass of water from the counter. you watched him, smiling as he returned to gently hand it to you, fingers lingering.

“same time tomorrow?”

romy 🐰 is typing… not the best thing I’ve ever written but practice makes perfect, right.. and not as long as I originally intended for it to be but yk what, hell yeah!

© bowtiepasta: do not copy edit or repost anywhere

[vampcubus]

𝐊𝐍𝐘 𝐂𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐂𝐒

:ఌ¨ ♱ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 : kyojuro rengoku, tengen uzui & wives, poly obamitsu, tanjiro kamado, inosuke hashibira, zenitsu agatsuma.

:ఌ¨ ♱ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : sfw, gn!reader, big spoon coded reader cus i said so, wholesome fluff, cuddling n snuggling, polyamory (tengen & obamitsu's parts), kamaboko trio aged up as per usual.

𝐊𝐘𝐎𝐉𝐔𝐑𝐎 𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐎𝐊𝐔

— A teddy bear in the shape of a man and enthusiastic to be used as one! As a Hashira, Kyojuro is often kept away for days and weeks at a time, so he makes the most of every moment you spend together.

— Kyojuro's not happy unless he's got his arms full of his favorite person, so you can expect him to seek you out the moment he arrives home.

— If you’re a civilian and he finds you in the kitchen, he’ll drape himself over you from behind, nuzzling his face into your neck and lavishing it with smiling kisses, rugged hands settling on your hips.

— Kyojuro wants to be cuddled to sleep and truly can’t bear to be parted from you, no matter how swelteringly hot it gets in the summer months. And if he has obligations, he tries to wake up a little early so he can have a few minutes of cuddle time with you before he’s whisked away. You don’t even have to be awake for it, he just wants to hold you for a little while <3

— He started out as a big spoon but converted into a little spoon when he discovered what it felt like to be properly held. He’s no more content than he is when he’s got his back pressed to your chest and you’ve curled yourself around his broad frame. 

— He likes it best when you rub his belly when his eyes are too big for his stomach, always easing a bit of the discomfort <3

— Kyojuro is comfy to lay on, with two perfect pillows for you to rest your head on (his pecs <3). His muscles are quite soft when relaxed, and the way his heart stutters when your cheek rests on it is so cute.

— Kyojuro feels safe in your presence so he’s very prone to falling asleep on your shoulder or with his head in your lap. With his workload and inconsistent sleep schedule, he’s often a cuddle session away from nodding off. Particularly so when you start playing with his flaxen hair, it’s like his off-switch 🤭

— He’s a bit of an oversized lapdog and’ll climb into your lap every chance he gets. As far as he’s concerned, that’s his seat. It looks funny to outsiders if he’s bigger than you, but he hardly cares, all too eager to get all comfy in your lap and tell you about his day.

𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐍 𝐔𝐙𝐔𝐈 & 𝐖𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒

— Big, tough man too cool to cuddle? No sir. Tengen is a touchy lover and raises a brow when you try to sit anywhere other than his lap, like why aren't you in your assigned seat? 🤨

— Pulls you flush against his side every chance he gets, wrapping a heavy arm around your shoulders. You often get a companion wet kiss to the cheek to boot just to see you scrunch your face up and wipe his spit off your cheek >:(

— His wives are just like him– Suma especially who practically hangs off of you with those big doe eyes, clinging onto your arm during outings as a group. Between Tengen and Suma, your hands will never be lonely and you'll certainly never be cold. Those two are space heaters and can't keep their hands off their partners to save their lives.

— Makio is easily flustered by affection but ultimately craves it, even if getting her to admit it is like pulling teeth. A hopeless romantic at heart <3 She’s a big spoon and overheats easily, so she prefers to linger on the edges of the cuddle piles. She’ll smack your thigh if you move around too much with an annoyed grumble. She can be such a meanie sometimes 😔

— Hinatsuru doesn’t mind holding or being held, she just wants to be close to you. Though generally more soft-spoken than Makio, Tengen, and Suma, her affectionate touch translates her love for her partners so clearly. Often rubs soothing circles over your back, rests a comforting hand on your arm, and pets your hair while you cuddle.

— Tengen likes to talk when you cuddle, prattling on about his or your day while rubbing your side or back mindlessly. Most times, he talks you to sleep or vice versa, considering what a busy guy he is before retirement. Sometimes you’ll get caught up in deep conversations about your past lives, silly theories, or ping-pong flirtatious banter until you can barely keep your eyes open.

— Tengen likes it most when you and the wives crawl right on top of him, all to eager to be living furniture for his beautiful spouses while you all gossip and giggle to each other.

𝐎𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐈 𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎 & 𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐈 𝐊𝐀𝐍𝐑𝐎𝐉𝐈

— Dare I say the clingiest partners ever?

— Obanai hesitates where as Mitsuri openly throws herself into your arms at every opportunity. Just be patient and take things slow and he'll follow Mitsuri's example. It’s a subtle shift, maybe he leans his head on your shoulder to test the waters, unable to meet your eyes. He melts if you wrap an arm around his shoulders and rub his arm, eyelids drooping as he relaxes further against you.

— Mitsuri is a cuddle bug in every sense of the word, like a tiny, purring kitty rubbing its body against your legs when you come near. You swear she chirps like one too, especially when her affections are met with a head pat or tender kiss.

— Obanai won’t say it, but he likes it when he’s in the middle, tucked safely between his two favorite people. The three of you spend many long hours this way, just relaxing in each other's embrace before your obligations call you away from the cuddle puddle– with no shortage of complaints from your lovers (Obanai’s longing wistful look as you go is just as painful as Mitsuri’s whines)

— Their clinginess only worsens as your relationship progresses, I’m afraid 💀 Obanai has a death grip comparable to a boa constrictor, especially when he’s in a deep sleep.

— I have a vivid image in my mind of Mitsuri having to use her insane strength to pry his arms off of you and scooch herself in your place so you can pee in the middle of the night, barely able to stifle her giggles. (Obanai is very much this meme)

𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐑𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐎

— Touch starved but doesn’t know it, and is also unintentionally touchy. Until he isn’t. Until his touches seem all too intentional, never without meaning.

— Cuddling with you is one of his favorite activities and he’ll even schedule official cuddle time if you let him, so you never go without the comfort of one another’s arms for long. He’ll even decline plans if it’s the wrong time of day…

“Sorry, I’d love to, but it’s almost four and I always cuddle with my partner around that time.”

— And no it’s not negotiable. What if he was late, or missed it and hurt your feelings? No no, he’s far too considerate for that.

— Besides, he misses cuddle time the most when he’s out in the field, miles away from your warm embrace. You can tell he’s missing you in the letters he sends home, commenting about how it “ sure is cold out here,” though the longer he goes without the less subtle he is, rephrasing how he misses you in every paragraph. Can you really blame him? He truly adores you so it’s hard to be away from you :((

— Prefers to be the little spoon but ultimately will be happy no matter how you’re cuddling. (I expand on little spoon Tanjiro in this post <3)

𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐀

— Instinctually touchy and yet so unused to cuddling. Inosuke doesn’t know much about positive affectionate touch so he tends to squirm out of hugs and gets a little anxious when you hold him still too long, much like a dog would. He asks you what you’re doing, voice a little softer than normal, cheeks a little pink beneath his mask.

“Cuddling you?” you reply, equally confused by his reaction as he is to your affection.  “Well stop it. It feels weird,” he huffs, and you comply, albeit a bit disheartened. You can’t help but be curious about his rejection, so you push past the sudden awkwardness of the moment to inquire about it. “Feels weird how?” “I don’t know! It just does!” he snaps defensively, a little frustrated, an emotion you can’t help but mirror. But then you relax, reminding yourself to be understanding. It must show on your face though, because he follows you around until he’s sure you aren’t mad at him. Your understanding nature is something he’s still getting used to as well.

— Take it slow with him if you can help it, form positive associations with touch, and then try again another time and he’ll be more receptive <3 REALLY receptive after a while, like before you know it you’ve got a stage 10 clinger on your hands 😭 

— Especially if you start sleeping together, cus he likes to cover you with his whole body as his way of protecting you while you’re in a vulnerable state.

— However, he will get bitchy if he catches you taking naps without him there to cuddle up to you. Like just say you don’t love him 😔 You’ll wonder why he’s giving you dirty looks and the cold shoulder all day, yeah it’s cus you didn’t immediately come find him to nap. Traitor.

— He associates cuddling with sleep so he’s prone to nodding off, and if you guide his head to rest on your chest and massage his scalp? He’s dead to the world, snoring and everything.

𝐙𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐔 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀

— You cannot pry this man off of you and I mean it. He was clinging to you before you were even an item, often to your leg, your kimono, your hand, wherever he can reach. If you reciprocate once, he’ll keep coming back for more of it. So touch starved it’s pitiable, and he’s smart enough to know that looking pathetic earns him sympathy.

— That said, he’s taken aback if you initiate cuddling, almost unable to fathom being desired. It’s only then that he gets a little shy, chuckling nervously as you take him into your arms. Doesn’t know what to do with himself.

— Zenitsu isn’t picky about how you cuddle, just that you’re touching in every way possible. Tangles his legs with yours, wriggles as close as humanly possible, and holds your clothing in an iron grip.

— Oftentimes he looks so blissed out when he’s wrapped up in your embrace, eyes half-lidded or drooping with sudden sleepiness. You’re just so comfortable, and comforting, and beautiful and aaaa before he knows it he’s muttering all these things to you.

You awaken slowly to a considerable weight on your chest, squinting with your eyes closed you feel around blindly and find the familiar shape of your husband sprawled out on top of you. You sigh, recognizing his snores and a smile tugs at your lips despite it being tough to breathe. Your palm rests on his back, bunching in the thick fabric of his hoari. Your eyes finally crack open, the morning light illuminating your fully-dressed partner. Must’ve been a long night, you mused to yourself, able to picture a half-asleep Zenitsu stumbling into bed so clearly in your mind. Though even his unconscious alter-ego tended to seek you out. You turn, shifting Zenitsu onto his side. He stirs, but only slightly, immediately tucking his head under your chin with a grunt. “Don’t go,” he murmurs in his sleep, most likely to a dream version of you and a fondness warms your chest. “Stay.”

[nereidprinc3ss]

do you believe me now? | 8

it's the morning after. spencer reid suspects you’re left with some doubts after losing your virginity to him. he has to figure out why—which is hard when you're keeping secrets.

series masterlist

this series is 18+ warnings/tags: fem!reader, blood related to losing virginity (dramatized for the drama duh), super vague allusions to the BAU being hungover, mild blasphemy if anyone even cares, pondering god bc am I really a fanfic writer if I don’t get a little religious w it, emily AND hotch are here and nobody knows why pls don't pay attention to that bc we are imagining like season 11/12 spencer and I'm inconsistent w who is unit chief in this series apparently, spencer slut lore, spencer emotional wounds lore, Spencer is a traumatic situationship survivor a/n: DADDYS HOMEEEEE (me and dybmn not spencer) anyway missed these little guys and am happy to be writing for them again!! idk what my upload schedule will becoming back to this but pls lmk what u think of this part, I have no idea how you will respond but I'm being brave and ily

Friday morning Spencer comes into the office fifteen minutes late (he tried his best), in yesterday’s suit (everything in his go-bag had been too wrinkled), hair messy (no doubt from your fingers), coffee cold (he’s exhausted) and overall, in an excellent mood.

The rest of the team isn’t faring quite as well—Spencer gathers they stayed at the bar celebrating Derek’s birthday a lot later than he had. It shows through sallow skin and dark circles and the grimaces he receives on the way to his desk that are probably supposed to approximate good morning’s. 

Honestly, he doesn’t mind the dull mood—he doesn’t need the teasing and the prying questions that would be sure to come if his co-workers were at peak performance and were able to put together his unusually perky demeanor and disheveled appearance. At least Prentiss doesn’t appear to be paying him any mind. She’s always the one who can read him like an open book and has no shame in doing so aloud. Echoes from years of, ‘so who was the lucky girl, last night, Reid?’ Still ring through his mind and it’s like he can feel her finger prodding at his side. 

The Emily of it all makes him smile, though the rest of the memory leaves a metal tang in his mouth. Back in those days, there were sometimes a lot of girls, but even then he was consciously aware he wasn’t necessarily doing something he enjoyed. He spent a lot of time, actually, staring at his bedroom ceiling, psychoanalyzing himself. Repetition compulsion. The insatiable desire to repeat or reenact emotionally painful experiences. Maybe he thought if he could teach himself to subsist off of emotionless hookups, he could in some way heal from his experience with Elle. Though, he’s hesitant to think of it now as healing—it’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing when a few nights after she said I don’t feel the same I’m sorry he opened up his front door for her. It’s not like he didn’t know what he was doing every time after that. So, maybe heal isn’t the right word, when one doesn’t have the right to be injured. Or when the injuries are, in a manner of speaking, self-inflicted. At the very least he could tell himself that this time around, meaningless sex was a choice he was making for himself. Spencer hates when things just happen to him. 

But you—you’re different. You were a complete surprise. At first, a cute and unexpected complication. After a few painful and short-lived attempts at real relationships, Spencer decided he was simply not to be trusted with emotional intimacy of any kind, including that which inevitably develops from physical intimacy, and would resign himself to a life of celibacy. He tried not to like you, but you were just so damn likable. Magnetic, to use a trite and perfectly honest turn of phrase. All that to say: he doesn’t regret you at all. There is no filter of putrid shame or anguish over his memories of last night. 

Just you. Perfect. Starlit. Glowing softly around the edges like you’re not even real. 

I love you I love you I love you. A hymn with no melody. You, always reminding him exactly why he is decidedly not a man of faith. At least, not in the typical sense of the word. 

How God became the idol and not Mary is lost on him. That’s why, Spencer supposes, tapping an eraser on his desk, marriage and sex were forbidden for so many ecclesiastics. After all, if they knew what it was to love a woman, specifically to love you, he doubts they’d feel like spending much time in the pulpit. Love. Humans had that long before they had any gods. It’s primeval. It’s the most natural manifestation of devotion and worship. It will always have come first. Isn’t it a better kind of religion when a man realizes he can kneel in front of a woman rather than an altar?

A heavy hand falling on his shoulder jolts him from his theological musings—which are in all practicality useless. What’s that saying about blasphemous thinking on the FBI’s dime? Right. There isn’t one. 

“I’m scared to ask,” Morgan says as Spencer jumps slightly in his chair. 

“What?” He mumbles, looking up from the document he’d only sort of been reading.

Morgan just looks at him, strong brows furrowed and a ditch between them, angles his head and glances to the side as if Spencer is missing the obvious. He almost follows Derek’s eye-line. When that doesn’t work, Derek just says your name. Like your status is somehow in question. 

“Did you two work things out, or not? It looked pretty bad when you guys were leaving last night.”

People often misunderstand an eidetic memory. It’s not like things can’t slip his mind—Spencer can actually be quite forgetful. It’s made worse by the fact that last night at the bar feels like months ago. For a moment, he has no idea what Derek is referring to. 

“Oh. Oh! Right, we—right. Yeah, we, uh—we worked it out.” Before Derek has a chance to read his face, no doubt as incriminating as his fumbled speech and an ill-timed throat clearing, he turns back to his paperwork. “Thanks for keeping an eye on her at the bar. I appreciate that.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Spencer’s lips twist as he can feel the incoming inappropriate comment. 

“Is that the same suit you were wearing last night?” Morgan quips, his wide grin audible. Spencer can practically hear the cartoon gleam of his friend’s bleached teeth. 

“No.”

“You dog.” Derek is still smiling as he claps Spencer’s shoulder again. “What did you say to her that worked so well?”

Spencer clears his throat again and tries to look extremely involved in logging onto his computer, speaking quickly as if he’s beyond disinterested and can’t wait for the exchange to be over. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m actually trying to work so if you wouldn’t mind going back to your desk that would be great.” 

“Uh-huh. I’ll let you work. But I see you, pretty boy.”

Spencer tries not to blush like a teenager as he refuses to look up. 

Naturally the rest of the day is a slow descent into dread and madness as all those good feelings with which Spencer had started his morning begin to harden into something much worse, chilled by your lack of response to the text he sent you earlier. Which was essentially a rehashing of the note he left on your bedside table. 

Maybe it was too much. It should’ve been one or the other, but not both. He’s overwhelmed you. 

Okay, so maybe this is what religion is for. A last ditch effort when you can’t talk to your girlfriend so you have to try talking to God. 

But Spencer knows you, and he knows something is wrong. You wouldn’t just ice him out so blatantly if everything was okay. He catches himself glancing up toward Hotch’s window to see if the blinds are drawn, and considers faking an illness to get out of work early and go check on you. But he powers through the remaining hour and a half that he is obligated to stay at work, he bounces a pencil between his fingers, drums at his desk, and gets nothing else done. As soon as 4:59 rolls around, he’s out. 

Spencer can hear shuffling on the other side of your door as he stands in the hallway. A pot clatters. The walls hum with the rush of water through the pipes to your sink. He knocks, relieved that you’re okay and at the same time struggling with that weight on his chest—something cold that leans over his shoulders and whispers into his ear—so she just didn’t want to talk to you. 

Suddenly all sound from inside your unit ceases. For a few long seconds, Spencer’s confusion only grows exponentially. 

“Who is it?” You finally call, voice wavering. Also odd. Usually you just open the door. 

“Um… Spencer?”

“As in my boyfriend Spencer?”

He frowns, bottom lip jutting out ever so slightly as he tries to decipher your sudden paranoia. “I hope so?”

The click and jingle of several locks precipitates your much-anticipated reveal. 

“Come in,” you say breathlessly, more harried than usual and not giving him the tender greeting he’s selfishly become accustomed to—barely even giving him a second to look at you. But he steps inside, watching on in concern as you do up every single lock—the one on the knob, the deadbolt, even the chain. Is this really all because of his little comment last night about anyone being able to get in? He certainly hopes not. He didn’t mean to terrify you. 

When you finally turn, he takes stock of your appearance. Big hoodie, pajama pants patterned in little hearts. Hair pulled back hastily. Your skin is sort of dull where you normally glow. But you’re beautiful, like always. It always aches just a little bit to look at you. Spencer’s always been like that. Going breathless at a particularly good piece of art or pretty girl. Like yourself. Mostly you. 

You quickly turn to hurry back into the kitchen. “I was trying to make dinner, I—”

“Hold on,” he interrupts, stopping you with a hand on your stomach that is so non-demanding it’s really mostly a suggestion. He tries to clear his head, though you make it hard. “You didn’t talk to me all day. Not that you have to, but… I was worried.”

You glance at the floor and mumble, “I lost my phone,” with so much embarrassment he believes you’re telling the truth. “Did you, um—did you text me?”

Insecurity. Spencer knows well what it looks like on you. He softens. You weren’t ignoring him—but you’d been left in a vulnerable state without any ability to contact him or anyone. That couldn’t have been comfortable. 

“Of course I did.” He pauses to observe you. Still anxious. Still prepared to run at any second. Something, and he’s not sure what, did a number on you today. Maybe it’s sheer exhaustion, maybe it was the anxiety of not having your phone. But he has to figure out what it is so he can undo it. “What? What’s wrong?”

He watches your breathing pause—watches your eyes gloss over with tears and a frown contort your features. Oh, god. He’s done something terribly wrong. It’s been thirty seconds and he’s done something wrong. 

“Can we sit down? I don’t feel very good.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we can. Whatever you need.”

You cast a baleful look at him and now he has to wonder what that means. Spencer sets his bag on a pulled out dining chair and follows you to the couch where you settle on opposite sides—you’re curled up in the far corner, hugging a pillow to your chest with your legs folded in front of you. Spencer’s heart is beating fast. He doesn’t know what’s going on with you and he can’t figure it out just by looking and you don’t seem eager to tell him. 

He’s exhausted all his typical ways of collecting information, and now he’s at a loss. 

Eventually, the anxiety comes bubbling up. 

“Please talk to me,” he pleads. And you do. Almost instantly, like he stepped on some sort of landmine. 

“I know it’s my own fault for not having my phone on me and not being able to see your texts, but it really sucks that I had to find out from my creepy neighbor that you snuck out in the middle of the night without saying goodbye.”

The whiplash is so strong it’s almost a broken neck. Spencer reels, frowning deeply as he tries to process your impromptu speech, the sudden confrontation. What creepy neighbor?

“I… didn’t. I went to grab my stuff from the car around one, but I came right back. I left at 7:30. You don’t remember me saying goodbye?”

Your brow furrows, and your eyes dart over the design on the rug like you’re watching memories go by. He sees it in your eyes when you recall some hazy image of him holding your face, kissing your cheek more times than was necessary and whispering sweet things against your lips before he had to go. You shrink into the couch, clearly struggling under the combined weight of relief and embarrassment. 

“I forgot. I thought… he said…”

A moment passes and it’s clear you’ve abandoned the sentence. Spencer is concerned about this shadowy male figure who put malicious untruths into your head. He slides his hand under yours and twines your fingers together. Finally, finally you meet his gaze. 

“Someone made you believe I left without saying goodbye.”

And he almost wishes you weren’t looking at him as more tears pool before falling down your cheeks. You nod, and don’t make a sound. 

“No, honey. I didn’t do that. I’m sorry that’s what you’ve been thinking all day.”

“I was worried that you… or that I wasn’t…”

His chest aches. You’d woken up alone, no recollection of his goodbye, and without the comfort of even a text. 

“You didn’t see my note?”

The way you look at him then is heartbreaking. Eyes wide and wet and sad, lip trembling. 

“You left a note?”

Murphy’s Law. Anything that can go wrong, will. 

It must’ve fallen off the bedside table, or maybe he just hadn’t positioned it obviously enough. 

A lost phone, a missed note, and not even a memory of his departure. While none of these things are verifiably Spencer’s fault, he feels so, so guilty. 

“I did,” Spencer says gently, scooting closer and pulling you into him, head pressed to his shoulder as you try not to cry, and he rubs your back slowly. 

Your sulky words are muffled by his shirt. “I didn’t see it. What did it say?”

“A lot of very nice things about you,” he whispers. Spencer thought maybe he could get away with giving you all the sincere compliments you can’t accept face to face through a note you could read while he wasn’t around. That way you couldn’t refute them or stop him. It was a good plan. 

He feels the sigh of relief leaving your body against his neck. 

“I didn’t know.”

“I know. I’m sorry. That’s not… I should’ve just stayed. This is my fault.”

You keep your cheek pressed to his shoulder as you speak. 

“It’s not. You have a job. A really important job. You can’t just call out whenever I want you around.”

Logically he knows you’re right, but he doesn’t always think logically around you. 

“I could’ve made it work. I could’ve come in late, or the team could’ve called me if there was a case, which there wasn’t—”

“Spencer, it’s okay. It’s not your fault. Don’t worry about it.”

He pulls back slightly, frowning at your tone. You do look relieved, much less plagued than you’d been when he arrived minutes ago, but something heavy still weighs you down. The burden of it darkens your eyes and dulls your expression. When he cups your cheek, you glance up at him, and then away once more. 

He speaks softly. “Is that all you wanted to tell me?” 

Again he earns a moment of your eye contact, but it’s fleeting. He watches the words spin around your head as you try to figure out what to do with them—and then choose to remain silent. 

There is in fact something you’re keeping from him. 

Spencer hates to use work tactics on you, but he doesn’t speak either, hoping that you’ll feel compelled to fill the silence with the truth. Knowing how you’re not entirely comfortable with quiet. 

And you try, lips parting and the sound delayed as you wrestle with something you clearly don’t know how to talk about. 

“I… my neighbor,” you say, frowning like you don’t quite know why you’re speaking. “The one who told me he saw you leaving in the middle of the night. He also—he said…”

Spencer brushes hair away from your cheek with a thumb, stroking the high point in gentle passes as your words taper off. Now that he’s thinking about it, he did encounter a man in a dumpy robe standing in the courtyard and smoking a cigarette when he left you tangled in sheets and dozing contentedly to get his bag from the car. In fact, they rode back up to your floor in the elevator in mostly awkward silence. Spencer was sure his outfit told a story—shirt untucked and hastily buttoned only partway, no belt, shoes barely tied, duffel slung over his shoulder—he wasn’t really expecting to run into anyone at such an hour, to be honest, but he hadn’t particularly cared what this man thought of him, so it didn’t cross his mind again.

Now he remembers. 

Long night, huh? I remember those days. 

It was an inappropriate comment, but given his job he’s used to ignoring those. Mostly his mind had been preoccupied with the idea of returning to you, who gave him such a warm and sleepy welcome when he climbed carefully back into your arms several minutes later that it was like he’d never known anyone else at all. 

Now he resents that he hadn’t said anything, he hates the idea that you spoke to this man and he said something to upset you and Spencer wasn’t there. Usually he tries not a judge a book by its cover (metaphorically, of course) but he’s been around enough bad men to know when he’s looking at one. Last night he hadn’t even been cognizant enough to realize they got off on the same floor. 

“What did he say, angel?” Spencer whispers, incapable of being anything but soft with you at the moment. Even though he senses something a lot like a tide of preemptive anger rising in his chest, painted over with layers of anxiety and guilt. He should’ve found a way to stay with you this morning. 

You sniffle and let your head fall again, forehead resting against his collar. Instinctively his hand slides to the back of your neck and even at the awkward angle he finds a way to press his lips to yours hair. “Can we talk about it later? I don’t feel good.”

If it’s making you this uncomfortable, Spencer really wants to know what passed between you and this neighbor. In fact, he’d be willing to bet a lot of your strange behavior this evening stems from something that occurred which you don’t feel comfortable telling him yet. But he manages to bite back anymore questions. He doesn’t want to make you feel interrogated. 

“Yeah, you mentioned that,” he says eventually, kindly, hand tracing down the length of your back and up again. “Why don’t you feel good?”

He doesn’t miss the way you reach up to discreetly wipe your cheek. But he won’t make you talk about anything you don’t want to talk about until you’re ready, and it seems like you’re already having a rough day. Which is not what he wanted. This is so far from what he wanted for you. He’s cursing himself for how he handled this whole situation. 

“Um, I just… I don’t know. I feel… bad. I’m sorry I’m being so weird.”

“You’re not being weird, honey. You had a hard day. You’re having a normal reaction to an abnormal set of circumstances.”

You sit up, sniffing and wiping your tears like you can just make the whole thing go away. 

“No, I am. I am. It’s all okay now, right? So I don’t know why I feel like this. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He watches helplessly. “Nothing is wrong with you. We’ve… it’s been a big couple of days. Mostly good, but I think you’re probably really tired. Emotionally and physically.” 

You bury your face in your hands and nod silently. He still feels like he’s shooting in the dark, but you’re not entirely comforted yet, and it’s killing him. 

“Whatever you’re feeling is okay. If this is… about last night, or this morning, or something entirely different—regardless of what it’s about, you’re not going to be… in trouble with me if you’re having complicated feelings. And you can talk to me. But it doesn’t have to be right now. We don’t have to figure it out all at once, okay?”

You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, and for a moment, his words sink into silence. When you do raise your head, nodding, the evidence of your discomfort is all over your face—reddened eyes, cheeks polished with wiped tears. But you take a deep breath and try to project whatever it is you think he wants to see. 

The back of your hand is soft under his thumb as he sweeps it, as if he could draw forth more information that way. People speak when they’re ready.

“Is there anything I can do?” He tries, all ramped brow and soft spoken. 

You’re looking at where he’s tracing swirls on your hand as you swallow and blink the last of your tears away. 

“Um… you can say no, but—do you think it would be okay for you to maybe stay again tonight?”

Spencer sucks in a breath, painfully aware that he’s about to let you down. 

“I… I haven’t been home in a week. I’ve been wearing this suit for two days straight and I don’t think I would want to share a bed with me again until I shower.” He watches you wilt and lifts a hand to stroke your hair. “But I do want to spend time with you… do you maybe want to come stay with me instead? No pressure—”

“Okay. Yes. Is that okay?”

Spencer’s brow knits. You seem even more enthused about the idea of going to his apartment, like now that the opportunity has presented itself you can’t wait to get out. Maybe you have some sort of black mold problem. 

“Of course. Do you wanna grab a few things and then we can go?”

“Um—I also haven’t showered today. Do you mind waiting?”

“Sure. Or you could use mine. With supervision, this time.”

Spencer is attempting to make a joke about your unplanned (and unmoderated) stay at his apartment last week after he left—but looking at your face now he’s wondering if he touched a nerve. 

“Like… one at a time? Or…”

He thought maybe you’d be more comfortable around him after last night—and it’s not like he hadn’t seen you naked before then, either.

“Do you wanna do it one at a time?” He asks gently. 

There’s this sparkly sort of longing in your eyes that he’s seen before, but you tamp it down like always. You’re so cautious. About everything. Even the things you’re curious about. It’s sweet and a little sad. 

“I’ve never… showered with anyone.”

The corner of Spencer’s mouth twitches as he pushes hair over your shoulder. “I know. You don’t have to. We could save like 100 gallons of water depending on how long your showers typically last, but—”

“Spencer—”

“Sorry, sorry—I didn’t—I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not trying to pressure you. You absolutely can take your own shower. You can go first so you get the hot water.”

“No,” you laugh, and it’s like a sparkling cloud of gold has settled around you, fractals bouncing off the shine of your cheeks and eyes—the sound of your laughter, the look of it, is such beautiful relief he can’t believe how good it feels, but it fades from you quickly. “It sounds… I think I want to, I just… I don’t wanna, like… do… anything.”

For a split second your veiled language mystifies him and then he realizes what you’re trying to say without saying. Something has changed since yesterday, when you brazenly referred to it as fucking, and today, when you can’t even say sex. He’s gotten as far as it being something your creepy neighbor said. Maybe. He needs to know what. 

But that’s not the topic at hand. 

“We don’t have to. I didn’t mean to imply that we would do anything like that. I don’t expect anything from you.”

You swallow. 

“Okay. I wasn’t sure.”

About what?

He says your name. No response. 

“Can you look at me, please?”

It takes you a moment, and your head raises like you might need some oil in your hinges, but eventually you manage. Spencer hopes the way he’s rubbing your leg is comforting. 

“You know I’m never, ever going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, right?”

To his horror, your answer isn’t an immediate and resounding yes. Instead you look back down and cover his hand with your own, fiddling nervously with his fingers. 

Eventually, you reply, “Yeah… I know. I just thought… I’m not sure. Maybe it’s supposed to be different now.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Nothing has to be different. We’re still doing everything on your schedule, okay? And as for the next few days, at least—I think it might be a good idea to take sex off the table altogether.”

Your eyes narrow and you hesitate. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you worrying about it. And I don’t think it would feel good for you right now. I think there are things we need to talk about, but… we’ve probably tried enough for a while, hm?”

You give him a shy nod and hum your agreement. For a moment he lets his hand linger on your leg and then pulls it back. 

“Okay. Do you want my help packing a bag, or should I wait out here?”

“You can wait. It should only take a minute.” You pause, halfway up to look pensive. “Um, Spencer—do you think it would be okay if maybe I… if I stayed tonight and tomorrow? I just—I wanna get out of here, for a bit.”

He frowns but doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Can I ask why?”

“It’s just… suffocating sometimes,” you call as you turn and hurry down the hallway to the bedroom. “Feels like my neighbors are on top of me, like they’re… breathing down my neck, half the time.”

Sure, bigger apartments exist—but it’s not like you’re in a studio. And you’ve never mentioned feeling that way before. That bad feeling is starting to come back—like you’re not telling him something he needs to know. But is it worse to let you deal with it yourself until you’re ready to talk or to force it from you?

A few minutes later you return, a duffel of your own over your shoulder and full to bursting. 

“So I’m an idiot. My phone was literally in the pocket of my jeans on the floor.” You drop the bag as you bend down by the door to pull on your favorite slippers. “Oh—I think I forgot my charger, can you grab it? It’s by my bed.”

Spencer of course obliges, and is secretly pleased to be in your room again, in the light this time, so he can see better. It’s sweet. The pictures on the walls, the plants and the knickknacks and the sticky notes scrawled with messy reminders on every surface and the sweater hanging over the back of a chair—the one you’d been wearing at the cafe all those months ago—it all feels so you. He wonders why the two of you don’t spend more time here. 

He lets himself linger for only a minute before remembering his task, but as he reaches down to unplug your charger, whatever dopey smile he’d been wearing evaporates. The sheets have been stripped from your bed, and he can see why—there’s a striking stain of dried blood, and several surrounding dots, soaked into the mattress. Not much, but enough to make him feel horrendously guilty. He cringes, imagining what it must’ve been like to wake up all alone to nothing but your own blood. Poor girl. Of course he’d noticed some, last night when he was doing his best at cleaning you up, but it had been dark, and he was exhausted, and he hadn’t done enough. 

“Where’d your sheets go, baby?” He asks once back by the front door with his own bag on his shoulder, setting a gentle hand on your lower back and holding out your charger for you. You jump slightly, and he makes circles on your back, wishing there was something he could do to settle you. 

“Oh! They—they got ruined. I threw them out. It’s fine. I have others.”

So you didn’t have enough energy this morning to walk a few feet to your shower, but stripping your bed, getting dressed, and walking down to the trash chute at the end of the hall had been top of your priority list. 

You swallow as he undoes the locks and holds the door open for you, and pretend like you’re not doing surveillance to either side as you stand in the hallway, locking your door again like you can’t get out of here fast enough. 

Spencer casts a sidelong glance at you and wonders if you’re intentionally avoiding eye contact. He tries not to think like a profiler. He tries not to assign meaning to your actions, but he can’t help it. He can’t not notice. 

He can’t not worry. 

And he can’t not wonder what you’re not telling him. 

-

part nine

[taegimood]

kitty or shark hybrid tyun thoughts pleasepleasepleaseplease

i already had kitty tyun in the works so you read my mind but omg SHARK TYUN ???!!!! i know we literally just talked abt this on discord but i never thought abt how it would actually work… i’ve never thought about marine hybrids before 🤔 would he need water ??? reverse sandy cheeks LMFAO but no the predatory aspect mmmmm we should talk abt this later

edit this is longer and kind of turned into more of actual writing (??) than the soobin one ugh sorry i’m so inconsistent i’m ekwkndndkfk almost don’t even wanna post it BUT ANYWAY ,,,,,

next on my agenda: cat hybrid!taehyun !!

cat hybrid!taehyun with perky dark brown ears that nearly blend in with his hair, and a sleek tail to match. he’d be reserved when you first bring him home, but not shy or nervous like soobin; taehyun would be cool, collected, on his guard but in a way that lets you know he still sees himself as one in control.

at first it would seem like he really couldn’t care less about your presence in the apartment; quickly getting comfortable enough to make it his own, but apparently you weren’t included in that sentiment, judging from the way he’d just side-eye you before carrying on with whatever he was doing as his only form of acknowledgement every time you attempt an interaction 🫠

it makes you nervous; was this the right decision? will we ever form a bond? little do you know… muehuehue

you knew that cat hybrids were notoriously hit or miss in terms of how affectionate or independent they’d turn out to be, but i mean come on — taehyun acts as though he doesn’t even need you at all !!

imagine the first time you try to pet his ears, him flattening them and immediately swatting your hand away to shrink back with a scowl; the way your stomach would drop as you quickly start to apologize 😭 but he’s already stalking away into the next room like a grumpy grouch >:(

it’s not that taehyun hates you or anything, it’s just that he doesn’t like his personal space invaded — or at least, that’s what he thinks at first, but more on that later 👀

him hearing you crying in your room one night cuz you’re just so frustrated and sad :(( wanting to build a happy comfortable life for him but he’s not even letting you try and you don’t know what you’re doing wrong 🥺 that’s the first time he’d feel a little twinge in his chest, an unfamiliar emotion that he can’t quite place as he finds himself wanting to… comfort you? hmm.. he decides that he doesn’t like this strange new feeling and continues on to his room instead.

but the next day you’d be shocked when you’re on the couch and he actually comes and…. sits.. in the same.. room.. as you ???? someone call oprah ✋🏼

he’d silently situate himself in the armchair away from the couch, opening up his book an educated mf and starting to read without a single word as you sit there gaping at him like 👁️👄👁️ not having any clue that this is his way of offering a small bridge for the gap you’re even a little suspicious tbh LOL but you get so excited regardless and even though you try to hide it, his sharp senses are quick to notice the change in your demeanor.

also you keep glancing over at him like every 10 seconds so that’s kind of a giveaway in itself

after that you’d begin to notice little things that he’d start to do that make you realize you need to let him be the one to decide when to come to you, when you’re allowed to touch him, etc — and honestly you’re just grateful to be making progress.

you’d be on the phone with a friend one day when they start asking about your new hybrid, taehyun’s ears perking up from the kitchen; (you glance over to see his head poking out and his boba eyes sparkling with interest before he catches you looking and instantly scowls, feigning indifference as he disappears again 😭😭 your heart clenching at the cuteness..)

him listening intently as you talk about him, surprised as you even defend him when your friend makes a comment about the cat hybrid stereotypes — “he’s not ‘hellish’ in the slightest. he’s been very good. he just likes his space, that’s all.”

but his favorite part of all would be when they ask you about his breed, what he looks like, etc; his chest swelling with pride as he hears you talk about how handsome he is, how strong and lithe he seems to be, and he finds a purr escaping from his throat at the praise as you boast about him.

after that, even more progress seems to be made; like him randomly coming up to you one day with an extra bit of his food in hand as he places it in front of you and says, “i brought this for you.” and walking away again before you can respond 💀

with how put-together he always seems, you’re finally starting to see how cat-like he truly is the more he opens up to you ❤️‍🩹

he starts speaking to you more often too, his voice a pleasant surprise to you; smooth and even-toned, inducing a bit of a blush from you whenever there’s a slight rasp or purr caught at the end of a phrase.

he perplexes you at first with how blunt or monotoned he can be, but you learn to read him better as time goes on, learn to understand his subtle undertones, and each flick of his ears or swish of his tail.

you’ve also learned that he can be won over with certain treats and presents… which ends up leading to the mess you’ve found yourself in now.

when you decided to buy a bunch of catnip, thinking it would be nice to bake him some desserts with it every now and then, you didn’t think you’d have to go out of your way to hide the stuff. since you brought him home taehyun has never acted out much aside from the occasional swipe of something off the edge of the counter when he’s bored; but he never scratches up your furniture or makes a mess of the apartment, so imagine your shock when you come home from a late shift one night to find your kitchen absolutely ransacked.

drawers and cabinets thrown open and their contents scattered everywhere, kitchen towels shredded to bits, and for a minute you’re terrified that someone broke in or something.. until you realize what you’re looking at.

catnip is strewn EVERYWHERE.

the tub of it fallen open on the floor has you gaping as your eyes follow the trail of it, from the cabinet taehyun must have smelled it from, to where it then spilled across the counter, before being knocked to the floor and.. rolled in??

with a start you suddenly realize that it’s too quiet.

taehyun is never one to come and greet you at the door, but this time, something feels.. different.

which is why you nearly jump out of your skin when you turn to go and look for him, ready to call out his name, only to find him standing in the entrance of the kitchen already watching you.

he’s so quiet that you didn’t even hear him approach and you’re convinced that in another life he would’ve made a great vampire or something.. taehyun salvatore has a nice ring to it iykyk

“holy shit, kitty, you scared me! why are you lurking like that? what the hell happened in.. here...”

your voice trailing off as you actually take in the sight of him and….

taehyun’s chest rising and falling at a quicker rate than usual, normally neat hair all tousled out of place, tail swishing sharply back and forth behind him, ears twitching — you meet his eyes and swallow hard. he’s never looked at you like this before.

his pupils are blown wide and taking in every inch of you, roaming over your body before locking onto your gaze, as if he’s looking straight into you, hyper-focused; silent and still and.…

predatory.

there’s a crackling tension in the air as something flickers in his eyes.

before you can process the speed that he moves forward with you’re being pushed against the kitchen counter with his body flush against yours, radiating heat as he rolls his hips, rubbing his face into your neck as a deep, growl-like purr reverberates in your ear.

you gasp, thighs pressing together instinctively, his tongue licking a rough stripe up to your jaw as he growls, “whose scent is this?”, and you barely even have time to remember the new coworker that he must be smelling let alone the time to answer him before he’s mouthing at your neck, muttering, “doesn’t matter.. i’ll just have to scent you myself.”

his tail curls around your waist and you inhale at the slight prickle of his sharp canines as he smirks against your throat;

“have to let him know that you’re mine.”

you don’t know how you got here, bent over the kitchen table as your previously aloof hybrid pounds you from behind, licking and biting at your shoulder and neck as he purrs roughly in your ear, your pussy clenching hard around his thick cock as he tugs your hair to bring your head up into a scorching kiss; whatever insane energy high that catnip gave him was all being released onto you right now, and you really can’t complain.. nor can you even remember whatever guilt you may have felt since at this point he’s fucked it right out of you.

he’d be telling you how your scent belongs to him, how no one else can have you like this; this sudden possessiveness coming out of seemingly no where, baffling you with the whiplash of taehyun’s deeper feelings coming out.

(feelings that he honestly didn’t even realize he had himself until that catnip got him good)

he’d so be the type to act completely nonchalant about it all the next day, to the point where you’d just about convince yourself that you went crazy and dreamed it all up until he’d do something to show you that no, you definitely did not.

standing at the sink washing dishes after lunch, lost in your swirling thoughts, when he’d come up behind you to place his own dish in the sink — chest ghosting against your back as he leans in just close enough for you to feel his smirk against one of the many love bites littered across your neck. quickly turning to face him but he’s already walking away, casually and without another glance in your direction;

later you’d be tidying up the apartment when he’d walk by you and his tail would curl sneakily around your waist, trailing over your ass as he passes by..

but it’s the last straw for you when you’re sitting on a conference call and taehyun slinks into the room, eyeing your computer, and you can already see the wheels turning in his head at the sound of your male coworkers going over their part of an example presentation.

your eyes widen marginally as his narrow — lip curling as he quickly deduces that one of them must be yesterday’s icky scent culprit — and you give him a stern warning look that he only ignores with a sly smile as he approaches where you’re sitting, your breath catching in your throat as he suddenly gets on his knees between your legs, just out of sight of the camera.

you’re about to mute your mic and ask him what the hell he’s doing when you hear your name being called from the screen, quickly averting your attention to answer your coworker’s question, when you feel the tip of taehyun’s claw begin to trace up your inner thigh.. ohhh boy you’re done for.

you’d be panicking as he’d tease his way under your skirt, flipping it up to reveal your panties that he’d so easily push aside, your voice coming out in a squeak when you try to continue talking as he nuzzles his face into your cunt.

trying to deter him by pushing his head away, but that only spurs him on more at the feeling of your fingers brushing past his mischievously twitching ears; your coworkers asking you if everything’s alright as the sudden warmth of taehyun’s tongue against your pussy sends a rush of electricity through you in the form of a choked-out moan that you can only disguise as a cough.

having to sit through the rest of your meeting as your naughty hybrid meticulously eats you out, his shameless rumbling purrs sending vibrations through your core while he laves at your juices, smug eyes glittering up at you the entire time as you try your absolute hardest not to squirm and moan.

it’s so filthy, so obscene, and he’s got you so so close to the point where you have no choice but to feign sickness and quickly hang up the call with reddened cheeks and labored breaths.

but taehyun pulls away immediately and you give a sharp whine before you can stop yourself.

you can see the satisfaction in his eyes as he poorly feigns indifference poorly on purpose ofc and states, “i’m bored,” with a move to stand up — but you’ve had enough of his teasing.

“nuh uh,” you breathe, your hand in his hair pulling him back in with a surprised little trill as your need to cum overpowers your conscience.

“finish what you started.”

and he’s more than happy to oblige as that same flicker from last night returns to his eyes, yanking you towards his waiting mouth as he ravishes your pussy with even more vigor than before.

“taehyun, y-you’ve been such a… bad.. k-kitty…”

and he eats it right up, the both of you knowing who really seems to be in control here despite your scolding words as you lose yourself on his tongue.

coming apart easily not once but twice before he finally sits back on his heels, licking the wetness from his lips and observing your spent form in satisfaction;

from then on it’s decided that taehyun does like his new owner after all, quick to jealousy but even quicker to remind you that you’re his; who’s the real owner here, to be honest? 🤔

and he even comes to realize that - you know what? - curling up with you for cuddles and head scratches really isn’t so bad after all. he could definitely get used to this ❤️‍🩹

my dom!taehyun agenda knows no bounds i couldn’t stop myself womp

also this feels to me like it had a much different vibe from the soobin one as in like a lot less detailed even tho it’s longer…? idk but later i wanna post more than just one thing for each member anyway so

[niki-phoria]

'cause i don't wanna be in love with another / even in another life

pairing: arisu ryohei x gn!reader (no pronouns used) genre: fluff word count: 965

notes: need s3 to be released immediately, mandatory apology for my inconsistent posting, uni is killing me, only one bed trope, established relationship, arisu is touch starved a little bit, awkward loser arisu my beloved <33, not proofread !! pls forgive any mistakes, title from the maria's - heavy

the twin sized mattress is far too small for two people - easily evidenced by the cramped way ARISU RYOHEI’S shoulder awkwardly brushes against your own. his entire body feels stiff; he feels more like a corpse than a man when he shuffles slightly, still overly close to you. 

the beach is never quiet. even within the confines of a hotel room you had chosen at random, you can vaguely hear the music blasting throughout the hotel. chatter fills the otherwise quiet night. if you’re not careful enough, you can sometimes walk in on a session of drunken sex or a drug deal in progress. neon lights dance across the sky, drowning out the stars that are visible near the eerily empty shopping centers and traffic lights. 

arisu freezes when you roll onto your side, moving even close to him in the process. it feels like the entire world shifts when you do. despite all of his effort, you’re impossible to ignore. “arisu,” you whisper. your voice cuts through the darkness, stealing his attention away from the intricate patterns engraved into the ceiling. the man twists just enough to face you, overly conscious of every movement he makes. “are you alright?”

arisu swallows. hard. he sends a silent prayer that the shake in his voice will disappear by the time he quietly murmurs, “i’m fine.”

the butterflies swarming throughout his stomach only seem to increase when you chuckle quietly. you smile softly. sweetly. “you don’t have to be so nervous, you know.” you reach up, gingerly resting a hand against his cheek. arisu’s skin feels hot against your palm as you trace your thumb against his cheekbone. “if you’re not ready to share a bed i can go find somewhere else to sleep. i’m sure kuina wouldn’t mind.”

“no! no- i-” arisu stutters. his face flushes an embarrassingly deep shade of red and his mind races. he desperately tries to remember whatever advice karube had drunkenly told him over rounds of cheap beer and ramen noodles. “please don’t go. i want this.” 

there’s a pause. arisu squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for you to say something. an apology lingers on the tip of his tongue, about to escape from his lips when you murmur- “good,” you smile. “i want this, too.” 

outside of your window, glass shatters. loud cheers fill the night as the party rages on with no regard for the time of night. arisu has never been a fan of parties, preferring to stand in the corner and watch as karube flirted with anyone who seemed interested or slipping outside under the guise of a “smoke break” with chota for some fresh air. 

you don’t seem to mind, however, as you shuffle ever so closer. your hand slips away from his face, leaving goosebumps in its wake. arisu frowns softly at the loss of warmth before you wrap your arm around his waist instead. 

beneath the cheap hotel blankets, you further entangle your body with arisu’s. he can’t seem to pull away. or, maybe he doesn’t want to. he hasn’t quite figured it out yet. 

but when you curl your body further against him, now leaning your head against his shoulder, he lets out a quiet breath. slowly, the tension in his body begins to slip away. his anxiety lessens with each passing moment until his heartbeat has calmed to a slow, rhythmic beating in his chest.

this time when he turns to face you, your eyes are closed. soft breaths occasionally leave your parted lips. tentatively, arisu brushes a shaky hand through your hair. he tucks a few stray strands behind your ear. 

with your features now exposed, he can see the way neon light streaming in despite the closed curtains dances across your cheeks. before arisu knows it, his lips have curled upwards into a soft smile. he lowers his hand until it rests against the curve of your waist, just below your rib cage. 

now finally comfortable, arisu allows himself to relax against the pillows. his own eyes flutter shut as the incessant pounding of the dj’s music begins to lull him to sleep. maybe he could get used to this.

if you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, feedback, or rebloging !! and if you want to support me, check out my aib masterlist <33

[revelboo]

I thought I loved Transformers but because of you and your writing I realized I am in hopeless servitude to SO MANY OF THESE MECHS. 😩😩 I used to only pine for Bee and the twins but SHIT YOU GOT ME BARKING FOR EVERYONE NOW. I shan’t forgive you for this!!

I regret nothing! 😀

Everything Is Alright Pt 109

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader, Megatron x Reader

• Relaxing into his warm frame, you let the feel of his palm sliding against your spine lull you and rest your cheek against him, feeling his spark thrumming under you as familiar as your own heartbeat. Listening to him describe the cities of his world, and hearing the wistful longing in his voice, leaves a bitter ache inside you. He misses his home and it’s something you can’t even begin to understand when he’s told you his world was devastated by their war. That there’s no going home for him or any of them. Eyes closing as his servos of his other hand slide against the back of yours, you look up at him. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

• Venting softly to stir your hair, he looks down at you in surprise. And it is what it is, but that you’re unhappy because he’s unhappy about a world you’ve never even seen means so much. Shifting his plating, there’s a flicker of guilt as his spark snares you and you startle against him. But you don’t resist as he wraps himself around you and that delicate spark he can only just sense. Offering you images of Iacon’s skyline, the exhilaration and freedom of flight. Watching you drift through his memories, feeling your joy sparking through him as he follows you. Circling and studying that inconsistent, gossamer thin shadow of an incomplete bond clinging to your light. We could go flying, he offers, stalling because he knows you’re going to be upset with him for this. Won’t want to understand it’s necessary at first, but you’ll forgive him. You always do. You have to.

• Reaching for a new memory when he offers it, your breath catches as a different alien city glitters beneath you, seen from the air the way he’d seen it. Turning to find him, he engulfs you and it’s not like when you’d been tangled in him before, both of you swimming through each other. You’re caged in his light, overwhelmed and unable to move or think. Confused, but aware of him tearing at you. Destroying something that’s yours, not his. Something he has no right to and you feel the loss jolt through you flinging yourself from him as soon as he releases you. Physical body jerking to get free, to break that contact as he reaches after you. And the connection stretches and snaps, his servos catching your upper arm when you slide half out of his lap. “What did you do?” Can’t breathe, shaking with that awful, wrenching wrongness and it hurts.

• “Our spark is fine,” he soothes, unsettled as you cringe away when he tries to pull you to him. Like you’re afraid of him. Closing his plating, he drags you back to him, hooking an arm around you to keep you there as you splay a hand against him, upset and almost panicking, you’re breathing much quicker than he’s used to. Had it hurt? He’s doesn’t know, but hates the thought. That twists guiltily through him as he curls himself tighter around you. Hadn’t wanted it to hurt, but he had to do it. Had to sever Soundwave’s claim to you. “It’s alright. It’s over.” His own spark aching unpleasantly, unsettled by your distress. You hadn’t known Soundwave that long, not really. Sliding his servos up your spine, his wings droop slightly. “I’m here.” And he’s all you need, because you’re all he needs. Even if you can’t see that he had to sever that leash. Can’t let Soundwave or anyone else control you or him.

• Staggering and nearly dropping the stack of data pads in his hands, it feels like being blindsided. Like when he’d lost the feel of you in his mind, but he can still sense your emotions and you’re upset. Not just upset, hurting. And he can’t sense his bond, the loss almost crippling. Denta clenching behind his mask, his head turns as Megatron looks up in surprise, chin propped on a fist. Aware of the furious sound he’s making, as he storms off the bridge and through the halls. And he’s going to strangle that self-obsessed, paranoid idiot.

• Aware that whatever upset Soundwave is something he probably doesn’t want to be involved in, Megatron is still tempted to go see the fallout. To see what’s made Soundwave that furious. Venting tiredly, he debates following. Sure that he knows exactly where the communications officer is going and that this is somehow about Starscream. It always is.

Previous

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Might I recommend ‘Shit’s Gonna Be Ok’ by I Fight Dragons 🥲 I’m sorry, but really. It’ll be fine… Eventually.

[thesweetestapplepie]

‘a quiet night’

wc: 1.7k

tags: fluff, mutual pining? arthur morgan wanting to be more than a fwb wink wink

author note: i didn’t like this much as I thought I did but maybe i’m my own harshest critic. :) also ik the indents are super inconsistent i was on my phone.

“What’chu doing up so late?” The snapping and crackling of the fire burned embers into your vision. Spotty as you blinked. That voice would’ve been drowned out by the thrum of the flames if it wasn’t for that heavy southern accent and the soft chime of spurs brushing against the ground. As you turn, you’re met with the looming silhouette of a familiar man, your gaze trails from his knees up the path to his eyes. Seems he had just gotten back from an outing. There is a husky laugh in his question, a heavy tension in his shoulders as he looks down at you. Soft music whirs from Dutch and Molly’s tent, they had forgotten to turn off the player.

“I like to appreciate good music before someone wakes up and starts their tyrades about laundry, again.” Both your minds immediately go to Grimshaw, earning a groan from the brunette haired man as he took his black worn hat from his head. The soft tufts of hair from his brown head were painted in flecks of ash and grime. Arthur Morgan releases a pitiful chuckle to your complaint, his moonlight golden spurs ringing that satisfying and familiar sound to your ears.

The quiet melody of classical music sweeps the camp in a tranquil star blanketed night. You find your body slightly swaying to the gentle keys of a piano like a glass wind chime swaying with the wind. Arthur’s eyes rest on the back of your neck, such a domestic image in his head bringing an alien feeling to his chest before he finally speaks again.

“If I knew you wanted to listen to this more often, I would’ve brought you back something..”

“You can make it up for me with a dance.” The affectionate and at the same time teasing request sent a slight tug to his throat. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves or the deeply embedded fondness he has for you that manages to get under his skin and bones. A simple request, but it creased his face into a smile.

“Ain’t someone with laundry to fold oughta have some sleep to catch?” Despite the soothing drawl of his teasing, he holds out his hand, drowning the tension in his muscles and fatigue in his back with the soft flow of your skin against his. Tenderness melding together perfectly despite the minimal contact at first. It makes your cheeks heat up like the flat smooth side of a stone basking in the sun. He hopes the peak of his tattered hat shadows the heat crawling up his face when you let out a slight laugh, light and airy.

“When’s the next time Dutch gonna leave the old thing on overnight?” You knew he didn’t need the convincing, his left hand already taking your right palm, large and almost overwhelming in warmth. Right hand gently caressing the small of your back as he brings you closer. You don’t observe his blue gaze catching your lips at first. Running along the soft lines of your plush flesh with his eyes, you turn to him, and he looks away just in time to regain any lost composure.

“Ahh-Maybe he’ll let it if you ask him. Old fool’s got a soft spot for women.” You can’t help but think he meant, ‘beautiful,’ women, with the way he fixated his gaze down at you. His attention seemed drunken on the soft state of you. Everyone in camp, whether it was the drunken and rambling Uncle or the observant but private Charles, every outlaw in camp could tell Arthur Morgan had the tiniest soft spot for you. Well, quite the expansive one. It had only grown in size as the two of you got closer. This closeness had only externalized when the two of you began to go to each other for intimacy. Warmth in body. One that he would never admit to anyone but to the crisp, cream white pages of his journal paper and graphite chipped pencil.

Your chest merely grazes his, and the only chivalrous thing he could do was avert his boyish glance. Though, he did pay mind to the way the orange and crimson flames flickered and melded with the color of your white chemise, the material highlighting the slope of your back and the way the fabric hung off of your breasts without support. He admired the natural state of your body in a way that still honored your dignity. Mind filled with slight admiring glances, he swallows down the intrusive thought as the two of you begin to sway in a slight, intimate rhythm.

“I’m shocked he ain’t send it to the fence for a few quick bucks in the name of Tahiti or god knows what.” He said almost exhaustively. Shaking his head, you catch a glimpse of his blood stained clothes, now dried and some almost faded into soft dark brown stains in the blue stitched fabric. Your left hand instinctively finds the span of his chest, the lining of his shirt under your fingernails. His warm body is grounding, steady. He only dips you to the music ever so gingerly as to not get any grime on your perfect white gown.

“So that’s what this is all for.. Wanna know what I think?” Your eyes find the steel blue gaze of his once more.

“You don’t think much, sweetheart.” You ignore his playful jest, not that he cared as he smiled to himself a mischievous grin.

“I think Jack better start singing for pennies if Dutch thinks we’re gonna make enough money to get away to coconut dreams.” Your instigative, sarcastic comment only warrants a gruff, rumbled laugh from his chest. Dim light cuts his face into sharp planes of greases and wrinkles, yet you couldn’t help but admire how perfect he was. He always appreciated your humor.

“Well y’know how it goes.. Donate some to the camp, gotta do supply runs, the constant moving.. It’s just part of the process. Slow.” Arthur wasn’t sure he believed his own hope, you yourself could hear it in the hesitant choke of his last word.

“Is that why you’ve been running off all week this week?” You asked, tilting your head ever so slightly, his gaze wandering up your jawline and back to your eyes as he shudders. He can’t tell if its from chilling cold nipping at his skin, or the way your warm hands flattened and pressed through the material of his clothing.

“You ask that as if I’m never running off.. Like you barely know me.” That comment sends a feigned, offended swat to his chest and he smiles at your reaction.

“Oh, shut it.”

“I would appreciate hospitality for being the one putting some food in your belly!” He had to moderate the volume of his voice, not wanting to wake the other members of the camp deep in their slumbers, only shielded with canvas and tent flaps. Yet, his voice was thick with what you were very aware was deep seated affection.

“And what about greeting you with a slow dance? That not hospitable enough for your liking?” He knew you were simply teasing, trying to elicit a reaction from him. Yet, his eyes seem to shudder in something painful. No. Needy. Yearning. The way you challenge him both charms him in every fold and sets him knocked out and fallen apart. He doesn’t rip his gaze from you this time, you willingly swim in that deep lake blue hue.

“You are a pain in my ass, woman.” An arm pulls you closer, swaying you gently to the music.

“Well—I don’t mean to be such a nuisance to your splitting head, Mr. Morgan.” You flash an incredulous grin.

He drinks in the planes of your face, the way the vibrant colors of the roaring light danced across the perfect skin. Skin you would claim was imperfect, full of creases, a slight wrinkle bridging the corners of your mouth to your nose. Moles patterned you in places you’d rather not. Yet, the dilation of his pupils pulled you into the abyss of his gaze.

“You aint. I think you’re just perfect..” The words leave his mouth before he could register them. Red heat rushed from your chest and up your face out of the blue. Yet, he doesn’t avert his boyish, bashful gaze, even as he bites the inside of his cheek. He lets the words flow, face swept in thinly veiled admiration when his right hand breaks from yours, brushing against the skin of your cheek and softly pulling a strand of hair behind your burning ears. You looked at him perplexed. “I-in good company, I mean. Perfect company.” He corrects himself. The thin lines of his stern mouth threatened to break into a smile that would reveal his heart. You could tell that this moment was intimate in ways you couldn’t describe, intimate as his hand snakes down the side of your face and hooks under your chin, pulling you close to his face as he kisses your chin with a feverish stutter in his lips.

Whenever you and Arthur had sex, whether it be through moments of weakness or in passionate nights far from camp, together, he has always kissed you with animalistic instinct. With a need to consume the warmth of your body, to feel every slope of your skin and every stretch of your limbs when he folds you down. Yet, his innocent kiss only leaves you burning in desire and conflict.

“I’m a bit too tired to do anything but dance tonight, Arthur.” You mused, head tilting back as he pressed his warm kisses along the pulse of your neck before swooping back to the under of your earlobe. He audibly groans at your comment.

“This ain’t about that. Just—” He stammers for a second and it makes the apples of your cheeks burn. “Will you just let a poor, wounded man have this?” You couldn’t deny the buzzing of butterflies and heat in your belly as his voice came out in a gentle riverbed demand. So, you let him shower you in affection. Affection that some may find more than platonic between the two of you. He whispers soft, affectionate words into your skin, words that can only come out of the mouth of a sleep-deprived, touch hungry outlaw. His left hand still warms against your back as he pulls you in and you realize you’re deeper than you thought you were.

author note pt 2- thank you sm for the support on my last fanfic :,)) the kind compliments and words have been amazing to read and so encouraging to keep writing arthur stories for yall

[joaosnovia]

hector fort with a sassy/bossy girlfriend who is actually a sweetheart🥹 like yes she will make something out of nothing- but she also give the softest praise when she wants to?

❦ - my favourite player.

summary:: you’re hector’s sassy girlfriend (with kindness 😛)

warnings:: it’s like not a proper fic yk? it’s just a ton of scenarios but too long for headcannons idek atp

writers note:: IM SO INCONSISTENT W POSTING I NEED TO START POSTING THESE AS SSON AS IM DONE WRITING OMDS THIS HAS BEEN IN MY DRAFTS FOR HOURS.

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp ; lmk if u wanna be added or removed

hector fort never really knew what hit him when he started dating you. you walked into his life like a storm, sharp tongue, quick comebacks, and a look that could cut through steel, but underneath that bossy, sassy exterior, you were the biggest softie he’d ever met.

he learned that early on. like the first time you two went out and he showed up three minutes late. three.

‘oh, so you thought i didn’t deserve punctuality?’ you’d said, arms crossed, hip cocked to the side. ‘is that what we’re doing now, fort?’

he scrambled with apologies, cheeks red, swearing traffic was worse than usual. you just sighed, looped your arm through his, and murmured, ‘relax, i’m messing with you. but you are paying for dessert. non-negotiable.’

he never minded paying, especially when you’d grin at him over your ice cream, that spark in your eyes softening just a bit. and god, when you’d say things like, ‘you’re lucky you’re cute,’ it did things to him he didn’t know how to explain.

but it wasn’t just the teasing. it was how you supported him, how you believed in him even when he didn’t believe in himself. after that match he’d been kicking himself over for days, missed shots, sloppy passes, you cornered him in his apartment, hands on your hips.

‘hector fort, if you don’t stop beating yourself up, i swear—’ you cut yourself off, softened. stepped closer and cupped his face, fingers warm against his skin. ‘baby, you played so well. everyone has off days. i’m proud of you.’

he melted. every damn time.

sometimes, you’d get worked up over the smallest things, like when your coffee order was wrong. ‘how hard is it to do two pumps of vanilla, not three? i’m not asking for rocket science.’ you’d huff, glance at him, and when you caught him grinning, you’d roll your eyes. ‘...whatever. wanna sip?’

he loved that you’d fight anyone and anything, but when it came to him? you handled him with care. your bossiness wasn’t mean, it was protective. you demanded respect for yourself, for him, for the people you cared about. you were fire and warmth all at once.

and hector? he’d never been happier to stand in the middle of that fire.

it was in the little things, too. the texts before his matches, ‘score a goal for me, baby. or don’t. you’re still my favorite.’ the way you’d pull him aside after a rough day and say, ‘c’mere, let me fix your hair. you look like you fought a tornado,’ fingers gentle as you smoothed back his curls.

but nothing compared to the quiet moments. like when you thought he was asleep, and you’d whisper, ‘love you, y’know? so much it’s stupid.’ like he didn’t hear you. like he didn’t tuck those words away, holding them close on the nights he missed you the most.

hector fort knew you were a lot. sassy, bossy, dramatic. but god, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. because beneath all that, you were his soft place to land. his person.

and if you wanted to make something out of nothing, throw a fit over a late pizza delivery or a movie starting five minutes past the showtime? fine. he’d let you. hell, he’d stand right beside you and complain too.

as long as, at the end of the day, he still got to be the one you smiled at like that. the one you whispered those soft, precious things to when you thought no one was listening.

because you, with all your fire and sass and sweetness, you were everything.

[olenvasynyt]

This has been pissing me off for years but I finally made a tiktok about it and I’m just posting it on here too.  So here are a lot of inconsistencies in ACOTAR that piss me off to no end, and one of them is this thing about daematis.  And it is sucha small thing but it is just one out of the countless inconsistencies in SJM's writing that makes me personally not enjoy the series as much anymore.

In chapter 54 of ACOMAF, Rhys explains in his really long "I'm a good guy I swear" monologue that he took away Clare’s pain Under the Mountain while she was being tortured.  

Chapter 54 of ACOMAF: “I broke into Clare’s head when they brought her Under The Mountain.  I took away her pain, and told her to scream when expected to.  So they…they did those things to her, and I tried to make it right, but…After a week, I couldn’t let them do it.  Hurt her like that anymore.  So while they tormented her, I slipped into her mind again and ended it.  She didn’t feel any pain.  She felt none of what they did to her, even at the end.

But in ACOFAS, Feyre gets her first menstrual cycle, she finds out that it’s so much more painful than a human period, but there was nothing Madja, Mor, or Rhys could do for the pain.  

Chapter 5 of ACOFAS: “In place of those monthly, human discomforts, was a biannual week of stomach-shredding agony.  Even Madja, Rhys’ favored healer, could do little for the pain short of rendering me unconscious.”  

...did we not remember that Rhys has the ability to take away pain?  This just tells me that SJM forgot, because that would be an excellentttt opportunity to show more of Rhys being a loving mate with these awesome powers. Rhys is tending to her every need, cleaning Feyre off, switching blankets, stroking her hair:

“Rhys had stayed with me the entire time, stroking my hair, replacing the heated blankets that I soaked with sweat, even helping me clean myself off.  Blood was blood, was all he said when I’d objected to him seeing me peel off the soiled undergarments.  I’d been barely able to move at that point without whimpering…”

If SJM remembered what she wrote I feel like Rhys would have leaped at the opportunity to take away her pain.

And people can say “Oh but what about this”, “well Rhys could just be manipulative and evil or something”, “Well I don’t think Feyre would have let him anyways”, and other such excuses, but when I break the fourth wall, it just looks like Rhys taking away Clare’s pain with his daemati powers was to make him look better in the situation. It was not a proper bit of world-building or magic system-building, because SJM just…forgot.  It is solely to make Rhys look like a good guy in this specific moment and is used for nothing else because she. Forgot.  And I’m pretty sick of SJM just…forgetting about stuff, even if it’s something as small as this.

[aventurineswife]

HELLOOOO, i was wondering:

A reader that likes watch anime, and some HSR characters gives them a try. But, what anime would you think they watch with the reader? Based on what they like or just something to start watching.

I LOVE YOUR WRITING STYLE, please don't overwork yourself a lot, have a nice day/night! <3

What Anime Would They Watch With You?

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Blade x Reader, Kafka x Reader, Silver Wolf x Reader, Anime Watching, Humor, Lighthearted moments, Comfort and Bonding, Can be read Platonically or Romantically.

Warnings: Mentions of psychological trauma, Light spoilers for anime, Philosophical and existential themes, Violence and combat (in anime contexts), Emotional conflict, Mild language (?), Possible mild angst(?).

A/N: I don’t watch much anime, but my sister does, so I based the anime choices on what she’s watched and told me about, as well as clips I’ve seen on yt shorts 🫣😔 ALSO THANK YOU!! 🤭💖 I'LL TRY MY BEST HEHE

Aventurine stands in front of the TV, his eyes glinting with curiosity. His usual confidence is slightly tempered by the unfamiliarity of the moment — an evening of anime watching. He’s dressed in his usual stylish attire, the gold accents catching the light as he adjusts the remote with his gloved fingers. His gaze flickers to you, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"So," he begins, voice smooth like a well-played hand in poker, "what do we watch tonight? I suppose I should try something new. But, I must admit, I prefer shows with a bit of strategy — something that makes you think, perhaps a game of intellect or manipulation."

You suggest Death Note, the classic tale of the battle between genius minds.

Aventurine’s smile widens. “Ah, an excellent choice. A battle of wits, a contest of who can outsmart whom. Much like life itself. I must say, the intrigue here appeals to me. The protagonist, Light Yagami, reminds me of someone who knows how to play the game... and win.”

As the opening credits roll, Aventurine lounges back, his eyes gleaming with the same focus he applies to his work at IPC. The intricate web of psychological tension between Light and L unfolds in a way that mirrors his own thinking — everything calculated, every move deliberate. The darker twists intrigue him, and he often leans over to comment on Light’s strategy, or offer his own hypothetical alternatives. Every so often, he’ll pause to explain a parallel to a strategic investment move, his voice laced with a playfulness only you can appreciate.

The night is filled with insightful discussions, his enjoyment of the show evident not just in his words but in the way his eyes spark with intellectual thrill.

Ratio enters your living room, dressed in his usual academic attire, though he seems slightly more relaxed than usual. His hair is perfectly in place, and he adjusts his glasses, his piercing eyes scanning the shelves. He’s intrigued by the idea of anime, but like everything else, he believes it must meet the highest intellectual standards.

"I assume this will be a pursuit of knowledge, correct?" he asks, his tone indicating that he is less concerned with entertainment and more with what the anime can teach him.

You offer him Steins;Gate, a mind-bending tale of time travel and its implications. Ratio raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued.

"Time travel," he mutters. "The concept is fraught with paradoxes, theoretical inconsistencies... But let's see how this unfolds."

As the show progresses, you can tell Ratio is captivated. His usual dismissiveness towards “mediocre” content fades as he engages with the intricacies of the plot. He is particularly drawn to the scientific explanations of time travel, making insightful comments about the laws of causality. The intellectual depth of Steins;Gate resonates with him, and he begins to see the show as more than just entertainment but as an exploration of the human condition through the lens of scientific theory.

His stern exterior softens slightly as he leans forward, absorbed by the delicate unraveling of fate. At one point, he pauses the show to make an impassioned argument about the ethics of time travel, his eyes alight with the thrill of the debate.

Feixiao, in her usual battle-ready attire, steps into your space with her arms crossed, her eyes narrowing slightly in skepticism. She’s not one for frivolous distractions, but she’s willing to give this anime thing a try — provided it’s something that involves action, strategy, and perhaps a little bit of inner conflict.

"You’d better not have picked something weak," she says with a smirk, her voice unwavering. "I don't have time for anything that isn't worthy of my attention."

You suggest Attack on Titan, with its intense battles and deep emotional conflicts. Feixiao grunts in approval.

"Alright, let’s see if they can deliver on the carnage." she says, as the opening scene plays out.

She’s immediately absorbed by the ferocity of the Titans and the desperation of humanity’s fight for survival. The battles, filled with adrenaline and relentless pursuit, mirror the kinds of conflicts she knows too well. She’s particularly drawn to Eren Yeager’s inner struggles — the deep rage that simmers beneath his resolve.

"That’s what I like to see," Feixiao mutters under her breath, her eyes flashing with approval as the protagonists fight with everything they have. "There’s more to these battles than just the physical; there’s emotion, too. A warrior’s mind is as sharp as their blade."

Throughout the night, she becomes invested in the character dynamics, especially Eren’s moral dilemmas. The show's dark tone and brutal honesty about the human condition resonate with her, and she even offers some commentary on the combat strategies used by the soldiers.

By the end of the night, she’s hooked, her face flushed with the excitement of both the action and the emotional weight of the series.

Blade steps into the room, his eyes burning with a quiet intensity, his demeanor as cold as the blade he wields. His mind constantly in turmoil, he’s not interested in frivolous entertainment. Everything he watches must speak to the darker aspects of his soul, and anything too light-hearted will not hold his attention.

You offer Neon Genesis Evangelion, a psychological and emotional rollercoaster that digs into the deep recesses of human existence. Blade’s expression is unreadable as he nods and sits, his eyes steely.

The first few episodes grip him, and soon he is fixated on Shinji Ikari’s inner torment — the crippling isolation, the struggle to find meaning in a world that seems bent on destruction. Blade sees pieces of himself in Shinji, his own existential struggle reflected on screen. He finds an unexpected resonance with the show's depiction of personal battles and the search for purpose in and the search for purpose in an uncaring world.

As the show delves into its more abstract and psychological themes, Blade’s face hardens in contemplation. He doesn’t speak much, but his occasional glances at you tell you everything you need to know — Neon Genesis Evangelion is more than just an anime to him; it’s a mirror to his own fractured soul.

By the end of the night, Blade is silent, lost in thought, the weight of the show's philosophical questions lingering in his mind.

Kafka strolls into the room with her usual cool confidence, adjusting her black jacket over her shoulders. Her hair sways slightly as she surveys the situation. While she doesn’t often indulge in entertainment, she’s intrigued by your suggestion to watch anime together. After all, there’s something elegant about the concept of using subtlety and manipulation to achieve one's ends, and Kafka is drawn to that kind of intrigue.

You offer Code Geass, a series filled with strategic battles, hidden motives, and complex characters. Kafka smirks, her interest piqued.

"This might be interesting. Let’s see if it lives up to the hype." she says, her voice smooth and measured.

As the episodes unfold, Kafka finds herself charmed by Lelouch vi Britannia’s calculating nature and his ability to manipulate others for his own purposes. She’s drawn to the layers of deception, the way Lelouch maneuvers through the world with his intelligence and charisma, much like herself.

"Ah, this is the kind of show I can appreciate," Kafka remarks, glancing at you with a knowing smile. "Power lies not in brute strength, but in the subtleties of the mind. Lelouch truly knows how to play the game."

By the end of the night, Kafka is hooked, her mind racing with the complex political strategies and moral questions the show raises. Her admiration for Lelouch’s ability to control events through sheer willpower is clear.

Silver Wolf lounges in her seat, her purple glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She’s always up for a challenge, and if anime is as much of a game as you say, then she’s ready to dive in. She’s looking for something that’s both fast-paced and unpredictable, a true test of her adaptability.

You suggest Psycho-Pass, a futuristic series that blends action with deep psychological exploration and questions about the nature of justice. Silver Wolf’s eyes light up as the opening credits roll.

"Alright, this looks fun," she remarks, her fingers tapping on her leg like she’s already hacking her way through the plot. "A system that reads people's intentions? Sounds like a game I could win."

As the series progresses, Silver Wolf becomes engrossed in the moral and psychological dilemmas the characters face. She’s particularly drawn to the futuristic technology, intrigued by the interplay between the systems that control society and the human minds that try to outwit them.

"I could hack my way through this world in no time." she chuckles to herself, but she’s also genuinely captivated by the philosophical questions raised. What is justice? Who decides what is right or wrong?

By the end of the night, Silver Wolf is already planning her next anime binge, eager to see what other “games” the world of anime has to offer.

[eternallyordinary]

“He Belongs to You” - Part 6

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡

Series Masterlist<3

Summary: During an Access Hollywood interview meant to introduce you to the public, an unexpected guest turns it into something else entirely. Tension lingers even after the cameras stop rolling, leaving you uncertain about what comes next.

Warnings: detailed description of sexual assault, trauma, anxiety, death, violence, controlling behavior, age/gap relationship, smut, foul language

*:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧��・ﾟ: *✧・ﾟ:* ˚₊· *:・ﾟ✧*:・ﾟ✧✧・ﾟ: *

You and Homelander finish showering. You try to brush off his earlier comments about your attackers—maybe he’ll forget.

Maybe he was just trying to impress you, show off a little.

But actually believing that?

Not likely.

You push it aside, burying the thoughts deep.

Unwilling to let him see the worry creeping in.

The pain you’ve worked so hard to suppress.

Disassociating, you go through the motions of your skincare routine.

Your hands steady, even as your mind teeters on the edge.

His words won’t stop playing in your head:

“They’re dead. They just don’t know it yet.”

And his words? They should horrify you.

Instead, they linger, gnawing at something dark inside you.

The truth is, you don’t care if they live or die.

After what they did, after what they took, death is a kindness compared to what they truly deserve.

They should feel pain.

They should suffer.

It’s been years, but when you stare into the mirror, they’re still there.

Their hands.

Their laughter.

The smell of them.

The pain your body felt.

You remember it all.

The way you slumped against the wall, your head lolling to one side, struggling to keep your eyes open.

The way they took turns sticking their dicks inside of you, laughing, high-fiving, cameras flashing as they marked you with their semen, treating you like some object without a pulse.

The itchy rug burning against your bare skin.

The throbbing pain between your legs.

The stares.

The whispers.

The way your mother called you a whore while your father was the only one who believed you.

The way the cops dismissed you, shrugged off your horror, called you the girl who cried wolf.

That’s when your father realized law enforcement wouldn’t protect you.

That’s why you were injected with Compound V.

The threats had been too much.

The fear too suffocating.

He wanted you safe.

You? You wanted something else.

The doctors warned you.

The risks were high. Compound V was meant for infants, not teenagers. But you didn’t care.

The best-case scenario? You’d have strength. Confidence. The power to protect yourself.

The worst? You’d die.

And really, would that have been so bad?

Now that Homelander knows someone hurt you, all the broken pieces you’ve spent years trying to discard will come back to haunt you.

What if he looks at you differently?

Or what if he stops looking at you at all?

He treats you like something fragile, something delicate. But little does he know—

You’re already shattered.

“How do you feel about the interview?” His voice pulls you away from your thoughts.

The way he shifts—possessive and protective one second, encouraging and supportive the next—is jarring.

For most people, that kind of inconsistency would signal a disorder.

For Homelander? It’s just how he was built.

A machine trying to mimic emotions.

“Sweetheart? Sweetheart?”

You flinch.

The reaction is immediate, instinctive, like you’ve been caught doing something wrong.

“Yes? Sorry,” you say quickly.

His expression flickers, his sharp eyes reading you too easily. He knows something is wrong.

But he’s trying.

Trying to be normal—as normal as a man with lasers for eyes can be.

“Easy there, tiger,” he teases, coming up behind you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Go put on your suit. We have to head down soon.”

“I rather put it on after hair and makeup,” you reply, glancing at him through the mirror.

His grip is firm as he cups your jaw, that tight-lipped smile that isn’t really a smile. “I didn’t ask.”

You roll your eyes as you head to the closet, tugging your suit off the hanger.

Homelander doesn’t miss the gesture.

He makes a mental note to punish you for that later.

“Wait—you said we. You’re coming?”

“Duh,” he says, as if it’s obvious.

You want to argue. To push back. You’ve only been here for one day. Can’t you handle one thing on your own?

“Why do you want me to put my suit on now?” you call out from the closet.

“Because if it’s showing too much, they’re going to fix it.”

You step out, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Fix it?”

He gestures for you to spin.

You sigh and humor him, slowly turning.

“Stop.”

You freeze, back facing him. He steps up behind you, smoothing his hand over the fabric.

“See, this—” he taps the small of your back, pushing slightly, making you arch against him, “this isn’t going to work. Your ass is hanging out.”

His fingers tug at the shorts, pulling the fabric tighter, making them ride up even more.

You straighten. “Homelander,” you huff. “You’re pulling them up. They’re fine.”

His gaze darkens. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

You smirk, wrapping a leg around his hip, your doe eyes flickering up at him.

“Don’t you trust me?”

He clenches his jaw, resisting the urge to grab you by the throat and teach you something about trust.

But before he can respond, there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

A timid PA peeks in.

“Um, hi—hair and makeup is ready for you downstairs. If that’s, like, okay. If you want to.”

You cast one last glance at Homelander before heading for the door. When he knows you’re out of earshot, he turns to the PA.

“Get her some new fucking shorts.”

“What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself.

—

Downstairs, you sit in the makeup chair as stylists work around you. You’ve never been one for attention, never liked being the center of it. But maybe, you can get used to it.

Homelander watches the way you interact with them, the way you ask about their day and actually listen. How you smile at them like they’re people, not background extras.

You have powers, but you’re more human than anyone he’s ever met…

You’re just, real.

The hairstylist chats as she works, her tone warm, maternal. “How’s NYC treating you so far?”

“I like it. But it’s only been a day. Ask me in a week,” you joke.

“Oh, you’ll love it. Just you wait. You’re young, beautiful, single—”

“She’s actually not single.”

Homelander’s hands land on your shoulders, his tone casual.

“And can we tone this down a bit? I’m not letting my girlfriend look like a fucking porn star bimbo on Access Whatever-the-Fuck. Thanks.”

He presses a kiss to the top of your head and walks off, presumably to go yell at A-Train.

The room falls silent.

“Sorry…” you murmur.

The hairstylist sighs, lowering her voice.

“You’ve been here, what? A day?”

You chuckle softly. “Barely.”

She hesitates, then leans in slightly.

“You’ve heard the stories, right?”

Of course you have. More bad than good.

“Just… be careful,” she says gently.

“He might be America’s hero, but in most people’s storybooks? He’s the villain.”

He’s the villain.

Her words hit differently than they should. Maybe because you want to live in the fantasy—where the biggest superhero in the world is head over heels for you. Love at first sight, fairytale type shit.

But deep down, you know there’s darkness in him. And you just pray you never have to see it.

Pasting on a smile, you force a lighthearted tone. “Can you make my hair a little less… what did he say…. porn star bimbo?”

The hairstylist lets out a quiet sigh, reaching for the teasing comb without another word.

She doesn’t realize you’re ending the conversation to protect her.

—

Once they finish your hair and makeup, you look in the mirror—you don’t recognize yourself, but you like what to see.

You turn around and make your way back to the green room. After Homelander’s claim on you last night, you’re hoping for a chance to redeem yourself. But your focus is interrupted when you catch Homelander talking up the female reporter.

You feel it—jealousy. Fuck. Not this. Not now. Not with him.

What the hell is going on with you?

You never let anyone in. Ever.

And yet—here you are.

It’s been one day, and you’re already feeling these twisted, tangled emotions for a man twice your age.

Not just any man.

A superhero.

Or—a monster. A god. A villain.

Depends on who you ask.

—

The studio lights shine bright, the cameras rolling as the Access Hollywood host, Karen Scott, sits across from you, her signature grin plastered across her face.

You keep your posture poised, legs crossed, hands resting neatly in your lap.

The branding behind you screams:

“Vought Presents: Meet the Seven’s Newest Star!”

You’re ready. This is your moment.

Karen leans forward, beaming. “We are here today with the newest—and might I add, one of the most highly anticipated—members of The Seven!”

She gestures toward you as the audience off-camera cheers. “She’s powerful, she’s stunning, and she’s already taking the world by storm! Please welcome—”

The sudden sound of footsteps cuts her off.

You don’t need to turn your head to know who it is.

A heavy, commanding hand lands on your shoulder just as Homelander steps into frame, his cape billowing behind him like it was designed for dramatic entrances.

“Now, now, Karen,” Homelander drawls, flashing his perfect, too-white teeth. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He squeezes your shoulder, feigning warmth.

“Wouldn’t want people thinking she got here all on her own.”

The tension in the room shifts immediately.

Karen, ever the professional, chuckles nervously.

“Homelander! Wasn’t expecting you to hop in—”

“Surprise,” he interrupts smoothly, settling into the chair beside you, legs spread wide, completely owning the space.

“Thought I’d sit in. You know, give the fans a little insight into why we—” he glances at you, the smirk never leaving his lips, “—chose her.”

You clench your jaw, keeping the polite smile on your face.

Of course, he’s doing this.

Of course, he couldn’t just let you have this moment.

You want to fight back. You need to. But you know how dangerous that game is. So instead, you take a slow breath, steel your nerves, and decide—if he wants to play, then fine.

You’ll play.

Karen shifts in her seat, glancing between you and Homelander. “Well! Since we have both of you here, let’s start with the obvious question.”

She turns to you. “What’s it been like, joining the most powerful team in the world?”

You open your mouth to speak—but Homelander beats you to it.

“Well, Karen,” he says, his voice smooth, rehearsed. “It’s been quite the adjustment for her, I’m sure. New city, new responsibilities, and, of course—” he turns his head, his piercing gaze locking onto you, “—new relationships.”

You bite your tongue.

Karen nods, completely eating up Homelander’s performance.

“Absolutely! And what about you? What made you see her as a fit for The Seven?”

Homelander hums, tilting his head.

“Oh, where do I start? She’s strong. Fierce. Dedicated. But more than that, she understands…” He lets the pause linger, looking at you like he’s daring you to interrupt.

You don’t.

“…who she belongs with.”

A dangerous silence lingers for just a second too long before Karen, slightly caught off guard, laughs.

“Well! That’s, uh… very high praise.”

You don’t let yourself react. Instead, you turn to Karen with a practiced, charming smile.

“It’s been an honor to join The Seven. I’ve worked my whole life for this opportunity.”

You place a delicate hand on Homelander’s arm, feeling him tense under your touch.

“And I couldn’t have done it without him believing in me.”

He eases slightly. You knew that would stroke his ego.

But you aren’t done.

Karen nods enthusiastically. “And the fans are already loving you! You’re being called ‘the fresh, young energy The Seven needed.’ I’m sure you’ve seen the online buzz?”

You flash a bashful smile. “I have, yeah. It’s… nice, knowing people are excited about me.”

You put emphasis on the last word, your gaze flickering toward Homelander just briefly enough for him to catch it.

His jaw twitches.

Karen beams. “Well, you are the moment! And a lot of that excitement is also, of course, about you two.” She gestures between you and Homelander.

“Social media is already flooded with clips of your… let’s say, undeniable chemistry.”

You barely have time to react before Homelander lets out a deep, pleased chuckle.

“What can I say?” he murmurs, reaching over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger against your skin. “People love a good power couple.”

The words send a shock through your spine. You school your expression into something neutral, refusing to let him win.

Karen raises a brow. “So, can we confirm that? Are you two…?”

This is your chance.

You could go along with it, let him have this claim over you—again.

Or… you could do what you really want.

You shift in your seat, batting your lashes as you turn to Karen. “Oh, Karen.”

You lean in, resting your chin on your hand.

“Now, that would be spoiling the mystery, wouldn’t it?”

Homelander’s entire body stiffens.

Karen laughs. “I love that answer.”

You can feel the heat radiating off Homelander.

Good.

He hates not being in control. You can tell he wants to say something—maybe correct you, maybe make some grand declaration of ownership.

But he doesn’t. Not here. Not where the cameras are rolling.

Instead, he settles for gripping your thigh under the table.

Tight.

Painful.

But you can take it.

—

The interview wraps up, the cameras still rolling but the closing music signaling the end of the segment. Karen thanks you both, shaking hands, oblivious to the silent war happening in front of her.

Homelander’s grip on your thigh is bruising.

He hasn’t spoken since you dodged the question. Since you humiliated him. In front of millions.

You can feel the rage radiating off him, an unstable storm brewing under that carefully controlled exterior. But he doesn’t snap—not here. Not where people can see.

Instead, he flashes a dazzling smile to Karen. “Pleasure as always.”

His voice is smooth, but you don’t like his tone. You imagine it’s the same voice he uses before lasering someone into dust.

You don’t move. You wait.

Homelander stands first, his cape whipping behind him as he gestures for you to follow.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go.”

It’s not a request.

You hesitate, just for a second.

He extends a hand to you, his grip forceful but calculated as he helps you up.

“Smile,” he murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear.

“Wouldn’t want people thinking you’re afraid of me.”

He guides you through the studio, the Vought execs watching like hawks. You keep your expression composed, refusing to let him see the way your heart is hammering. You knew he’d be mad. You wanted him to be mad. But now, walking beside him, you realize just how close you’re dancing to the edge.

The second you’re backstage, away from prying eyes, his grip tightens around your throat.

“Did you really think that was funny?” he murmurs, his voice so low it sends chills down your spine.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t have to.

His voice alone carries enough restrained violence to make the air thick with tension.

You look up at him, batting your lashes in mock innocence, struggling to breathe.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

His nostrils flare.

“Don’t play with me.” His hand moves to your jaw, tilting your chin up so you have to look at him. His thumb brushes against your lower lip—gentle, almost loving. But his grip? It’s unforgiving.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

You wet your lips, your breath shallow.

“What?”

“Teasing me.” His voice, venom-laced honey.

“Denying me in front of all those people. Making me look like some pathetic, lovesick idiot.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because he’s right.

He chuckles darkly. “Oh, sweetheart.” He shakes his head, his grip loosening—but only slightly.

“You really don’t know what you’ve done.”

He leans in, so close his breath fans against your cheek.

“But that’s okay,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’ll remind you.”

His hand trails down your arm, his fingers barely ghosting over your skin. It sends a shiver through you. Not from fear—no, you know better.

This isn’t fear.

This is something worse.

“Are you going to punish me?” you ask, keeping your voice steady.

His eyes darken, his pupils blown wide with something dangerous.

He presses his lips to your ear, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“Oh, silly girl…” He laughs, quiet and sinister.

“I already am.”

And with that, he pulls away, his grip gone, his expression suddenly light and pleasant as if nothing happened at all.

He gestures for you to follow, his voice as cheerful as ever. “Let’s go.”

—

Homelander doesn’t touch you as you leave the studio. That’s the punishment.

He doesn’t press a hand to your lower back, doesn’t pull you possessively against his side, doesn’t hover over you like a protective force of nature. He keeps walking ahead, never looking behind him.

It shouldn’t bother you.

Surprise—it does.

The city is loud, the streets buzzing with reporters still trying to get a shot of the two of you, their cameras flashing in bursts of white-hot light.

They call your name.

His name.

Homelander doesn’t acknowledge them.

Neither do you.

The moment you’re both out of sight from the cameras, he sweeps you into his arms and takes off into the sky. You both are soaring over the skyline, the wind whipping against your faces.

Normally, this would excite you—the thrill of being in the air, the rush of speed—but now?

Now all you can feel is the tension.

You land on your balcony. Before you can even turn around, he’s already inside, pacing through your apartment like a lion in a cage. His hands flexing at his sides.

He’s waiting for you to speak first.

You don’t.

Instead, you close the balcony door and lean against it, watching him.

“So…” you finally say, feigning nonchalance. “You’re mad.”

Homelander stops. Turns his head, looking at you over his shoulder.

“Mad?” he echoes, voice deceptively calm.

You know better.

“You humiliated me,” he says, his tone soft but laced with something sharp. “In front of millions.”

You push off the door, crossing your arms.

“I didn’t humiliate you.”

“You just don’t get it, do you?” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You challenged me.”

You inhale slowly.

He’s still keeping his distance, still standing across the room.

He hasn’t touched you since the interview.

Since he whispered, “I already am”.

You tilt your head. “So, what’s my punishment, then?”

Ignoring your question, he walks toward you—slow, deliberate, like he wants you to feel every second of it.

And then… he passes you.

Goes straight to your bedroom.

You follow, your pulse quickening.

When you enter, he’s already making himself at home, sprawled out on your bed like he fucking owns it.

You stand in the doorway, arms still crossed.

“What are you doing?”

Homelander props himself up on an elbow, tilting his head at you. “What does it look like?”

You narrow your eyes. “I meant what you said earlier. About my punishment.”

He smirks. “This is it.”

You hesitate. “…Laying on my bed?”

He grins wider. “Ignoring you.”

Your stomach twists, your fingers clenching at your sides.

That’s what this is?

Homelander has spent the last 24 hours consuming you—smothering you, obsessing over you, refusing to let you out of his sight.

He’s claimed you over and over, left bruises where only he can see, reminded you that you belong to him.

And now?

Now he’s withholding himself.

It’s petty. It’s cruel.

And it’s working.

You roll your eyes, feigning indifference.

“Okay, fine. Be dramatic. I have stuff to do.”

You turn on your heel and walk toward the bathroom.

You don’t make it two steps.

Whoosh.

He’s in front of you.

His smirk. His arrogance. Gone.

“Try that again,” he says, voice low.

Your breath catches.

And then—he steps back.

Your frustration spikes. And it confuses you.

Because you want him to touch you.

You want him to pin you down and remind you who the fuck you belong to.

But he knows that.

So, withholding is the punishment.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Go ahead,” he says, nodding toward the bathroom. “Take your time.”

You walk past him, closing the door behind you with more force than necessary.

And in the silence, as you stare at your reflection, you realize…

This might be the worst punishment he’ll ever give you.

Depriving you of his touch.

But the moment he breaks?

You’re fucked.

⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡°✩₊✩°｡⋆˚⁺ ˚ ༘ ⁺˚⋆｡

[noorpersona]

heyy first time requesting from you but i looove your work so if you don’t mind can you please write a timeskip!kenma x female!reader where reader is sick w high fever and kenma takes care of her and everything but two or one n a half day in she starts feeling really needy but is too tired embarrassed to tell kenma but he eventually finds out about what getting her so fussy and moody (other than the fever) and gives her what she longs for🙏🏻🙏🏻 I apologize if this is too long i mean no pressure at all you dont have to do it but i love the way you write fics please make it as long as possible thank youuu<33

I think I've ticked all your boxes hehe NEVER apologize for a request I love every one <333 thank you for your lovely words of encouragement! Enjoy!!!

--

Kenma had never liked seeing you sick.

Not in high school, not now, not ever.

He wasn't the overly expressive type—not with words, not even with touch unless prompted—but he was attentive in the quietest, most precise ways. It was in how he brewed your tea with exactly the right amount of honey, how he remembered which corner of the blanket you preferred, how he adjusted the thermostat a degree lower without being asked. It was in how he never once complained when you sneezed directly onto his hoodie and then apologized like you'd committed a crime against humanity.

You'd caught a fever two days ago. High. Dangerous enough to make him drop his controller mid-stream, tell his viewers he was logging off, and shut everything down without a second thought. His fans could wait. You couldn't.

Now you were curled up in bed, cocooned under three layers of blankets, face flushed and eyes watery. Your hair stuck to your temples in damp strands, and your lips were dry despite the water and juice he kept coaxing you to drink. A warm haze clung to you like a second skin.

Kenma sat on the edge of the bed, gently brushing a clammy strand of hair from your forehead, his brows drawn together with a soft, worried furrow. You looked so small like this. Fragile in a way he hated.

"Do you need anything?" he asked, voice soft.

Your response was a quiet hum—too soft, too weak. Your hand barely moved when you tried to reach for him and gave up halfway through.

He sighed. "I’ll take that as a 'no' then."

He rose and padded barefoot to the bathroom to change the cool compress on your head. When he returned, you winced slightly at the shock of it against your heated skin but gave him the smallest of smiles. That smile was all he needed to stay planted beside you for the rest of the evening.

The first day was simple: fever, rest, more rest. Kenma read to you in a soft voice when you couldn’t sleep, half-watching the screen of his Switch when you drifted off. The second day, the fever didn’t break. Your cough got worse. You started getting whiny—not in a mean way, just more clingy, more fussy. You tossed and turned, grumbled at the blanket for being too heavy and then too thin. Kenma adjusted it each time without complaint, wordlessly refilling your cup when it was empty.

"Don’t leave," you murmured once when he stood up to grab your medicine.

"I’m just going to the kitchen."

"Still. Don’t."

He paused. Then slowly sat back down. "Okay."

You fell asleep not long after, your fingers curled in the fabric of his sleeve like a tether.

By the start of the third day, the fever had started to dip, but something was off. Not worse—just different. You were moody. Restless. Your eyes kept drifting toward him, then away. You fiddled with your sleeves, pulled your legs up under the blankets only to stretch them back out a moment later. You weren’t saying much, but when you did, it was to complain—your pillow was too soft, your tea was too sweet, your shirt was itchy.

Kenma didn’t mind. He never minded when it came to you. But the inconsistency in your behavior pinged in the back of his mind like a notification he couldn’t swipe away.

By mid-afternoon, he closed his game console and leaned forward, placing it gently on the nightstand. His golden eyes watched you with subtle intensity as you fiddled with the edge of your blanket.

"Okay," he said flatly. "You’ve been squirmy and weird all day. Spill."

Your eyes widened, and your face—already flushed from the fever—somehow turned redder. You immediately turned your face into the pillow.

He waited.

You groaned. "It’s nothing. I’m just... tired."

He didn’t buy it. Not for a second. "You’re not tired. You’re needy."

Your breath hitched in your throat.

Kenma blinked, letting the silence stretch for a moment as he watched you squirm. His voice dropped lower, a little softer, more curious than accusatory. "...That it?"

You buried your face deeper into the pillow, voice muffled and near-incomprehensible.

"What was that?"

You turned just enough to peek at him with one eye, your lip trembling slightly. "I just... I wanna be held. But I’m gross and sweaty and disgusting, and I didn’t wanna bother you."

Kenma stared at you for a long beat. Then he gave a soft sigh, scooting closer until his knees bumped the side of the mattress.

"Move over."

Your eyes widened again. "But—"

"You think I care about sweat?"

"I literally sneezed in your hair yesterday."

"You did," he admitted. "And I’m still here."

You shifted slowly, cautiously, your heart fluttering like the fever had sparked all over again. Kenma climbed into bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. He was careful not to press against you too hard at first, but once you leaned into him, he wrapped his arms around you with a slow, deliberate tenderness, pulling you close until your head rested just beneath his chin.

You melted.

The warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers settled gently against your spine and started tracing soft, grounding lines—it was everything you hadn’t been able to ask for.

"Better?" he murmured.

Your voice cracked. "Yeah."

He kissed the top of your head, barely a brush of lips against fever-damp hair. "Next time, just say it. I can’t read your mind, you know."

You made a weak, embarrassed sound. "I didn’t want to be annoying."

"You’re always annoying," he mumbled, brushing his thumb against your arm. "But you’re mine. So it’s fine."

Despite the congestion, the soreness in your throat, the heat in your cheeks—you laughed. A breathy, tired little sound that still managed to be real.

He felt your smile against his collarbone.

Kenma held you tighter.

Neither of you moved for a long time. Minutes passed, then maybe an hour. Eventually, you dozed off in his arms, breathing soft and slow, and Kenma didn’t dare shift or get up.

He stayed right there, running his fingers along your back, as the fever began to retreat.

The medicine was working.

But more than that, you had finally let yourself rest in the place you needed most.

With him.

[chaoticbardlady99]

I Wondered If I Could Come Home? (Astarion x F! Reader)

Synopsis- It’s been 4 months since you last saw Astarion and 3 months since you killed the Netherbrain with your other companions. Shortly after, you settled down in Silverymoon to begin a life out there and try to push Astarion out of your mind- except it can never be that easy. You shortly discover you are pregnant with his child- a child that could kill you during childbirth. Scared and alone- Shadowheart stays with you to help you deliver the baby and keep you alive.

While out at the local market, Shadowheart runs into Gale and invites him over for dinner. Gale has unexpected company.

CW: Pregnancy, mentions of potential death during birth, mentions of nudity, mentions of NSFW smut

To my fellow DND fans- no this is probably not canon compliant, yes I’m upset about that, but look I really needed to write this so sue me I guess

Author note- Self indulgent, I have baby fever, but don’t want a baby fic. I’m unsure of how long this will be or if it will have more parts-it depends on how angsty I feel, but I need to have like six different ideas to think about at a time soooo 😂

*This hasn’t been edited ✨well✨so please forgive me

*again, no fucking clue who’s picture it is, but it sure as shit isn’t mine so if it’s yours- reach out so I can give credit!

You keep yourself propped up against the sink in the kitchen as Shadowheart holds your hair out of your face and dabbing away the cold sweat that drips down your neck.

You are really sick of being morning sick. It’s absolutely the worst thing in the world- well besides your potential death from carrying your little girl inside of you. You sometimes think Astarion may get his wish- you may just die screaming.

You dry heave one last time- not a single thing comes up because you haven’t kept a single thing down since two mornings ago. Your morning sickness is inconsistent and comes on with little to no warning.

It’s been five months since you conceived this fricken kid, but it was like all the symptoms hit after you killed the Netherbrain.

A part of you really wishes you had somehow known before then- maybe it would have changed the cruel fate that ended your relationship with Astarion. You were literally pregnant in the middle of fighting Cazador. You think about what he last said to you all the time and just sob hysterically- like it happened yesterday.

A deeper part of you feels abandoned, but you blame yourself for him leaving. You should have been more convincing or maybe you shouldn’t have flat out told him no and explained why in the hells you didn’t want him to ascend.

For example- you didn’t want to lose him to some evil version of himself.

Ironically, you lost him anyway and are pregnant with his fucking child who insists on occasionally making you miserable.

Despite your inherent sadness, anger, and sickness, you find you are actually quite excited to meet her. You haven’t settled on a name yet and Shadowheart has been very helpful in regards to making sure you are healthy and strong for delivery. She’s your best friend and you could not be more grateful for her.

“I’ll go back to the market today and get you more of those herbs,” Shadowheart says quietly when she talks to you, “they seemed to help last time?”

You nod- exhausted and your head is pounding. You and this kid are going to need to have a serious conversation. You will not be letting a second Acunin make you miserable before she is ever born.

Shadowheart guides you to your bed upstairs, standing behind you in case you get hit with a wave of vertigo- which usually happens post vomit episode.

You pull your curtains closed- thankful that the desperate hope in your heart led you to buying black out curtains. You close your door and lay down on your bed- tears spilling down your cheeks freely.

You miss him terribly. You shouldn’t. You should positively hate him, but everyday of this pregnancy makes you ache for him. You should be doing this together.

You know it’s hormones- the weepiness, the intense longing, and the Gods awful horniness. Dreams are the worst. You wake up a squirming disaster at least three times a week with your skin burning hot with memories of Astarion touching you.

You are happy that isn’t the case currently, but the weepiness sucks too. Remembering how he used to curl around you, the way it felt to have him kiss you on the forehead, and all those late night conversations with (now empty) promises. You curl yourself around your pillows, willing your imagination to pretend it’s him, and you sob until you fall asleep.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Astarion tries to contain his excitement and fear as he follows Gale and Shadowheart to your home. Finally, after searching for literal months, he was going to see you again.

Astarion has been haunted by the last words he had said to you for what feels like eons now. He hadn’t meant it at the time and he certainly doesn’t mean it now.

He had been too afraid to come back to you after everything he had said. Astarion decided you probably hate him anyway so he tried to move on.

He tried being with other people (it always failed miserably because they weren’t you), he drank until he couldn’t remember a damn thing, and when all else failed, he began his search for the Ring of the Sunwalker.

After the nightlife of Baldur’s Gate lost it’s appeal and he finally found a ring location, Astarion found himself in front of Gale’s door in Waterdeep- begging him of all people to help him.

The wizard had been puzzled and melancholy when he realized Astarion was at his door. Astarion told him every little piece of how he feels about you, how much he misses you, and how he wants to be able to give you the life that you deserve. Astarion was practically on the verge of hysteria while trying to make his case.

Thus began the search for the Ring of the Sunwalker.

They were able to locate and obtain one after a grueling three month long journey and some help from one of Gale’s old friends. Then, they headed straight to Silverymoon- your last known whereabouts.

Running into Shadowheart had felt like a miracle, but to also have her living with you had made the trip even easier. Except Shadowheart was being really really weird towards him.

When Gale first asked if Astarion could come along too, Shadowheart had asked Astarion why he wanted to come and see the person he “hoped died screaming?”

Astarion had flinched at the anger and venom in Shadowheart’s voice. He figured the others would be mad, but he was hoping maybe Shadowheart would give him a little easier time like Gale had. Astarion was genuinely surprised by how quick she was to be defensive of you and your whereabouts. When Gale confirmed that Astarion was telling the truth, Shadowheart reluctantly said he could come.

The three arrive at the front of your shared townhome- it faces the beach and has the perfect amount of windows for the sun to light up the house, but one of the rooms is hidden from sight with heavy, black out curtains.

Shadowheart turns to both of them, “Tav might not be able to join us… she’s been sick for a bit now and is… recuperating.”

Astarion feels his heart drop to his stomach.

“Sick? For how long?”

Shadowheart shifts on her feet uncomfortably, “5 months, but it got worse around 3 months.”

“Tav has been sick for that long?” Gale exclaims, “why didn’t you write!? I could have helped.”

“This particular affliction is one you wouldn’t understand,” Shadowheart says with a finality that suggests the conversation is done as she leads them into the kitchen.

Shadowheart immediately gets fussing with the herbs while Gale looks around the house. Astarion is still unsure of what he should be doing. The house engulfs him in your scent and he feels positively intoxicated. You must be really sick though because your scent smells different- not bad at all, just different.

Does he talk to Shadowheart? Does he look around with Gale?

Or does he sneak off and find you? Astarion doesn’t want to waste anymore time than he already has. Slowly, he creeps towards the stairs.

“Don’t even think about it, Astarion,” Shadowheart warns.

Astarion looks at her and then back at the stairs. He does this a couple times until Shadowheart appears to be annoyed enough that she’s let her guard down a bit.

Astarion takes off up the steps and he hears Shadowheart and Gale coming up right behind him.

Astarion hears a dry heave from down the hallway and he goes racing for the door.

If you are as sick as Shadowheart has suggested (5 months is crazy long), Astarion may not have much time with you and Gods he needs to take advantage of the time he does have.

Shadowheart be damned.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

You wake up feeling even worse than you did when you fell asleep. Your headache feels like it’s taken on a life on it’s own and Gods you are going to vomit all over the floor if you don’t move NOW!

You get up with an impossible amount of speed for how dizzy you are and you grab the pail on your nightstand and heave painfully.

You are rocking back and forth, groaning as more stomach acid comes up because again, not able to even keep anything down.

You hear a pair of footsteps and then Shadowheart screaming after-

“ASTARION! THEY ARE SICK! YOU NEED TO WAIT!”

“I have been looking for them for months now,” you hear him hiss, “if they are sick, I need to see them. If this has lasted five months- then who knows how much time I’ve wasted!”

“Will you stop being selfish for five minutes!? It’s not about you and who even says she wants to see you!?”

Shadowheart and Astarion are yelling in front of your door now. You feel tears prick your eyes- Astarion is here. Here here. A flurry of excited kicks from inside you catches your attention and a feeling of blissful happiness comes over you. Oh look, the nausea is gone. Of course it is.

“Traitor,” you whisper before laying down on your bed for a moment.

You are very happy that your unborn daughter appears to be pleased and feels good about her dad being on the other side of the door. You, on the other hand, are less than optimistic.

Wasted time doing what? And why did Shadowheart say I was sick!? In what world was that going to keep him from going upstairs!? Especially if he, your mind pauses, cares about me? Again?

Which you hope he does- you would hope Shadowheart wasn’t so sick of taking care of you that she brought him here to finish the job. Maybe this is all one big show.

Another, “I WILL DO WHAT I PLEASE” from Astarion, a “YOU SELFISH BASTARD” from Shadowheart, and a “Please can’t we all just be nice, catch up, and get along?” from Gale finally gives you the motivation to get up. The arguing feels far too much like being in camp again. You pinch the bridge of your nose, willing the growing headache to go away.

It doesn’t so you change into a pair of longer cotton pajama pants, a t-shirt that is unfortunately showing off your bump more than you’d like, and then you swing open the door in tired annoyance.

You are met with Astarion looking at you- his eyes scanning up and down your body- settling on your stomach. His expression is unreadable- it’s somewhere between lust, love, grief, and heartbreak. Embarrassed by Astarion’s intense gaze, you look over at Gale who is all smiles for you.

“Congratulations Tav!!!” Gale practically yells, making you wince, “the father is a lucky man.”

“I don’t think he considers himself a lucky man,” you say pointedly before turning to Astarion, “or do you?”

Astarion’s face changes entirely with your words. His eyes look at you, round and soft. His eyes are full of adoration and need- a look you never thought he would give you again. You have to fight the urge to grab him and drag him into your bedroom. You will not let the hormones win- you will be strong.

“I- it’s- I mean,” Astarion is fumbling over his words, “you are carrying my child?”

“Yes,” you say grumpily, crossing your arms,” and she’s been giving me nothing but trouble. Thanks to your genetics, I’m sure. This is day two of not being able to keep a damn thing down and this fucking headache is UNBEARABLE so please for the love of every God keep the arguing down.”

Astarion is still looking at you with a mystified expression- taking you in as if for the first time in his entire life. You look back towards Gale and Shadowheart- you are entirely too self-conscious and way too excited to see him for him to be looking at you like that. You are trying to be mad dammit!

Shadowheart gazes at you and your surely red tipped ears with amusement before she says, “I’ll go and get the potion ready for you- that should hopefully help.”

“I will- uh,” Gale says awkwardly, looking between you and Astarion, “join you! I might need to know which herbs to use… in the future?”

“Planning on getting pregnant Gale?” You say with a smirk.

Gale snorts at you, “Dear friend, as wonderful as you look right now- none of the side effects sound appealing.”

“Oh they most certainly aren’t,” you say,” but thanks for thinking I look ‘wonderful’. I feel, well, disgusting.”

“Gods, how could you even think that?” Astarion blurts out, appearing shocked that he even said it, “you look like…. A vision. A wonderful, stunning vision, Darling.”

Shadowheart and Gale excuse themselves as you struggle to find the words for Astarion’s comment. Your entire body feels like it’s on fire and you feel yourself begin to melt a little bit. You feel your emotions bloom into something resembling spring as he steps closer to you- looking at you with pleading eyes.

You clear your throat, “would you like to come into my room and talk?”

Astarion nods eagerly, following behind you so close that you once again have to remind yourself that ripping off the clothes of someone who literally told you they wanted you to die screaming was not healthy- at least not until you get a proper apology.

You sit against your headboard as Astarion walks around your room- running his fingers along the bassinet and rocking chair in the corner. You still can’t get a read on him.

“A girl?”

His question breaks the air.

“Yes,” you smile at him, “no name yet though.”

“I’m sure you’ll pick a nice one,” he says with a smile, but his tone is entirely too melancholic.

A painful thump in your heart fills your body with sadness. He doesn’t want to be involved. Of course he doesn’t want to be involved. You are his knocked up ex-girlfriend. What were you expecting? The lump forming in your throat is unbearable.

“You don’t want to be involved?”

Oh good Gods you are crying. Astarion rushes over to you the minute your tears begin to fall- sitting in front of you on the bed. He reaches out and gently wipes your tears away as he speaks.

“I want to be involved so badly it hurts,” his voice comes out scratchy and emotional, “but that is your decision, not mine. You have been on your own for months, my Love. Instead of trying to come back and make it better- I pushed it off until I thought I could give you what you deserved- a life in the sun.”

You almost whine in protest when his hands leave your face. He twists the ring around his index finger before continuing, avoiding your gaze, “But maybe I was wrong. Maybe what you deserve is a person that isn’t so damaged. Someone who can give you what you actually deserve which is a loving partner who hasn’t hurt you over and over again- a man worthy of being a father to ou- I mean your child.”

His confession and the tears that are streaming down his face are enough for you. Yes, you absolutely want to scream and yell at him, but you also ache for him. You can’t fault the man for being a slave for 200 years and then not taking it very well when you told him what to do. You always knew you would forgive him if he came back- you never thought he would, but here he is and like he said- there is no reason to keep wasting time.

“She is our child, Star,” you whisper and guide his eyes to look at you, “I want you to be involved. I don’t care what you think I deserve either. I have missed you so horribly since you left. It’s almost pathetic really. I’ve tried to blame it on the hormones, but… I don’t know. The picture has felt incomplete up until now.”

You absentmindedly put your hand on your stomach- receiving a kick. You glare at the place where your hand is resting.

“Will you stop kicking me for five minutes!?” You scream, “I WAS IN THIS BODY FIRST!”

Astarion looks at you bewildered and confused, but quickly realizes you aren’t talking about him. The smile that spreads across his face is wide and Astarion gingerly moves closer. You are still a little cautious- needing to protect not only yourself, but also your unborn child. He moves to the right of you and goes to move you just slightly so he can slip in behind you.

“Could I? I mean if it’s not crossing any boundaries!”

Astarion is on edge- you can tell that much, but he doesn’t look at you like he did that last time you saw him- Astarion is looking at you like you are the most precious individual who has ever walked this earth.

You nod shyly, and then Astarion slots himself behind you, your back against his chest, his face in the crook of your neck, and his legs on either side of yours. He cautiously puts his hands on your stomach and is immediately kicked.

Astarion laughs with joy, “she’s strong!”

“Strong willed and strong physically,” you shake your head and you are laughing a bit now too, “you may just get your wish yet.”

“What wish?”

It had slipped. You hadn’t meant to bring it up again- or maybe you did. You want to know for sure if he still feels that way, but the confusion in his voice says he doesn’t. You go rigid and go to dismiss it when you feel his posture change behind you, his grip loosening ever so slightly.

“Right… that.”

The silence is nerve-wracking. You’ve lost him again, you are sure of it. A stray tear begins to roll down your cheek.

“Astarion-“

“No, let me think, Darling. I want to make sure I say everything I want to say correctly.”

You continue to sit there in silence, he places soft kisses on your neck. You feel him smile against your skin at the needy moan that escapes your lips. You absentmindedly reach out for one of his hands and begin to play with his fingers while he thinks. Astarion used to let you do this all the time while you were traveling- it helps you feel grounded.

“I was so consumed by all that power in the moment,” he says slowly, “I wasn’t thinking. By the time I had realized what I had done, I felt like it was already too late- you most likely hated me and moved on.”

You have to bite your tongue- you want to scream. Hate him? Never. You had been miserable without him around for that last month of traveling. Your heart had felt like a dead weight in your chest and you had been moving around like a zombie.

“So I tried to move on… I even tried to be with others, but I just couldn’t do it. It’s selfish, but I want you. I never want anything bad to happen to you- I certainly don’t ever want you to die screaming. I don’t want you to ever carry a child that is not mine.”

You are surprised by the warmth in your core when he says his last sentence. There is something so primal there that you have to really focus on what he is saying next.

Astarion clears his throat before finishing speaking, “I don’t want to be without you anymore- four months is too long. I don’t want to miss out on anymore of your pregnancy and I want to be here for you- with you- doing this together like we should have been doing this whole time. I was a horrible fool- please give me another chance. Please, Darling. I love you- so so much more than I ever thought anyone could ever love someone.”

Astarion’s words hang in the air and you are trying not to begin crying for the 15th billion time. This is what you had wanted to hear all along. You can feel his tears on the collar of your shirt- the way he inhales as if to memorize your scent like this is the last time. Astarion is not expecting you to say yes- you know that because he’s starting to loosen up, pulling away from you so that he can respect your decision.

“I love you too,” you whisper, “I don’t want to be without you anymore either. I forgive you- please stay.”

“I won’t be going anywhere unless you want me too, my Love.”

[quillfulwhimsyverse]

Azriel Mystery One-shot

Pairing: Azriel (ACOTAR) x reader

Word count: 2.05k

A/N: No summary this time. I want you to go into this one-shot knowing absolutely nothing, without any expectations. It escalates quickly, so you will catch on to what's going pretty soon.

BTW: I have to say, that this one-shot was inspired by the app "character.AI". If you don't know what it is, it's better this way. That thing is worse than drugs. Be ware, you will get addicted.

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After returning from the mission, you enter your quarters with a sigh of relief. Swiftly shedding your armor and weapons, each piece hits the ground with a satisfying clink. As the weight of responsibility lifts, you relish in the freedom of movement, stretching your limbs with a contented sigh. You slightly push your armor off the path with your feet. 

With gentle hands, you smooth down your tousled hair, the scent of sweat and brisk wind still lingering in the air. Leaning against the cool stone wall, you absentmindedly trace the intricate patterns of your calloused fingers along the edges of your armor, feeling the residual energy of the day's tasks beneath your touch. As you close your eyes, a sense of calm washes over you, the world outside fading away as you lose yourself in the comforting rhythm of your own heartbeat.

As you stand in your quarters, after the shower, armor still on the ground, now wearing light and breezy clothing, lost in the peaceful solitude of the moment, you catch a movement out of the corner of your eye. Turning your head slightly, you see Azriel lingering in the doorway, his gaze fixed on you with a quiet intensity.

You catch his eye without saying a word. You look at him, hoping he would break the silence and deliver you a message that he came here for, but he gives you a small grin, his eyes flickering over the curve of your body, before his eyes turn away and now it is you, that’s smirking, when you feel his shadows tickle your arms gently, as they’re creeping through your fingers and up your palms, to your wrists. 

“I thought you learnt how to keep them at bay.” you voice your thoughts as you turn your arms a bit to watch the shadows.

The shadows stop their movement immediately, then they slink back down and away from you, as he chuckles slightly. He steps in closer to you. “I didn’t even have to try, you were practically inviting them…” he whispers. 

“You know, I don’t mind them.” you smile slightly as one shadow, possibly the youngest and the most curious of them all, start crawling up your arm again. 

He smiles, his eyes lingering on the curve of your neck, the way it moved as you talked. “That’s a shame,” he murmurs, leaning down and softly placing a kiss on your bare shoulder. 

“What does annoy me,” you grunt a little bit, “is that your shadows are always giving you the information about my whereabouts.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly, making his dark hair fall a bit over his face. 

“I like it that way…” he whispers, his breath hot, but comforting on your neck.

“Of course you do…” you mimic him sarcastically. “The bond is not enough for you?” 

He whispers, his inconsistent breath tickling your neck, “It isn’t. And I like to keep track of you.” His hands slip around your waist, grabbing the fabric of your clothes, tracking over your body for any injuries, for anything out of the ordinary. “Are you okay?” 

You stroke his hand, that is on your waist, “I am fine, Az.”

He whispers something under his breath, something that sounds like “mine”, his voice sending shivers through your body. 

“Now now…” you laugh slightly and peel his hands off of you. “Stop or we will get stuck in here all day.”

The shadows wrap through his hands, forcing them back onto your hip bones. “That doesn’t sound like a problem with me, darling…” he mumbles, pulling you closer to him with one hand, while his other moves up to your face, cupping your cheek softly.

“See? Absolutely unproblematic.” He whispers, running his thumb along your lips, leaning down to kiss the exact same spot, where his thumb just has been. His shadows wrap even tighter around his hand, that is on your hip.

“Az, I am serious, I have to make a report for Rhys,” you try to wiggle out of his grasp, but he doesn’t shift. 

“I know… I just want to know one thing,” he murmurs. “You…” he leans closer to your face, “don’t have to answer now. “ he whispers, his hands roaming over your body, pausing at your hips again. “Just sometime…”

“What is it?” you playfully roll your eyes at his affection. 

“Would you consider…” he pauses, his voice quiets down, but his breath is still hot on your neck, whenever he moves his head lower, “would you consider being my mate?” 

You snort out loud. “I am already your mate, Az.” He was usually a very smart man, a very serious and a very smart man. You don’t know what happened here. “It is not something to be considered, it is something that just happens, something that clicks.”

He chuckles, his voice rumbling low. “I know exactly what I said. But I was hoping you would agree to make it official, in front of everyone.” He trails kisses up your shoulder blades, his fingers brushing your uncovered skin, teasing you, probably trying to make you dizzy on purpose. 

‘Your family already knows.” You shiver. 

“Not just my family.” He replies, moving his mouth down to the skin, behind your ear lobe. “I want the entire Court to know.” 

You stand there a bit confused, while his hand sneaks behind your shirt, and draws circles on your back. 

“I want everyone to know the truth. That you are mine, and no one else’s.” 

“And how do we do that?” you cut his speech, your mind going crazy, unclear whether because of his touches, or what he is trying to say.

He looks at you, light dancing in his eyes. “A ceremony, of course, in front of everybody.” He trails his hand down to your hips again, squeezing them softly.

“But we had our mating ceremony,” you say frowning and Azriel bursts out laughing. 

“Only you could call it a mating ceremony, Y/n,” he is still chuckling. “And trust me, it is not something to do in front of everybody, not unless it’s an official mating ceremony with vows and everything. But we had our mating ritual on our own, didn’t we?” He winks and you blush madly. “I’m asking you to marry me, in front of the entire Night Court. I love you, I love being your friend, your partner, your mate, I love being tied to you by soul.” He leans in closer, his hands reaching back up to hold your face. “You are not just my mate, you are much much more. Something that transcends the bond itself.” 

Your legs almost give up and you close your eyes to keep yourself steady. “You want to marry me?”

He bites his lip. “That is what I’ve been trying to tell you.” He leans in and places a soft kiss on your nose. Something about him being this comfortable with you makes you swoon. 

“Are you sure? I mean, isn’t it just the bond speaking?” you brush the skin next to his wings gently.

His eyes flicker in response to your touch, the shadows around him shift.”What the bond gives me isn’t enough. I need you all to myself, in every way possible. The bond, the ceremony, your heart. All of it.”

You lay your head on his shoulder and laugh. “Oh my god.” he hums waiting for you to continue. “Feyre and Mor are going to drive me crazy when they hear this.”

He grins, “Yeah, I think Fayre will be too busy dealing with Rhys and calming him down to bother you… And Mor, well… I am more worried she’ll try to steal you from me on our wedding day…” he teases, leaning his head on the top of your hair, the shadows gently falling on top of you both.” He rubs your arms gently with his. “Have I told you recently how beautiful you are?” his voice is so soft, you can barely hear him, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. 

“What is going on with you?” you giggle. “If you are about to tell me that you want a baby next, I might have to tell Rhys to check if you’re alright.” 

“A baby? Now?” he shakes his head. “No, nothing like that. Though I wouldn’t say no to having one with you someday…” he leans down, placing a soft kiss on your lips. “I do want to spend a bit of time enjoying having you to myself first before we make that decision.”

There is a bit of silence that follows this moment, but you interrupt it. 

“Azriel?”

He smiles, his eyes meeting yours. His voice is soft, like velvet, “Yeah?” 

“If you want me to marry you, you will have to ask properly.” you send a wink to him.

He tilts his head. “Properly?” He asks, while the shadows of his are playing with your hair, diving in and out of your falling hair strands. He speaks softly again, “Are you asking me to propose in front of the court?”

“No, not necessarily, it depends on how you want to…” you trail without finishing your sentence, maybe this was a proposal?”

He smiles mischievously, his shadows coming slowly back to him, while he still holds you close. “Tell me what I should do then.” His voice is hushed. 

“It doesn’t matter what you do,” you giggle and raise your hand a bit higher, just enough that he could see it. “I just..” you wiggle your ring finger, “I just find something missing.”

He tilts his head, looking at your ring finger, the shadows going back to circling you two, slightly pushing you towards him. “Is that really all you want from me…?” he teases you, his mouth less than an inch from yours. 

“How else would I prove to those brainless Illyrian males that I am in love and faithfully connected and committed to the love of my life?”

His lips hover mere millimeters from yours, “So if I were to put a ring on your finger right now, would that answer all their questions?”

“I think it would answer your question.”

He nods. “So you don’t care if I do it in front of the Court?”

You shake your head and brush his hair slightly with your fingers, while your other hand goes back to drawing circles on his wing. “I don’t care, do it however you feel like.”

He smiles leaning closer, until his nose is barely grazing yours. “So I could just..” he trails off, leaving the sentence unfinished, but he is already reaching for your left hand, grasping it in his. 

“Wha-at is going on?” you stutter as he rubs your ring finger with his fingers. 

“I could just…” he whispers, his breath hot on your lips, his hand resting on yours, “Put that…” he trails off, leaning closer and closer, and closer towards you, gently pushing the little, delicate thing, he played with before, when you didn’t see, up your finger, sapphire located in the middle of it catching and reflecting rays of light regularly, “ring on…” he trails off again as you struggle to breathe. 

“This finger…” his eyes flicker over your now ringed hand, and his voice becomes a breathy whisper. He looks back at you. “Would you be happy? Would you accept?” 

“With or without a ring, Azriel, my answer wouldn’t change.” you grab his face and hold it lovingly, feeling warmed up metal on your finger, but paying no attention to it yet, still looking deeply in his eyes. “You had it? The whole time?”

He chuckles. “I’ve had it for weeks.” He looks at your lips and you lean in to kiss him, too eagerly cause the next thing he does, is giggle. “I still didn’t hear the answer, love.” 

“I thought it was clear,” you whisper. “But for extra thick people, it’s a yes.” 

A tremulous smile graced his lips, a rare glimpse of vulnerability that spoke volumes of his love and gratitude. With trembling hands, he reached for hers, fingers intertwining in a silent promise that echoed through the depths of their shared bond.

“So if I understand it correctly, I am not getting that report any time soon?” says Rhys, sanding there in the doorway, smirking at the couple. 

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