#he was hit with insanely bad symptoms

[golden-afternoon]

Yeah I was working on another actual fic but uhhh the 'Nari brainrot took over so uhhh here take me going insane over him and rambling about what comes to my mind. Kay? Kay.

Warnings - nsfw, mating cycle talk from a person who only has google by her side, absolutely not proofread having gone straight from brain to paper, and just know there is a solid chance I'll have more to say about this in the future.

Tighnari, by his very nature, is a very compartmentalized person. His own problems stay within himself to be dealt with later when he is done and everyone else's needs are already attended to. Always concerned with helping others and keeping things in order, even to the point of staying up into the early hours of the morning, less concerned with himself than those around him. If he’s ever struggling with anything at all, he will do absolutely everything in his power to keep anyone from knowing about it, much less something as personal as this.

In the early months of the year, especially as Lantern Rite nears, Tighnari becomes withdrawn. Quieter, more distant. The Forest Watchers have been talking for forever back and forth swapping theories and rumors in not so hushed tones.

“I heard Master Tighnari lost a family member around this time of year.”

“Really? I heard he just reeeeally hates any kind of festivities especially Lantern Rite because it's so noisy, even when not in Liyue.”

“I dunno, maybe he's just sensitive to the cold?”

Unlike the usual case where he was quick to nip such chatter in the bud and tell off the Rangers for gossiping, he remains entirely silent on the issue, otherwise carrying on as usual. Setting up excursions, documenting his findings, helping and guiding wherever he was needed…

Until he just can't stand it anymore. With hardly a word, save perhaps to Collei to ask her to care for things in his absence, he retreats, hiding himself away in his hut, barricading himself in completely so no nosy Rangers have any reason to loiter around.

He hates it.

He understands it's natural and it's going to happen and blah blah blah, but it was such a nuisance to his life he would give anything to not have to put up with it. The worst of it usually lasts a week or two before he can at least carry some semblance of normalcy and feel willing and able to return to work, but while he's in it, it drives him insane.

Some years it's so bad that he can't even focus on anything other than the absolutely filthy thoughts that plague his mind, his hands shaking so hard he can't even hold a pen long enough to attempt any sort of work. Even like this he just doesn't feel right not being productive especially when he's always running around here and there the rest of the year, why should this be any different?

Head slamming into his desk with a groan, a flush curling up his cheeks and neck. Eventually he has to crack, begrudgingly caring for the needs that grow and grow and grow and become nigh insatiable during his rut.

It starts out almost clinical, looking to just take care of a symptom of an illness almost. Face flushed, lips curled into a deep frown, he sits at his desk, fisting his cock with precision, hoping to get it over with as fast as possible by hitting everything just right.

But no. After dealing with this for years you think he would have known by now that just once isn't enough, yet he still hopes year after year. It only gets worse. Over and over and over again until he's just sore and it hurts. Until he can't keep jerking it lest he make his own skin turn raw. By this point he usually finds himself in his bed, ears flat and face buried into some blankets to muffle the pathetic whimpers that left his lips as he kept grinding his hips into the pillows over and over and over and over, chasing even the slightest modicum of relief.

And most of the time, as annoying as it is, it was completely fine for him to just be stuck imagining some faceless, nameless mate beneath him as he struggled to sate these urges. However, if Tighnari has a bit of a crush… Well, he'd be in for a rude awakening if he hadn't already acknowledged his feelings for you.

I could see poor Tighnari getting almost ill as he realized the cute moans he was imagining sounded a little too much like your voice. Everything freezes for a moment, his stomach lurching both from the realization and the sudden loss of friction when he faltered. He tries so hard to brush it aside, chastising himself for pulling you into his filthy mind right then. But it doesn't stop. Your face, your voice, your skin. Everything. Everything stays in his mind and he cannot stop it. He feels such overwhelming shame about it, but… he does eventually give in and just let whatever fantasies take root, especially since it seems to ease the feelings when he does.

But when he sees you after the worst of it is over and he leaves his hut, guilt grips around his heart and memories of those fantasies rush into his head, leaving him turning on his heel to avoid you at all costs, honestly risking you thinking he hates you with how intensely he's ignoring you.

It's even worse because Tighnari considers hiding in his hut again for even longer as usually he was fine when the worst of it passed, he could resume his duties, but with you around, he could feel his hands shaking, the intense urge to find you wherever you were and pin you down immediately was so strong it scared him a little. Sometimes it caught him off guard too, like he would catch your scent on the breeze and while in his rut, he would genuinely get so horny so fast he's gotten lightheaded, having to catch himself on whatever was nearby so he didn't go crashing down.

If he hated his rut before, the shame of all this made him absolutely loathe it.

Maybe one day you can find a way to make it a liiiiittle more bearable for him ♡

[spideystevie]

bad for business

summary: steve’s good for your heart but he’s really bad for business word count: 4.5k a/n: me every time i post after being mia for months: who’s missed me! this was technically supposed to be inspired by bad for business by sabrina carpenter and then suddenly it wasn’t. not even sure there’s much of a plot but alas! also feel a little rusty at this right now, it’s been a while since i’ve really written anything but i’ve missed steve a crazy insane amount. love you, miss you, hope you all enjoy this <3

You’re late. You’re never late. 

The bell above the door to Dottie’s jingles as you hurry inside. Your fingers work on muscle memory to tie your apron around your waist as you slide through the mismatched seating arrangements inside the diner to get to the back office. 

You’re not sure if the way your stomach flips is from it being full of a single gulp of coffee or because it’s more than an hour past when you should’ve been here. The time punch on your card reads 9:07 am and your stomach lurches. Definitely not the coffee. 

It’s a Sunday, arguably your busiest day in the diner and arguably the worst day for you to show up like this. No doubt Dottie has noticed but you’re hoping against hope that she didn’t. God, what are you going to tell her?

Sorry Dottie! My super hot, super charming boyfriend wouldn’t let me out of bed this morning! Won’t happen again! 

Your face feels warm, like you’ve just spent an extensive amount of time in the sun in the middle of July. You knew you shouldn’t have stayed over last night, but you were so tired and Steve’s couch is way more comfier than yours. It really doesn’t help that his bed isn’t any different. 

“Lots of traffic this morning?” you jump, notepad falling out of your hand. Susan starts to snicker as you drop down to pick it up. There’s a smirk on her face when you rise to full height. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail and her name tag is crooked on her apron. You’re not sure you’d consider Susan one of your closest friends but you find yourselves pulled together considering she’s the only other young person working here. 

“Oh you know…,” your voice rises in pitch and you clear your throat, hitching one shoulder up to your ear in a shrug. “Sometimes you just hit every red.”

Susan’s eyes narrow. There’s only one working light on your usual route to work. Coming from Steve’s adds only two. Not to mention, you didn’t drive yourself today. Steve dropped you off, promising to pick you up at 4 on the dot when your shift ended. Susan pops her gum in her mouth, not convinced with your fib.

“Right.”

“Yeah. Now if you’ll excuse me, Cliff is waiting for me in his usual booth,” you hurry past before she can ask you anything incriminatory. You hear Dottie before you see her, on your way to grab the coffee pot. 

“You feeling okay, sweetie? You’re normally here right on the dot. An hour isn’t like you.”

Dottie’s older than most and she’s been running the diner outside Hawkins for a whopping 30 years now. She hangs out behind the counter and loves to chat with the regulars and get to know those just passing through. With rosy cheeks and gray streaked hair almost always pulled out of her face in a bun, she’s almost like another mom with how long you’ve been working here. 

You snag the excuse she basically throws you out of the air. 

“Had a bit of a rough night, but I’m feeling a lot better now, Dot. Didn’t realize I had overslept until I heard the birds chirping outside. It won’t happen again,” you say. 

You didn’t oversleep actually. Whatever natural circadian clock inside of you wakes you up at almost the same time every workday but Steve can be quite convincing when he wants to be. Your heart does a little sigh of his name. Steve. You swallow and try to blink away the image of him.

Dottie gives you a sympathetic smile with a concerned tilt of the head, taking your flustered mannerisms and the way you wipe your palms against the sides of your jeans as lingering symptoms of whatever she thinks ailed you last night. She squeezes your bicep, the press of her mixed metal rings cool against your skin.

“Take it easy today, okay? You let me know if you need anything.”

“Course, Dottie. Thank you,” you give her a smile and grab the coffee pot. 

Cliff sits at the same spot every morning. A little booth along the window wall, three down from the door to the diner. He looks a bit rough around the edges, his coat well loved and worn and his hands weathered from years of hard work. He’s worn the same baseball cap every time you’ve seen him and he’s always got a copy of the morning paper open and propped in front of his face. 

He spots you out of the corner of his eye and scoots his empty mug closer to the table’s edge. You smile and pour the coffee, leaving enough room for his two packets of Sweet ‘n’ Low to be stirred in. 

“Anything new this morning, Cliff?” 

You’ve only known Cliff on his own, but you know he used to come with his late wife Winnie for coffee every morning before she passed. He’d summarize the big news and events and she’d do the crosswords on the back. Now, you let him summarize to you and he leaves the paper on the table for you. You do the crosswords on your break. 

“Same old, same old. They’re thinking about rebuilding the mall that burned down in Hawkins a few summers ago. You hear anything about that?” He sets the paper down to the right of his coffee mug and grabs two pink packets of sweetener. You watch him tear the paper and pour them in. When he looks at you, you shake your head. 

“First time I’m hearing of it. My boyfriend used to work there before it…you know,” you mention, unable to stop the morsel of information from slipping out. A twinkle sparks in Cliff’s eye, a small smile on his face as he diverts his attention back to his mug. The spoon he’s stirring with clinks against the coffee stained ceramic walls. 

“Are you ever gonna bring this boyfriend of yours around here so I can actually see that he’s real?” He’s teasing, tapping the handle of the spoon against the rim of the mug and setting it in the gap between the coffee and the newspaper. You roll your eyes but a smile lifts your cheeks. 

“I don’t know if that’d be too good for business around here,” you joke. 

“And was he the reason you were late giving me my coffee this morning?” He's quick to cover his smirk with the coffee mug as he takes a sip. Your mouth falls agape and you fluster, shaking your head and laughing shakily. 

“Ha ha, very funny, Cliff. No, he was not. There was traffic!” Cliff makes a face at this and you don’t blame him. Has the traffic excuse ever worked for living in a small town, you wonder. “And I had a rough night and accidentally overslept, is all.”

He grabs his morning paper again and opens it up. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

The rest of the morning starts to fly by in a blur. You recite your favorites off the menu to a couple passing through from Chicago. Refill Cliff’s coffee twice, each time dodging whatever he tries to insinuate about your tardiness this morning. Sneak an extra pancake onto little Sofie’s plate with a wink. The early morning breakfast rush blows through and things start to quiet down. 

You’re wiping down the table adjacent to Cliff’s booth. His mug is empty and he’s left the paper for you like usual. The bell rings as he opens the door to leave. 

“See you tomorrow, Cliff!” you call after him and he raises a hand in a wave as he walks through the door, thanking the young man that holds it for him. 

You have to do a double take as you swipe the paper off the table. It’s not just any young man in passing holding the door, no it’s Steve coming inside Dottie’s. It’s Steve standing at the entrance in his usual Levi’s and a white tee with sleeves that seem to strain around his biceps with windswept hair and a bright smile when he sees you. 

There goes your heart again with the sigh of his name. Steve. Though maybe this time you think it was your voice instead, airy and soft. You can’t believe he’s here. It’s nowhere near 4’o’clock. You’re aware of Dottie’s eyes on you behind the counter and Susan’s from across the diner and nearly every regular scattered about as well. 

Your knees wobble at the sight of him, the disbelief fading away and giddy smile falling into place as he meets you next to Cliff’s booth. Cliff, who’s standing outside the diner and staring and you worry he might come back inside to hound you and insist you introduce him, but he doesn’t. 

Steve wraps an arm around your waist, fingers hot against the side of your stomach through the layers of your apron and shirt, and dips to press a kiss to your cheek in greeting. There’s a rush of a swoon that goes down to your toes, the bulk of it getting stuck in your abdomen and swirling like crazy.

You’re in the middle of a greasy old diner but Steve’s somehow tucked you away from prying eyes and into your own little safety bubble. He’ll be the death of you one day. Your heart’ll just keep expanding until it can’t fit inside your ribcage anymore and has no choice but to explode from adoration and kill you. 

“What are you doing here?” you wonder aloud, eyes scanning all around his face, taking in every freckle and crinkle and mole. You pause for a minute on his lips and then you blink and find his eyes. He’s smiling at you, in a way that tells you he caught that and you feel struck by that feeling of being caught in the July sun again. He looks around the diner and everyone’s attention goes back to what they were doing before.

“Thought I’d surprise you! Also, it’s supposed to rain later and you didn’t take a jacket so I brought you one.”

Only then do you notice the gray fabric in his other hand and your heart twists and flips and oh god, you think this might be the moment it explodes. He presses it into your hands, the newspaper crinkling against it. 

“What’s that?” he asks as you go to thank him. Your brow cinches for a minute before it smooths in comprehension.

“Oh! Cliff,” you point towards the door he’d just walked through, “one of the regulars, leaves the paper behind for me every morning so I can do the crosswords. A little tradition we’ve got going on.”

“A tradition? Should I be concerned?” He jokes and you laugh. 

“Oh, definitely. Cliff’s your biggest competition,” you throw back and now it’s his turn to laugh. A glittering light fills your chest. You glance over to where Dottie is engaged in conversation with a middle aged woman just passing through. She can’t hear you from this far but you drop your voice nonetheless. “No but, he did give me a bit of a hard time about his coffee being almost an hour late this morning.”

At your pointed look and sly smile, Steve winces, fingers pressing a quick squeeze against your side. An embarrassed blush blooms on his cheeks, bridging across his nose. “Right. Sorry.”

“Forgiven,” you lean up to press the quickest flash of a kiss to his cheek. You wrap your arms around the newspaper and jacket, holding them to your chest. “Do you wanna sit for a minute? I can get you some coffee? Although be warned, Dottie might come up and talk to you.”

His arm drops from around your waist and he nods. “Yeah. Yeah, coffee sounds great.”

You smile and motion him into Cliff’s booth. When he sits, he insists on holding onto the jacket and newspaper for you and you let him. He watches you take Cliff’s mug away and walk to Dottie behind the counter to get him a fresh one.

Dottie bumps her hip with yours as you pass and you give her a look. The pot’s nearly empty and you wait the few minutes it takes for it to fill, eyes catching on Steve while you wait. He’s stopped staring and has instead taken interest in the comics in the paper. 

“He’s handsome,” Dottie’s voice snaps you back into your senses. You glance at her and she’s got a special look in her eyes to match the smile on her face. You check the coffee pot that’s filling up quicker than normal. But your focus drifts back over to Steve, who senses your gaze and looks over to you and flashes a big grin. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, “he is.”

Dottie looks between the two of you and then takes a look around the diner. It’s not the usual Sunday hustle and bustle, post early breakfast rush and the impending rain could be the indicator for that. She's got Susan and Judy’ll be coming in any minute now and Pam right after at 12. When she looks back at you, you’re watching the last few drops of coffee fall into the pot. 

“Take the rest of the day,” Dottie says. Your eyes snap up to meet hers over the coffee pot between you.

“What?”

“Go sit and have coffee with that boy of yours and then go home,” it doesn’t sound like a suggestion, more like an order but you look around the diner and hesitate. 

“Dottie, it's Sunday. I can’t just leave this early on our busiest day of the week.”

“There’ll be other Sundays busier than this one. And you need your rest after the night you had. We’ll be okay, now go,” she pushes. You bite back a smile as you relent, kissing Dottie on the cheek as you pass with the full coffee pot and two mugs gripped tightly in your other hand. She shakes her head watching you cross back to the third booth from the door. 

Steve lights up when you enter his line of sight but his brow furrows at the two mugs held in your left hand. You set them on the table and fill them both with the fresh coffee before setting the pot down on the table. He watches you slide into the empty spot in front of him. The same place you assume Winnie occupied when she’d come here with Cliff. 

“Dottie’s letting me off early,” you say, grabbing an almost obscene amount of Sweet ‘n’ Low packets and dumping them into your mug. “Can you hand me a creamer?”

Steve finds himself staring at you, doctoring your diner coffee to how you like it, hearts for eyes and a wistful smile taking permanent residency on his face. When he doesn’t hand you the creamer right away, you look up, only a little confused but mostly amused at the blatant and overwhelming display of admiration across his features. 

“Steve?”

He blinks in quick succession and clumsily reaches for a creamer while you giggle and god, it’s killing him that he hasn’t kissed you right yet since he’s been here. You hold out your hand and he sets the mini pod on your palm, your fingers brushing his as they enclose around it with a thank you. 

He watches you finish stirring in the creamer, the coffee in your cup now a light shade of brown. You take a sip, both palms wrapped around the mug and your eyes on his when you set it down on the table. 

“You look nice,” you say, eyes dropping down to the simple white tee he’s wearing. When you look back up at his face, his smile is cheeky and his cheeks are flushed. It takes an incredible amount of self restraint not to kiss him across the table.

“Yeah? The plain white tee is really doing it for you?” he leans closer over the table, voice dropped just the slightest bit. You mirror his movement almost like there’s a magnet pulling the two of you together. Steve pulls one of your hands into his, weaving your fingers together across the table. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” there’s a flirtatious thrum in your voice that makes Steve grin. His mouth opens to respond, another silly flirty quip back when Dottie appears at the side of the table. 

“You kids want anything to eat?” 

The sound of her voice sends Steve jumping back against his seat, like he’s 15 and getting caught doing something he shouldn’t be. You lean back slowly, amusement clear on your face and a question in your eyes. Do you?

Steve looks from you and up to Dottie who watches with a knowing gleam in her eye. He starts to shake his head but then his eyes fall back to you and he’s repeating the question to you with his eyes. You consider it for a second and then shake your head slightly which Steve repeats to Dottie.

“No, we’re alright, thanks,” he says and Dottie nods. She grabs the coffee pot but doesn’t move. 

“Heard a lot about you…” she trails off and Steve’s eyes widen just a tad. 

“Oh! Steve. Harrington. Steve Harrington,” he fills in the blank for her, even reaching out his hand for her to shake. 

“Dottie. She talks a lot about you, Steve. Sometimes I don’t even think she realizes she’s doing it.”

You try to cover your face with your one free hand and groan, “Dottie.”

Steve lets out a small laugh and squeezes your hand, always finding it endearing to see you flustered. You slowly move your hand away, to which Steve gives you a quick wink which only makes you want to hide away again like you’re 16 with a crush. 

Dottie pulls him into an easy conversation. How is Hawkins? Where’d you both meet? And: Do you have a job? I expect only the best for my girl here, you know. And: you’ll have to come back and have something more than just coffee next time. 

By the time she’s finished and gone off to engage with the newest patron in the diner, your coffee’s finished and Steve’s has gone cold. You watch Dottie walk off and when you look back, Steve’s staring at you, soft and kind. His gaze makes you squirm. 

“I like her,” he says. 

“Uh oh, do I have to worry about having competition now?” you joke and Steve shakes his head with a laugh. 

“You don’t have to worry about anyone else, you’re the only one for me,” he confesses, rubbing his thumb against your hand. There’s that feeling like your heart might explode again with a sigh of his name, Steve. Though this time, you’re positive you’ve said it outloud.

“Steve,” you tilt your head, voice soft. He lifts your hand to kiss your knuckles and if you don’t kiss him in the next minute, you’re going to have a problem. As if he can sense it, Steve sticks a five on the table and grabs the jacket he’d brought for you as well as Cliff’s leftover newspaper.

He holds his hand out to you to help you out of your side of the booth and you take it, his palm soft against yours. You make it to the door and then pause. 

“Oh! Gotta grab my bag from the back,” you lean up to press a kiss against his cheek. “Meet you at the car?”

Steve nods, squeezing your hip briefly. He watches until you’ve disappeared into the back office before he walks out to his car. You come out not even a minute later, apron off and over your arm and bag hanging off your shoulder. There’s a slight skip in your step. 

The air smells like rain, an earthy petrichor that makes things somehow feel lighter. Steve’s leaning against the passenger side, the door already open and waiting for you. When you’re close enough, he hooks a finger through your bag strap to pull it off your shoulder. It gets caught on the crook of your elbow when you reach up to cup his cheeks with your hands. 

He’s confused for the briefest of seconds and then your lips are on his and he forgets about the bag on your shoulder. His hands fall to your hips, one of his arms wrapping tight around your waist. Something inside both of you is cheering, finally. 

You don’t think you’ll ever tire of kissing Steve. Both of you fit perfectly into the empty spots of each other, as if you were carved from the same stone upon creation. It’s a kiss almost far too explicit for outside Dottie’s diner midmorning on a Sunday but you can’t bring yourself to care. That is, until you need to come up for air. 

You pull back, Steve chasing your lips and winning. You’re almost smiling too much now for it to work, your hands sliding from his cheeks to the sides of his neck. This time, he pulls away and your chests rise and fall in sync. 

“Been needing to do that since you first walked inside,” you breathe out and Steve lets out a laugh that you can feel reverberate through you. He kisses you again, quick and soft and his hand moves to take your bag off your shoulder again. 

“And why didn’t you?” he jests, stepping back enough for you to get into his car. One of your hands rests on the top of it, the other hanging loose at your side. Steve wishes he had a camera on him just to capture you in that moment with the sun hitting you in just the right way, playful adoration in your eyes. 

“Because,” you shrug, stooping to get inside the car, holding a hand out for your bag when you’re situated. Steve passes it over and closes your door, jogging around the front of the car to get in the driver’s seat. 

“Because…?” he pries, sticking the key in the ignition but not yet turning it. You’re pulling your seatbelt across your chest, turning your head to smile at him as you click the buckle into place. 

“Because Dottie might’ve gotten suspicious as to why I was so late this morning,” another pointed look his way and Steve shakes his head, turning the engine over and quickly buckling in his seatbelt. He shifts into reverse, checking his rearview mirror and then slinging his arm across the back of your seat. 

It’s like a feast for your eyes. The stretch of his arm, a long expanse of muscle right by your head that carries a strong whiff of his cologne. The swift, smooth, one handed feel on the wheel. You’re staring unabashed, only getting knocked out of your reverie when he responds. 

“I’m never living this down.”

He glances at you, his arm dropping from your seat to shift into drive. You lean your head against the headrest and shake it with a smile. 

“So what was your excuse then? For being late?” 

He pulls onto the street to take you back towards Hawkins, his right hand leaving the wheel and dropping to find your hand. You take the liberty of slotting your fingers into the spaces between his. 

“Oh you know. Rough night being sick. Oversleeping. Like something out of Steve Harrington’s playbook for getting out of work,” you tease. He scoffs, sparing you a quick amused glance. You lift your hands to your lips in response, your smile hiding behind the kiss you press to his knuckles. 

“And did it work? Did she buy it?” 

“Oh, of course. Why do you think she let me off so early?” 

Steve looks over at you again and sees the slight smirk on your face. He shakes his head with a slight laugh. 

“Wow, you’ve been hanging around me too long. I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Like that’s such a bad thing,” you roll your eyes, turning your head so your cheek rests against the leather of the headrest. A gooey softness melts into your gaze. “You’re one of the best people I know.”

Steve smiles, his cheeks blooming with a slight twinge of pink. He doesn’t say anything, just takes his turn lifting your joined hands to his lips to litter kisses along your knuckles. Your heart goes mushy, such has been the case since you started dating Steve. The mush liquefies, seeping through your body with a shiver when you notice the picture he’s got propped on his dash. 

He’s had to have just added it recently. A grainy film capture of the two of you, you think Max must’ve taken it if you remember correctly but you haven’t seen it before. You’re both leaning against the hood of his car, Steve’s arm around your shoulders and your hand lifted to hold his hand that hangs there. A big toothy grin is spread across your face, your head tilted slightly against Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s not looking at the camera though, he’s looking at you with a lopsided smile, adoration spilling out of him clear as day. 

“When did you add that?” you ask, pointing at the picture with your free hand. Steve glances down at it and immediately breaks into a smile.

“Just the other day. Surprised it’s taken you so long to notice it,” he replies, looking over at you and then back at the road. You’re about to ask if you can somehow get a copy of your own when he says, “I have a copy for you at home, don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get it before you go back to your place.”

You smile at him, one that’s soft around the edges, a perfect mirror of how you feel. It feels so wonderful to be known and seen by somebody the way Steve knows and sees you. Making sure to get two prints of that picture of you. Bringing a jacket to work for you for the rain that doesn’t arrive until that afternoon as you’re about to leave his house to go back to yours. 

He uses it as an excuse to keep you with him for another night, something you weakly protest against because the roads aren’t completely slick yet and you can get home just fine. But he insists, his eyes round and pleading and really you can’t deny that you’d rather stay with him anyway. 

Even if it means you’re tired again in the morning and rushing to work. You think being with Steve is a worthy price to pay, you never thought you’d be so glad to be so tired. 

And, at least you’re not late this time.

[lucifersdickriderdotnet]

Sick and Tired

Summary: you can't say that anything about having a chronic illness is fun, but at least you have friends who care about you. 2.7k words

Disclaimer: GENDER NEUTRAL READER I wrote this in one go at like 3am. So. All of the brothers are in this but it's more platonic than anything else? If you want you can read it as romance because I did imagine kissing several of them on the mouth while writing it. also shout out to the author on ao3 that called Asmo "Momo" and then pointed out that it means "peach" in japanese. I did steal that nickname. lmk if it was you though bc I will credit you.

Notes: This is based on my own personal experience with a mystery disease that has been plaguing me since I hit puberty. I'm going to be very real, I wrote this for myself as a way to cope because I got #sad. it sucks, for sure, but there are some things that make it more bearable and isn't that how life works anyways?

The cool thing about being a human in what is essentially hell is that when diseases happen, you are more or less immune to them. The bad part about being a human in what is essentially hell is that you’re human and it’s essentially hell. Because of this, there are some things that you’ve had to explain to your housemates, or to an overeager Diavolo, or to a concerned Luke. You had to talk Lucifer down from renovating the whole House to put in an elevator because he was “worried about your flimsy human joints.”

“I have bad joints, regardless.” You remember saying, “I’m a human, it comes with the territory. Don’t put an elevator in the House, I don’t like them anyway.”

You’ve had to explain that while you’re grateful that they managed to find vitamin D supplements, they’re meant to be just that, a supplement to spending time in the sun, something the Devildom doesn’t have. So while your symptoms have been alleviated, they have not been fixed. Levi fixed this by buying you something like a heat lamp.

“Where did you even find this?” You’d said after he’d forced you underneath it.

“You’re gonna hate the words that are going to come out of my mouth.” His hands stilled from where they were busy attaching it to the wall by your bed.

“Just tell me.”

“Some demons used to, emphasis on ‘used to’, own humans as pets. So they made these little lamps to mimic the sun or whatever.” You blink at him, rapid fire before shrugging a little.

“Humans used to own each other.” He turns his head to gape at you like a fish.

“What?”

“Yeah it was a whole thing. There are still lasting repercussions that echo through our modern society.”

“That’s insane.”

“I thought I told you before that human cruelty knows no bounds.”

Solomon of course, is no help, because while he may be human, he is old. You’d complained of jaw pain once, something about your teeth aching.

“It might be a demon.” He’d said this confidently at the one dinner a month he’s allowed to have with the brothers. As per the dating-Asmo-agreement he made with Lucifer.

“It might be a what?” Satan’s head whipped towards Solomon so fast you thought he broke something.

“A demon. Tooth pain is caused by little demons in the teeth.” You stared at him like he grew a second head.

“No, it’s not. It’s caused by bacteria eating away at your teeth. And that’s just for cavities. This could be something completely different. Also, I don’t think humans have believed the demon teeth thing in forever. God, you’re old.” Your frustrated rebuttal of Solomon’s “wisdom” had not stopped the brothers from checking you up and down for curses or signs of possession.

So, for the most part. It’s fine, and you don’t mind explaining these things to them just like they don’t mind explaining demon culture to you. This though, you’ve never been able to explain to anyone, so you can’t explain it to them either.

—

“I’m so tired,” it’s noon and you woke up from sleeping two hours earlier. Asmo has dragged you out of the house for some shopping spree, and while you were excited to go, your energy levels have quickly depleted.

“But darling! We just started!” Despite saying this, he’s walking towards the register with the clothes he’s decided he likes, willing to cut his trip short if it’s for you. You shake your head.

“No, no, keep shopping. I’m always tired, Peach.” He hums and goes back to perusing the shelves while you stay seated by the dressing room for his mini fashion shows.

You don’t just get tired while hanging out with Asmo, it happens everywhere. Beel has to catch your head when you almost faceplant into your lunch. You spend a Devildom History class fighting to keep your eyes open while Satan takes twice the amount of notes as usual so you don’t fall behind. Levi asks you to watch a special livestream of a Sucre Frenzy concert and you have to sit down halfway through because you’re suddenly dizzy. You even fall tired while driving Mammon’s car, once.

He’d been in the passenger seat, fretting over your every move, and you’d understood despite the fact that it was incredibly annoying. This car was his baby, something he was incredibly proud of, something he worked hard to get. Still, having someone freak out over your driving usually makes it worse.

You’d been gently reassuring him of your skills when you felt it, the familiar pull of your eyelids, the way your brain seemed to slow down. It takes you a second longer than it should to register the red light and you have to slam on the brakes to avoid running it. It’s not too soon after that when you decide to pull over and have Mammon drive you home. You fall asleep on the way back.

—

This all comes to a head when you manage to outsleep Belphie.You aren’t sure how you did it, honestly. You went to bed on Friday afternoon and vaguely remember being woken up because a meal was ready. You remember making some sort of affirmative noise and then going back to sleep. You have hazy memories of stumbling to the bathroom and chugging down bottles of water, but mostly it was just sleep. Then, Belphie is shaking you awake. He’s saying something you can’t quite hear and Beel is picking you up and carrying you to the living room and the lights are so bright it turns your brain back on.

“Belphie, did you do somethin’?” It’s Mammon’s voice, accusatory. Someone pokes your cheek.

“So you kill a guy once and suddenly everything that happens to them is your fault?” His reply makes you snort.

“Did you or not?”

“No. This is… this is something else.” He sighs and then one of your eyelids is being manually opened so he can make eye contact with you before he lets go and your head drops slightly. “I know what my sin feels like. I know what Sloth feels like. It’s a choice, mostly. It’s the action of choosing to do nothing rather than something. This is something else. Something completely different.” You yawn and scrub at your eyes, finally opening them to stare at your posse.

“Did I get a fanclub while I was napping?”

“You’ve always had a fanclub,” Levi says quietly.

“Napping? You call that a nap?” Asmo pokes your cheek and you assume he’s the one who did it the first time.

“How do you know they have a fanclub?” Satan turns his head to Levi and his brother turns a bright shade of red.

“I’m the president.” He says. Beel raises his hand.

“I’m VP. We hold meetings every Wednesday. Lucifer pretends it’s stupid but he’s always in the club room ‘doing student council work’.”

“Can we get back to the matter at hand?” Lucifer finally interjects, not wanting to deal with his brothers’ needling. Satan grumbles something about him being a loser under his breath. “Are you aware of how long you were asleep for?”

“I mean, I dunno,” you stretch your arms above your head and almost hit someone in the face. “I remember someone coming to me about dinner, so probably a while. Why?” Lucifer sighs and rubs a hand down his face.

“It’s Sunday afternoon.” You stare at him blankly.

“This is the worst joke you’ve ever told.”

“I am not joking,” he says and Levi shoves his D.D.D under your nose. Sure enough it says that today, the day you are finally awake, is Sunday. It says that it’s 2pm. You’ve slept for almost a full 48 hours. The thought brings tears to your eyes immediately and Levi freaks out.

“No wait, don’t cry. I don’t know what to do when you cry!” His hands are flapping around your face uselessly and it makes you laugh and choke on a wet sob.

“You can back the fuck up, for starters.” Satan bodily pushes his brothers out of the way to get to you, placing a box of tissues on your lap and sitting next to you. Not close enough to touch, but enough so you know he’s there.

“Sorry,” you take a tissue and blow your nose. Beel holds out a trashcan and Asmo pretends not to be disgusted. It’s sweet. “Crying in front of people is so cringe.”

“Being vulnerable and crying is not something you should be ashamed of,” Lucifer says and it’s weird to have your own words parroted back at you.

“Why’re you apologizin’ anyway? ‘S not like you did anythin’ wrong. We’re just worried is all.” Mammon runs a hand over your hair as he says it before remembering himself and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Because it’s never been this bad before. I’ve never slept for damn near two days.”

“So this is a recurring problem?” Satan has procured a notebook from out of nowhere and has his hand poised to write down what you’re saying. Presumably to go scour his books for a solution.

“Yeah. It’s … I’m tired a lot. Always, really. I’m tired right now, actually. Sometimes it’s worse than others but … I don’t really know what’s wrong.” You huff, “I was actually in the process of getting tests done to figure it out when I got magic-ed here. Isn’t that funny?”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Asmo is resting his head on your shoulder and you tilt your head so it rests on his.

“Not really. ‘M sorry, Peach. I’d tell you if there was.”

“I always wondered why you had such deep eyebags. I thought it was something in your skincare routine.”

“It’s also genetic.”

“Humans have genes for dark under eyes?” He sounds horrified at the prospect.

“Sure do.”

“That’s miserable.” You laugh at him and he squeezes your hand gently.

“So, yer just… tired.” Mammon asks.

“Mhm.”

“Chronically.”

“Also yes.”

“I didn’t know you knew the word ‘chronic’, Mammon,” Belphie ribs Mammon from his spot on the floor. You kick him slightly.

“Don’t be an ass.” He sighs dramatically and flops over onto his back.

“It’s good to know it’s not a freaky demon thing.” He peers up at you from underneath his bangs.

“Yeah. I’m kind of tired of dealing with freaky demon things. No offense.” There’s a chorus of agreement throughout the room and you can see everyone relax a little now that they know.

“It is a shame though,” Lucifer says, “that it is not demon related.” His brow furrows. “Those I can fix.” You shrug and slightly jostle Asmo’s head.

“Eh. That’s life. Thank you for being concerned though, I appreciate it.” Your stomach grumbles. “I guess I should eat, huh?” Asmo graciously lifts his head off your shoulder and you head to the kitchen, Beel on your tail.

“There’s nothing we can do?” He looks sad, and he’s rubbing his wrist in that way he does when he’s nervous. You’re struck with the realization that Beel is the defender of his family. He’s physically the biggest and the strongest, and he’s been looking after them and taking care of them physically for basically forever. It must be excruciating for him to not be able to help you.

“No,” you shake your head sadly, “I’m sorry, Bug.” You step forward and give him a hug. He returns it and you pretend you can’t feel him cry.

—

Things are different after that. Asmo tries to hang out with you in places closer to the House or in his room. Lucifer pulls you aside and tells you both his room and his study are always open for you if you need them. Beel takes you to the gym with him so you don’t stay too sedentary, but is always willing to stop working out if you need to go home. Satan almost gets into a physical altercation with a teacher over you sleeping in class and you find out later that Belphie gave him nightmares for a week. Levi doesn’t make you sit through as many anime binges anymore, instead separating them up into something more bite sized so you can properly enjoy it. It’s nice, you think, that they’re trying to take your needs into consideration.

Diavolo catches wind of it and sneaks his way over to the House to ask you questions. Walks into Lucifer’s study where you’re trying to do assigned reading like he owns it, and you think that he probably does in some way.

“Diavolo–” Lucifer stands up and Diavolo laughs.

“Don’t worry! There is nothing wrong! I just had some questions for our lovely exchange student.” He sits down in the armchair across from you and you set your notebook down.

“What’s up?” You can hear Lucifer mumbling prayers to a God who will no longer listen to them and it makes you snort.

“I have learned of your condition.”

“I gathered.”

“There is nothing I can do?”

“Do you have several degrees and a shit ton of fancy machinery?” Lucifer chokes at your language. Diavolo smiles at you.

“Can’t say that I do.”

“Then, no. There isn’t.” He hums thoughtfully and you busy yourself with trying to figure out Lucifer’s Demonus organization pattern. It doesn’t seem to be by age, so maybe it’s by color?

“What does it feel like?” Diavolo’s question draws you out of your comparison of two almost identical wine reds. You think one has a brighter undertone but that could be the color of the label.

“Have you ever been tired?”

“Indeed.”

“Have you ever not slept, for like, a whole day, and you can feel that your brain isn’t working at maximum capacity?” He nods. “Have you ever felt like you were trying to run in a swimming pool?”

“I can run in swimming pools.” You roll your eyes.

“Can you run through slime?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“It’s like that. It’s being so tired that you know you aren’t operating at your best and being able to do nothing about it. It’s like moving through water. It’s never getting enough sleep. I could sleep the perfect amount for a human my age and I would still be down to take several long naps throughout the day. And it’s not something I can ignore, either. I can’t just power through it. Because after a while, it starts to hurt.”

“Hurt?” He frowns, and it’s weird to see him not smiling.

“Yeah. It’s. When I get too tired my eyes will hurt. It feels like they’re grapes and someone is squishing the life out of them. It feels like a thousand tiny needles poking at my eyes. It feels like someone is squishing the bridge of my nose in their fist and refuses to let go. It makes my stomach hurt, it makes me nauseous and sick, and it makes me dizzy and it’s awful.”

“I see.”

“So, I have to sleep. I have to sleep because if I don’t it hurts and if I manage to get through that my body will make itself sleep, anyway. It’ll just turn off, regardless of if I want it to or not.”

“That. That is miserable. I am sorry you have to experience such a thing.” You shrug a little and stare at your hands.

“What can you do?” It comes out sarcastic and dry. There’s a silence, tense and weighty, and you know what he’s going to ask before he does.

“Do you need to go to the human world?” You can hear Lucifer’s sharp inhale even though he was pretending to not listen.

“Maybe. But, if it is what I think it is, it won’t go away. I’ll just know and get medication. Probably.” Diavolo stands and nods.

“At least you will know. I will figure something out for you.” He nods again, this time to himself. “There is no reason for you to suffer this way.”

“It won’t go away, Diavolo. I’ll still have it.” You need him to know this. You need him to know that it won’t be permanently fixed. You don’t want him to be disappointed when everything’s said and done and you’re still sick.

“Yes, but things will be better, no? Some progress is better than no progress, no matter how small.” He pauses and smiles at you, warm and comforting. “And we will all be there for you. Regardless of the outcome.”

[shinestarhwaa]

THE BUTLER || CHOI SAN

This is @hwashotcheeto 's fault

Genre: Smut with a smidge of angst

Pairing: San x Fem reader

Word Count: 2.1K

Tags/Warnings: Aged-up!San (like half 30's), Butler!San, Chaebol!reader, reader has depression symptoms, oral sex (f&m), fingering, begging, daddy kink, dirty language, unprotected sex, rough sex, San knows he's hot & thicc

Taglist: @anyamaris @a-soft-hornytiny @whatudowhennooneseesyou @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @pyeonghongrie-main @woosanbby @dreamlesswonder86 @changbinslovelylegs @jonghostie @lovjensoo @mjyungi @bratty-tingz @sugarnspice630 @stardragongalaxy @bro-atz @wisejudgedragonhairdo @mingisg00dgirl @vesvosmozhno

ENJOY!

"Is there anything else I can help you with, ma'am?"

You sighed and looked at San. "Please, please don't call me ma'am, how many times do I have to ask you this, San?" He nodded. "My apologies," he spoke lowly, but he didn't budge. You sighed again. "No, San, I do not need anything, thank you." San nodded and bowed to you before exiting the room.

It wasn't your choice to have the servant, the butler or whatever you might call it to babysit you for the month. You were an adult, old enough to stay home alone but your parents wouldn't let you.

Their company was big, huge in fact and there have been bad rumors going on about insurance fraud. You know they are just rumors but a part of the media was dragging your family, making you - their only daughter - an easy target. Therefore they wouldn't leave you alone.

They tried to hire a bodyguard for you but you would not let them, so they asked San - the butler that has been working for your parents for years - to be your babysitter. God, you hated it. You did not hate him, but the whole situation of still being babied by your parents just made you extremely frustrated. You're 21 and they have been treating you like you were barely a teenager since forever.

San hasn't done anything wrong. He's a perfectly respectful and hardworking man. He doesn't exactly baby you but calling you ma'am frustrates you too. Actually, everything frustrates you at the moment. You barely even left the house, barely left your room.

But you didn't notice San has been actually worried about you. You laid in bed a lot and he was sure the whole situation was becoming too much for you. You often took care of your parents when they were around, helping them with the company and talking to them so they wouldn't go insane. But who takes care of you?

So he has been cooking his ass off, cleaning his ass off, even suggesting going for walks with you, but you declined. You felt bad for saying no, knowing he was trying to do his job, but you just figured you'd be better off on your own.

It was week 3 now and you were bored out of your mind and most importantly; horny out of your mind. You were aware that when women are ovulating they're more likely to get horny but man did you want some dick right now. You pouted as you laid in your bed, squeezing your thighs together and whimpering at the tingly sensation that was far from enough.

You heard some rumbling in the kitchen downstairs, reminding you that San is right there. And then it hit you. You are home alone with him. San is right there.

With light footsteps you made your way down the stairs into the kitchen. San looked up and smiled. "You're out of your room? It's good to see you," he kindly smiled. You nodded and watched him unload the dishwasher for a few minutes.

"Sannie?" You spoke with a pout, taking a few steps towards him. "What is it?" "I'm feeling bored..." You batted your eyelashes at him as you came closer. "Bored? Well what do you-" "Do you wanna play with me?"

You traced the veins on San's forearms as you bit your bottom lip. "Play with you? What do you want to-"

Before he could say anything else your lips were attached to his. San was startled and his instinct was to push you back but when you pushed him against the counter, breasts pressed up against him he gave in. San didn't get intimate with anyone that often, always busy working for your family, but he definitely didn't expect getting intimate with that said family. But God, he could not resist.

His hands grabbed the back of your thighs and he lifted you up on the counter of the kitchen island. Your lips moved together smoothly and your hands were all over each other. You touched his strong biceps, bulging out of his white dress shirt. Just the thought of him manhandling you with his big strong arms made your legs give out.

You moaned into his mouth and wrapped your legs around him, heels digging into his lower back as he laid you down on the counter and pressed kisses down your neck and along your exposed collarbones. He shoved up your t-shirt and groped your breasts. ''Fuck, Y/N, I shouldn't be doing this.'' ''No, fuck, please daddy, you should, you should, please, you should,'' you begged him, grasping the waistcoat hugging his form.

His longue latched on your bare breasts and moaned as he licked and sucked on your nipples. ''But Y/N, fuck they'll kill me, they're gonna kill me dead.'' ''They don't have to know, please, they don't need to know anything. I'm just so lonely. I know you can help me, right San? You'll treat me nicely?''

You looked at San with big puppy eyes and he was a goner. Your pants and panties disappeared and he spread your legs open. He practically gawked at your wet, awaiting pussy. ''Daddy, please,'' you begged again, pulling him closer. He loosened his tie and waistcoat and unbuttoned a few buttons of his dress shirt before he dove inbetween your legs.

You threw your head back and let out a high pithced moan when he runs his tongue from the bottom of your pussy up to your sensitive clit, wrapping his soft lips around your clit and sucking it harshly.

“Please, I need…” you sigh. ''What do you need?'' San asked as he pulls away from your cunt. ''Need your fingers too, want both, want it so bad,'' you whined. San smirks and brings two of his fingers to your mouth, telling you to suck them. You smirk and take his fingers into your mouth, coating them with your saliva.

After a little while he pulls his fingers out and brings them to your pussy, slowly guiding them in. He soon sets a rhythm of licking and sucking on your clit and fucking his two fingers deep into your core. Your moans got gradually louder, your thighs shaking over his shoulders. ''Daddy! O-Oh my god, Daddy, please, please, please!''

San notices you’re close because he can feel your walls spasm and clench around his fingers. He started stroking your clit with his velvet tongue as he curled his fingers inside your cunt until you're screaming his name, arousal seeping out of you.

San rides out your orgasm and removes himself from you, licking his fingers off. ''Fuck, you taste like heaven, Y/N, such a beautiful little pussy,'' he sighed. ''Bet you've been dying to have a taste of my young pussy, right daddy?'' you panted, teasing him. He smirks and pulls you off the counter, putting you down again.

''You're such a little minx, aren't you?'' he grunts into your ear as he grabs your ass from behind. He unbuttons his pants and pulls the zipper down, whipping his thick cock out. ''You want daddy's cock in your pussy, don't you? You want it so badly, you want a real man to show you what pleasure feels like. Guys your age can barely last 9 seconds inside a pussy like yours,'' he spat.

You giggled and wiggled your ass for him. ''Put it in, daddy, please put it in, play with my pussy, pretty please?'' ''Fuck, you're driving me insane,'' he grunted before pushing his dick inside of you. He let out a long, low moan as he watched himself bottom out and push in again. ''Look at that, fuck,'' he whispered.

A whiny, breathy moan slips past your lips as you let your head rest on the cool marble countertop. You can see San in the reflection of the window. San's eyes are fixated on your ass, jaw clenched and brows furrowed. ''Daddy~,'' you whined out, ''Go faster, this is not enough!''

''Such a little... Fuck, I'll give it to you baby, I'll give it to you so good.'' San begins to pick up his pace, thrusting into you faster and rougher each time. You could feel yourself slowly fall apart, breathing becoming ragged as he slams into your cunt, groaning your name. His hands are over your ass, gripping it tight as you clench on his cock. ''Daddy, daddy!'' you cried out. ''Oh? You like that huh? Is this finally enough for the little rich girl? Is she finally satisfied?''

''Oh my fucking God, fuck me, fuck me harder!'' you cry out, trying to grasp the countertop, but it's too slippery. You have no choice but to let him abuse your pussy as you lay there moaning his name. ''I'm gonna fuck you so good that that little young pussy of yours will remember the shape of my cock and nothing, fucking nothing will feel as good as I do, is that clear?'' You whine in response but it is not enough for San.

''Am I fucking clear? You're my little fucktoy now, yeah? You'll be a good little girl, letting me fuck your pussy, hm? Speak.'' ''Yes, Y-Yes! Yes I'm your fucktoy, just use me, just fill me up, fill my pussy, please daddy, fill me up nicely, please I want it, I need it!'' you moan out, feeling yourself get close to climaxing again.

''Yes baby, God I'll fuck you nice and full, you'll carry that cum for me won't you? You're so good to me, such a good little pussy for me to fuck.'' He thrusts into you a few more times before he's groaning in your ear and stuffing you full with his hot cum. He thrusts again and sends you over the edge, body trembling with pleasure.

San rides out your orgasm and you moan and whine. He pulls his cock out and watches your pussy clench around nothing. San smirks and places a few kisses on your shoulder. ''What a good little girl can do, hm?''

''I-I can do so much more, daddy, I can, please I want more,'' you begged. San cocked an eyebrow as he took his tie off. ''Well let's go then.''

⋆ ★

San wasted no time in getting you to your bedroom and stripping you and himself naked. His arms were big and muscular, just as his chest. His pecs and abs were strong and prominent. To die for.

You were seated on the floor, your wrists bound together with his tie. San's cock was hard and stood proudly against his pelvis. Your mouth watered at the sight of the thick veins running over the shaft and the head glistening with pre-cum. His balls big and heavy and waiting to release in your mouth again.

"Open up, Y/N," he breathed, cock in his hand as he tapped you on the lips with it. You opened your mouth and let him enter. He slid it in slowly and nearly completely. You could feel your pussy clench around nothing as you slowly bobbed your head up and down his shaft.

His hand held your hair back in a perfect ponytail and soon enough he pulled it, making you moan around his member. "That's a good little girl. Love daddy's cock, don't you? Bet you've never had a cock like this before? So big...So thick," he smirked. You moaned again and moved your head faster.

You pulled off his cock to breathe, panting loudly. A few strings of saliva mixed with pre-cum attached your lips and the tip of his cock. Before he could say anything you hungrily took his thick balls into your mouth, swirling your tongue around it and sucking on the sack.

''Oh my fucking God,'' he moaned out, ''Baby you don't know what you're doing to me.'' You moaned, wanting to use your hands on him too but they were still tied behind your back.

''Baby I won't last like this, you're gonna make me cum.''

A mischievous smile played on your lips and you took his cock back into your mouth. Seconds later his hips bucked forward and he spurted his cum into your mouth, coming with a loud groan.

''God, you're insane,'' he panted as he watched you swallow his load and lick your lips. ''In the best possible way, daddy.'' ''I should get the kitchen cleaned up,'' he sighed. ''Why don't I help you with that and as a reward I'll let you fuck me again after?'' ''Sounds like a deal, babygirl,'' he smirked.

[glutengoblin]

Overwhelmed (Sebastian Sallow X Reader)

A/N: Hi all! Apologies for being MIA recently after always promising I have new work coming. I've been incredibly busy with work and applications (and managing my health, honestly), so I haven't had much time to write at all. I finally hit a bit of a wall and needed a break, so I figured I might as well write something. Applications will hopefully be over in the next few weeks and I will be back to normal!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this short fic and that it reminds you to take a break when you need it <3. Love y'all!

Summary: Just some fluff to hopefully make you feel better if you're overwhelmed! (She/her pronouns, house neutral)

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: Mild language

Disclaimer: None!

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Y/N muttered to herself as she meandered down the hall, savoring the silence that had enveloped her. It seemed like this was all the peace she could hope for nowadays - some quiet between classes, some quiet before she was reminded of the insane weight of her life at the moment.

Sure, no longer was she under the life and death pressure of her fifth year, but somehow this seemed to weigh on her just as much. Perhaps it was worsened by the fact that she didn’t feel comfortable sharing her anguish within anyone else yet. Her fifth year - and the death of her mentor, Professor Fig - had left many scars on Y/N, but her lack of willingness to admit when she was overwhelmed seemed to be the most pervasive.

It was a tricky thing being the the “Hero of Hogwarts”. Y/N never exactly wanted the tilted, but now that she held it, she wanted to do her best to live up to the expectations of her. She had been through much worse, she had defeated Ranrok and she had lost people close to her. To admit that she was feeling stumped by her classwork and even her career would be too much.

So, she kept it to herself as she made her way through the Hogwarts’ halls towards the potions classroom, shivering at the temperature drop as she descended into the dungeons. Y/N felt like a mess as she walked into the classroom, the weight of her stuffed book bag pulling heavily at her shoulder. She was thankful that it was still cool enough outside to don a robe, meaning she could hide her abnormally disheveled shirt. Frankly, Y/N was pretty sure that as much as she felt like a mess, she looked even more like one

The potion classroom was abuzz with conversation, likely a symptom of both Professor Sharp not showing face yet and what had occurred in the last class period. While Garreth normally had issues with potions, this time, he had managed to explode a whole cauldron of their latest assignment, not only covering the walls in green slime but Ominis as well. Ominis was particularly livid, given the slime had managed to dye his pale blonde hair a sickly shade of green - one that had gained enough bad jokes from Sebastian that even Ominis knew it had to be a horrid sight.

Y/N had tried her best to help Garreth clean up after the incident, feeling bad for the boy per usual, but there were still some green spots on the ceiling that were visible if one took the time to squint.

She made her way over to her normal station with the boys, plopping down in her seat next to Sebastian as she began to remove her books from her bag. Sebastian’s eyes passed over her frame with worry. In the two years they had been dating, he had yet to see her as stressed as she was now. He had tried to approach her about it a couple of times over the past week, but as always she had denied that anything was wrong. Y/N was always stubborn, but even to Sebastian, this was a new level.

Once she got more settled, Sebastian offered her a small smile and snatched her hand in his, squeezing it gently. He studied her face, a smile appearing on his lips. “How are you doing today m’love?” Y/N let out a sigh in response, kindling hope in Sebastian that she might finally admit what had been bothering her.

“Well, Sebastian. I’m fine, just a little overwhelmed with classes at the moment… But I shall handle it.” She pulled her hand away gently, as a frown began to pass over Sebastian's features. He took a few extra moments to study his girlfriend, before deciding that perhaps it was time to finally call her out on her bullshit.

“Y/N… please. I can tell you’re not fine, you haven’t been fine for a few weeks. Can you please talk to me about it?” Y/N’s borrows furrowed at that, but based on the expression on his face, she knew there was no getting out of this conversation.

“I… I suppose I’m just overwhelmed with classes at the moment Sebastian. NEWTS are coming up and I’ve been trying my best to keep up with everything… but…” Sebastian raised an eyebrow at her, clasping her hand again.

“But?”

“I really haven’t been handling it well.” Y/N let the words out hurriedly as if it wasn’t a statement she wanted to consider the full weight of herself. Sebastian nodded his head, honestly just relieved that she had finally admitted what he had been assuming out loud.

“It’s understandable, Y/N, entirely. You’re taking more classes than pretty much any other student right now. I obviously think you can handle it, being the incredibly smart witch you are… But, when was the last time you took a break? I feel like I’ve hardly seen you outside of classes, meals, and crossed wands lately.” She shuffled under his gaze, running a hand anxiously through her hair.

“Honestly, a good few weeks.” She cowered a bit, as concern grew on Sebastian’s face.

“That’s probably it then. You need to relax Y/N. It’s Friday… Meet me at the Room of Requirement, tonight.” It was then Y/N’s turn to raise her eyebrows. The expression on Sebastian’s face was resolute. As much as she typically loved to argue with him, she knew there was no winning this time. Besides, Professor Sharp had finally made his appearance and now Y/N had to start monitoring Garreth again to ensure that another color wasn’t added to Ominis’s stylish new hairdo.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

It was a few hours later when Y/N finally left the confines of the library and began making her way up the long steps to the Defense Against the Dark Arts Tower. She had opted to skip dinner to make more time for whatever surprise Sebastian had in store for her. Y/N was beginning to regret that decision though, as her stomach began to grumble.

When she pressed on the wall and walked through the door, she wasn’t surprised to see Sebastian standing in front of her. The top couple buttons of his shirt were unbuttoned, his tie was loosened, and his sleeves rolled up. The light dusting of pink on his cheekbones further hinted at the fact that he had been setting something up and Y/N grew ever more curious.

Sebastian was rocking back and forth between his heels and toes as he smiled at her. “Please put your things down here. I don’t need you being tempted to do any more studying when you’re supposed to be relaxing.” His extra emphasis on the last word made Y/N do as he said, setting her things neatly down by the entrance.

With that, Sebastian took her hand in his, and pulled her off to the left, into the larger room that typically housed her personal study and potions stations. Instead, where her desk and chairs normally stood, a large white sheet covered the furniture, creating a makeshift tent. When she leaned down to get a better look, she realized there were cushions lining the floor, both large and small. He had enchanted some strings to admit a soft light, adding to the cozy ambiance of the space. Off to the side, a plate of muffins sat, and what looked like something she hadn’t expected to see at Hogwarts.

Y/N’s eyes traveled over to Sebastian, who had a wide grin on his face. “Well… Do you like it? Whenever Anne and I were feeling overwhelmed with the world, we used to make forts as children.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, the earlier flush deepening on his cheeks. “It helped make us feel safe… Forget about everything for a while. I was hoping it could do the same for you.”

She couldn’t contain her smile as she pulled him into a tight hug. A sense of relief began to wash over her, as she realized just how much she needed this break from studying. “It’s wonderful Sebastian. But I am curious, where did you find a Backgammon board anywhere near Howgarts. Its a muggle game.” Sebastian flashed her another smile, planting a kiss on the top of her head.

“I’ve been saving it. Ever since you mentioned it was your favorite board game in your childhood, I bought a set. I was just saving it for the right occasion to give it to you.” Y/N melted at that, hugging him even tighter, murmuring into his chest.

“I… Thank you Sebastian. I love you. You’re too good for me.” He stiffened at that, tucking his fingers under her chin to get her to look at him.

“Please don’t ever say that again Y/N. You’re the one who is too good for me. Much too good for me… After everything I put you through in fifth year - let's just say I count my blessings every day that I get to call you mine.” His smile lingered for a bit longer before he unsealed the hug, tugging her to the fort. “Now, we have some games to play I believe!”

The two students proceeded to munch on muffins and play multiple rounds of the Backgammon until they were eventually tied - the only way their competitive natures would let them stop. With stomachs full and hearts happy, Sebastian let out a content sigh as Y/N moved to his side of the board, tucking herself against his side and they laid down.

Sebastian pressed a gentle kiss to her lips, stroking her hair gently as he pulled her higher to his chest. “I love you, Y/N. And I know you’re capable of anything you set your mind to.” She murmured happily against his cheek, her lips just ghosting against his skin.

“I know you are too. I love you, Sebastian.”

With that, the two lovers fell asleep in each other’s arms, not stirring until sunlight filtered through the stained glass windows of the Room of Requirement.

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Foresight (Daemon Targaryen x Reader) 

Summary: The only time modern reader actually uses her intuition and hits the nail right on the head. 

Warnings: I barely know by now. Smut. Fingering.  Oral sex (F receiving) Non-con/ Dub con. I mean, reader consents, but you have read this series. Pregnancy. 

A/N: And… It’s a wrap, folks! My first series. Think of this as the epilogue. As always, you can shout at me in my asks. 

Previous parts here.

There is a certain irony in this, you think. You were once someone of no importance in a world filled with millions of people. Then, you were a servant in the Middle Ages. Now, you are a Lady of a noble house, married to a Prince. 

Yet, it’s the first time you are held in such a way. A slightly longer chain than the one for your wrists connects your ankles together. Despite being in one of the highest positions a woman could be in these times, you have never had less freedom.  

Now it’s a new girl, delivering your food. No matter how hard you try, she never answers your questions about Mina or what is happening outside your rooms. You discover it is because she doesn’t have a tongue. And she is terrified of even looking at you, too. You wonder what Daemon has done to her. 

Was she born like that? Did another Lord punish her? Or worse. Did Daemon take her tongue? Trying to guess what happened to her is good entertainment. Unfortunately, you soon realize it frightens her too much when you speak to her. You wouldn’t want to cause her a heart attack, and so, you have to quit it. 

You feel like an asshole. But you are desperate for company, to get someone to speak to you. The hopelessness you first felt has started to feel much like realization. You are not leaving. You are stuck with Daemon. 

To keep your mind occupied, you try to remember as many details of the time you are living in. You start with the cutting of tongues as your inspiration. Someone did something similar in the show. You didn’t pay as much attention to the story as you would have if you had known it was going to become your life.  

But someone had. Surely. What was it, with Westeros, and the forceful taking of the organs? They cut hands, tongues, fingers, eyes. God. 

If you remembered something else, it could be useful. Unfortunately for you, you had been too fixated on how hot some people looked to follow subplots. The exercise is useless, but you start writing what you can remember on parchments and hiding them from your captor. 

You feel like you are going insane. The only thing you do is pace and read, pace and read, all day. Something is wrong with you. You feel strange, like you are wearing clothes a size too small. Uncomfortable. Cranky. Sensitive. Lonely. 

You read once, that human beings have more needs than just eat, sleep and shelter. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. People need to own things, they need friends and intimacy, they need purpose. Otherwise, bad things happen. 

Oh, but what? Could all your symptoms be explained by it? If you had a phone, you could look it up. Hell, even if it was the sixties, you could search it in a book. Not in the Middle Ages. Or well, Westeros. 

You long for Daemon’s company. He comes every afternoon and sits near the fireplace. You talk to him because there is nothing else to do. From time to time, you repeat that you are not a dreamer. He laughs. 

“You wouldn’t be this perfect for me if you weren’t.”

He is very cultured, and interesting. It's something you are desperately attracted to. It’s not only that you are now in what it’s effectively solitary confinement, no. Deeper than that. Just like Rhea, Daemon is one of the few people in the Runestone that can read. His mind is more open, he is less superstitious. Talking to him makes you less lonely. 

There is no way you can rationalize it, though. What you are doing is wrong. It’s a betrayal to Rhea, to someone you loved more than you could ever love him. But you are weak, too broken down by grief and fear to oppose him.  

You need someone to tell you everything will be alright. And Daemon makes sure he is available for the job. He fights off your loneliness when you ask him to. 

Sometimes, Daemon sits next to you on the bed and talks about Valyrian history or traditions. His tone is soft, and calming. His face lights up when you show an interest in the topic or ask questions that prove you are following his monologue. It’s like seeing an entirely different man. 

Before, you would have resented being babied in the way you are. Daemon treats you as if you were a little girl, one he entertains with tales and praises when she is good. Now, you crave the comfort of it. 

You still bathe together. Daemon never touches you, though. Not after the night you tried to escape. Sometimes, he just looks at you. You sit there, basking on the freedom of being able to move without the cuffs. You are no longer embarrassed of your nakedness. 

The chains frightened you, at first. You are not stupid. You are married to him, in chains and in a room bare except for the bed. What else would you think, if not rape? But Daemon was smarter than that. Insidious. Slowly, he had been coaxing you to let him touch you. At first, you squirmed like your pants were on fire when his hands were on your skin. Then, you had slowly come to accept it as part of your routine. And lately, to crave it. 

He had been conditioning into it, you are sure. First, the offers to tend to your wounds, then, massages to your sore ankles and wrists. It was a merely chemical thing, you tried reassuring yourself. Your brain had come to associate endorphins with his touch, and so, like an addict, you sought more. 

But you knew, it was no long now before you weren’t able to resist him. It was not a thing of physical strength. He wasn’t going to grab you and force you down. No. It was more complex than that. 

Daemon had acquired himself a dreamer, according to him. He was not keen on alienating you, but seducing you. He intended for you to be the one to come to him. Worst thing? You were so touch starved, and so lonely, it was working. Stockholm syndrome, surely. 

The next chain would be a child. It was the obvious thing to do, to keep control over the Vale and you. You would never leave if you were pregnant. What would you do, in your world, with a child that could potentially tame dragons and whose legal existence you couldn’t prove? It would surely be too late for abortion, and most probably, time would have passed. How to explain your disappearance? 

And of course, there is the fact that your body is rioting against your brain. No matter the phase of your cycle, you are perpetually horny. The smallest of touches or looks make your mind spiral, you daydream about sex and feel the urge to jump Daemon’s bones almost daily. 

Maybe there is some truth to whatever they are serving you. The milk and wine are always laced with spices, to make you more agreeable to his advances. At first, you thought it was silly, but by your current state, they seem to be working. You are desperate to be able to masturbate. But bound hands are not particularly useful. Besides, you have an inkling that’s not really what you want. 

Every night before bed, Daemon takes the cuffs off and lets you walk around your room. You make small laps around the room, sometimes he tries teaching you the dances people do at feasts. Then, he gets you ready for bed. 

Daemon rubs salve into your wrists and ankles. You don't ask him, but you know it has to have some aphrodisiacs on it. When his hands touch your skin, it feels electric. You knew aphrodisiacs existed in your world, even if they were fickle and old wives tales. But in a world where there is magic and dragons? Why not? 

Even if not, the whole thing is an assault on your senses. The room filled with incense and candles, the baths, the soft silky clothes. The silence. Usually, when people are not busy enough, they get horny, right?

Perhaps it's the mirror. There is one placed in your room for baths, once you are not on suicide watch. You see yourself for the first time in months, and nearly don’t recognize your reflection. Your hair is longer, falling messily down your back. The sheer shifts you wear, specially tailored for you, make you look put together and sensual.

Collarbones exposed, accentuated hips, bare arms. Botticelli’s Venus comes to life. The image arouses you. You feel naughty in all the right ways, sexy, desirable. 

Each night, Daemon’s hands rub the salve slightly higher. You find yourself yearning for his touch, anticipating the moments you will get with him. He massages your calves. Your forearms. He kisses your shoulders. You mewl, desperate. But Daemon doesn't do anything. 

You share secrets like they are oozing out of your pores. Aemond's birth. Criston Cole and Rhaenyra fucked. Lucerys. Joffrey. Harwin Strong. Alicent and the rat looking man. Daemon dutifully repeats them to Viserys. 

Were you meant to feel this way? You had never expected it, not in a million years. It's like standing on the edge of a cliff. Any second now, and you could plummet down. But what a fall it would be. 

Tonight, he is on his knees. Despite being in a dominant position, sitting on the edge of the bed, you don't feel powerful. Daemon has a way of entering a room and just making anyone else fade into the background. He overpowers anyone easily, by sheer presence alone. 

Daemon grabs your ankle and gently rubs at it, spreading the salve. He has said he doesn't want you to scar, or hurt. But your newest cuffs have padded interiors, making this whole act pointless. Neither of you voices it. 

You shiver. His hands massage your calves. 

“Daemon.” The first mistake. You have never, not once, called out his name before. It comes out soft and whiny, in a sweet whisper. 

“Should I stop, dreamer?” He gives you a coy look, as his fingers go higher and higher. Ankle, calf, back of the knee. His hands are warm against your skin. Daemon seems to have a fascination with touching you. He cannot keep his hands to himself, no matter how hard he tries. 

You say nothing. Daemon kisses your ankle, then your leg. He mouths along your knee. You feel so aroused, you think you are about to pass out. You shouldn’t give in, you know, you know. But it’s the sweetest torture. 

He stops right above your knee, looking at you with mischievous eyes. You pant, looking at him like you are about to murder him if he dares deny you now. 

“My poor little dreamer, have I neglected you so?” Daemon smirks, and parts your legs, making room for himself. “Don’t worry, we will fix this right away.” 

“Stop it.” You mutter, but before you can start explaining to him why this is a bad idea, you feel a sharp sting on your thigh. You moan, feeling utterly confused. In your aroused state, the sting of the bite feels almost pleasant. 

“It doesn’t sound like you want me to stop.” Daemon soothes the hurt with his tongue. He looks hungry, pupils blown and hair mussed just so. “Besides, I have been very patient with you, have I not?” His fingers dig in more harshly. He is right, of course. He could have fucked you already if he wanted to. It's not like anyone would come to your defense. 

“You have.” You agree, shakily. His tongue draws little ribbons over your inner thigh. You cannot stop moaning, for some reason. And you are no stranger to sex, not as Daemon thinks. You were not a virgin when you got here. Despite knowing this screams of consent issues and that he is trying to manipulate you, you cannot help it. 

You wonder how Rhaenyra and Laena ever stood a chance, being mere girls when they met him. If everyone told you this was wrong, but the first time he touched you felt this pleasurable, would you believe it? 

No. You are more than enough proof of it. 

“I will make it good for you, little one.” He kisses higher, this time. Along the juncture where your leg meets your hip. “It's a kindness most wives don't get.” 

“I know, but…” You stop talking and melt into a sight when he rubs a finger over your labia, spreading the wetness there. You know if you keep talking, he will be able to hear exactly how much his touch is affecting you. 

“I just want to look at you. And kiss you a little.” Daemon says, and his tone leaves no room for argument. His hands rub soothingly along the outside of your thigh. “I won’t take your maidenhead… Yet.” 

Maidenhead. What’s that supposed to mean? You try to remember, certain that you have heard it before. Rhea mentioned it? Or was it the girls? Maidens. They called maidens women who were virgins. God. He thinks you are still a virgin. 

He won’t fuck you, tonight. You hope that his plans for just touching and kissing include an orgasm because you feel like you will go mad if you don’t come tonight. 

You could tell him the truth. But what would you gain? Daemon only believes what pleases him. You have told him time and time again that you are not a dreamer. You even tried telling him you were from the future. His words still ring in your ears. 

“A world where men and women are equal? And there are no Kings? Oh, my poor confused little thing. You have been reading too much again.” 

So telling him would be no use. He might believe it another attempt at getting him to let you go. Or he might actually believe you and try to eviscerate any previous lover of yours. Or gauge their eyes out. Perhaps cut a hand. That’s who Daemon is at his core. 

No, it’s better this way. Playing along will get him to be gentler, and he won’t even be able to tell the difference. 

“Won’t it hurt?” You ask, and it comes out just the right amount of shy to be believable. It’s easy, leaning on the lingering fear of the fact that this is Daemon you will be going to bed with. Your body reacts to him like it has never reacted to another lover before, yet you shouldn’t be doing this. He is skilled at it. Whoever he was fucking before, she has trained him well. 

But now that you have allowed yourself to think, your hesitance takes hold. This is wrong, in so many ways. You shouldn’t be doing this. Yet, you want him so much, you feel like you might burst into flames if you don’t get him right now. 

The lure of the forbidden, in all its glory. 

“Not tonight.” He kisses your inner thigh, open-mouthed. You tense in anticipation. Daemon can be giving when he wants to be. 

“I don’t want it to hurt.” You close your legs, trapping his hand between them. Your lower lip lightly sticks out, playing the part of the disgruntled little girl. 

 Daemon chuckles. One of his fingers rubs teasingly over your clit. Being a brat always seems to rile him up, and you feel smug at knowing him so well. 

Oh, god. What are you even doing? Are you seriously contemplating ways of manipulating him during sex? You shouldn't even be thinking of fucking him. It's disgusting. 

It’s not. Not when Daemon’s hands are on your thighs, not when his lips are on your skin. You are just too needy for it. Too many nights have passed since the last time you had been touched in such a way. 

His hands knead into your thighs. The touch is greedy, possessive. He makes a tsking sound, and rubs a tight little circle over your clit. 

“I’ll warm you up to it. Don’t worry.” 

“I don’t… We really shouldn’t…” You plead, weakly. You are trying hard not to succumb to the pleasure. 

“Why not?” He asks, pressing his finger over your hole and making you nearly sob in pure neediness. He is not entering, just threatening with it. Both holding you in place and feeling you flutter around him. 

Daemon waits for your response, but when you don’t answer as quickly as he hoped, he starts sucking a bruise on your inner thigh.

“Because it’s wrong! You killed Rhea. You have no morals. And… Besides, it’s not me. I don’t want it.” You try to scramble away, suddenly regaining your senses. It must be the oils. Or the food. Or whatever he puts into your wine. 

“Oh?” Daemon presses your hips down with an arm, and rubs around your clit again. He makes a show of taking his fingers away from you and admiring them in the light. Your arousal shines on them, sticky wet. “If you don’t want it, why are you dripping all over the bed? What is it, if not arousal?” 

“The oils! The incense!” You complain. His hand, soaked in your juices, comes to cup your face. 

“Oh, sweetling, no.” Daemon laughs. He presses his thumb on your lower lip. Despite your best judgment, you open up and taste yourself. “They are not meant to warm your blood. This is all you.” 

Your whole body feels hot with embarrassment. He has to be lying. It can't be. You can’t be this… This… No. No. He has to be lying. 

Daemon laughs even more at the face you make. He kisses your neck, then your collarbone. He pushes at the strands of your shift, kissing all over your breast. You feel too ashamed, still reeling at the realization that this is, in fact, all you, to push him off. You are the crazy woman who is begging to have sex with a killer. 

He takes your nipple into his mouth, sucking slightly. You moan, arching your back to offer more skin to kiss. Daemon does so, greedily. 

He kisses your sternum, then your belly. He bites at the curve of your waist, making you squeal. His lips go lower, kissing over your womb. Then, your mound. And finally, your labia. 

Daemon pulls your lips apart and gently nips your clit, taking it between his teeth. Despite how gentle he is being, you jolt. It’s too much stimulation at once, and it’s bordering on the painful. Yet, he shows he can read your body well, because he quickly recovers and chooses to kiss your clitoral hood instead.

You moan again, all high-pitched. The vibrations of his laughter feel very pleasant against your sex. 

“That's it. Melt into it, little dreamer.” Daemon says, before going back to eating you out. This time, he sucks slightly harder. You tense in his arms. You can feel the pleasure rising and rising. Never has a partner driven you this fast towards an orgasm. 

It's too much and too little. 

“I… More, please.” You plead, petting his hair. 

He gets up, and kisses you, for the first time in months. You sigh into his mouth. It's then that he pushes his finger inside of you. Immediately, you tighten and tense around him, all sense of embarrassment gone. 

“This was just what you needed, wasn’t it?” Daemon whispers in your ear, biting your earlobe before speaking again. You buck your hips, trying to get him to move his finger. He complies, making a come and hither motion. His other hand rubs circles on your clit. “Yes, you needed someone to show you who you really were. My needy little dragon.” 

You try to swallow down your scream, muffling it with your hand. The praise, mixed in with the raspy, hungry tone it's delivered in, makes your head swim. 

“Come on, don’t fight it.” Daemon encourages, and bends down to take your nipple inside his mouth. It's enough to send you over the edge. This time, you actually scream, tensing under him. White, hot, blinding pleasure. And he strokes you through it, making everything more intense. 

As you pant there, coming down from your high, it occurs to you to return the favor.  It had been one of the best orgasms of your life, you wouldn't mind pleasing him in exchange. Your mouth watered at the thought of what else he could do. 

You place a shaky hand on his thigh, but Daemon pushes it away, gently. 

“You will learn to please me too, Wife. In time. But not tonight.” Daemon kisses your cheek, sweetly. 

“When?”

“We have the rest of our lives to figure it out.” It’s then when it sinks in. Daemon is never planning to let you go. You start to cry. What have you done? 

Daemon sighs. He starts rubbing soothing circles on your back, as if you were a child.  That night, he stays. You fall asleep in his arms, warm and relaxed. For the first time in weeks, you do not dream of Rhea. 

A few months go by. The season changes, from warm summer to harsh winter. And just as the season changes, so do you. 

You wake in your chambers, the bed next to you cold. Your ankles hurt. 

You put on a light dress, and go in search for your husband. As you pass the servants and guards, they give you respectful nods and greetings. 

Daemon sits on the Iron Throne. Viserys’s health has been worsening, lately. He looks up at you, taking his eyes from the parchment he is reading. His eyes greedily trace your figure. 

“I swear you get more beautiful every day.” He says, as you let your dress pool at your ankles. 

“Everyday I look rounder, more like it.” You complain. At the door, the guards discretely look away. If you want to parade around naked, so be it. It’s up to them to avert their eyes, if they don’t want to lose them, Daemon has instructed. 

No one dares oppose him. Not anymore, with you by his side. Viserys’s reign might just go down as one of the bloodiest in history, with how hard the two of them have been working to rid the realm of any future enemy of Rhaenyra. 

He laughs. 

“You do not. You look like my dreamer.” 

You roll your eyes at him, cradling your belly. His breathing hitches, minutely. There is arousal in his expression, once again. The more obvious your pregnancy becomes, the more he wants you. Daemon likes how your body has changed, how there are stretch marks on previously smooth skin, how your breasts are fuller. 

“My ankles hurt. Make it better?” 

What was life before him? You can barely remember how you functioned before, having to make all the decisions and thinking. Trusting him is easier. Daemon loves you. He wants the best for you. 

You don't hate him as much as you thought. You might even love him back. No. You love the pleasure he gives you, you are hooked to it. You need him like a heroin addict needs her next fix. 

Before, you used to be a good person. You cared about others. Now, you care about yourself, the baby and him. In that order. 

You had plans. You had a future, a career. Now, you live the day. If you think too hard about tomorrow, you feel like you can't breathe. So you don't. It's easier, this way. 

Daemon likes you more like this. Not a little girl anymore, but a woman. One he molded into his perfect partner.  Strong, but never stronger than him. Smart, but not enough to escape him. And a little broken. Still with a bit of fire, still a little rebellious. But never trying to get away. 

He says you are more of a goddess than a woman. Special. Holy.  Before, your courses aligned with the moon, your pregnancy timed just right. The baby should be here just when spring turns to summer. What could you be, if not a little goddess? 

The mysteries of womanhood fascinate him. It’s made even worse with your knowledge of the future.  He seems to think all you know about pregnancy is part of your powers as a dreamer. Once, you made the mistake of telling him the baby could hear him. Daemon has never skipped a day of talking to them since. 

You barely think of Rhea, these days. Daemon keeps you away from Runestone and occupied with other matters. Matters that are much more pleasurable to think about than your past. 

“Come, Lady Wife.” 

And you do. 

You wear other kinds of chains now. 

[spider-mancan]

Starker fuck or die

This is insane. The entire day has been one dumpster fire after another. Peter fell asleep on top of a building still in costume with his textbook spread open on his lap to the sound of a phone call. The resulting jolt of unfortunate awareness nearly sent his school books down onto the pavement — instead they just have a stain from the webbing and an extremely damaged spine. Peter answered the phone but was more interested in mourning his rental deposit than whatever threat was causing the Avengers to assemble. 

Then he heard the words Sex Demon come out of Captain America’s mouth and it was all downhill from there. Forlorn, Peter agreed to set his studying aside and come help out, because, really, when was he going to have another opportunity to sit in a room while Steve Rogers tried to talk about a Sex Demon in the debrief? 

It wasn’t nearly as fun as Peter expected. They’d called him in because he was difficult to hit and had the benefit of both long- and short-range fighting, but some of the others weren’t so lucky. By the time he arrived, Black Widow had already been removed by Hawkeye, leaving Second Hawkeye looking very purple (“nice new uniform, Kate!”) and incredibly perplexed. Steve was mostly alright, but whatever was causing problems was not reacting well to the serum.

Causing problems, of course, meant making people extremely Down to Fuck extremely quickly. 

“This is hilarious,” Peter says, swinging around the rafters. The warehouse they’re in has already been trashed, light leaking in through the roof and scaffolding collapsed in heaps on the concrete floor. “There is so much porn about this. At least two. Not that I know for sure.”

Tony comes over the comm. “I did hear Sex Pollen Sluts Go Nuts got excellent reviews.”

No one thinks this is funny at all, but Peter is too busy twisting out of harm’s way to feel bad about laughing. 

It’s not a Sex Demon, which Peter finds incredibly disappointing. It’s just a man who believes in the power of the aphrodisiac, or something, and developed yadda yadda whatever he’s trying to get blackmail of the world’s most influential people blah blah super awkward and gross and his sex blaster doesn’t even look cool at all. 

None of this is the particularly insane part.

The insane part happens about two seconds after Tony manages to topple Mr. Sex Demon over the railing and onto the ground, where the pressurized canisters on his back give way to the unforgiving asphalt and explode into a green haze so dense Peter can barely see the brilliant blue glow of the arc reactor in Tony’s chest.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter yells into the comm, without a response, and he’s swinging over to assess the damage when Captain barks orders for him to stay out of the way.

The Iron Man suit is already vacuuming up the fumes to remove the contaminant from the air, but Tony hadn’t been wearing one of his space safe suits which means there’s no internal oxygen supply, which means he’s also been contaminated. Regardless, the two men come into view and Tony just waves. “FRIDAY gives the all clear.” His voice sounds strained.

Peter drops down just behind. “Mr. Stark!”

“Spider-Man,” Steve calls, jogging over. “It’s best not to get to close—”

Peter is about to ask what Steve could possibly mean when he feels heavy hands grip his shoulders. The Iron Man gauntlets are heavy — in the armor Tony weighs nearly 400 pounds — and Peter winces. “Mr. Stark?” 

He isn’t afraid — Natasha hadn’t been dangerous. She’d stood stock still for a moment, called for assistance, and immediately removed herself. Over the phone, Captain America had run through the symptoms of the spores, but Peter can’t remember all of that now. He vaguely remembers a loss of inhibition, some kind of animalistic behavior, and an increase in body temperature to dangerous levels over time.

“Tony,” Steve says warningly. 

Iron Man’s faceplate lifts up and Tony is sweating, gritting his teeth. “I know, Cap.” His hands tighten, shaking, enough that Peter grabs one and flexes his fingers, debating whether to pry it off. “I’m trying.” Deep breath.

“Get away from the kid, Tony.” Steve pulls out his firearm and Peter is about to laugh, it’s insane, Tony would never hurt him. Touching Peter isn’t something Tony isn’t allowed to do. But when Peter goes to laugh Tony still looks so serious, so stony, almost sick. Deranged, even. Just a little.

“Mr. Stark?” Peter frowns and Tony’s eyes flutter closed, tight.

“Don’t call me that, right now, kid.”

Kate hops down from her perch in the rafters, awkwardly adjusting the quiver on her back. “I’m just gonna, uh, go.” She gestures over her shoulder to the door, which Tony blasted off the hinges not half an hour ago. “I’ll find a broom or something. Or just leave.”

Steve nods, mouth tight. His gaze doesn’t leave Tony where he’s hunched over Peter like a bad shadow, but his finger stays still on the trigger. Waiting. Not moving one way or the other.

Peter knows how these sorts of things go; if something can go wrong, it will. He runs through the data he can grapes through the confusion, tapping into Tony’s suit. Tony had been exposed to nearly twenty times the recommended dosage. Peter pulls his vitals through Karen and tries not to balk at Tony’s heart rate or internal temperature. Hot. Tony could fry an egg on his chest soon. “We need to get you out of the suit.” Peter reaches for one of the latches.

“Leave it,” Tony grunts. He’s bitten his lip so hard there’s blood in the corner of his mouth. “Better.” His hands haven’t moved, like he can’t move them, like he’s a statue. Peter is going anywhere without forcing himself free. “Better for you.”

“For me?” Peter demands. His hands are already on the gauntlet, but he freezes, struck silly by the sheer nerve. Tony is overloading and he thinks he should stay in the suit for Peter’s sake?

“I’m calling Fury.” Steve brings one hand up to his ear, gun still level. His eyes don’t leave Tony the entire time, even when he backs away slightly and starts to argue on the private channel.

Peter’s fingers tap a nervous rhythm on Tony’s armor. “Karen says you’re spiking really fast, sir,” he says at a whisper. This isn’t good for Tony’s heart, still weak, or his nervous system, which has been run ragged.

“I’m fine,” Tony chokes out through clenched teeth. His skin looks terribly gray, haggard, even. “I am really reliving some of my old glory days right now, but I’m fine.”

“Oh, yeah. Drugs.” Peter laughs nervously. Tony’s eyes are blown, the warm brown consumed by darkness, and his gaze is heavy on Peter. The gauntlet moves now, pulling up the hem of Peter’s mask until Peter feels metal against his pulse point. “Mr. Stark?”

Tony groans.

Peter is a good kid, but he’s not a saint. He’s seen the Tony Stark sex tapes, even the ones that Tony didn’t know were being recorded. He’d been through his own moral beratement when he opened it the first time, but he’d done it several times since because they’re something about Tony that Peter can’t get enough of. And Peter has heard that groan a million times. It’s not like his enemy just punched me into a wall groan, or his this meeting could have been an email groan. It’s the groan he makes when he opens someone up with his cock for the first time. The eyes rolling back, hips stuttering kind of groan.

Peter is suddenly very hard in his jock strap. Terrible. Terrible news.

Karen is a welcome distraction in the form of more terrible news. “Mr. Stark!” The vitals displaying on Peter’s HUD are approaching dangerous levels, especially for an older, unenhanced human. “Your heart rate. It’s crazy!” 

Tony is sweating, mouth open in the face of the rising temperatures, and Peter starts to frantically start prying at the mechanisms that hold the armor together. Tony makes no move to assist. “Leave it.”

“You’re in a metal can and you’re already over 100F,” Peter tells him, as if Tony didn’t know. “You’re going to—”

He doesn’t hear Steve barking at him to stop. It doesn't strike him that it’s a bad idea until it’s too late.

Peter manages to get his nails under the ridge of the chest plate and release it, pulling back, and then suddenly he’s falling. Tony has miraculously changed his mind about the suit and decided to abandon it entirely, stepping out and using the momentum of Peter’s scrambling until they both fall prone on the ground. There’s a poof of dust as they clatter onto the warehouse floor, tangled together.

Steve looks over at them sharply and is yelling orders Peter can’t quite hear because he is too busy trying to place the way Tony is smothering him with his body. Even through Peter’s suit he feels the heat radiating off of Tony’s skin, so sweaty he’s almost slick. He smells like hard work and expensive cologne. Peter is bewildered, and he puts his hands on Tony’s chest to push him away only to freeze when he feels Tony pull up mask and lick a thick line from his collar to his ear. 

“Mr. Stark, I don’t—” Tony gets a hand between them, pushing the release on Peter’s suit until it’s loose around his body and Peter turns his head to look at Steve. “Captain, I didn’t think it was supposed to be, ah, oh.” He shudders when Tony sucks Peter’s ear into his mouth. “Mr. Stark, please. We need to get you to medical.”

“No time,” Tony mumbles against Peter’s throat. He’s cupping Peter’s groin through the suit while the other hand pulls the mask off completely. “Want you bad. God, I can’t even think. Look at you.”

“Tony.” Steve takes the safety off, conversation over the communicator set aside, and gets closer. He doesn’t want to shoot. That much is obvious — if he was going to, he would have already done it. “I said get off the kid.”

“He’s mine, Capsicle,” Tony growls. He winds his hands around Peter’s back until their chest to chest, and Peter feel the rabbiting heartbeat until it’s hard to separate whose is whose. “Get your own!” There’s the tell-tale fire up of the propulser on Tony’s palm, and then there’s a stare down between Iron Man and Captain America with a shivering Spider-Man sandwiched between.

Steve looks away first.

Peter feels a bit wild, wide-eyed, confused. Flushed and hot and not attractive at all, but Tony is near-tearing the suit off of his body and Peter is so shocked he’s barely fighting it. Cold air hits his sweaty skin where Tony is pulling it down at the neck and it feels like an electric shock. “Mr. Stark, seriously. You need to—oh.” There’s a rough hand on his cock. “Oh, my god.”

Tony has both hands on Peter again, like he’s going to reach into Peter’s chest and start pulling him apart, but the Iron Man suit is in sentry mode now; Peter hears the thunk of the boots on the ground even as he’s writhing, trying to focus past the sound of his own insane breathing. He blinks and then there is red and gold staring down the barrel of Steve’s gun.

“Need you, kid,” Tony growls in his ear, pulling down the length of him through his underwear. This was not on Peter’s bingo card for the day. “Feel like I’ll die without you.”

Maybe you will, Peter thinks hysterically.

Steve could stop this, but the gun is slowly falling lower until it’s pointed at the concrete. “Peter,” he starts, “if you give me the word, I’ll remove him and take him to quarantine until we find a willing partner.”

“Partner?” The puzzle pieces are falling into place but there has to be another picture because the one in Peter’s head isn’t making any sense. “I thought this just made you horny!”

“It sure does,” Tony mutters. He doesn’t spare Peter’s underthings nearly the same respect as the suit, but he tears Peter’s t-shirt off at the neck and spreads it open like a child opening a Christmas present. Hands splay flat over sweaty skin, feeling Peter’s rapid breathing. “I’m going to ruin you, kid.” Like he can’t hear a single thing.

“I’m not—oh, god.” Tony is heavy on top of him and his cock is hard in his sweats, thick where it’s digging into Peter’s hip. Tony readjusts and grinds them together, hard enough that Peter scrambles for purchase against Tony’s back. “Cap, I don’t know what to do. What do I do?”

Tony rakes his nails down Peter’s bare chest, catching on Peter’s nipples with a satisfied smirk.

“What do you want to do?” Steve asks slowly.

Tony has such a high fever and his heart rate is dangerous and he looks at Peter and says, “you want to be a good boy for me, don’t you?” and Peter is so fucked. He’s both literally and figuratively fucked.

Like a flash of lightning, Peter remembers the call earlier: if Tony doesn’t come inside someone, he’ll overheat until he’s either cooked inside or dies from a heart attack. It had sounded kind of funny at the time, only half-paying attention.

Despite having a god among men standing not twenty feet away — oh, god, Captain America can totally see Peter’s boner right now — Tony doesn’t look away from Peter for a single moment if he can help it. Years of the revolving door love interests have made Tony extremely good with his hands. He’s often joked about it, about how good he is in bed, but Peter never actually thought he’d feel the way Tony smoothes hands over skin or bites bruises cherry red and it’s just a whole lot more than Peter expected to happen.

“I—I…oh, god.” Tony licks a line from Peter’s navel up to his chest and latches on to one of Peter’s nipples with his teeth. “I’m, I’m willing. I just—”

“Are you sure?” Steve says firmly, like Peter might be able to think straight with Tony all over him like every unfortunate wet dream he’s had since the seventh grade.

“If you don’t leave right now,” Tony says with a growl, “you’re going to get quite the show, Cap.” His eyes look clouded over, and he sits back heavy on Peter’s cock and just looks at the mess he’s made. Peter’s suit is hanging haphazardly around his hips and his shirt is ruined and his skin is bright pink. The cold wind through the holes in the walls brushes past, too cool on the spit-slick on Peter’s chest and he shudders.

“I’m okay,” Peter chants, and he lets himself reach out and touch for the first time. It’s tentative, fingertips across the scarring on Tony’s chest. “Like, what the fuck, but also I’ll be okay.”

If anyone understands that, it’s Steve, who is flushed almost as red as Peter and pivots. “I’ll guard the perimeter.”

With a grin, Tony rolls his hips so fluidly Peter whines high in his throat. “Kind of wanted to put on a show.” His cock is so hard, rutting into the dips of Peter’s stomach. “Bet he’ll watch. He just doesn’t want to admit how good you look. My perfect boy.” He grabs both sides of Peter’s head, fingers tangling in his hair so hard Peter can’t look anywhere but straight ahead.

Peter presses his hands flat. “Mr. Stark, I…” He closes his eyes tight. “What do I do? This is crazy.” Not last week Tony had been helping Peter with relationship advice, how to get a girl’s attention, clapped him on the shoulder and called him champ like he was going to take Peter to the baseball game later. “You’re…” 

The first time Tony kisses him, Peter’s brain doesn’t care about the drugged nature of it. It’s everything he wants, everything he thought it would be in his wildest dreams. It’s possessive, almost bruising, like Tony is boiling over and he’s going to fill Peter up with it. Teeth nips at Peter’s bottom lip until he makes the smallest sound, a little desperate. What? That’s Mr. Stark’s tongue in his mouth.

Tony’s hands slip down under the waistband of Peter’s until he touches hair and Peter writhes, knees clanking together, trying to hide himself even though Tony groans again like he’s found nirvana. His nails rake up the sensitive skin near Peter’s groin. “So soft and beautiful.” Tony bites into the meat of Peter’s shoulder, hips still rutting in a sinful rhythm. “Knew you would be.”

“Are you sure about—ah, about this, Mr, Stark?” Peter tries. His tongue is so thick in his mouth. He can hardly process anything. Beyond Tony is the dingy gray walls of the warehouse, the open space, anyone could walk in and they’d see Tony pinning Peter down with his body. Tony has never looked at him this way; not that Peter hasn’t tried. “You’re…you’re going to hate me later.” He covers his face with his hands, feels the heat on his cheeks.

When he turned seventeen he’d pushed his luck. He touched more, took more. Kissed Tony on the cheek goodbye until he was daring enough to slip, catch just the corner of Tony’s mouth. Peter remembers it, it’s was Monday, rainy, because he’ll never forget the way Tony had looked at him after. Terrified. Disgusted, even. Of Peter. Of Peter kissing him.

Right now, Tony needs more than a sidestep kiss and pat on the shoulder. He needs a hole, something to fuck into, something to take apart piece by piece, and he’s already let Peter know he wasn’t interested in that with him. Peter’s brain is spinning, the reality of the situation started to seep in through the cracks of his shock, and he wonders if he’s being an opportunist by taking Tony’s wandering hands in stride. 

“Oh, darling.” Tony leans in and presses a wet kiss to Peter’s shoulder. “I could never hate you.”

The sound of the zipper fills up the whole room. The space is public, with the open floor and windows and sun streaming down, but it’s quiet, save the police sirens outside. Tens of people, probably, just a flimsy wall away while Tony Stark gets his cock out with a groan. 

It’s thick, uncut, slightly to the left, and nestled in a thick and well-groomed swath of dark hair. Peter knew all that from the videos, the tapes he keeps on his phone for the lonely nights, but that’s just an old image of Tony. Right now, Tony is on his knees above Peter and he grins, circling his cock with his fingers so Peter can watch it twitch. He’s still a bit gray, he looks sick, and his hair is slick against his neck. Peter has always liked that, when it curls there, but Peter can’t look away from the curls around Tony’s cock right now because he’s just a man and his mouth is watering.

“You’re going to be the best thing I’ve ever felt,” Tony says through that wicked grin, eyes dazed — mind far away, probably, since the fight has left him. He leans over, lets his cock drag over Peter’s stomach. Peter feels pre-come in a smooth line and it makes him whimper. “I’ve fucked royalty, the most powerful people in the world, the most beautiful, but I know you’re going to feel the best.”

He kisses Peter then, when Peter opens his mouth and moans at the idea. He brings one thick hand up to Peter’s neck and just holds him, all threat but no pressure, and opens up Peter’s kisses with the flat of his tongue until Peter is weak and loose on the floor. Those fingers pull his mouth down, slip in and feel his tongue slide under the fingertips, and Tony doesn’t have to tell Peter to suck because this has happened in Peter’s head at least twenty five times.

Tony tastes like metal and lotion and salt. He presses on Peter’s tongue until Peter drools around his fingers, grinding his cock into Peter’s hip and rolling his thigh up between Peter’s legs. “Knew you’d melt for me, sugar in the rain, just like that.” 

Peter thinks his eyes might roll back in his head. Is he the one that got caught in the sex pollen nightmare? He feels giddy, almost drunk, and he lets more drool come out of his mouth and slick up Tony’s fingers. He knows where they’re going.

Tony is less single-minded than Peter would have thought, because he’s slow to pull his fingers away and he’s slow to lift up Peter’s leg and he spends an awed moment just looking, which borders on being too much. Peter can feel his ass clench when Tony runs a thumb over the pucker, and his legs tighten around Tony’s hips.

“Just, uh…” Peter wipes his mouth and hides his face in his elbow. “You can start, just…whatever you need.”

Tony presses in gently with the pad of his thumb at the same time he tugs Peter’s arm away from his face, just in time to see Peter’s expression slip into something feral. “Need to see you.” Tony bites into the meat of Peter’s shoulder and laves at it with his tongue. His goatee scrapes across Peter’s skin so good, and Peter curls up until his arms are curling over Tony’s head, hovering, unsure whether to bring him closer or pull him away. “My good boy.”

“Mr. Stark.” Peter presses Tony into his shoulders, another bite, and Tony slips a spit-slick finger inside quick and easy. “Oh, god, I didn’t think—I never thought—”

That’s a lie. Peter thought about it a lot, the way Tony might work him open. Tony’s fingers curl smoothly against Peter’s walls, one to two and then three, a little dry but Peter doesn’t mind when it hurts a little because sometimes soft and sweet feels dull. Sometimes he wants someone to rip him open and make him cry and if Tony is going to do it right now, under threat of death—

“Think about you all the time,” Tony croons heavily against Peter’s skin. He pulls away, purposeful, and Peter blinks. He wonders hysterically if the fog melted away, no more sex magic or whatever it is that’s making Tony want to destroy him, but Tony just draws closer until he can slap his cock around Peter’s swollen mouth. “Get me wet. I’ll make you stop thinking for good.”

Peter groans, an open invitation. This is insane. He shouldn’t enjoy this because Mr. Stark is drugged into wanting him and it’s a huge breach of trust and privacy but Peter scrambled up onto his elbows so Tony can feed him his dick, thick and perfect. He grabs Tony’s hip so hard he thinks there might be bruises but Tony fucks a little harder into his mouth, smooth.

There isn’t a lot of time for sex in his line of work, he’s busy, he’s pining over a man who doesn’t want him, not for real, but Peter isn’t too good to get on his knees in the back of a club and swallow someone down. He knows what he’s doing, throat opening up until the head of Tony’s cock hits the back of his throat. He hums. He loves this. He loves sucking people off, makes his head floaty and easy, and he’s got his eyes closed just to revel in it. He lets drool pool in his mouth again, knows it’s going to make his life easier. 

Tony’s thumb wipes a tear off Peter’s cheek, and it’s only then that Peter opens his eyes and finds his lashes damp, stuck together, watery. “There’s my boy.” It’s so fond. “Don’t cry. You’re doing so well.”

Peter’s hips fuck up into the air and he pulls off, suckling at the head before letting it rest gently on his bottom lip. “I’m good. I’m good, Mr. Stark.” He feels Tony twitch against his mouth. It’s incredible. 

It’s nothing compared to Tony rolling him over on his side, the obscene way Tony hikes up one of Peter’s legs and spits in Peter’s hole and feeds Peter the head of his cock so fast it burns a little, the way Peter kind of likes but won’t admit. It hurts and then his body knows it like this and everything evens out and Tony growls when he thrusts fully into Peter. His skin slaps hard against Peter’s hips, rocking Peter with a surprised cry further across the dusty ground. Tony just smoothes his hand over Peter’s hip, under the knee, and rocks into him. He bites feral at Peter’s neck and shoulders like he’s here to take and claim, like he’s going to want to see the shape of himself on Peter later.

“Oh, Mr. Stark, I’m, ah, oh, please.” Tony brushes up against his prostate and Peter jolts forward, bracing himself with his free hand on the ground to stop from being fucked flat into the floor. “Oh, please. It’s good. It’s good, it’s good.”

Peter isn’t sure Tony can hear anything anymore, but he takes his hand off Peter’s knee and wraps it around Peter’s throat, pulling him back so their bodies are flush and rocking hard and tight into Peter’s body. It’s hard to remember this is just drugs, this is just another day on the job getting fucked by the unrequited love of his life, when Tony watching the way Peter’s eyes roll back so closely. When Tony kisses Peter he tastes like blood but feels like gold, wrapping Peter up tighter. Peter couldn’t leave if he wanted to. He doesn’t want to. He’ll never want to.

“You take me so good, kid,” Tony says against Peter’s jaw, kisses wetly at the skin there. “Thought about this, about opening you up in the lab.”

“Ngh.” Peter is beyond speech, just like Tony promised, but his hand flies back to dig nails into Tony’s hip. His cock aches, dribbling precome onto the dirty floor and the tangle of his ruined clothes. 

“It’s bend you over and slip inside and you’d just—fucking—let me.” He thrusts hard into Peter’s hole, punctuation, and the sound Peter makes is ungodly. “Thought about it when you glued yourself to the wall, just ripping your clothes off—mmm.” A slow roll Peter can feel in his toes. “Find you already open and dripping because I know you fuck yourself sometimes before you come in. FRIDAY can tell.”

Tony isn’t squeezing his throat but Peter can’t breathe.

There are a million and one first hand accounts of Tony Stark’s stroke, but Peter doesn’t think any of them compare to the real thing. On the ground, in the warehouse, while Captain America tries to stop New York’s Finest from throwing open the door and seeing Peter pinned here in the dirt, spread open—

“That’s it,” Tony whispers, gravel. He scratches down Peter’s chest and wraps his hand around Peter’s cock. “You’re so good. Go on. Make a mess. Daddy will clean it up for you.”

It’s deep in Peter’s stomach, rolls up until it burns in his chest and chokes him. His hips cant back, trying to take more of Tony, more more more of something that isn’t here, out here in the open. Everyone knows they’re doing this right now. Fuck. Tony’s suit is still there; FRIDAY is recording all of this, the way Peter shudders and writhes and comes and comes and comes all over Tony’s fist. 

He falls flat on his stomach, Tony’s hand still pumping lightly until Peter is pushing back against Tony’s thrusts just trying to get away from the sensitivity. 

“That’s it, that’s it.” Kisses all over his neck, his throat, his cheeks. “Let me take care of you. Almost there, so good. So perfect.”

There’s no condom. That’s the last thought Peter has, as Tony comes thick and hot in Peter’s ass and grunts, bites one more time. No condom. Very messy. It’s fine, probably, since Tony said he’d clean it up. 

The adrenalin drop hits, empty, and Peter fades away into something deeper than sleep with his cheek pressed into the cold ground and Tony pulling out of his body, wet and sloppy.

[narcissosbythepool]

[A little gazprice omegaverse (omega!price, alpha!gaz, mention of omega!soap) draft, i'll prob make it into a thing later but here's what i have for now]

Omega Price hasn't had his heat in years – not something he's been keen to do. Maybe it's also some remnant of a bygone era where omegas were shunned in the military, perhaps Price is just extremely private person, maybe he doesn't just like heats much.

But suddenly, a mission goes on longer than expected and he runs out of suppressant pills

And the heat hits hard.

So Price and Gaz are on the mission together, they're behing enemy lines and they get stuck. Price looks at his pill stock and is like :) well shit. 141 knows Price is an omega but it's kind of a need-to-know thing, so he's the only one who keeps stock of his suppressants AND he doesn't go to regular health checks (he can go around them as CO).

Going years without a heat is Very Bad for an omega's health, and the next heat will be The Mother of Heats so it's not recommended. So the med stock starts to dwindle and Price doesn't tell Gaz, starts just taking half a pill per day.

Gaz picks up on it, the sweet scent of an omega in preheat, and he's surprised, didn't realize that Price could just... lower his guard like this around Gaz, not use his blockers or suppressants.

Until Price's nervous behaviour starts cluing him in that this is a bad situation.

They finally reach a safehouse but Price is about to have his heat any day now and Laswell can't promise them an exfil any time soon, though she promises to try her best. Price's pheromones will start attracting attention if the heat hits full force and they're both nervous as shit about it.

Add to this a dormant but ever-present pining situation... Gaz and Pricr have been into each other for a while but there are so many barriers: their rank and the power imbalance, Price's protectiveness of his omega identity, the age gap (that Gaz doesn't mind one bit tho, he likes older men), and also just prioritizing their friendship above all else – not to mention how damn compromised they'd be if they bonded. Could Price send his lover on the battlefield to risk his life? Would he be able to stay objective? Neither of them is entirely sure.

But Price starts displaying some signs of a distressed omega, frustrated at himself and the situation and Gaz's scent driving him insane.

It takes a few days of being stuck in close quarters, until Gaz finally breaks their waiting game.

"Sir... I don't want to be disrespectful."

"Try me, Sergeant." Be real fucking careful now, Price's tone says.

"Would it... would it help if I scented you? I hear... or Soap says at least, that it helps ease the symptoms." Gaz swallows. "My scent could cover yours. If something goes wrong."

Neither of them miss the rising scent of arousal in the room. They don't even know which one of them it's coming from. Maybe both.

The idea isn't bad – it would make sense to cover Price's scent with an alpha's, and it might ease Price's anxiety, perhaps prolonging the beginning of the heat.

Price would like to drag Gaz to the bed he's claimed for himself, wants Gaz's weight on him, wants him close, but this isn't the time to make bad decisions, and so they kind of stand there, awkwardly facing each other until Price opens his arms and Gaz's one hand finds his hip, the other his neck. Gaz pushes his nose against Price's scent gland, inhales the strong scent and revels in it, until Price grunts impatiently and Gaz starts scenting him for real.

And then they just. Stand there. Practically embracing each other. Enjoying each other's scents and the indulgence after months of pining.

Months? Maybe even years.

In the following days Gaz starts scenting him every few hours and Price's heat, while still steadily approaching, isn't going as haywire as in the beginning.

One night Price is restless, tossing and turning and so clearly frustrated that it's keeping Gaz awake.

Until finally it stops. Gaz turns to look. Price is looking at him.

"Kyle," he starts, and Gaz's stomach twists a little. "Would you... no, I can't ask that of you."

"Try me, Captain."

Price stalls for a moment and then finally sits up, looking somehow lost and years younger.

"I feel so damn empty. I need... a touch. To be taken care of." He grimaces. "I hate heats. Too dependent on others."

"Sir?"

"If you don't mind. Could you come here?"

Price lifts his blanket a little, makes space next to him on the narrow bed.

Gaz is frozen for a second and then gets up, crosses the room, and sits down.

"How do you want me, Cap?"

Price's eyes get a teasing glint in them.

"Now that's a bit forward, eh?"

"Sir..." Gaz mumbles, embarrassed.

Price lies down and turns his back to Gaz. If it weren't dark in the room, Gaz wonders if he would see a blush, the tips of his ears red.

"C'mon Garrick. You can figure it out."

He sure can.

Gaz settles down and turns to his side, lifting his arm over Price's side and pulling him close, burying his face in Price's neck and inhaling his scent, exuding his own calming scent, and feels how Price relaxes in his hold.

[That's all I have for now! Maybe i'll write some more later]

[tyquu]

Here's the Ben whump rant i talked abt in my last post,,,

Ofc heed the triggers and what not: Blood, injury, ect ect

Also take everything here with a serious handful of salt, im being dramatic as heck. So if you don't wanna see me get serious abt something that's not that deep, this probably isn't the rant for you <3

Anywho...

Do you ever think about just how often Ben gets the absolute crap beat out of him? Like in Grudge Match, I forgot how many times he gets flung about in his human form. He's ten years old, his bones are way too weak for all that. The amount of head injuries he must get is insane, and Max never once seems to take Ben's injuries seriously. 

Like that time Ben gets sick after sitting in the back of an ice cream van for like,, twenty minutes. He's ill to the point it's actively inhibiting his ability to play hero, blinding wildmutt with gunked up sensors and taking the heat out of heatblast. He's pale and sniffly and looks like shit, but Max still makes the executive decision to drag him out on errands instead of giving him time to rest. 

Also just cause he takes the majority of damage in his alien forms doesn’t mean those injuries suddenly have no impact at all. I think in alien force they were toying with idea of his injuries carrying over becoming more of a problem for him, with his busted knee in season one, and black eye in the episode where he gets grounded. Either way, it’s still implied that wounds translate over after he de-transforms, even if to a lesser extent. Not to mention all the scrapes and little injuries he must get from de-transforming mid battle (on the occasions he does).

FUCK, I mean Ben actually displays short term memory loss as a direct result of getting hit in the head in alien force, and Gwen isn't concerned about it probably because she grew up with Grandpa Max not being concerned about it. She doesn't realise just how dangerous this level of head injury is, what the brain inflammation and possible bleeding could do to him. She's probably looked him in the eyes, with his pupils blown wide, dazed and confused about his whereabouts, and then buried her concern because it's nothing new right? Ben's been dealing with stuff like this since he was 10, and Max, the ever responsible adult, never shows the appropriate amount of concern for it, so it makes sense that both Gwen and Ben don’t consider these things serious until its too late. 

Like not to get all dramatic about this and over think it (more so than I already am lol) but I’m positive this stuff would have long term consequences for Ben’s health as he enters adult hood, or even before then. Trouble recalling things, ringing in his ears, migraines and headaches as well a light sensitivity, all of these are symptoms of repeated and serious head trauma. Not to mention, paired with my personal headcanons about the burning chemical sensation of having the omnitrix fused to his flesh, leaking fluid into his bloodstream and scorching his skin. Or the chronic nosebleeds I think he would have as a result of all these other health complications. There's just a LOT that can be done with Ben whump, and I’m surprised it isn’t talked about/thought about more? 

Folks love the idea of Ben being functionally immortal (at least from injury related death), and the power fantasy that comes with being the weilder of the omnitrix, but what about the fact that he’s just some guy?? That the omnitrix failsafe doesn’t protect him from everything, and that if the injuries are bad enough to have triggered the failsafe in the first place, then where does that leave him in terms of recovering from them??? Sorry, sorry, crazy moment. 

[bibibbon]

something that constantly pisses me off about lov bashers is that they don’t understand that an explanation is not an excuse.

they can’t wrap their head around the fact that yes toga is a murderer but that doesn’t negate the fact that she was driven to that point by society.

if her parents supported her and helped her with the symptoms and urges caused by her quirk i doubt she would’ve become a villain.

she was literally driven to insanity not because she’s always been that way, but because suppressing her urges for so long caused her to snap.

twice became a villain because he had no other choice. he had no family, no job, and he was just a child. he had no where to go and no one to help him.

it really hits home for me because i have autism and several other mental problems, so some of my behaviors are because of those issues. but whenever i say that people say i’m making excuses when i’m not. i understand that some of my behaviors aren’t okay. that my mental illnesses aren’t my fault, but they are my responsibility.

yes toga should go to jail/juvenile detention because she’s killed several people, but we should acknowledge that the reason she became a murderer is because of how she was treated. BUT that doesn’t mean her being a murderer is okay or justified.

this also relates to how i believe spinner was right about how placating to their oppressors will do nothing.

the civil rights movement wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. they had to *fight* for their rights. key word being fight.

yes peaceful protest are certainly effective but they won’t work 100% of the time. sometimes you just have to get your hands dirty.

for example, sit-ins and peaceful marches were extremely important to the movement. but sometimes you just need to throw a brick at a cop.

stonewall isn’t infamous because it was peaceful. it’s infamous because it showed the world that the lgbtq community wasn’t going to sit idly by and let themselves be brutalized.

but the thing is 100% of spinners ideology won’t work, and 100% of shoji’s ideology won’t work either. there needs to be a balance between the two.

tl;dr some of the mha community is allergic to nuance and it makes me wanna scream.

Tbh I wouldn't label myself a league of villains basher but Iam definitely anti against the lov fans that claim the league are completely innocent and haven't done any crimes whatsoever.

I have said this before and I will say it again all of the leauge of villain members are victims. They are victims!!! But they have also done bad things. They are victims and they are bad people. Two things can coexist at once.

One thing that I find interesting about some league members that I wish was explored more often was the hypocrisy they had. For example take toga who has stated that she doesn't want to go to jail for her crimes and has murdered but also simultaneously gets distraught over twices death. I love toga but that can definitely be described as hypocritical and it's something that I love about her and I wish horikoshi delved into this with the league a whole lot more.

Also one of my problems that I mentioned in another post is that the leauge don't actually have a viable goal. As of current their goal was to simply destroy and create carnage so they can somehow get a better world for themselves. Realistically that plan is incredibly flawed and would obviously backfire horribly so I wish that horikoshi could of made it so that they developed out of that plan and used the MVA to target groups like the HPSC and other parts of the government to prove their point without harming innocent kids and civilians.

Agreed shoji and spinners ideologies are both flawed but if combined there can be a common ground reached. Thinking about this I can't help but also wonder what if shigaraki properly used the MVA and their resources? What if there wasn't an outright war? What if there was more bonding between the villains and their heroes?

@mikeellee used to suggest that shigaraki would try and get izuku on board with the MVA and I can't help but think that's a great idea and would help the narrative while adding more nuance and development to izuku and other characters.

[henrysglock]

is it possible for Henry to have DID or another disassociative disorder due to the severe abuse he experienced as a child? I was reading through some of your theories, and maybe I'm just projecting, but I can't help but see the signs lol. Like how a lot of people with DID undergo exorcisms because it's mistook for being possessed. Maybe the Duffers even took inspiration from the disorder. I don't know I'm yapping

While I do think they took inspiration from different disorders for Henry's behavior, I'm more likely to attribute his symptoms to OCD/intrusive thoughts/hallucinations.

See: Henry's visions and his persistent, obsessive fear surrounding them/the things they tell him to do, the animal killings acting as compulsions in that they "stave off" whatever the Mindflayer tells Henry it's going to do if he doesn't comply. It's giving "I have to [insert behavior] or [insert bad thing] will happen...but if I [insert behavior], [insert bad thing] won't happen".

The things that seem DID-coded about Henry are most often linked to the Mindflayer, which doesn't seem to be something he developed as a trauma response as much as it seems to be something foreign that reflects all of his trauma back at him and weaponizes it against him.

However, and I do have a section in the big post talking about it, the other characters in TFS seem to be more similar to the characters in NINA—which is to say: not strictly real, based on memories (both past and future). That's where we begin to see aspects of Henry himself bleeding into the other characters around Henry in a way that makes it a little harder to tell if they're strictly memories, if they're Mindflayer avatars, or if Henry's own mind has given them a life of their own headmate-style.

If there were a DID reference, thought, I'd say it's in Patty vs the Mindflayer (re: Split, which was on the movie board.)

There's a neat little web of connections there between Henry insisting he wasn't there/hit his head and doesn't remember, the Mindflayer possessions, Patty's frankly insane number of Mindflayerisms, and the alter Patricia.

Another aspect here is the "they're still with me, in here" line, which I would clock more as a pyschotic break/almost schizophrenia-like symptom...and it's also linked to the Mindflayer, given that it's the Mindflayer who's shown to consume people and creatures that way with Henry as an intermediary.

So in short: it's not to say that DID references aren't there, but the way they are there makes me reluctant to "diagnose" Henry with DID.

--

(Also, if by referencing my theories you mean Henry/Edward stuff, that's not DID. That's something else, given that it appears in newspapers.

Same with Henry's personality flip in NINA (which is more giving pyschotic break than DID on surface view anyway) wherein there's the whole aspect of changing physical details like the hairstyle thing and the blood on the suits/moving bodies/etc.

It's not just Henry acting differently or him insisting he's someone else, etc. It encompasses physical details that Henry would have no control over...Hence why I discarded DID theory almost immediately (not to mention the poor taste a plot like that would be in).)

[kevotsuka]

I need to hear your detailed thoughts on pregnant bezz lol. It's clear it's going to be like a single dad situation bc he has no clue who the dad is. He's a Lil nervous but the academy is very nice about it. Pecco just wordlessly starts accompanying him to every doctor's appointment. Luca is making sure he gets his prenatal vitamins on time and resting his feet and cele is a little distant at first which makes bezz feel a little sad and he doesn't know what to do about it and Luca comes over to cele and tells him to not hurt bezz when he's expecting and cele feels soo guilty he would never do anything to hurt bezz or the baby but he feels insane about the whole situation and also is a little bit obsessed with bezz and his teeny growing bump anyway they make up and cele never leaves his side like they sleep together and he rubs Bezz's feet and let's Bezz hug his cold post shower body because he's burning up due to the baby. Just my silly thoughts I want your preg bezz thoughtsssssssssss

Anon you're sooo smart because all what you say IS TRUE. Cele is so weird about preg!bezz and luca need to talk with him “how you can make our pregbez being sad?” Jail for celin. Personally I am more into bez/pecco for this AU, but bezz has a harem who cares about him and his lil babybug :)

SO THANKS for waiting for my little silly thoughts about preg!bezz, he’s very important to me lmao.

I'm writing a fic (in spanish) about this snip, i don't think i wanna post it, but preg bezz is a 9k gdocs and tried to kill me 

A thing about Bezz is how PRIVATE he wants to be (he fails). Like, he tried to separate his work and his personal life.

So in my timeline bezz was pregnant in Aus, and at first he had a very asymptomatic preg. Maybe he confuses the symptoms with the consequences of his broken collarbone, idk.

anyways, he don't ride out of weekend, don’t go to the ranch, barely training and lives stressed, sad and high in FEELINGS

It's not until before Valencia (Friday maybe) that he realize “oh, I might be pregnant” and then he DON'T CARE because it's the end of the season and all he want to do is go take a nap with his dog.  He will deal with the bug when the tests are over.

He rides on Saturday and he doesn't do too bad but he hates himself because he could be better, but it is Sunday when he FALLS because Marquez HIT HIM and he realizes that with that blow he could have lost the bug and suddenly it is unacceptable. He drinks beers on an empty stomach, goes to yell at Marc at his truck, drinks some more, goes to SKY and says “Did you know Marquez hit US?”  to anyone who wants to listen to him (people think he's talking about him and Martín, so they don't pay much attention to him)

He goes, picks up his prize completely done and thinking about his bug and how maybe he lost it because of Marquez and cries a little because of the alcohol and hormones, but do you remember that he is a private person?  DON'T TELL ANYONE.  Not his family who is there for him.  Not even Valentino.

pass the valence tests (and Bezz is irresponsible and gets back on the motorcycle) and is wednesday and Marco is at home, with his dog and looking for the number of a former schoolmate who he is sure became a gynecologist and deal with his bug that he may have lost (and he touches his belly and silently begins to pray to a god he hasn't believed in a long time).

 the bug is okay :) But beez need to stop riding rn, avoid the levels of stress that he have subjected his body and mind to in recent weeks.  That is if he want to take the baby to term, if not there is also an abortion clinic quite close there.

THEN he have the dilemma of “have the baby or continue your life as if nothing had happened?”  And the answer is that he will have that baby because he is a selfish man who feels lonely.

THEN, only after the first visit to the gynecologist post valencia test he calls Valentino and says “haha boss sorry I need to terminate my contract due to health problems :(“ and “don't you need a sexy pregnant secretary? I really can't stay without a work rn”

Valentino just lost TWO drivers in less than a month and is, of course, mad as shit, but he's also a father and tells Marco (once he hears that apparently he's going to be GRANDPA because bez is also his son) that it's okay, the academy will help you and support you in everything etc etc if you decide to return.

Marco doesn't want to tell to the boys of the academy.  Like, not at all.  He prefers to go hide in the hills before telling his friends that he chose to be a 'father' instead of chasing everyone's dream and becoming a motogp world champion etc etc

So he doesn't tell them anything (yet, he will eventually).

It is made public that he will leave the category to focus on his health and this is how the boys at the academy find out that Marco will not compete in the following season.  and Bezz practically vanished from the face of the earth.

 It is not until January, on Pecco's birthday, that he asks to meet when Bezz sends him a message to congratulate him.

Bezz says “Well, meet me at the hospital” and Pecco is clearly panicking and running to the address Bezz gave him.

 Then he sees Bezz in the parking lot, beaming and wearing those horrible oversized clothes that he likes so much and he can finally breathe easy.  He tries to ask Marco how he's been and why he disappeared, but Bezz asks him about the academy, about his family, about Pecco's grandmother??  as they walk through the hospital, towards the maternity section and Pecco begins to suspect

Then they arrive at reception, the secretary tells them that they are on time and Pecco is panicking while Marco drags him to the gynecologist, who only raises an eyebrow when she sees the MotoGP world champion there but greets him easily.

Then it's a haze for Pecco, Bezz talks about the changes in his body and the gynecologist tells Marco that they are normal things, that he has been very good and that his baby, whom Bezz insists on calling bug, has no health problems visible and developing very well for being 15 weeks old.  She then turns to Pecco and asks him to remind Marco to take his supplements because he tends to get very forgetful sometimes and that he is glad to finally meet the father.  And have him sign some documents that he has overdue :)

Pecco comes out with ink stains on his hands, lots of questions, and a strip of ultrasounds while Marco laughs at him and his expression.  Then bezz explains that he needed a companion who can come sign the papers.  That does not link Pecco to the child, only to Marco in case his family cannot come look for him in an emergency related to his baby.

Pecco: what.

[robynbaldurlogs]

baldur log day 1 + 2

day 1 i dont have much to show for this day visually bc i wasnt actively documenting... but essentially, i: made my character, went through the beginning tutorials and stuff, took the little brain guy with me, saved shadowheart, and crashed on the beach. then i stopped playing. here is the only image i took before i got off LOL

day 2 ok. so: shadowheart is cool as fuck. i LOVE her already. cannot wait to strengthen the social link with her or whatever the hell you call it. get the friendship numbers up. this fuckass poem had me dead:

shoutout the bitch queen ig whoever you are. keep serving also i love this fucking guy. i can tell hes a conniving fuck but ohhhh hes kinda hot though!

like why is he kinda cunty. but yea anyways he joined my party. also met this guy. gale. he is strangely charming. but he also gives me zephyr breeze vibes (which is bad) and jack sparrow vibes (which is very good). told my friend speves that and that i thought he looked like a smart himbo and she was like "i dont blame you for that read" + "we'll see" which i Dont Know how to take. my judgements were based off the literal first minute of conversation btw

+ really stupid visual glitch i almost didnt notice. theyre fusing

shadowheart talk your shit man.

"just waiting, like a lovesick puppy?" ...... thats a bad thing? whatever you say man. gonna scare shadowheart with commitment. COMMITMENT JUMPSCARE BOO also little parentheses shadowheart is the most fucking dementia raven way ass name and i love it but it was hard to take it seriously for a little bit. warrior cats ass name. also i got crazy fucking lucky with my rolls. dont have many screenshots but i kept getting high numbers it was lucky as shit up until gale talked to me about needing to consume magical items like crack i read his mind with the mindflayer tadpole and found out it was cus he consumed some crazy ass Dark Magic or something, got a critical failure first, then just used some inspiration i had to get it right, and rolled high as shit LMAO

hit the rolls TWICE btw. read his mind once and then went deeper into his mind which had a 15 dc and got that too. hell yeah baby. also afterwards i was totally honest with him about reading his mind and he freaked the fuck out which fair i read your mind. i get it. but still

then i calmed him down by being like "hey man i had to know. youre dangerous" and passed the persuasion check :sunglasses: easiest game of my fucking life oh i talked to shadowheart abt her pains before that which was cool every conversation i have with her makes me like her more.

i met wyll. great guy. i went to camp to long rest and he dropped some INSANE fucking knowledge on me. like. i could live by this

so i switched gale out in my party with him LMAOOOOOOO and had a conversation with astarion about how hed kill me if i started turning. i asked what he would prefer personally and he said decapitation. which was CRAZY. so i was like yeah sure king decapitate me if i turn. do your thing. i trust your judgment

also talked to shadowheart bc i will seize every chance to learn more about her

then i left camp, talked to kagha while looking for a healer, got them to free a tiefling girl through more persuasion rolls (BECAUSE IM GOATED) and talked to the healer nettie who was fixing a Regular Bird

she told me how strange it is that we arent turning, to swear on my life id drink a poison if i saw any symptoms (which i of course agreed to, shadowheart approved and astarion did not) and stopped playing on the way to rescue halsin. fun times!

p.s. days doesnt necessarily mean im playing this daily but rather just what happens when i play per irl day... days just works as a way to categorize tbh

[gabessquishytum]

Did you mention something about Hob with OCD??? Please share, I wanna know more 👁️👁️

Oh absolutely I will share!!! I have OCD myself so like. Watch me project my feelings, babyyyy. Gentle warning that some of this could be potentially triggering.

What if part of the reason Hob is kind of chilled out about the whole immortality thing in the early days is because he’s always known there’s something different about him? He’s always had these bad, gross, weird thoughts and feelings ever since he can remember. And hey, oops, looks like he made a deal with the devil! He’s not necessarily surprised, given the stuff that goes on in his head. He feels like he’s probably going to hell anyway so he might as well enjoy his time on earth while he can.

Maybe he’s always had rituals. Ever since the plague hit his village, he has to get dressed a certain way in the morning, cause if he doesn’t, he feels like bad things will happen. If he runs his sword across the whetstone a certain amount of times, then his friends with come out of the battle safely. If he says a few more Hail Marys then he might be able to stop thinking about stabbing himself through the thigh.

His symptoms come and go over the centuries. It gets really bad in the 1600s, when his head is so loud and nothing stops the bad things from happening, his skin is raw with trying to tear himself apart. He’s so cold he can’t count to ten but he has to, because if he doesn’t, he’ll do something horrible and terrifying... He becomes to desensitised to his own emotions, enough that he just can’t drag himself up from the gutters. He carries so much guilt inside him, he can’t really feel anything else, except possibly delirium holding his hand through it all. Until finally he stumbles out of the haze, and the sun is still there, and his stranger will be there in 1789 so he’d better get his head on straight.

It’s a kind of ritual, the white horse every 100 years. A kind of guarantee.

Maybe he fluctuates, over the years, and eventually figures out that it isn’t just him. Maybe in one lifetime he’s an advocate for the insane, who are still kept in prisons and who are largely forgotten by even their own families. Maybe he studies the sickness of the mind and tries, for the first time, to think of himself as wounded. Rather than damned.

And even when his stranger, his one constant, storms off in 1889, he doesn’t seek death. He thinks of the lonely voices in the asylums and reminds himself that he has a duty to survive. It suddenly feels very important that he should live. There is so much to live for, and so many people to meet. And he’s a little frightened, too, of what might happen after. The pictures of hell in his head are still very vivid.

It’s worth it, because the 20th century is horrible and beautiful, and one day he’s sitting with a medical journal in his hands and finally, after all that time, he knows for sure that he hasn’t got the devil inside his head (fuck you, Father Peter, fuck your confessional box, and fuck 1365 in general). He dives headfirst and joyfully into therapy, meditation, medication, support groups, community groups, education, educating others.

He has been living with this thing for more than 600 years, and he doesn’t even hate it anymore. It frightens him, sometimes, but he thinks that might be ok. He thinks that he might be a good person. The two things are compatible, and he has so much to live for. So much to learn.

[prying-pandora666]

My Azula Diagnosis Analysis Part 7: CPTSD

As the master post I wrote was too long, I’ve divided it into parts. Find them all here.

Sick of bad armchair diagnosis for Azula? Me too! So in this thread let’s discuss Azula’s most commonly “diagnosed” illnesses and disorders, and find out what she actually meets the criteria for, if any.

Does Azula have complex post traumatic stress disorder?

Unlike PTSD, which is caused by a singular traumatic event or experience, CPTSD is caused by a repeated or even routine trauma.

Although oversimplified, an easy way to think of it is the difference between being traumatized by a car accident or mugging versus traumatized by an entire childhood of abuse in the home.

As such, CPTSD is a more complicated and less understood phenomenon, as the abuse and the sufferer’s reactions may have become so normalized to them, they may not even fully realize what is their traumatic response to past abuse versus what is their actual personality.

CPTSD Claims

—Azula clearly has trauma regarding her upbringing, seen both in her breakdown and failure to socialize normally

—Azula can’t regulate her emotions when she’s rejected

—Azula is desperate for love and familial approval and will go to insane lengths to get it

So Does Azula Have CPTSD?

CPTSD can present in a number of ways. People are all different. But diagnostically significant symptoms include:

—Lack of emotional regulation: Azula normally keeps her emotions very firmly in check to an obsessive degree. So firmly that she can lie to Toph or stare death in the face without flinching. However, after her breakdown she loses the capacity to regulate herself at all, lashing out at her brother homicidally for betraying her, and sobbing in front of a mirror she smashed herself. Azula’s tight control of her feelings therefor seems to be a coping mechanism to deal with intense feelings she can’t process, and the moment rejection makes her mask slip, Azula falls apart. Even years later in the comics, she is yet to regain full control.

—Changes in consciousness: This can include forgetting the traumatic event or feeling detached from your emotions or body aka disassociation. Azula constantly dismisses her own trauma and flippantly jokes about it to avoid showing vulnerability. As such, she is completely unprepared when the emotions finally catch up to her. At her worst, she shows no concern for her own physical well being, taking several suicidally dangerous risks, and even choosing to use painful chi-blocking to slip out of a straitjacket without a care for what she is putting her body through.

—Negative self-perception: Azula has internalized that she is a monster. She believes fear to be the only way to control and keep relationships, as she fears she is unloveable.

—Difficulty with relationships: Mai said it best. “I love Zuko more than I fear you”. Azula’s worst, most sensitive trauma, and Mai hit that weak point like the expert marksman she is. Azula truly couldn’t handle it when Zuko and her friends all turned on her, and it’s clear she has no idea how to resolve any of it despite desperately wanting their love just like she wanted her mother and father’s. Azula also hides vulnerability from others out of fear of showing weakness, which makes it hard to connect. She also struggles to relate to kids her own age in a normal way, despite being a highly charismatic leader when it comes to war.

—Distorted perception of abuser This includes becoming preoccupied with the relationship between you and your abuser. Azula lives only to be Ozai’s perfect weapon because this is the only way she knows to stay in his good graces and get any validation at all. She doesn’t realize until he discards her that he was never going to love her no matter what she did.

—Loss of systems of meanings: Systems of meaning refer to your beliefs about the world. Azula clearly loses faith in the Fire Nation’s crusade to conquer the world, and later on she loses complete interest in the throne as well, even saying that she found relief from her symptoms only once she accepted it wasn’t her destiny to be Fire Lord.

—Overaroused somatic system: Azula perceives rejection as a threat, and overreacts as her brain sets alarm bells off in her nervous system, leading to psychotic episodes and violent outbursts. This explains her impaired motor function when she’s at her lowest, as well as her reacting to Zuko’s rejection as if she has to kill him. His betrayal is taken so hard and personally because her body misinterprets this emotional pain as a physical threat. This is an extremely common response amongst child victims of abuse, and Zuko also shows shades of this with his anger issues.

Conclusion: Azula does suffer from CPTSD.

Out of everything else on this list—except Golden Child Syndrome which is canonically confirmed—this is the most likely diagnosis for Azula.

The enmeshment with her abuser, the coping mechanisms, the emotional responses, the repressed feelings, even the way her motor skills and rationality deteriorate during periods of intense stress.

Several personality disorders, notably Borderline Personality Disorder, can have overlapping symptoms. Considering Azula’s circumstances, it is my opinion that she more likely has CPTSD masquerading as BPD, but this is open to individual interpretation.

[rozcdust]

She’s so mean

Pairing: OC x SSM!Y/N

Genre: Darkfic, Angsy

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: OOC, canon divergent, domestic abuse, manipulation, large age gap, physical abuse, brainwashing

She’s so mean, before she was mean

Read the warnings please!

“He doesn’t love you, you know,” Zankoku whispers in your ear late at night, “If he loved you, he wouldn’t try to take you away from me. You’re happy with me, right? You’re so happy.”

You say nothing as you stare at the dark ceiling in your bedroom, imagining demons and critters running under your feet.

You are sure you’re going insane.

“I love you so much, aren’t you safe here, with me? You’ll never have to do a thing, I’ll just keep you right here. You’ll always be mine, my little glass figurine.“ Zankoku tries to convince you, his nails now digging into your side, his hands wrapping around your ribs and holding you close, so close it feels like he wants to push you inside his ribcage until you become no one, “He doesn’t love you.”

You almost laughed.

Keisuke said the exact same thing about him yesterday on the phone.

“Today we will be learning about recognising domestic abuse in patients, and how to help!” The lecturer announces, a smile stretching her face, inappropriate for this lecture, but you don’t say a thing.

You listen and take notes and listen and take notes and nowhere does the irony hit you.

You live inside a house of a 30-year-old man as a 19-year-old girl, nothing but soft skin and calloused hands and waiting like lamb for slaughter.

He bought you flowers a week ago, and you watch them rot.

If you had some humanity inside you before, he killed it, and now it’s been left to rot like the flowers, deep inside you, somewhere in a graveyard you couldn’t quite reach unless you dug until your fingernails bled and your arms turned black from filth and you feel yourself turning inside out.

Keisuke calls every day, but you rarely respond.

You worry him to death.

You start a checklist of symptoms, a checklist on how to help patients and as you stare at every single boxed ticked, you close your notebook and stop listening, staring out the window.

Your hips and legs ache with bruises.

You won’t help yourself.

He loves you so much, and so what if it hurts? It’s your fault for making him mad.

“Y/n? Y/N! OPEN UP!”

It’s your brother.

He’s banging on your doors, and you barely look up from your phone, notifications with 30 missed calls from him and Chifuyu and an unknown caller you’re sure is Kazutora, glaring at you like a thorn, and yet, you stay still.

The banging grows more frantic, and finally, with a heavy, deafening sigh, you unlock the doors, staring somewhere behind him.

He doesn’t need to meet your gaze.

“What is it, Keisuke?”

He stares at you, eyes wide open and you can feel his eyes searching your form, searching for injuries not hard to find, lingering on the broken blood vessels littering your skin, blooming purple and blue like violets in spring.

Like violets rotting in the vase.

“Y/n, you have to leave him.” He breathes out, his voice gravelly, “Leave. I’m begging you.”

“I’m fine, Kei.” You finally lock eyes with him.

He’s angry.

“Fine?” His laughter catches you off guard, for just a second, and you could swear the bitterness in it is crawling up and inside the walls of your apartment and staying there, like a curse.

“Yes.”

“You’re not fine,” He frantically shakes his head, his eyes having a hard time moving from the bruises on your wrist and forearm where Zankoku grabbed you a couple of days ago - you talked back that time. Bad idea. “Look at you, God, look at you y/n! You- you look dead! He-“ Keisuke takes a shaky breath, “He’s not okay. He’s not good for you. Please, just, pack your things, you can stay with me and Fuyu and Tora, please-“

“I want to stay with him. He loves me.”

Keisuke stares at you in disbelief.

“Love?! Is this what he brainwashed you into thinking love is?! Look at yourself!”

Your eyes blankly focus behind him.

“This is love.”

Keisuke’s hands move so fast, you flinch, taking a quick step back, expecting a slap that never comes as your eyes screw tightly shut.

When you open them, Keisuke stares at you in disbelief, and betrayal, hands left half hanging in the air.

He wanted to grab your shoulders and pull you into a hug, and you flinched away, and now you feel panic raising in your throat.

It feels like you’re a stupid child who’s been caught stealing candy from the corner store.

“This isn’t love, y/n,” He whispers, eyes wide, “This isn’t it.”

You scoff, the fear turning into anger.

“Fuck off, Kei.”

His hands extend to cup your face, forcing you to look at him.

His touch is soft.

“Y/n, please, listen to me, please. Look at me. Do you see a bruise? Do you see any indication Fuyu or Tora ever hurt me? Is there anything on me?”

Your eyes leave his to scan over his exposed skin.

He has a scratch on his wrist, most likely the courtesy of the cats in the pet shop, and a small bruise visible on his exposed elbow you knew he got from bumping into something, and you could already imagine him cursing and rubbing the spot.

You pry his hands away from you.

He was pushing you into a corner, making you more of a frightened animal than a human, and you didn’t appreciate that very much.

Zankoku loved you.

Keisuke is wrong.

Frightened animals pushed into a corner bite.

“You beat Chifuyu black and blue, and Kazutora fucking stabbed you. He almost killed you, Keisuke. Hardly a picture-perfect relationship, don’t you think?”

Keisuke doesn’t say a word.

He only stares for a few seconds, and you could almost see the cogs in his head turning, the urge to yell fighting with the urge to stay calm.

You want him to yell. To get mad. You want him to hit you and tell you how you’re insane, how you’re stupid for doing this, you want him to hurt you.

You’d deserve it.

He leaves without another word.

You close the doors, silence falling over the apartment.

You can finally be alone with ghosts and rotting flowers once again.

You sleep in the bathroom that night.

Zankoku is sobbing on the other side, his knocks soft and cautious as he barely manages to let out strangled, pathetic words.

“Please angel, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, you know I didn’t mean to, right? You just made me so mad, and then I can’t help myself, please don’t do it again, please? I didn’t mean to, I swear I didn’t mean to!”

You turn to look at the closed door, a cotton pad drenched in disinfecting alcohol pressed to your eyebrow, the fresh cut stinging and burning and it feels like comfort.

Of course you know he didn’t mean to.

After all, he’s so gentle with you, he’s the perfect boyfriend as long as you stay in line, it’s your fault after all.

When it’s good, it’s so good, but when it’s bad, you aren’t sure you’ll survive.

“Please, angel, I love you, I love you so so much, please?”

You don’t unlock the doors, but you whisper out an apology and tell him you love him too.

After all, you don’t have to do anything, do you? You’re living the dream, all of your needs taken care of, everything always paid for already, food always on the table and his lips always soft and plush when they kiss you.

“We’ll be alright, won’t we angel?” He whispers, and you agree, voice soft and cautious.

You both know it’s bullshit.

Your eyebrow stings, you’ve made the love of your life sad and your brother will probably never call again.

That’s okay. That’s good.

You and Zankoku will be okay, and Keisuke is better off away from you anyway.

The next morning, there is a red jewellery box and fresh flowers on the table.

There is a golden bracelet inside.

You add it to the overflowing jewellery box.

He knows you can’t wear bracelets as a nurse.

Not that it matters, it’s the thought that counts, right?

You made him mad, he threw a plate at your head, and he apologised.

It’s okay.

He loves you more than anyone else ever could.

And besides, don’t you enjoy this? Don’t you love the rush?

If you hated being a victim, why haven’t you done anything to get out?

He loves you.

He loves you and it shows in his every step, he shows it in the way he cups your face and calls you the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, he shows it by kissing the back of your neck when you ask him to help you clasp a necklace, he shows it with every bruise and every soft caress.

He loves you even with his hands around your neck.

He loves you even when he’s drowning you in a kitchen sink.

He loves you even when he’s bleeding out.

He loves you.

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