#hi enjo!

[paintedpatroclus]

he was antinous, wild

[javierduffy]

stuffand also things

[kingkatsuki]

Specifically thinking about long distance relationships today.

So tell me how you and your f/o would first meet online?

[sheepstiel]

jackles said his favorite role to play other than dean is eric brady

[darkshrimpemotions]

Actually the implications of John also being bisexual are so fucking tasty to me because like. OG John has no support system and no protection against the world except his own perceived strength so he learns to ferret out anything that can possibly be seen as weakness to those around him and that includes any affection or attraction he might feel towards men because nothing screams "stay in your fucking closet" like spending all your time around a fringe subculture of serial killing doomsday preppers in the Midwest during the Reagan era.

By the time he notices Dean starting to look a little too long at boys his age, he's probably convinced himself that whatever he felt (still feels but ignores) was a temporary youthful indiscretion, and of course Dean can't afford those, doesn't get to have those, he's got to be a soldier. He's got to be a better soldier than John, even.

I dunno I've just had enough conversations with family members who are loudly but somehow also mildly homophobic and yet say or do things that make me *eyeballs emoji* not to think this is not only possible but arguably likely.

[ratinthevoid]

Jacob Anderson 2024 film list

[goldendoodlerlockerlove]

Okay, so, for a little context, @drawthething once asked me what wedding I think Gene would have. And I decided that he would have a huge, jungle-themed wedding. And in my opinion, he might even be the only Belcher who would want to have a huge, stereotypical wedding with a gigantic reception and after-party and everything, the whole shebang.

Okay, obviously, Louise wouldn't want to have a huge, stereotypical wedding like Gene would. If she even gets married at all (I could honestly see her being one of those types who never gets married to her partner and they just date forever, and leave the government out of their relationship) she would have a very simple, lowkey wedding with just a few people in attendance. Sort of like Bob and Linda's. And I could even see Tina, the hopeless romantic, wanting something a little more lowkey for her wedding. She would definitely have one, but I could see her just having a nice, simple ceremony at a chapel or something.

But anyway, like I said, Gene would be the opposite. He would want everyone who he's even given a passing glance at his wedding. He'd want the whole world to know he's devoting his life to his special someone. And of course, Sergeant Bosco would somehow be there too and would get super drunk and try to arrest a fern. That isn't that relevant, but it would definitely happen at Gene's wedding.

Gene would be the one that Linda would sew a huge wedding dress for, and the entire family would be very excited for him, and also very emotional. All in all, it would be a beautiful wedding.

And Gloria and Al aren't invited. Also not that relevant, but it would also definitely happen in my eyes. They're not allowed.

[ID]: Digital fanart of a slightly older Gene from Bob's Burgers. He is standing with a huge smile on his face, with his hair tied into an intricate bun. His arms are crossed on his chest, with his hands resting there, and he is wearing a beautiful, ornate wedding dress with a few layers. It is a classic white color as well. He is standing in front of a complicated, jungle-themed background, with tables that have all sorts of tropical plants in the vases. Many lights are hanging from the ceiling, which is complemented by even more tropical plants coming down from the ceiling. It can be assumed that he's getting married.

[h0lygh0stlings]

Two birds; Winslow and Robinisms

[lesbicastagna]

spent the evening watching an old japanese program about manga and tried to make it work with the automatic translator. best hits:

[ameriel]

*notices i havent posted in awhile*

[bboricha]

y...yes, sir! anything you say, sir! || bori's 1k special - part 1

➳ pairings: al haitham, ayato, baizhu, childe, cyno (separate) x subordinate afab!reader ➳ part 2 with diluc, heizou, tighnari, venti, and zhongli coming soon! ➳ cw: not proofread, a bit of power play (duh... they're your boss), oral (m and f!receiving), dry humping (on a shoe lol and mattress), exhibitionism, deep throating, swallowing, face fucking, dumbification, mentions of impregnation (ayato), marking, mentions of tying up hands, overstimulation, unprotected, aphrodisiac (baizhu), kinda dubcon, fingering, you're a cicin mage in childe's blurb, mention of marriage in ayato's, lmk if i've missed any...!

➳ synopsis: what would happen to you as their subordinate...?

al haitham x secretary afab!reader

you’ve met al haitham several times before… the whole mess all the sages have gotten themselves into. it was only natural, being the grand sage’s secretary and all, you would often deliver documents and knowledge capsules between the two of them. you never really thought too much of the man and neither did he think anything of you. sure, he was, well, younger than some of your colleagues, a vision holder, and… undeniably attractive. 

maybe that’s why you’ve found yourself in this position. underneath the grand sage’s desk with a mouthful of the acting grand sage’s dick. you cannot believe the amount of control this man has talking to a matra with a straight face and unwavering voice despite being balls deep into your throat. not to mention, he keeps fucking his shoe against your clothed cunt and you’re absolutely sure that both his shoe and your panties are drenched at this point. you moan on his cock, the vibrations seemingly doing something for him as you hear his voice audibly hitch and his hand fly immediately for your hair, tugging at it as if to warn you.

it wasn’t your fault, it really wasn’t. if he would just stop using his shoe on you, order the matra to leave, and finally fuck you on his desk, you both wouldn’t be in this predicament. you’re almost led to believe that maybe he likes the idea of being caught, but then it dawns on you that he just actually likes seeing you anxious. this asshole only likes seeing you in this predicament, because he couldn’t care less about what others think about him. caution to the wind, you guess, and gulp down another whine, swallowing and stretching your throat out to make room for him even deeper as he digs the tip of his stiff sole against your clit. 

you’re so close and you can feel that al haitham is too. with the way his dick is twitching in your mouth, you decide to speed up your ministrations and apparently so has al haitham. you tune in a bit, noticing that their conversation is about to end as he hits a certain spot, noticing you falter and begins to abuse it. it’s becoming harder and harder to stay quiet with how his shoe works itself so well against your cunt, your slick aiding in the feeling. you’re about to pull out to cover your mouth when you hear the door click shut as al haitham pushes your head, your nose hitting his abdomen with ropes of his cum sticking to your throat. you’re shaking at the feeling—at the fact that him using you like a fucking sleeve made that coil snap and you spill your essence all over his shoe.

he yanks you up from your knees before the cogs in your brain could generate another thought, forcing your mouth open by pushing down your tongue with his thumb, making sure you’ve swallowed every last drop.

“you’re a competent secretary, by the way. i can see why you were kept around—your services are much needed everyday in my office.”

kamisato ayato x retainer afab!reader

you grew up with the kamisatos, your family serving them as their retainers. your parents served the former heads while you were taught from a young age to serve their heirs. when the former kamisato heads had passed, your parents began to serve ayato, until he had dismissed them—told them they should retire and enjoy themselves—something he had wished his parents had the chance to do as well. and so you inevitably became his personal retainer again. not that you were complaining, no, but it was different from when the two of you were children. things like helping him bathe, get dressed, and aiding him at the crack of dawn—it just wasn’t the same anymore.

especially considering that tending to his nightly duties included him being balls deep inside of you. face down, ass up, your kimono disheveled and almost in tatters, ayato muttering something about how he’ll buy you a new one, one that he’ll personally pick out—to him, it’ll be a sign of ownership. he kept his focus on plowing into you, gripping your hips so hard every night that you’re afraid you might find indents of his fingers one day, your insides already having molded to the shape of his dick.

you’re biting his sheets, trying so hard to not make a noise when he pulls out, maneuvering you over onto your back. he slips a thumb into your mouth as you suckle on it, much to his enjoyment, as he tells you to not muffle yourself. he pushes his length back inside, bottoming out when he caresses his hand over the bulge, admiring the sight and drags his hand back to your hips (where it belongs) and begins thrusting yet once again. you’re full on moaning now, relishing in the way ayato hits every place that makes your eyes roll back with his fingers playing with your clit, making the coil in your stomach tighter and tighter with every thrust.

when your orgasm hits, your hands fly to your face in embarrassment, blocking out any sounds leaving your mouth and covering yourself so ayato doesn’t see what a blushing mess you are. he tsks to himself, one that you can hear, but quickly throws whatever thought he had away, replacing it with the idea that he has all night to rid of those hands that’s hiding your beauty from him. perhaps maybe with your obi, or maybe a bright, red rope? how about both? what other sounds will he be able to hear tonight, what cries will he be able to coax out of you, he wonders, melodies that he can’t wait to hear.

his cock twitches inside of you at his own imagination. he leans down, his body almost flush against yours as he kisses your temple, placing a hand on the top of your head as his thrusts suddenly increase in speed, signaling him close to release. you’re whining at the overwhelming sensation, biting into his shoulder to help muffle your moans when ayato stills, pushing himself as deep as he can reach as he cums inside, his warmth filling you up.

“if this sticks, maybe this will give you a reason to finally marry me.”

baizhu x assistant afab!reader

you’ve been baizhu’s helper since he saved your life a few years ago. he had found you battered up and injured when he was visiting qingce village. it was only after he took you back to bubu pharmacy to take care of you, a complete stranger, were you able to recover. you didn’t know how else to pay him back, nor did you really have anywhere else better to go, so you asked for him to take you in, and he obliged, greatly appreciating the help. he especially appreciates your help in aiding him develop a new medicine.

one that involves his hand in your underwear. he coated the “medicine” on his tips of his fingers before shoving it down your pants, caressing it against your clit, massaging the substance in your insides. he pushes a finger to your entrance slowly, coaxing it in as it begins to make you tingle, your body heating up. you’re starting to get needy, grabbing at baizhu’s wrist when he keeps going agonizingly slow, and to your surprise, he lightly pushes your hand off. he says you have to be patient, that he’s making sure you’re properly absorbing the medicine, that he doesn’t want to hurt you, telling you all of this with a grin, not showing any hint of concern.

he finally pushes in a second finger, making you cum instantly around his fingers to his delight. it’s working beautifully on you, perhaps a little too well when you grab the hem of his jacket as he’s about to pull away, asking for more. he wasn’t actually going to stop, it’s not like he went in this purely for research purposes, but the way your cheeks are flushed, beads of sweat dripping down into the crevices of your shirt, the rise and fall of your chest from him riling you up—it’s enticing. he’ll just have to make a mental note for later and tend to you now, after all, it’d be cruel of him to leave you like this when you’re asking so nicely, right?

he tells to come to the edge of the bed, enough so that your ass is almost hanging off as he peels off your underwear, watching how it clings to your messy cunt, sticky with your cum and slick. he wets his lips in anticipation, wondering how well your essence has soaked up the aphrodisiac as he licks a stripe up your pussy, groaning at the taste. he can already feel it getting to him as well, the residue or whatever was left on you, he figures, is still doing its job. either from the high of knowing how effective his medicine is or the effects really kicking in, he starts to eat you out with fervor, lapping up everything you have to give him, the noise so obscene that they bounce off the walls of his room.

you don’t have the time to feel ashamed by how loud it is, your hands going to tug on his hair as he grunts in response, the vibration of it ripples against you making you moan. he focuses his tongue on your clit, licking and suckling the tiny bud as he shoves two fingers into you, saying something about how you’re still tight even after an orgasm and his drug combined. he’s rutting himself against the mattress of his bed, his clothed cock desperate for any sort of friction as he feels you tightening up around his fingers for a second time tonight.

he curls his fingers, thrusting them in and out as he watches you unravel on his tongue, the sight one to behold. he gently fucks you on his fingers through your orgasm as he cums against his tight pants, slurping up your release as he stands up, unzipping himself to reveal his still hard length.

“there are still more tests to run, i’m afraid, before i can put this medicine on… our shelves, you see.”

childe x cicin mage afab!reader

you, a regular cicin mage, have been assigned to work closely under the 11th harbinger, tartaglia, your immediate response being nothing but a simple “fuck.” you’ve met the harbinger before and you immediately didn’t know how to feel about him. he was so… odd? so… kind? compared to the other harbingers at least, and on the contrary you actually felt the need to be even more wary with him. your first couple months working under him were quite fine. in fact, he was a great boss, he was kind and understanding and after a bit, you’ve completely adapted to being by his side. 

that is until he drags you to a harbinger meeting, forcing you to sit next to him as he places a hand on your thigh, dangerously close to your crotch. he’s stroking the soft flesh, his pinky occasionally brushing over your clit, covered by your leotard. you’re lucky that the other harbingers can’t see what’s going on, though, they seemed to not care for your existence and presence at the meeting anyways. you try to brave up, attempting to push his hand away when he doesn’t relent, completely ignoring any signals you’ve been giving him, participating in the meeting as if he’s absolutely unfazed.

he goes from being subtle to shameless rubbing the nub, not hiding his intentions whatsoever, especially when he pushes your leotard to the side, playing with you skin to skin. your hands cover your mouth, not caring about what the other harbingers might think at this point when tartaglia dips a finger inside your entrance, slowly coaxing it in as he watches your expression, choosing to put in a second. the stretch is divine, two of his fingers already proving to be larger and deft, feeling better than whatever you might be able to do to yourself, and you’re confused. how is he touching you so skillfully? as if he’s already familiar with your walls and every crevice, curling the tips of his fingers to hit your favorite spot with every thrust.

you’re unaware of the obscene noises the two of you have been making, painfully unaware of how the jester has already brought this meeting to an end, some of the harbingers completely ignoring you both as they exit, others shaking their heads in disgust. you’re resting your head against your arms on the table, trying your best to hold in your moans despite having no reason to do so at this point while tartaglia gets more bold with his movements, ripping your leotard for better access and movement.

the squelching sounds and your heavy breaths bounce around the walls of the wide hall, ricocheting back towards you, only adding to your nearing release. tartaglia can feel the way you’re tightening around his fingers, fastening his ministrations until you cum. he groans at your pussy convulsing against him, the bulge in his pants growing larger and larger as he fucks you through your orgasm.

“darling, i think you’re gonna have to… work overtime tonight, am i clear?”

cyno x matra afab!reader

you’ve never really been a good subordinate, always skipping out on meetings as you deem them unnecessary, opting out on drinking with your colleagues, never listening to cyno. it’s not like you can help it, honestly. you have your own way of doing things and you still manage to get the job done regardless, so is there really any harm to your methods? technically no, and cyno has yet to really do anything substantial that could threaten your position, so you decide to test his patience.

his patience that apparently isn’t limitless, you’ve figured out. by…well, you know, the way he’s fucking you against the shelves in the house of daena. he’s keeping you captive, trapping your body with his as it takes all of your willpower and concentration to not make any noise—to not attract any attention towards you both. his chest is flush against yours, his cock fully submerged within you as you grip the shelf for some sort of purchase with one hand, the other desperately covering your mouth.

you can feel his breath, hear every groan that escapes his lips right next to your ear, the sensation only turning you on even further as his hand finds its way underneath your shirt, choosing to play with your nipple. he gives a particularly sharp thrust, as if he’s trying to elicit some sort of noise from you, saying something about how he’s been needing a reason to punish you, about he’s been waiting for this “opportunity” for a long time. his words are lost on you, could you not comprehend simple sentences anymore or was he spouting pure nonsense? you’re not sure, your head foggy from how slow he’s going, how he would suddenly snap his hips against yours, how sometimes he’d suckle on the nape of your neck or bite your shoulder, the figure eights on your clit, everything is driving you absolutely insane.

the general mahamatra, someone you figured whose sex drive was nonexistent, is throwing you for a loop today. someone who is more well endowed than you would’ve imagined, someone who’s filling you up oh so perfectly, the head of his dick kissing your cervix in ways that makes stars float right before your eyes.

at this point you’re tempted to place both of his hands on your hips, to urge him to fuck you right then and there in the house of daena, and you do, but all he does is grip your hips tightly, not budging an inch as he smirks against your shoulder.

“this is a punishment, remember? have i fucked you so stupid already that you’ve forgotten?”

➳ an: wow look at all those tags! also i literally have no idea why childe's banner thingy is so fkn blurry compared to the others... akhdkahsd

if you liked this, consider leaving me a tip!

[avayarising]

#OK thank you because I was thinking it was the batplane #dpjl #fanfic time

– @the-nerdy-fangirl

Yeah the Batplane is called the Batwing in some media. It’s confusing when Luke Fox also exists. I guess he named himself after the aircraft.

But here’s Danny walking off with the Waynes down the road, heading for out of town, wondering where they’re going, how they found him, how they got here so fast, and then they’re on a little road and Bruce pulls out a remote control and presses a button and suddenly in the field there’s the bloody Batplane.

“It’s only fair, since you told us your identity,” says Dick.

“Huh,” says Danny. “So that’s what all that ‘night shift’ stuff was about.”

Then during the flight Danny is texting his friends in the group chat (imagine they've got funny names, I’ll be here all day if I have to think some up).

Danny: hey guys I just moved out lol Jazz: WHAT Tucker: where to? Jazz: You can’t move out. You’re too young. Sam: You can stay with me if you need to Danny: your parents would kill me Danny: again Danny: anyway, I’ve got a place Jazz: I can come get you. You can stay in the dorm with me. Jazz: I’ll make it work. Danny: you can come visit Tucker: how far away is it? Jazz: What the hell Danny. You’re not living on your own. Danny: trust me Danny: I really, really won’t be on my own Tucker: I’m worried where are you going? Sam: This sounds super dodgy Danny: Gotham Jazz: HELL NO Tucker: you can’t leave Amity! Tucker: we’ve been keeping things under control but we need you Danny: so remember that family I said i was staying with? Sam: No way Danny: they came for me Danny: it’s only been a day and they came for me Jazz: Gotham’s two days’ drive away. Danny: whole gang of them on my doorstep Danny: they want me Jazz: How’d they get here so fast? Sam: Weren’t you a kid? Sam: Like a little kid Sam: No way they didn’t notice Danny: oh yeah they noticed Danny: they’re cool with it tho Danny: I told them how it happened Tucker: About the thing? Danny: all of it Danny: they’re fine with it Several people are typing… Danny: so I didn’t say before Danny: they’re rich. Like, super rich Danny: they came in a private jet Danny: and they’ve got an in with the Justice League Danny: so Danny: you won't need me for the ghosts any more Tucker: WAIT Tucker: super large, super rich family from Gotham Tucker: associated with the Justice League Tucker: holy shit Tucker: you got taken in by the WAYNES? Danny: that’s their name yeah Danny: why? Several people are typing…

Bruce had been walking out of the WE building when he spotted a child who could fit right in at Wayne Manor looking around. Determining he was probably lost, Bruce approached him and tapped his shoulder. The boy turned around.

"Daddy?" he asked.

[breadly-art]

Headcanon: touch starvation

"No pares" - don't stop

English is not my native language, but I tried my best :'3

Miguel hates it when unfamiliar people get too close, everyone knows about it. And he hates it when they touch him. He doesn't really stand people at all and tries to stay away from them whenever possible. Of course, as long as there is no need to beat the shit out of someone. Everyone around him is "work colleagues", no more and no less, so the safety of the multiverse is the only unchanging reason why he continues to test his nerves. So…he has no friends. Only the younger brother remained from the family, who had long preferred cyberspace to the real world, so communicating with him is no different from communicating with Lyla. And a hologram can never touch you. It is intangible, neither cold nor hot, just a sparkling piece of air. But none of that matters, because Miguel has a job and no time for such minor things. After all, no one has ever died of loneliness, right?

He diligently closes his eyes to the fact that he has been dying of cold for a long time. It's maddening.

It has nothing to do with his irritability. It has nothing to do with his workaholism. No. And everyone in the spider society knows that the best way to talk to Miguel O'Hara is through the transmitter on the watch. And to speak only to the point. Literally everyone tries to adhere to these rules. Except Peter B. Parker from Earth 616B.

At first, everyone thinks that Peter's funeral will take place soon. Then they begin to watch cautiously, periodically trying to warn Parker, but soon give up. And at some point, Miguel also gives up. But not at all because he is no longer annoyed by Peter's clinginess. Just for some reason, his constant touching does not cause rejection.

Miguel feels warm again.

Hope you enjoed that! I've almost never done comics, but I'm very happy with the result. I will be very glad of reblogs/// Thanks for your attention!

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Hi,

could you please do a Hannibal fanfic next (or whenever you have time), where he is rrying to have a baby with the reader?They come home after a party held somewhere else, with him already being turned on after she wore a short/exposing dress the whole evening?(nsfw in the end?) If you are comfortable of course.

Hannibal X Reader: Temptation

Warnings: smut, oral (m receiving), cream pie, badly translated Italian, pet names, dirty talk, talk of killing, talk of pregnancy, annoying men (aka professor Sogliato), no use of y/n.

Word count: 2,8K

You could feel his cum on your skin. You wondered, not for the first time, if anyone else could see it running down your thigh. You wouldn’t be surprised if they could. Your dress didn't leave much to the imagination nor did it even begin to cover the length of your legs. You’d been worried about what Hannibal would think of your attire. A small part of you worried he’d find it offensive but that thought died down when you saw the way he looked at you. He kept his composure for about ten minutes before pulling you to the nearest bathroom and filling you to the brim with his seed. 

You and Hannibal moved against the dance floor in perfect sink. His hands rested on your body in a gentle manner, one very different then the way they had just mere moments as he manhandled you onto the sink counter. You could still remember the feeling of him inside you. 

Hannibal was a very secure man. He knew where the two of you stood in your relationship, as strange as that relationship was. You were his. That had become clear when you’d asked him to bring you to Florence with him. And now here you were, surrounded by men of artistic knowledge, with your arm clinging onto Hannibals. He hadn't been worried about your outfit when he’d first seen it. He knew it would call everyone's attention but that didn’t bother him. If anything it made him feel aroused. They all wanted you but he was the only one you had eyes for. That thought alone made his chest fill with pride. 

“I wonder what they’re thinking.”

Hannibal looked over at you before turning to look at who you were referring. There was a group of men on the other side of the room staring at you. Hannibal took a sip of his wine, eyes boring into the men.

“They’re probably wondering about the color of your underwear.”

“Hannibal!”

You whisper screamed at him, your hand hitting him lightly in the chest. He gave you a grin, his hand moving to cup your cheek. You furrowed your brow at him in worry. He placed a kiss to your lips before leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“Don’t worry amore mio i won’t tell them.”

You let out a light laugh, turning your head to the side so you could whisper back to him.

“I doubt you remember the color seeing how desperate you were to push it aside.”

Hannibal licked his lips at your words. Images of you flashed into his mind. He remembered the feeling of your skin against his, the way your lips parted as a moan escaped them. He could feel the desire beginning to fill him once more. 

“You’ll have to refresh my memory later then.”

“You are insatiable Hannibal.”

“Only for you my dear.”

You smiled up at Hannibal, tugging him into a tender kiss. A small cough caught your attention. You and Hannibal turned to look at where it had come from. A small scowl made its way onto your face as you realized who it was. You covered up your distaste quickly, not wanting to cause Hannibal any problems.

“Dr. Fell how wonderful of you to grace us with your presence. This must be the lovely Mrs. Fell.”

You watched the man's eyes rack over your body hungrily. Hannibal seemed to notice it as well, his eyes hardening. You placed a hand on his chest, trying to shift his attention back to you. Hannibal's eyes softened as he looked at you. You nodded your head at him, silently telling him you were here to support him. Hannibal took a breath in, his hand finding yours before he turned to look at the man talking to you. 

“Professor Sogliato. I hope you enjoyed your evening.”

“I must say my mind has been… distracted.”

He punctuated the word with another look at you. You raised your head in a menacing manner. You could always trust Hannibal to avenge you but that didn’t mean you couldn’t fight your own battles.

“You must be a very weak man if the mere sight of a woman manages to distract you. And a married one at that.”

Professor Sogliato gave a small grin.

“I assure you that's not what I meant, Mrs. Fell. In fact your husband is the cause of my distraction. Or rather his abilities to translate are.”

“I’m not sure what you mean Professor. You are well aware of my husbands talents.”

“That is true Mrs.Fell. But it seems i’ve only heard of his talents in Medieval Italian. I do wonder if he possess knowledge in other areas. Would he be able to recognize Dante Alighieri if he had his eyes upon it?”

You could tell Hannibal was beginning to become angry but it didn't compare to the rage you felt inside. You were very protective of Hannibal. Just as he was protective of you. So this interaction was proving a challenge to you both.

“I assure you my husband's knowledge is quite extensive.”

“I apologize Mrs.Fell i did not mean to offend you. I’m sure a woman such as yourself would know how to pick a suitable partner.”

The professor moved to kiss your hand goodbye but you tugged it away. He looked up at you with a shocked expression for a moment before forcing himself to smile. He gave a small nod to Hannibal before spinning on his heels and beginning to walk away. You gazed up at Hannibal catching the way he watched the professors back. 

“Hannibal not here. Later you can-”

Before you’d managed to finish your sentence Hannibal had started speaking. But to your surprise the words didn’t come out in english. You watched in awe as Hannibal began to recite Dante’s first sonnet. The room went silent as he spoke in near perfect Italian. A grin made its way onto your face as you noticed the shocked expression on Professor Sogliato's face.   Once he finished the room burst into applause. Hannibal turned to look at you and you couldn’t help but give him a smile. He returned the gesture, his hand moving to wrap around your waist.

‘Bellissimo amore mio.”

“Grazie bella.”

Hannibal gave you a kiss before turning to look at the professor. He wanted to kill him but that would have to wait. At the moment what he really wanted was to leave this place.

“We must be going, Professor. It seems my wife is tired.”

Hannibal extended his forearm. You wrapped your arm around his before the two of you made your way out of the party.

You made your way back home in silence, just enjoying each others presence. Once you made it inside you turned your back to Hannibal.

“Help me out of this will you?”

Hannibal moved towards you, his hands smoothing over your skin as he helped you unzip your dress. He watched it pool onto the floor as your bare skin was revealed to him. You stepped out of the dress making your way over to the drink counter without so much as sparing him a glance. Hannibal knew what you were doing. You often got this way when he did something that pleased you. 

“How are you planning on killing him?”

Hannibal observed you pour him a glass of his favorite drink before facing him. You gestured to the chair with your hand, silently telling him to sit. He did as you asked, removing his suit jacket before sitting down. 

“I was thinking we could invite him to dinner. Not soon obviously. That would be too suspicious.”

You hummed in acknowledgement, moving over to him at a slow pace. Hannibal drank in the sight of you. He took a mental note of the color of your underwear. You had been right when you’d said he didn’t know the shade. You gave him his drink, leaning down to kiss his lips before beginning to sink to your knees. Hannibal widened his legs, allowing you to sit between them. 

“And then what would we do? Poison him?”

“No poison is too merciful. I was thinking something more painful.”

“I could always chop his tongue off. Make sure he nevers speaks again.”

Hannibal's hand froze at your words, the glass he’d been holding pausing mare inches from his lips. You gazed up at him, your hands resting on his thighs.

“You're sexy when you’re mad.”

“Thank you.”

Your hand moved over to his pant zipper tugging it down slowly. Hannibal took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving your frame. 

“I got wet watching you talk in Italian.”

“È così cara?” (is that so dear?)

You smiled at Hannibal, your hand moving over his boxers. His breath hitched at the action, hips bucking forward slightly. You put your hand into his underwear feeling his skin for a moment before freeing his member.

“Feeling aroused Hannibal?”

“How could I not? After having to control myself all night.”

“Not all night.”

Hannibal laughed at your reminder.

“You looked too good in that dress. Had to remind you who you belong to.”

“Is that so?”

You stroked his dick gently, thumb moving over the head in a slow manner. Hannibal closed his eyes, his head moving to rest on the chair he was sitting in. He felt your tongue move over his dick, causing him to swallow dry. The moment your mouth engulfed his member he forgot about his drink, his hand moving to hold onto your hair. You let him guide your movements, bobbing up and down his dick in a steady pace. Your nose brushes against his meticulously groomed hairs, the friction making you want to sneeze. You pushed the feeling away, opting to focus on the way his dick felt against your tongue. 

It had taken a while for you two to realize your feelings for each other were not marly due to your own loneliness. It was something more carnal than that. At the beginning of your stay the two of you slept in different beds, opting to keep up the farce only on the outside of the house. But soon the two of you started to give into your desires. And now you couldn’t think of it any other way. Hannibal missed Will and Abigail but now that he had you the emptiness inside his chest seemed to dull a bit. You weren’t scared of him, if anything you enjoyed knowing what he was capable of. It made you feel safe. 

Hannibal grunted as you continued to move against him. He was starting to grow closer and closer to his orgasm but he didn’t want to spill into your mouth. He tugged your hair forcing you to remove your mouth from him. You groaned at the feeling of his finger on your scalp. You looked up at him, finding a look of pure hunger in his eyes. You knew what he wanted and you were more than happy to give it to him.

You got up from the floor moving towards the bedroom. Hannibal watched your ass sway as you moved away from him. Before you reached the doorframe you spun to look at him. You beckoned him to you with your finger. Hannibal did as you asked, rising from his seat and following you. 

You crawled onto the bed, positioning yourself in a way that allowed Hannibal to see your clothed cunt. He sauntered into the room dick still proudly on display for you. He moved over to the edge of the bed, eyes moving over your body. You moved to unclasp your bra, throwing it at a nearby chair. You shimmed down the bed, making yourself comfortable. Hannibal's chest rose and fell as he stared at you. He looked like a lion prepared to pounce.

And that was exactly what he did. 

He removed his clothes, allowing himself to become completely naked before climbing onto the bed. You widen your legs allowing him to slot himself between them. His hands move to your underwear finger grazing over the wet patch. You whined for him, biting your lip. 

“So they were red.”

“Where? They still-”

His hands grabbed onto the lacy fabric, ripping it with ease. You let out a shocked yelp at the action.

“Hannibal why would-”

“They were in the way.”

You continued to gape up at him. 

“Don’t worry I'll buy you a new pair.”

“You better.”

You wrapped your legs around Hannibal, slightly pulling him closer. He could tell you were becoming impatient but he really couldn’t blame you. He had left you wanting for more when the two of you had left that bathroom hours ago. He planned on making it up to you now. He dragged his dick over your pussy, teasing you for a moment before inching himself in. He didn’t bother thinking of putting a condom on. In fact he hadn't had to worry about that the last few months.

You see, a couple of months ago he’d proposed the idea of getting you pregnant and to his surprise you’d accepted. You knew his desire for a child came from his mourning for Abigail but it also came as a consequence of his love for you. 

Playing husband and wife had made Hannibal realize how much he wanted to create a family of his own and you seemed like the perfect one to do it with. You understood him in ways he didn’t think were possible. You didn’t judge him for the way he was, in fact you embraced him fully. You didn't have his taste for meat but you didn’t deny him his desires. As long as he was always truthful you had no issue with his peculiar pallet. 

You moaned out his name, causing him to focus on the present once more. He was moving in and out of you at a torturous pace. He liked to make it last as long as he could. The feeling of you against him is like a drug on its own. And the sounds you made. Oh, they were like a beautiful song only he got to hear. He watched your breasts move as he thrusted into you, an image of you nursing his child flashed into his mind causing him to speed up. You gasped at the sudden change of pace, hands gripping onto the muscles of his back. Hannibal felt you beginning to clench around him, making it harder for him to move in and out of your in the speed he wished. He dragged your leg up, one hand bracing against the bed frame. 

“Hannibal….”

“Shh just a bit more amore.”

With that he began pistoling into you. Your head knocked against the pillows as your body jerked backwards due to his strength. You were a moaning mess beneath him, your nails clawing at his skin. Hannibal hissed as he felt you drew blood. 

“I’m gonna-ah fuck- i’m gonna cum!”

“Hold it.”

“I can’t Hannibal i-”

“Hold it. Just a little more. I promise.”

You nod at him, eyes rolling to the back of your head as his hand moves to circle your clit. His grunts became louder as his orgasm started to creep up on him. Seconds before his orgasm washed over him he called out your name. You forced yourself to look at him , brows furrowing with your need to cum.

“Let go bella.”

That was all you needed. Your juices gushed over him as you came. With a low groan Hannibal came too. His seed filled you up in a satisfying manner. The two of you basked in the afterglow for a moment before moving. Hannibal pulled out of you, his hands moving to close your legs.

“Keep it in dear. Don’t waste a drop.”

“I won’t.”

He placed a kiss on your neck before rising from the bed. You buried yourself into the bed. A couple of moments later Hannibal joined you. He tugged your body into his. Your frames slot into each other like a perfect puzzle. Hannibal's arm wrapped around your waist, his hand moving to caress your stomach. It would stick this time. He knew it would.

 And if it didn't? 

Well then you’d just have to keep trying.

[1800titz]

HI BESTIES. Trivia!Harry x Shy!Reader part 1 ((based on THIS post))

The one where Harry hosts trivia at a small town bar every Thursday and you just can’t seem to shut up.

WC: 3.7K

This is part one of a patreon exclusive series — the rest will only be accessible through my patreon. You can already find part 2 up on my patreon (✿◠‿◠)

You take a long drink. It tastes like kismet and carbonated nothingness.

(Retrospect will tell you that it's meant to be— tiny town, diminutive ambitions, hulking potential. But now, the twinge of an uncomfortable fever crawls up from your collar and makes you want to squirm in your seat.)

“Alright, alright, alright.”

And the smooth baritone against the head of a microphone makes your insides squeeze. Close. Real close— his mouth is pink, hovering millimeters, and that brass is the kind that seeps over your nape, under your skin. Molasses-heavy, slinking the gaps in the meshed grill caging. You blink up at the portable four-by-eight platform.

It's the kind of squeeze along your guts, the heat simmering in your face the longer you stare, that'll taunt you in the ridges of the night. Boxed into this— tonight, under a parapet— comfort zone hovering beyond your periphery, in the nook of the living room you left behind to wrack your head and stare at sin-in-bulk on a mobile stage.

The lively chatter dulls as heads turn, and then swells in eager increments. 

“Alright,” he says, a set of green eyes flickering from the monitor he’s settled over a rejigged high top, bounding sharply to whoever’s just given an overly enthusiastic cry of yes from the horde.

A peal of sparse, scattered laughter blooms in the throng. His mouth quirks.

“Very enthusiastic. How are you?” 

His cresting gaze climbs from the glowy screen, casting light and carving shadow over the sultry features of his visage; an evenly straight slope of a nose, cheekbones feathered by long lashes, a bit of curl that traipses over his forehead. 

His chin swivels to his left, somewhere closer to the platform where a woman leans over the table— her designated team. The corners of his lips curl in response to whatever she’s said. He smiles. Nods. He tips his chin. Makes a creased face like something playful. Says something else, laughs softly, and turns back, shaking his head. 

You tuck the straw into your mouth and take another, long slow sip.  

In the heft of his hand, the stem of the mic nearly resembles a toy. A maquette between the thick of his fingers.

“Hope everyone’s having a lovely Thursday. M’Harry, I’ll be leading the trivia— as I do— so if you’re sitting there going, who is this obnoxious cock, talking into the mic the whole night? Hi, Hello. That’s me— I do trivia.”

You get it now. The infamous cynosure is fit. 

At first, you had been dubious to desert your romcom reruns and your cross-stitch project mid-way (despite the fact that your thumb now resembles a pin cushion) when your friends had swept you off into their regularly scheduled, mysteriously niche Thursday night schemes. Now, you get it. 

The destination— The Black Horse— is a fuggy little space that smells like spilt Michelob and fusty, weathered oak. There’s a no smoking sign pasted in a spare crevice of the backbar, but someone in the far right corner exhales a plume of vapor like they’ve hit their elfbar in the most nonchalantly covert manner imaginable. Shamelessly. It’s a small town— an islet in the heart of an archipelago— and you think you can make out your seventh grade swim team rival perched somewhere off in the front row. 

The Black Horse is nothing special. It sells cheap draughts by the pitcher and parallels a barbershop in the crux of the town, two blocks off the boardwalk, which is arguably the chiseled, shiny musgravite of Treah’s core— a roaring green sea that eats away at the borders of the isle, shrouding vibrantly hued cays, glimmering under the beam of the sun. The majority of the holm’s economy is dependent on tourism (a simultaneous bane— said tourists enjoy uprooting foliage, building infrastructures, and partaking in chunks of housing buyouts), but you can tell that The Black Horse has been …preserved to say the least. It’s four stone walls sewn into a plaza with three other natively owned businesses and looks like something straight out of a cinematic piece set in a rural village, planted into Treah long before you had her first wiggly tooth. 

The Black Horse isn’t what makes attendance worth it. It’s him—

“We’ve got a crowd tonight. If you haven’t played trivia with me here at The Black Horse before, welcome. S’a little different than your typical trivia, though, because it’s…”

The crowd hollers back, as if scripted, “Dirty trivia!” 

“Dirty Trivia,” Harry echoes, and when the edges of his lips crook, dimples burrow beside the corners, “Right, Dirty Trivia. This one’s rated R, so if you’re not old enough to be here, I dunno how you got here, but this is going to be your cue to head out. Any— any children in here tonight? …No? Wonderful.” 

He huffs into the mic, shaking his head and jostling his halo of curls. A jaundiced, warm beam catches on them. “I know that sounds ridiculous, but m’not even joking— a couple of weeks ago someone was sitting in here with, like, a little kid.” 

It’s Harry, with the divots burrowing into his cheeks, the croon into the mic, lighting the crowd alive on an introduction. Incandescent (speckled in stars, spelled out— you don't get that bit, yet.)

You cross your legs. Your friend raises her eyebrows from across the teak table top and says it with her eyes. Told you so; Trivia Man is a cream dream. 

“Yeah,” Harry confirms over the dispersed, appalled eruption of laughter, nodding down at someone seated at a table closer to the stage, “I was, like, …shit,” he blinks back up and motions out, a slow sweep with his free hand, “Friendly reminder, this is not a form of sex ed.” 

Pausing, (lips twitchy over the sown mirth), he brings the microphone back with a newfound seriousness and tacks on, nodding slowly, “…That kid won it for the whole team.” 

He smiles. It's a lopsided spall of a ruddy seam that shows teeth, and that's when you recognize the heinous, gurgling froth of a new addiction. Incipient, blooming along your shimmery, star-struck eyes.

“No, m’joking,” he clears his throat. “M’gonna pass out a sheet and some little note pads for your answers. You’re gonna use one of those little notes to jot down a clever team name, do the same in that team name spot of the sheet, and then pass the note up to me.”

Pussy Posse. A pre-established moniker you have had no jurisdiction over, merely perched as an addition to a settled cadre. Still, you gnaw into your cheek when you watch a friend beside you scribble in the title with a ballpoint. 

“I’ll be coming around between questions to pick those answers up, have a chat, whatever. We’re all here to have fun, yes?” 

You swear he sweeps you with his eyes, like a passing tide gliding the sea. Probably just the way the green in his sockets meets everyone else in the throng, but the moment it happens your molars chew in harder.

“On the topic of fun, let’s keep it nice and fair, yeah? Phones put away— no cheating— you’ll have plenty of time to check those when we have our break midway.”

It feels ignoble to eye-fuck him from behind the sheathes of your empty irises as he paces the stage— after all, this is just a wholesomely clad, virtuously upstanding guy leading trivia, but. The gears behind your skull are mottled with the amalgam of a fawning affliction— cerebrospinal fluid and sticky tar. It leaves you in a goop of thoughtless ogling that renders your head empty. Even when he makes his way to the bar-height table your team curls around, when his eyes linger on you— “A new face.”— you just...

Mindlessly stare. 

Dirty trivia, you learn, is dirty.

It hits you when Harry quips (dare you note, mischievously), “Hoo-hoo-hoo. Starting off strong with the first one.” 

He states, talc flickering from the LED display ahead to the bevy of trivia-players, “What country,” and pauses for emphasis, “has—“ pits grub at the smooth of his cheeks, beside the grin that splinters to show ivory teeth, “the highest average, in the world, for penis size?” 

There’s no source of entertainment like that of trivia held, on a Thursday, on a remote islet, in a poky bar that smells like stale beer and dust-coated, chipping leather. Evidently. 

“I actually don’t know this one,” Harry chimes, raising a wry shoulder, “So it’s trivia for me, as well.” 

“England,” Marina stamps a blow that the teak hasn’t warranted, whisper-shouting over the staggering peals of guffaw and chatter, “He’s hung, I bet you.”

“He’s not going to fuck you for writing in England,” Beth’s chortles clash with your scorned, “Marina.”

“That’s not even an answer,” Bee waves towards the flatscreen framed over the man’s head.

Senegal, Haiti, Ecuador, and Gambia. 

“Where the fuck is Gambia—”

You settle on Gambia. 

You watch Beth scribble it in and dot the i with an open sphere. The edges don’t meet. When Harry winds the rows of tables, plucking answer cards and making small-talk, you cast your inkpools into your glass, pyrexia across the bridge of your nose, brain-rotted with the insinuation of him being …hung.

“Lots of Haiti, lots of Senegal,” Harry states, once he’s smoothed the cards out with his colossal, ringed paws, and looked them over. 

You stare at the bob of his throat as he swallows, directing the mic back to his lips.

“Big reveal?” He pauses, as if for cataclysmic emphasis, riling the crowd enough for you to note restive shoulders and juddering feet. 

“Patience,” Harry says softly into the microphone, raising his eyebrows. It's a muted word that clicks in the speaker with a thump. Throbs between your ribs, under your cold hands.

With paltry warning, he reveals, “Ecuador! At,” squinting at the blue-toned LED, “—a whopping 6-point-nine-three. Solid for the average. Do we have any Ecuadorian men in the audience tonight? Anybody who’s added to that average? Congratulations. You beat us. You beat everyone.” 

There’s a dissonant slurry of responses, some ripostes flung along tables, some bouts of clapping, hollering over the rows, sloshing mugs raised in triumph. 

Harry’s deltoids climb in a shrug, and his head wags from side to side, “Some valiant contenders, those Ecuadorians.” 

“I told you it wasn’t Gambia—“

You ogles the way Harry tilts over the platform towards a table, brows kinked as if trying to pick up something audible he’d missed. In your periphery, Marina prods into Beth’s direction with a palmful of something claret in a pellucid martini glass. 

“What was that?” Harry coaxes into the microphone. 

The corners of his mouth have caved up, and by the time the majority of the trivia-players sink into a piqued lull, he’s slanted over toward the table. A brunette with long, shiny hair arches up out of her seat into her directions, braced to the teak high-top with planted, elbow-locked arms. 

“Where do you fall?” is undeniable the second time. 

Harry blinks. His mouth paints over with a smile. 

“Where do I fall?”

He blatantly bridles a sputter when he winds toward the laptop he’s set up, culls his glass of a golden, pale straw beer that’s lost its layer of foam, and takes a long drink. Clears his throat. “Wouldn’t you like to know. Very forward. Take me out to dinner first.” 

You discover that, despite the ubiquitously crude sexualizing, Harry is sort of like a bird. An Indian Peafowl, preening with its neatly arranged plume— he likes it. The flattery. His tongue peeks out and swipes along as he stares down at the screen. Little dimples pit when it tucks back in— ones he blatantly can’t contain. 

He chuckles and states into the microphone, “…Below. Don’t worry about it.” 

Somehow, you doubt it.  -

-

-

-

You plait yourself into the Thursday Fawn Sessions as a regular attendee, curling up at the same high top to ogle the same man pace a platform with a microphone. Watch him make jesting comments and ask things like, “Axillism is the act of using what strange body part during sex?” 

You find yourself learning a thing or two from each session, and you find that the emeralds seated in his sockets linger on you, sometimes— this absolute clam shell taking up a spot in the bar and chugging fizzy water (ogling his frame in lull every time he approaches your table), too. Pussy Posse is no good at the trivia, more often than not wheedling in second-to-last, but you find yourself much too entertained to mind. 

Franks is a self-explanatory hot dog cart. It stands midway on the boardwalk and operates through sunny mizzles and borderline hurricane cloudbursts, when the green salt chuck is choppy. High tiding. Those are the days you stand out in your jaundiced poncho, salty rain spittle beating at your cheeks, and watch the waves eat at the ipe in a nasty, wet hunger, no customers in sight. 

Midsummer afternoons, though, are good. Busy. When Treah morphs industrious and bustling — tourists like Franks on the boardwalk. 

It’s a slow coda for June. The sea is planate, swaying over steel supports mantled by barnacles. Gulls chortle, gliding low in the ether— it oozes yellow, something balmy like the goo of an egg yolk. You've sold two hot dogs, tallied three joggers (one eager speedwalker), and noted one couple pushing a baby in a stroller, who offered tight-lipped smiles and veganism. You don't entirely mind a slow day, because setting shop on the boardwalk means spending the day on the boardwalk. Breathing the sea until your lungs are full of salt and your eardrums reverberate the crash of the water behind your skull. You taste it at the back of your throat— something like home as home could get.  

There’s another jogger loping— a moving blip of skin color in chiaroscuro against wood paneling. In the distance. Drawing closer. You imagine him passing the cart, the soles of his trainers padding over the row of planks until he’s just another form of lines and shading, faced away. You check your phone. 

The jogger is still a good bit away. You swipe open Wordle. You're on your third attempt of elucidating something that goes blank, I, blank, E, blank (with a P that doesn’t quite fit where you've slotted it)—

“Hi.”

Your eyes crest. 

Treah is a really small town. Not in a prudishly, bible-bashing form of a pastoral village, sheathed in a bosky, wooded moat of thicket and then plains of nothingness for hundreds of miles. But it is an island enveloped by the sea from all sides, sequestered without a boat or a little plane, whose wheels bumpily kiss the asphalt of anearly comically small airport. Even the tourists lodging up in their summer homes, all the same months like annual clockwork, make reappearances. The faces are, nearly always, the same, and you see the same faces often. It was only a (limited) matter of time before you'd coalesced beyond the borders skirting The Black Horse.

In hindsight, you didn’t envisage that you'd be wearing a baseball cap emblematized with a weenie when it happened. Or that his tits would be out and about. 

“Have you got water?”

He’s panting. Casually slippery; coated in sweat that glimmers in the sun and carves the well-toned sinews of his torso, with sunglasses tucked up over his curls like a makeshift headband. He ogles expectantly with a set of jade that puts the hues of the lapping, green sea behind him to shame. A parted mouth, sculpted and cushiony, sucks in breaths from the liminal space divvying their atoms while your own become clogged, somewhere midway an esophageal prison, in limbo toward your lungs. A shaded lepidoptera scored over his tummy flutters, batting its wings in the swell and sink of his diaphragm expanding. 

His shorts are teeny. Tiny, little things. Cobalt. Mirroring laurels carving alongside his V-line peek from the waistband, and a happy trail climbs to kiss his navel. 

You blink. “Yes. Yeah. We do. Yes. …Is bottled okay?” 

“Bottled is perfect.”

He sticks a hand into his pocket, eyes flickering to your face, away, back. Slow-like. You trace the wisps in the sky with your eyes, heat searing up your neck and pooling in the flesh of your face. It’s a sudden, unforeseen stuffiness sweltering for such a beautiful day. You recognize your horrid blunder in his next words. 

“Do I know you from somewhere?” 

You should have ducked your chin, tucked the visor lower, and hoped for the best. Instead, now, you blink, dazed and wide-eyed like a Red brocket saturated by blinding headlights.  

“Oh. I’m not sure. Um. Small …town— maybe?” 

“You come to, uh—“ a nudge with his chin in your direction as you arduously regulate the stuttery pace of your respiration. The jitter in your fingers, like a lovesick school girl. You cache them behind the cart and let them judder. “—trivia nights. At The Black Horse, yeah? I couldn’t forget a face like yours.” 

Harry grins, the way he does. Lopsided, so the left corner turns up a little higher— dimpled with a long flash of teeth. Except now, he’s slippery and half-naked. 

Folie. Miscalculated gaffe in a weenie cap. Your smile is tight.

“Oh—“ again, “…Yeah.” 

“Right,” Harry nods. Smiley. Lingering, looking you over. He buries an enormous hand back into his pocket then, brows creasing like he’s remembered something, and pulls out a little rectangle in cardboard paper. “Hey, actually. I’ve got this coupon here. S’what I do all the other days of the week, ah—“

He extends it out. 

Harve-y a free drink, on us! 

“M’a bartender over at Harvey’s. S’close to The Black Horse, if you’re in that area. Monday and Saturday mornings. Wednesday and Friday nights. If you come by, I’ll fix you up with a drink.” 

It feels impolite to leave him hanging, so you swipe out at the offering, cradling it with slow fingertips. 

“We can do some one on one trivia. Train you up,” Harry tacks on.

You swallow. Harry is an attractive man. His allure is apodictic— a sort of conventional, objective quality that leaves your throat parched when it becomes paired with his unfaltering eye contact. You're not a virgin, and you're an adept swimmer, but his presence feels like viridian saltwater that’s waiting to swallow her whole. The nerves that bubble, a fizz of chagrin, remind you why exactly you enjoy fawning from a distance. Because he makes you feel nervous, and when you're nervous, the dialogue spumes like miasmic word vomit. 

He’s got a thin sheathe of sweat that glimmers in the seat of his cupid’s bow, but it’s not in a gross way. In fact, it reminds you that the rest of him, his denuded skin, is slick, because he’s been jogging along the boardwalk. It reminds you how hard it is not to openly ogle the tattoos he’s got on show. You should have called out from your weenie gig, and you should have refilled her alprazolam prescription weeks ago. 

“Oh,” you tell him, slowly, face creasing, “I don’t— I don’t drink.”

Harry blinks. It’s a weird confession, considering you're a Thursday night regular at a bar that’s really only good for anything that has enough alcohol to shroud the stale taste perfuming the air. Still, nothing beyond open expectancy erupts along his features, and that’s worse. You feel them crawling up your throat, clambering up the back of your tongue like the words have knobby joints. They meet the backs of your teeth, waiting to spew. 

“—Not because I’m a recovering alcoholic or anything, I just don’t like the way it makes me feel. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Or drinking. I actually think it’s so admirable. You know? Like, to be brave… and… and a lot of times those people will attend support groups—“

Harry blinks again. 

“—And they talk about it. I can’t imagine sharing something like that— not that there’s anything wrong with it! But. Um. I always get virgin cocktails at The Black Horse. Or club soda. Or juice.”

Her lips seal over. You entrap the rest behind your traitorous teeth — a drawbridge that never should’ve sunk open. Despite your overly candid, overstated explanation, you don't stick the coupon back out in his direction. You harbor it in your hand, blinking slowly and gnawing into your cheek. 

“…S’okay. We do orange juice, too,” Harry tells her, entirely casual despite your discomfited speech, raising his brows. 

There’s the curbed efforts of a bemusedly mirthy grin at the corners of his mouth, and his nonchalant bearing only makes your face hotter. You feels like you're broiling under the shade of the awning. 

“And club soda.” 

“…Cool,” You settle on, tightly. 

“Sick.”

“…It’s, uh… two dollars,” you tell him when the reticence starts to suffocate you. 

You're going to go home and ram your head through a window. 

“Oh,” Harry casts his gaze to the water (it has the average, entirely typical proportions of a water bottle, but in his hand, it’s nearly miniature), as if he’s forgotten the chilly source of condensation coating his palm. That he’s in arrears. He sticks his free hand into the same pocket where the coupon was stuffed, “Right. I think I’ve got two dollars in here, somewhere.” 

Instead, when he stretches a bill out towards you, it’s worth ten. You avoid eye contact. You reach for the cash box tucked below, and you pry the lid up to delegate his change. 

“Oh,” Harry echoes, raising his enormous hand in effort of halting you, “S’alright. S’yours.”  

“Oh. I… can’t take tips. It’s, like. Against the code of conduct.” 

“Code of conduct at a …hot dog stand?” 

As if you needed to be reminded that you're donning a silly cap with an animated frank, standing on a boardwalk that’s practically empty of prospective patrons. The chagrin churns in your stomach and surfaces in the set line of your mouth. 

“…Yes.” 

Harry pauses, brows kinked like he’s ruminating, and then he inhales and decides, “Well. It’s not a tip, yeah? It’s just… you break it up, put two in the box, and then put the rest in your pocket.” 

“Oh. No. You— you’ve already given me the coupon—“ you argue, frenziedly waving out a mismatched wad of cash.

He raises his hands and ambles in one suavely, lengthy step back. “I’m going now.” 

“No!” 

He’s three away that would fit five or six of your own gait when he declares, “Yes! I hope to see you for that orange juice. On the house. Have a good one.” 

This is a patreon exclusive series. If you'd like to read more, part 2 is already up on my patreon! <3

[mirohlayo]

hi lyna, I hope you're having a great day! for your event, can I request a coconut 🥥 “no one’s ever going to hurt you again. i promise you that on everything i believe in.” with charles? please and thank you!! 🩷

Here is it !! Hope you'll like it and hope you're having a great day too :))

PROMISE

Sometimes you felt weak. Bad and sad. The world seemed to be falling apart as you tried to hold on. To hold on to that faint glimmer of hope, because in the end it was worth it.

The sky was covered in stars as you felt the coolness of the night fall on your frail skin. The tears that were slowly streaming down your face have finally dried, but your eyes are still wet from the pain of those salty drops.

The balcony door opened, Charles appearing in its frame. You loved spending a little time alone, with yourself, on the balcony at night, enjoying the beauty of the sky. But this little moment of yours was starting to seem a little too long and suspicious for Charles, who was worried about you.

He approaches you, placing his hands gently on your shoulders, his gaze concerned. He stays there for a moment, awkwardly caressing your shoulders. He didn't want to hurt you, he didn't want to rush you. He can feel your body trembling slightly under his touch, and it breaks his heart, which was suffocating at the thought of you being sad.

He then walks around you, kneeling in front of you. It was there where he could see your wet eyes shining in the night, where he could become aware of your fears. You don't like to appear so weak in front of him, but at that moment you didn't care. He has the right to see you in this light, to witness your feelings.

The palm of his hand comes to rest delicately on your cheek, caressing your pale skin with his thumb. Despite your tears and your red eyes, the faint glow of the moon reflects your face with exquisite beauty, making you indefinitely beautiful and angelic. And Charles could stay for hours admiring you like that.

Your eyes are always fixed on the sky, far in front of you. You admire the constellations, because you always strangely found comfort in them. Charles follows your rhythm, follows the pace at which your thoughts race. And then, his heart wanted to comfort you.

“Tell me everything, angel. Tell me what’s on your heart, I’m here to listen to you. I promise.” His voice was only a whisper, a breath or even a sigh, so pleasantly soft. A faint smile appears on your face, noticeable enough for Charles to savor every second of it.

A silence settles, revealing the hesitation in your words. His hands then slide to your knees, and his touch spreads a comforting warmth all over your body. "I don't really know. Some people make me feel bad. That's all...". More tears threaten to fall, so you try to force them back as best you can.

You lower your head, anchoring your gaze on your hands which are nervously playing with each other. Charles' gaze softens, realizing that the silence that follows reflects your inability to say more about what you feel. He wraps your hands in his, placing a soft kiss on your fingers.

Each of his gestures are precise but delicate, extremely tender. His touch spreads a wave of love throughout your body, chasing away a little the painful feelings you currently feel. “No one’s ever going to hurt you again. I promise you that on everything I believe in.”

He could only let these few words escape in a sigh. He didn't need to say more, not yet. These words are the promise of eternal love, and that He will watch over you no matter the circumstances. Yet he really means it. He will never let anything or anyone hurt you, not as long as he is here with you.

He promised you, and he will never let that promise break.

“Let’s get you to bed, hmm?” You can just nod, before he gently places you on your bed. He pulls the white covers over you, then slides over to hold you in his arms. As sleep comes to you, he leaves long lazy kisses on your hair, enjoying the calm and serenity you feel when you are asleep.

Because he knows that when you sleep, all your sorrows and pains fade away to give way to wonderful, happy dreams. After all, that's what he hopes and wants most in the world : to see you happy.