#like there does have to be a special sauce there | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

amethystarachnid · 2 days ago

Note

I know your requests are closed, but daaaamn, I need another part of "Forced Marriage" 😭😭😭😭😭 a late honeymoon, oh, to Italy, I love Italy 😭 and more of Tony being the cutest, sweetest and the most loving and devoted husband EVER!!!! 🤧 also, KIDS 🥹 what about twins? One of each? Let the girl dream 😭 but Tony taking care of a pregnant wife and dad!Tony is the best thing ever, especially yours 🩷🩷

Again, I know your requests are closed, I 100% respect that, don't mind me 🫠

FORCED MARRIAGE - part 2

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre romance, fluff and spicy

ᯓ★ Word count: 8.3k

ᯓ★ Summary:what the asks said lol

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just a little spicy scene

ᯓ★ Part 1

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

Italy is your idea, but Tony’s the one who makes it perfect.

He books everything before you can blink—private jet, villa in Tuscany, romantic dinners lined up for a week straight. “If we’re finally doing this,” he says, tossing you a smirk as he flips his phone shut, “we’re doing it the right way. No boardrooms, no cameras, no press. Just you and me.”

You glance at him over the top of your coffee mug. “So, no suitcases filled with arc reactors and gadgets?”

He lifts a brow. “I only packed one suit of armor, thank you very much.”

He’s joking—mostly—but the truth is, Tony’s been different. Since the gala, since that bathroom, since everything... he’s been present. He makes time. He listens. He loves you, openly and without shame, and you can feel it in everything he does. He doesn’t need to say it every day, though he does, in little ways:

In the way he brushes hair behind your ear without thinking.

In the way he sets an extra pillow where your knee gets sore sometimes.

In the way he kisses your shoulder in the morning and whispers, “Still here.”

The flight to Italy is quiet and calm. For once, neither of you needs to pretend. You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, and when you wake up, he’s still holding your hand.

The villa he’s chosen is perched on a hillside, surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. The air smells like rosemary and warm stone and blooming flowers. The sky is impossibly blue.

You walk through the stone archway into the sun-drenched villa, and Tony whistles, impressed—even though he’s the one who bought the place for the week.

“Okay,” he says, dropping your bags inside the doorway. “I have a checklist.”

You give him a look. “A checklist? You?”

“Oh, don’t act surprised. I can be organized. Sometimes.” He clears his throat. “Item one: kiss wife in Tuscany.”

You arch a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’m a man of taste.” He walks over, grabs your waist, and kisses you slow and deep until your knees nearly give out. When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling like an idiot. “Check.”

You laugh against his mouth. “What’s item two?”

“Make pasta. Badly. Burn things. Throw flour at each other. Rom-com level disaster.”

And he’s not wrong.

Later that afternoon, after a lazy nap wrapped in crisp linen sheets and a warm breeze drifting through the open balcony, Tony insists on making fresh pasta from scratch, despite the fact that neither of you really knows what you’re doing.

It starts with enthusiasm and ends in chaos. Flour coats the kitchen, your hair, Tony’s face. A cracked egg drips off the counter. You accidentally launch a handful of dough across the room, and Tony dramatically declares war by smearing tomato sauce on your cheek.

You shriek, lunging at him, but he catches you around the waist and lifts you up onto the counter, kissing you like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

And maybe it is.

Dinner is a slightly undercooked mess. You both eat every bite anyway.

Afterward, barefoot and tipsy on a bottle of red wine Tony opened with too much force, you sit outside under a canopy of fairy lights, the stars just beginning to show.

Tony has his arm around your shoulders. You’re wearing one of his loose t-shirts, and he’s in soft linen pants and nothing else. The warm wind rustles through the cypress trees, and there’s music playing from a small speaker nearby—some classic Italian tune Tony insisted was necessary for the vibe.

You lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I like this version of us,” you murmur.

Tony presses a kiss to your hair. “Me too.”

“Why’d it take us so long to get here?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been thinking about that a lot too. “Because I was a coward,” he admits. “And I didn’t deserve you. But I’m not letting you go now.”

You lift your eyes to his, studying the way the firelight flickers in them. “I’m not planning to leave.”

His smile is soft, nothing like the smirks he used to give you. “Good.”

The first day of your honeymoon ends with you curled up in his lap, the air filled with the scent of wine and rosemary, your laughter echoing in the hills.

And for once, there’s no bitterness. No tension. No fear.

Just love. And peace. And Tony Stark, holding you like he never wants to let you go.

---

The next morning starts off peaceful—until it doesn’t.

You wake before Tony, sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains, birds chirping somewhere outside. You stretch, a sleepy smile playing on your lips as you take in the soft warmth of the sheets, the way Tony’s hand is still resting on your hip even in his sleep.

But then your stomach lurches.

Suddenly. Violently.

You barely make it to the bathroom before you're on your knees, heaving into the toilet.

Tony stumbles in moments later, his hair a disaster, shirtless and wide-eyed. “Sweetheart?”

You wave him off weakly, spitting out the last of the bile. “M’fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he says, kneeling beside you like he’s ready to call in a full emergency medical team. “Are you sick? Food poisoning? Was it the undercooked pasta? I knew we shouldn’t have eaten that. I swear if this is salmonella, I’m buying the entire food safety board of Italy.”

You groan and slump against the cool tile, resting your head against the wall. “Tony, calm down. It’s probably nothing.”

“Nothing?” His voice goes up an octave. “You were throwing up! That’s literally something. That's a huge, very alarming something!”

“I’m okay,” you mumble. “Just… nauseous.”

Tony’s already pulling his phone out, muttering to himself. “We need a doctor. Maybe two doctors. No, we’ll fly one in from Switzerland. Private jet. I’ll—”

“Tony!” you cut him off, grabbing his wrist. “Let’s just go to a pharmacy first, okay? It might just be… something simple.”

He pauses, looking at you with deep concern. “Fine. But if they don’t have what you need, I will buy the village. Just saying.”

—

The pharmacy is small and rustic, nestled between two cafes in the heart of the nearby town. It smells like lavender and lemons, with shelves stacked high with herbal remedies and charmingly mismatched bottles.

Tony sticks out like a sore thumb in his expensive sunglasses and hoodie, hovering behind you like a nervous bodyguard.

An elderly Italian woman emerges from the back, dressed in a floral blouse and bold red lipstick. Her silver hair is piled high, and she eyes you both with a mischievous glint.

“Americani?” she guesses immediately, grinning. “Luna di miele?”

“Honeymoon,” Tony murmurs, leaning toward you. “She knows we’re newlyweds.”

The woman winks. “Amore è nel’aria.” Love is in the air. She shuffles closer. “Come posso aiutarti, cara?”

You point to your stomach, trying to mime nausea. “I woke up feeling sick—stomach… blegh.”

The woman squints, then gives you a long, appraising look. She glances at Tony. Then back at you.

And with a delighted little “Ah-ha!”, she reaches behind the counter… and slaps a box onto the counter with a proud flourish.

Tony leans in to read the label.

Then blinks.

Then blinks again.

“A pregnancy test?” he says, voice cracking slightly.

The woman beams. “Sì! Congratulazioni!”

You stare at the box. Then at her. Then at Tony.

��Wait,” you whisper. “She thinks I’m pregnant?”

Tony looks at you, visibly pale. “Are you…?”

“I don’t know!” you hiss.

The woman pushes the box closer to you, her voice cheery and loud. “Due linee rosa! Pink lines, baby!”

You awkwardly thank her, pay for the test, and practically drag Tony out of the pharmacy, the woman shouting behind you, “Felicità! Fate una femmina, è meglio!” Make a girl—it’s better!

Tony’s quiet the entire way back to the villa.

You are too.

The test sits on the bathroom counter like a bomb.

You stare at it. He stares at you.

And finally, with shaking hands, you take the test and close the door.

Minutes pass.

Tony paces outside, muttering under his breath. “Okay. Okay, if it’s positive, we’ll handle it. We’ve got this. I mean—what even is a crib, really? Just a fancy baby cage, right?”

You open the door.

You’re holding the test.

Two pink lines.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Tony sees it.

His face goes blank. Then slowly, slowly, the emotion starts to flood in—shock, disbelief, and something so soft it nearly makes your knees give out.

He swallows hard. “We’re… gonna have a baby?”

You nod, lip trembling. “Yeah.”

Tony doesn’t move at first.

Then, suddenly, he’s got you in his arms, lifting you off the floor and spinning you around in the hallway.

“Holy hell,” he breathes, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth. “We’re having a baby.”

You laugh, half-crying, clutching the front of his shirt. “I guess we really are on our honeymoon now.”

“Guess we are.”

He sets you down gently, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And I already love this little person we made. And I swear, I’m gonna do this right. No matter what.”

You nod, wiping tears off your cheeks. “I know.”

And when he kisses you again, slow and full of awe, the world seems to stand still—just the two of you, your hearts beating in sync, in a tiny villa in Italy, already beginning the next chapter of your life.

---

The rest of the honeymoon is nothing like you expected—because now, everything is different.

Tony doesn’t let you lift a finger. Not even a coffee cup.

You try to protest—at first. “Tony, I’m pregnant, not fragile.”

But he just lifts a brow, gently takes the mug from your hand, and says, “You’re carrying my child. Which means you’re now a VIP-class spaceship. No turbulence. No sudden movements. Maximum comfort only.”

He’s serious, too.

He adds extra pillows to the bed, orders decaf espresso—grudgingly—for you every morning, and Googles every possible fruit, cheese, and spice to make sure you’re not eating anything “even remotely suspicious.” He downloads four pregnancy tracking apps and cross-references them.

Tony Stark is in full dad mode.

One evening, when you go to watch the sunset with him and try to sit on the stone ledge around the patio, he nearly has a heart attack.

“Nope,” he says, scooping you up like you're made of glass. “You’re not breaking any part of your body before this kid is born.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s like a two-foot drop, Tony.”

“I’ve seen ankles snap for less. Google ‘cobblestone hazards in Tuscany.’ I dare you.”

He makes everything dramatic, but it’s not just nerves—it’s adoration.

He touches your belly like it’s already precious. Talks to it when he thinks you’re asleep. Whispers things like, “You’re gonna love your mom,” or “We’ll start with science toys and then move to building suits,” or, “If you’re a girl, don’t even look at boys until you’re thirty.”

You hear it all.

And your heart falls for him a little more every day.

—

Three days after the pregnancy test, you decide to return to the pharmacy. You owe her—Nonna Rosa, as you find out—for the moment that changed everything.

Tony insists on carrying a bouquet of bright flowers and a bottle of fancy wine.

“I don’t care if she’s probably against drinking because she’s old-school and religious,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses. “She deserves something expensive.”

When you walk into the little shop again, she spots you instantly.

“Ahhhh! La bambina!” she cries, throwing up her hands.

Tony laughs. “Told you. Psychic.”

She rushes over, pulls you into a firm hug, then plants both hands on your cheeks and stares. “Si vede negli occhi! I can see it in your eyes.”

“You really knew,” you say in disbelief. “I hadn’t even missed a period yet.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “È l’istinto. It’s instinct. And the glow. And the way he looked at you.”

Tony smirks. “What glow? I was a nervous wreck.”

“You were in love,” she corrects him.

He goes quiet, squeezing your hand.

Nonna Rosa spends the next half hour giving you tea samples for nausea, a handmade charm bracelet for “protection of la madre e il bambino,” and instructions on what herbs to steep at different stages of pregnancy. You leave the shop with two bags of supplies, your stomach sore from laughing, your heart warm.

Before you go, she hugs you both again, then whispers in your ear, “He will be a good papa. You are already a good mama.”

You blink back tears. “Thank you.”

—

Back at the villa, Tony’s affection only deepens.

When you get emotional watching a commercial about olive oil, he doesn’t laugh—he just pulls you into his arms, rubbing your back until the tears pass.

When you mention feeling bloated, he books a private massage therapist who specializes in prenatal care and says, “I’ll tip her enough to pay her rent for a year.”

When you start craving fresh mozzarella and figs at midnight, he drives an hour to the next town to find it.

You fall asleep with his hand resting on your belly every night.

You wake up to forehead kisses and whispered I-love-yous every morning.

And somewhere in between all of that, it finally clicks: This isn’t just a changed man.

This is a man who wants to build something with you.

A life. A family. A future.

—

On the last night of the honeymoon, you stand on the balcony with him, watching the Tuscan sky fade into stars. He wraps his arms around you from behind, hands resting just under your growing waistline.

“You know,” he murmurs against your ear, “I used to think love was a weakness.”

You tilt your head slightly. “And now?”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Now I know it’s the only thing worth fighting for.”

You cover his hands with yours. “You’re going to be a great dad, Tony.”

He swallows hard, voice a little rough when he answers. “Only because you’re going to be the heart of this family.”

---

Coming back home feels different this time—like you’re stepping into a new chapter. One that hums quietly with anticipation and change.

Tony doesn’t let you carry a single bag off the plane, despite the fact that you’re still barely showing. “You’re carrying everything that matters,” he says, snapping his fingers at Happy, who takes your suitcase with a nod. “She gets airport princess treatment now.”

The Stark penthouse has been dusted, prepped, and stocked—Tony made sure of it before you even landed. There’s already a room cleared out across from your bedroom, not quite a nursery yet, but he looks at it with this strange sort of awe every time he walks by.

The next morning, he’s up at 6 a.m., pacing, already dressed and muttering to himself as he taps anxiously at his StarkPad.

You’re still brushing your teeth when he pokes his head into the bathroom. “Are you ready? We should leave in ten. Maybe fifteen, if we account for traffic. I already paid off three guys to clear the garage so Happy can pull the car around faster. Also—I downloaded the entire obstetrics textbook from Harvard Medical School and cross-checked it with six blogs. I’m ready for this.”

You spit into the sink and blink at him. “Tony. We’re just getting an ultrasound.”

“Exactly!” he says, eyes wide like you’ve just missed the apocalypse. “An ultrasound. Our baby. Who, by the way, has not responded to any of my nightly pep talks. I think they’re already ignoring me.”

You stifle a laugh and wipe your mouth. “It’s the size of a lime, Tony. It doesn’t know you’re talking to it.”

He scoffs. “Rude. I’m extremely charming.”

You roll your eyes and walk out to grab your coat, and he immediately follows, already fretting. “Do you want snacks? Water? What if you get cold in the waiting room? Should I bring a backup sweater for you? And backup for the backup?”

“Tony.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. But if you don’t stop panicking, I’m going to need medical attention.”

He stops in his tracks. Blinks. Then smiles sheepishly. “Right. Sorry. I’m chill. Totally chill.” He takes a deep breath. “Super chill.”

—

He’s not chill.

Not at the clinic. Not even a little bit.

The poor nurse tries to ask you your name, and Tony blurts it out before you can. “Y/N Stark. She’s my wife. We're having a baby. We're very in love. Also, she's been nauseous, but not today, which I think is progress.”

The nurse gives you a knowing look. You just squeeze Tony’s hand and smile. “We’re here for the first ultrasound.”

They lead you into a cozy, softly lit room with pale blue walls and framed photos of smiling families. Tony paces while you settle onto the exam table, fidgeting as the tech preps the machine.

When the image appears on the screen, the room goes quiet.

There, nestled in the grainy black-and-white blur, is a tiny flicker.

A heartbeat.

Tony’s breath catches audibly. He reaches for your hand, slowly, as if afraid the image might vanish if he moves too fast.

“That’s… them?” he asks softly.

The tech nods, smiling. “That’s your baby.”

Tony doesn’t speak for a full minute. He just stares.

Then, very quietly, he whispers, “Hi, little one.”

You watch him fall in love in real time.

And you know—it’s not just the baby. It’s everything.

You. This life. What you’ve built together.

—

The decision to go public happens faster than you expect.

Tony insists on it.

“No secrets,” he says, pacing in front of the kitchen counter one evening. “I want the world to know. I want them to know. This kid is already the best thing I’ve ever done, and I haven’t even taught them quantum physics yet.”

You raise a brow from the couch. “Tony. I’m barely out of the first trimester.”

He walks over and kneels in front of you, hands on your knees, eyes uncharacteristically serious. “Let me tell them. Let me tell the world how proud I am of you. Of us.”

How can you say no to that?

The announcement goes live two days later: a candid photo of you and Tony on the villa balcony in Italy, your hand resting on your still-flat belly, his arms wrapped around you, both of you laughing like the world doesn’t matter.

The caption reads:

“Coming soon: Baby Stark. And yes, I’ll be building them their first lab by age two. Sorry not sorry.”

The internet breaks.

The press explodes.

Everyone—Avengers, friends, even business rivals—starts reaching out with congratulations.

Even Fury sends a one-word text: Finally.

But none of it compares to the way Tony wraps his arms around you that night, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both scroll through the comments and messages.

“Do you think the baby knows?” you ask softly.

Tony kisses your cheek. “They will. They’ll know they’re loved. Every second. Every minute. Every breath.”

---

Designing the nursery becomes Tony’s newest obsession—something he throws himself into with the same intensity he once reserved for building Iron Man suits and revolutionizing energy.

“We’re not doing boring pastel zoo animals,” he declares one morning, pushing open a tablet full of sleek digital mockups. “This kid’s getting a lab-themed nursery. Chrome mobiles, circuit-board wallpaper, floating shelves for STEM-themed books… I already made a list.”

You arch an eyebrow from where you’re sitting on the couch with swollen ankles and a glass of juice. “They’re going to be born, not code an AI straight out of the womb.”

Tony smirks, sitting beside you and gently lifting your feet into his lap to massage them. “Hey, never underestimate Stark genetics.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “Fine. But I want warm tones. Something cozy, not just… titanium chic.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Cozy, but genius. I can work with that.”

And he does. Every evening, you both find yourselves in what was once the empty guest room, standing in the center and imagining your future together.

Color palettes are tested. Tony builds a crib from scratch—out of wood, not metal, because you insisted. He even softens enough to let you choose plush animals for the shelves, despite his comments like, “That bunny’s IQ looks suspiciously low.”

You spend hours hand-painting little constellations across one wall, while he hooks up a night light system that projects stars onto the ceiling.

He reads to your belly at night.

And with every laugh, every tiny kick, every moment you catch him staring at you like you hung the moon—you feel safer. Stronger.

But as weeks stretch into months, something begins to feel… different.

It starts small. You notice that your belly seems to be expanding faster than you expected. You chalk it up to genetics, maybe even water retention, but at your next prenatal yoga class, a woman due at the same time gives you a sideways glance.

“How far along are you again?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

“Twenty-four weeks,” you answer, wiping your forehead.

Her brows lift. “Wow. You’re carrying… a lot.”

You try to brush it off. But later, while Tony’s measuring a bookshelf he’s installing in the nursery, you find yourself tugging down your maternity shirt, eyes lingering on the mirror.

Your belly looks… big.

Bigger than the books say it should be.

That night, lying beside Tony with your hand resting over your belly, you whisper, “Do you think it looks… too big?”

He immediately looks over, concerned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean compared to other women this far along. I saw someone today—same week. She looked half my size.”

Tony sits up a little, his expression sobering. “Are you uncomfortable? Is something hurting?”

“No,” you admit. “Just… wondering.”

He rubs your arm gently. “Well, there’s a million variables. Body type, position of the baby, fluid levels. Maybe our kid just takes after me—big head, big brain, huge personality.”

You smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“Let’s call the doctor tomorrow,” he says softly. “Just to check.”

You nod, heart beating a little faster.

And that night, even as he wraps his arms around you and rubs soothing circles against your side, you can’t help feeling something stirring inside you—more than just kicks and flutters.

A question.

A feeling.

Like your body’s holding more than it’s letting on.

---

The next morning, Tony insists on clearing his entire schedule—even cancelling a meeting with the UN tech board—so he can come with you to the OB-GYN.

He doesn’t pace this time. He just holds your hand the entire ride over, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, lips pressed tight in a line he only wears when something's tugging at his heart.

You’re nervous, but not scared. Not really. You just… need to know.

The waiting room is quiet. The exam room colder than usual. And when the gel hits your belly and the ultrasound machine hums to life, your breath catches in your throat.

The doctor’s eyes narrow slightly at the screen, her lips parting. But she doesn’t look alarmed. Just surprised.

Tony notices immediately.

“Okay,” he says, his voice already loaded with anxiety, “that’s not your standard everything’s fine face. What’s going on?”

The doctor smiles, calm and steady.

“Well,” she says, turning the screen toward you both, “you were right about the belly size. Because you're not carrying one baby, Mrs. Stark. You're carrying two.”

You blink. Your brain stutters.

Tony's mouth falls open. “Twins?”

The doctor nods. “Fraternal. Two separate amniotic sacs. One girl…” She moves the probe slightly, points to one side of the screen. “And one boy.” She points to the other.

You stare, heart suddenly thudding so loudly you swear it echoes in the room.

Tony’s breath leaves him in one long exhale. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little,” the doctor chuckles. “Congratulations.”

He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at the screen, wide-eyed, hands slowly releasing yours only so he can press his fingers to the monitor, as if touching it would make it more real.

Then he whispers, so soft it almost breaks you: “A daughter and a son.”

You’re too stunned to say anything for a few seconds.

Then your eyes fill with tears. Not panic. Not fear.

Overwhelmed joy.

Tony turns to you like he’s seeing you all over again.

“You’re incredible,” he says, voice shaking. “You’re actually growing two little humans in there. We made two.” He laughs—a little wild, a little breathless—and swipes his hands down his face. “I need to sit down.”

The doctor smiles. “I’ll give you a few minutes. We’ll go over all the details shortly. Everything looks perfect so far.”

The door clicks closed behind her.

Tony still hasn’t moved. He sits down beside you slowly, as if his knees have given out, and then pulls your hand into his lap. His eyes are shining now, and when he looks at you, it’s like you’re the only thing holding him to the earth.

“Twins,” you say, still not believing it. “I knew I was getting bigger faster but I thought maybe it was just… I don’t know. Pizza.”

He laughs, head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. “We’re gonna need a bigger house.”

You run your fingers through his hair, still blinking away tears. “We already have a whole building.”

“Okay, then we need a wing.”

He lifts his head again, and you both look at the screen once more. Two tiny flickers. Two little lives.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

Tony doesn’t answer with words. He leans forward and kisses you—slowly, reverently, like you’re made of starlight and safety and everything good he’s ever wanted but never believed he deserved.

“I didn’t think I could love you more,” he says against your lips. “But I do.”

And just like that, the weight of the world becomes something warm. Something shared. Something beautiful.

Later, in the car, he announces: “We’re going public. Today. No waiting.”

“Tony…”

“Nope,” he cuts in. “The people deserve to know. And by people, I mean everyone I’ve ever met, looked at, or cyberstalked.”

The new post goes up before the elevator even opens at the penthouse:

“Plot twist: there are TWO Starklings incoming. Yes, I’m panicking. No, I won’t be sleeping for the next 18 years.”

It takes 10 minutes for #StarkTwins to trend worldwide.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite the double-shock, despite the massive life shift ahead…

You feel calm.

Because he’s right here.

And for the first time, so are they.

---

Shopping for one baby had already been a bit overwhelming. Shopping for two?

That’s a whole new kind of madness—and Tony, of course, leans into it with full-throttle Stark intensity.

“Two of everything,” he declares the morning after the appointment, standing at the foot of your bed with a stylus in one hand and a digital checklist hovering in midair. “Cribs, monitors, sound machines, swaddles—God help me, even diapers. Y/N, do you know how many diapers twins go through?”

You blink blearily up at him, still nestled under the covers. “Please don’t start our day with horror stories.”

“I’ve done the math,” he says gravely, eyes scanning the list like it’s a mission report. “We’ll need at least 9,000 in the first year. That’s not a joke.”

You groan into your pillow. “Don’t say things like that before coffee.”

“Already brewing,” he says, flashing a charming grin. “Also, I hired a twin consultant.”

You sit up, eyes wide. “That’s a thing?”

“It is now,” Tony says, smug as ever. “She’s flying in from Copenhagen. Best in the field. She’s helping with layout optimization and efficiency training. No chaos. Only balance.”

You can't help but laugh. “You act like we’re launching a small army.”

“Babies are a small army,” he replies. “Except they cry, poop, and will destroy your sleep schedule for the foreseeable future.”

—

You visit every boutique in the city—and a few in Paris and Milan via video call. Tony buys out entire sections of one shop in SoHo and has a luxury baby furniture company build two matching custom cribs, one with silver inlay and the other with a star-and-moon motif to match the constellation wall you painted.

The nursery becomes a shared haven—one room for both babies. You and Tony stand in the center of it often now, surrounded by soft creams, deep navy, gold accents, and the twinkling of projected stars overhead.

“Think they’ll like sharing?” you ask one night, brushing your fingers along the edge of one of the cribs.

Tony comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, now fully rounded and glowing with life.

“They’ll be born into the same chaos,” he murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Might as well share a room and plot world domination together.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “They’ll be a team.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Like us.”

—

The names come slowly—weeks of gentle debates, late-night whispers, and quiet moments with your hands joined over your belly.

You go through everything from classic to avant-garde. Tony suggests “Nova” at one point; you counter with “Juliet.” He proposes “JARVIS Jr.” and you tell him he’s banned from naming privileges for 48 hours.

But one evening, long after the sun’s gone down and you’re curled together in bed, you whisper something that changes everything.

“Lyra,” you say softly, fingers resting just left of your navel. “Like the constellation.”

Tony’s silent for a moment. Then he nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Lyra Stark.”

You glance at him. “Too much?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s beautiful. Poetic. Strong.”

You both look at your belly. She kicks gently, as if in approval.

“And for him?” you ask.

Tony turns his head to look at you. “Kyle.”

“Kyle?”

“Yeah.” He brushes a lock of hair away from your forehead. “Simple. Strong. Doesn’t sound like he’ll invent a killer AI. I like it.”

You smile. “Lyra and Kyle.”

He leans in to kiss you, slow and soft. “Perfect.”

From that moment on, they’re no longer just “the twins.” They’re Lyra and Kyle.

—

As the months pass, their room transforms into a blend of art and innovation—one side with celestial details, soft blues and silvers for Lyra, and the other in calm earth tones, burnt oranges and forest greens for Kyle.

The cribs stand side-by-side beneath a floating mobile of glowing planets and stars Tony designed himself.

Two nameplates hang above the cribs now—crafted from brushed gold and reclaimed oak.

You catch Tony staring at them often. Not with fear. Not with panic.

But with awe.

“They’re really coming,” he says one night, hands cradling your belly, now round and firm beneath your shirt. “I still can’t believe it.”

“They’re lucky,” you whisper, brushing his hair back. “They’ll have you.”

He looks at you, eyes tender. “No. They’ll have us. And they’ll know they were wanted. Every heartbeat. Every breath.”

And that night, curled against him, you feel them kick together for the first time—one, then the other. Strong. Sure.

A team already.

----

The gala is one of those high-profile events that Tony would normally glide through with ease—press, flashing cameras, board members with tight handshakes and tighter smiles. And normally, you’d stand by his side with calm grace, fingers looped through his arm, chin held high.

But tonight feels different.

You’re in your final weeks now. Your belly is undeniably big—so big you had to be sewn into your custom gown while standing because sitting was temporarily off the table. The dark green silk flows beautifully around your curves, but it doesn’t hide anything. Lyra and Kyle are front and center, snug inside you, and moving constantly like they know they’re being paraded through the public eye.

You adjust the shawl around your shoulders for what feels like the fifth time as Tony finishes shaking hands with a Stark Industries partner near the entrance. You shift your weight carefully, not wanting to put too much pressure on your back or feet, which have been swelling lately.

You feel eyes on you—discreet glances from women in body-hugging gowns and men in tailored suits, some with raised brows, others with polite smiles that barely mask surprise.

You try to ignore it.

But you still feel awkward. Huge. And far too visible.

Tony notices the moment your smile dims.

He excuses himself mid-conversation and makes a beeline straight to you, hands immediately landing on your waist and back, steadying you, grounding you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, scanning your face. “Too much?”

You give him a half-smile, trying to sound lighter than you feel. “Just a little… self-conscious.”

His expression softens instantly, like someone flipped a switch inside his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up with two fingers. “You are glowing. I mean it. You look like a goddamn goddess.”

You snort softly. “A swollen goddess.”

“An unstoppable goddess,” he corrects, kissing your forehead. “Who’s literally growing two new Starks inside her body and still managing to look like the cover of Vogue.”

You roll your eyes, but it helps. His hands don't leave your body for the rest of the night. Every step, every moment, he’s there—offering your hand to lean on, reminding you to sit every twenty minutes, checking that the event staff remembered your water and low-sodium snacks. He even shoos off the press photographers after ten minutes so you don’t have to stand for long.

“You're carrying my entire legacy,” he murmurs once when he helps you into a velvet-lined seat. “The least I can do is keep you off your feet.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

—

Three days later, everything changes.

It starts at dawn. The sky is still painted soft blue and orange when you wake to a strange, warm pressure low in your belly. Not a kick. Not a cramp.

Something else.

You try to stand, and that's when it hits you—sharp and low, then easing into a dull, pulsing wave. You gasp, holding your stomach. Your water breaks seconds later.

Tony is at your side before you can even call for him. He stumbles out of bed in a flurry of blankets and panic.

“What? What? Was that a real gasp? Did something—?”

“My water broke,” you say breathlessly. “It’s happening.”

He stares at you, frozen.

Then: “Holy sh—okay. Okay, yeah. You’re fine. We’re fine. We practiced for this.” He’s already grabbing the go-bag, the phone, barking orders to FRIDAY to call the doctor and alert the hospital.

By the time you’re in the car, gripping his hand and trying to breathe through another contraction, Tony’s all business—but his other hand never stops stroking your back.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, over and over. “You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

Labor is long. Hours stretch by, filled with pain and sweat and exhaustion. But he never leaves your side.

Not when you scream through the harder contractions.

Not when you cry from the pressure and the fear.

Not when you beg for it to be over.

And when your body finally gives in and the room is filled with the high, wailing cries of not one—but two—new lives, Tony’s the first to cry.

A nurse lays your daughter on your chest—tiny, pink, with a shock of dark hair and fists curled tight. You barely have time to kiss her head before they bring your son, his cry a little softer but just as strong, his fingers already clutching at your gown.

Tony’s beside you, eyes full of awe and wet with tears. His hands shake as he touches them for the first time.

“They’re here,” he whispers. “Lyra and Kyle. They’re real.”

You manage a tired laugh, voice cracked. “They’re perfect.”

He kisses you hard and long and trembling.

----

Bringing Lyra and Kyle home is like stepping into a dream you didn’t know your heart had written.

But it’s not quiet.

And it’s definitely not restful.

The moment the elevator opens into the penthouse, the real chaos begins.

Lyra starts crying first—sharp and commanding, as if announcing her reign as the older sibling (by two minutes). Kyle follows almost immediately, softer but no less insistent. The sound echoes off the marble floors and sleek walls as if bouncing from every corner of the building.

Tony, still in a soft gray hoodie and cradling the car seat with Kyle, looks at you with eyes wide and shell-shocked. “Did anyone install a mute button? No? Cool. I’ll look into that.”

You’re too exhausted to laugh, but your hand reaches for his anyway, grounding yourself.

The nursery—your carefully designed sanctuary—suddenly feels smaller and louder and much less serene. You gently lay Lyra into her crib, her tiny arms flailing in protest, and immediately Kyle decides he does not want to be separated. His cries ramp up to what Tony calls “critical red alert levels.”

“Okay, okay, he needs backup,” Tony murmurs, scooping him up again with a gentleness that nearly breaks your heart. “Come on, little guy. It’s not that bad. You’re not even paying rent.”

The next 72 hours pass in a blur of feedings, burp cloths, diaper changes, and the faint sound of your sanity unraveling thread by thread.

You barely sleep—maybe an hour at a time. Your body aches. Your hormones are crashing like tidal waves. You cry for no reason sometimes, holding Lyra against your chest in the dark while Tony rubs your back and doesn’t ask questions.

But through it all, he’s there.

Tony Stark, billionaire genius playboy-turned-husband and father, rises to every occasion like he’s been preparing his whole life for this. He’s in the nursery before you even wake to the monitor’s buzz. He handles diaper duty without complaint—even when Kyle somehow manages to get him twice in one change.

He rocks Lyra for hours when she won’t settle, singing her old ‘80s rock ballads off-key, whispering jokes she’ll never remember.

He lets you nap uninterrupted by lying to the entire world that you’re “in a meeting” when reporters start requesting statements and the board tries to reschedule him for “important discussions.”

“The most important discussion I’m having today,” he says firmly into the phone, “is with two humans who weigh less than a cantaloupe and poop like it’s a competitive sport. So unless the building is on fire—no, you know what? Even if it’s on fire, deal with it without me.”

And then he��silences his phone and lays beside you while the twins nap, his arm draped protectively across your waist, both of you catching a precious thirty minutes of sleep.

When you wake from one of those naps to the scent of warm food, you shuffle groggily into the kitchen to find him with Lyra strapped to his chest in a baby wrap and a pan of eggs cooking in front of him.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says with a grin. “Lyra says she likes her eggs over easy. She also says I’m her favorite. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

You smile so hard you almost cry again.

Later that night, when both babies are miraculously sleeping in their cribs at the same time—tiny arms thrown up in near-identical poses—you lean against the nursery doorway, arms crossed gently over your chest, and watch Tony fuss quietly over the room.

He’s rearranging things that don’t need rearranging. Checking the monitor angle. Adjusting the blanket placement in the cribs.

You walk over and wrap your arms around his waist from behind.

He leans back into your touch immediately. “Can’t believe they’re real.”

“I can’t believe we made them.”

He turns in your arms, eyes soft. “You did most of the work, let’s be honest. I just—”

“You’ve been amazing,” you interrupt gently. “Really.”

He smiles—crooked, a little tired, a little emotional. “I don’t want you to do any of this alone. Ever.”

You pull him down into a kiss. It’s quiet. It tastes like sleep deprivation and love.

---

Life with twins becomes a mosaic of moments—some loud and chaotic, others quiet and golden.

Lyra and Kyle grow faster than you ever thought possible. One moment they’re impossibly small, sleeping curled against your chest, and the next they’re crawling in opposite directions at alarming speeds while Tony frantically tries to babyproof a Stark-level security system from the babies themselves.

“They’re teaming up,” he says one evening, watching as Kyle opens the bottom drawer in the kitchen and hands a spoon to Lyra. “They’re forming a hive mind. You see this, right?”

You’re laughing, even as you pluck the spoon from Lyra’s grip and gently redirect her back toward her soft play area. “They're not a hive. They're siblings.”

“They’re mutinous,” he mutters, but his grin betrays his pride. “Tiny, adorable rebels.”

—

Their first steps come unexpectedly, of course.

You and Tony are both in the nursery one late afternoon, folding laundry together on the floor while the twins babble nonsense to their stuffed animals. Kyle is focused on his favorite one—a green plush dinosaur with a snagged eye—while Lyra, ever observant, is watching you.

You catch her gaze just as she starts to push herself upright.

Tony notices first. “Oh,” he whispers. “Oh-oh-oh.”

She wobbles—one foot, then the other, barely stable—and then she walks.

Three full steps.

Straight into your arms.

You burst into tears, laughing and holding her tight. “You did it, baby!”

Kyle, not to be outdone, immediately lets go of his toy and tries the same thing. He takes two steps, then falls dramatically onto his padded backside, completely unbothered.

Tony claps like he’s just witnessed a world record. “You guys! You guys! You’re walking now? We need helmets. We need security.”

From that day forward, it’s chaos all over again. Mobility changes everything. They explore every room. Open every drawer. Kyle develops a fascination with Tony’s gadgets, and Lyra becomes obsessed with books—she likes to flip through them, point at the pages, and babble nonsense words that sound oddly like commands.

“Mini CEO,” Tony says proudly, watching her point at the same picture of a rocket over and over again.

—

Their words start coming around the same time.

But they’re not exactly dictionary-ready.

Lyra says “muh-muh” when she wants milk and “dah-dee” when she sees Tony walk into the room. Kyle invents his own phrases—“boo-moo” for blanket, “wah-wah” for water, and something that sounds like “da-blurf” that could mean literally anything depending on the tone.

To outsiders, it’s pure chaos.

To you and Tony, it’s a fluent second language.

You translate with ease at the park, at brunches, at family gatherings.

“She wants her bunny,” you say when Lyra looks up at you with big eyes and says “bun-yah-nah.”

“He dropped his truck in the fountain,” Tony explains, deadpan, when Kyle starts shouting “wuh-bloop!” repeatedly and pointing furiously at the edge of the garden.

It becomes a running joke among your friends and staff that only the two of you can understand them.

“You’re like their personal interpreters,” Rhodey says one afternoon, watching the twins toddle around the tower’s rec room.

“More like their unpaid assistants,” Tony mutters, grinning as he catches Kyle mid-wobble and swings him onto his hip. “Bilingual in toddler and fluent in chaos.”

—

By the time Lyra and Kyle are two, your lives are unrecognizable from the ones you had before them. Your house is a blend of elegance and mess—designer furniture paired with foam corner guards, baby gates guarding arc reactors, and a fridge covered in crayon masterpieces you can’t bring yourself to take down.

You and Tony barely sleep some nights, but when you do, it’s together—your bodies curled protectively around each other in a house that now echoes with tiny feet and sweeter-than-anything laughter.

The twins babble to each other constantly—words and sounds you don’t always catch, but that clearly mean something to them. A private language. A world of their own.

Sometimes you watch them from the doorway as they sit together with books or blocks or their favorite stuffed toys, heads close, trading secrets.

“Do you think they know?” you ask Tony one night, as Lyra pats Kyle’s head before handing him her bunny.

“Know what?”

“That they changed everything.”

Tony wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as the sunlight glows through the window and warms the nursery floor.

“They are everything,” he says softly.

---

Mornings in the Stark household now begin with chaos.

Not a metaphorical kind. No—this is toddler-level bedlam.

The twins wake up at exactly 6:14 AM every single day like little precision alarm clocks forged in the fires of mischief. Today is no different.

You're jolted awake by the sudden crackle of the baby monitor, followed by a loud—and completely unintelligible—battle cry.

"MAH-DEE BEEPBOOP!" Kyle shouts, his voice shrill and dramatic.

"NOOO KAH-LOOO! DABBA ME!" Lyra wails immediately after, and the sound of what might be a plush bunny hitting the crib bars echoes through the monitor.

You groan softly into your pillow. “They’re fighting over Beepboop again.”

Tony, face smushed into the pillow, mumbles, “I’ll give you two million dollars if you go get them.”

“Make it three and coffee.”

He sighs, rolls out of bed, and limps toward the nursery in pajama pants and a shirt that says “World’s Okayest Dad.”

You follow moments later to find him kneeling between two cribs, holding up the infamous Beepboop—a lumpy stuffed robot with one missing arm.

Kyle points with all the moral authority of a tiny Supreme Court judge. “BEEPBOOP me, Dadda. Me say dib-dib-dib! Lyyyyra cheat!”

Lyra scowls, pigtails wild. “NO! Bepbop NO dib-dib! Me hug Beepboop ALL night! Me! Me! Me! MAAAAAA!”

Tony’s trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay. Court is in session. Both plaintiffs, present your evidence.”

You squat down beside him and gently take Beepboop. “What if Beepboop gets two turns today? Lyra can have him during story time, and Kyle during nap time?”

They both squint at you like suspicious diplomats.

Kyle crosses his arms. “Hmph. Nap boring. Bepbop NO nap.”

Lyra’s lip quivers. “But me hug him! Hug like—like foreber!”

You hold Beepboop up and look between them. “Teamwork or timeout?”

A long beat.

Then—both toddlers sigh in unison, as if burdened by the unbearable injustice of compromise.

“Fiiiine,” Kyle mutters.

“Me HUG first,” Lyra insists one last time.

—

Breakfast is…something.

Tony makes pancakes, but Kyle insists on helping, which really means slapping the counter with flour-covered hands and taste-testing raw batter with his fingers.

“NOOOO EGGY!” he yells dramatically as Tony cracks one into the bowl.

Tony raises a brow. “What do you mean ‘no eggy’? It’s a pancake. Pancakes need eggs.”

“No eggy, no eggy, NOOOO!” Kyle insists, absolutely scandalized.

Meanwhile, Lyra has decided her only utensil today is a measuring cup, which she is currently using to ladle syrup from the bottle directly onto her pancake. The pancake is now more syrup than food.

You sit with your mug of tea and watch, amazed that these tiny humans are somehow so much like you and Tony and yet such chaotic goblins.

“Banana?” Lyra asks, holding up a pancake completely drowning in syrup.

“You want banana on that?” you ask.

She nods like it’s obvious. “Banana IN pancake. Like brrrrr-BAM. ‘Splode banana.”

Tony stares. “Okay… That’s actually a genius idea. Banana explosion pancakes. Trademark pending.”

—

Midday is supposed to be calm.

Supposed to be.

But then there’s the puzzle incident.

Lyra wants to complete a big animal puzzle. Kyle wants to climb on it like Godzilla.

Lyra screeches, “NO SMOOSH ELEFAMP!” as Kyle lays across the puzzle dramatically.

You’re folding laundry when she marches into the living room with two chunky toddler fists clenched and fire in her eyes. “MOM-MEEE. Bubba make puzzle DEAD. Him SMASH elefamp.”

Kyle shouts from the floor behind her, “HIM NAP with effa-famp! Nap! It cuddly!”

Tony watches the scene like a referee between tiny wrestlers.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” he mutters. “They both sound right.”

You lean over and whisper, “He’s cuddling the elephant piece. She thinks he’s committing puzzle war crimes.”

Tony nods solemnly. “That tracks.”

—

Nap time is sacred.

Except no one wants to sleep today.

Tony’s strategy involves lying between their little toddler beds and making spaceship noises. “The sleep ship is docking. Commander Kyle, permission to close eyes.”

Kyle blinks at him and deadpans, “Me NO commander. Me banana.”

Lyra giggles. “Commander Nana!”

Tony puts a hand over his heart. “You’re right. Commander Banana, lead the sleepy fleet.”

You stifle laughter from the doorway as he drones on: “Fueling dreams… activating nap boosters…”

By some miracle, both fall asleep fifteen minutes later. You and Tony high-five silently and collapse onto the couch.

“Remember when we thought we were tired before we had kids?” you whisper.

Tony nods, eyes already closing. “Fools. Arrogant, well-rested fools.”

—

Bath time is wet, splashy, and full of giggles.

Kyle babbles a long, incomprehensible monologue involving “tub-fish” and “soap army,” while Lyra insists the shampoo bottle is “Prince Bubble” and must not be harmed.

By the time they're in pajamas and tucked in, you and Tony are damp, exhausted, and laughing under your breath.

“Me lub you, Dadda,” Kyle whispers as his eyes flutter closed.

“Me lub you, Momma,” Lyra echoes.

You and Tony freeze.

Those are the clearest words they’ve spoken all day.

Your throat catches. Tony blinks rapidly, lips curving.

“I love you both more than the whole world,” you whisper, smoothing back Lyra’s hair.

Tony leans in and kisses their foreheads gently. “Even more than my vintage car collection. And that’s saying something.”

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apostaterevolutionary · 6 months ago

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So I touched on this a little in my veilguard review, but this is one of the topics I wanted to talk about separately. And it’s that I think I've figured out what really makes an rpg great vs just not bad for me. This is really a preference thing, cause I know there's people who are the exact opposite on this. But for me, it's about the amount of personal involvement the player character has

Like why are you, as the main character, here? Why do we care about the plot that's unfolding? Is it just cause 'well, world needs saving and I'm here', that's not very interesting to me. It's too replaceable - any sufficiently valiant person could do this (even in a chosen one narrative, this is typically true). 'Wrong place, wrong time' can be fun if done right, but it's still eh to me. I like it best when the player character has some tie to the overarching plot. I want it to be personal because that opens up so many more interesting emotions

Dragon age has examples of both of these. Origins, despite the Warden canonically being replaceable, as we know all the origins happened, it's just only one actually survived, does have this personal element imo because it has Ostagar. Different Wardens might see this differently, of course, but you arrive after just barely being saved by Duncan. Everything seems fine until the big moment and then everything goes wrong - you're betrayed, from your pov, Duncan is killed, and you wouldn't survive this third near-death experience in a row were it not for Flemeth's interference. This, in the moment, feels pretty damn personal. No matter who your warden is, Loghain acts as a personal antagonist right up until right before the end, whereas while the blight situation is mostly a 'wrong place, wrong time' situation, that personal element plus the little moments you get that reference the origin events really make it work for me. It could have more, but it has just enough to make it really good imo

Of course, DA2 is so strong on the personal motive front that arguably the personal story is actually the overarching plot and it's just occasionally a wider-impact event creeps into it lmao but that's why it's my favourite game. Inquisition, on the other hand, while yes, you have the mark and are the only one who can close the breaches, that is the only tie you have to events. The inquisitor has no motive beyond 'well, world needs saving'. If the anchor had somehow been transferable, Cassandra quite frankly would've made a more compelling protagonist because of her devotion to the Divine. She had a reason to be there beyond just 'gotta save the world'. The inquisitor doesn't, they’re really just there because they have to be (and that’s also why I think their appearance in veilguard is pretty weak imo, but people with different views of their inquisitor will disagree there)

And I'm not comparing, rather just using an example, but bg3 I think has both options. For me, durge is much more interesting than tav cause, once again, tav is just some guy (gender neutral) who happened to stumble by at the wrong time and oops, brain worm. Even the emperor would've happily discarded them for another if it served his purpose. They're just there because they're convenient. That's not as fun to me as durge, who has an actual personal reason to be involved in this, even if they don't know it at first. It starts out as the same, generic motivation of 'get rid of the brain worm, try to save world if we can' (assuming a relatively "good" playthrough lmao, but for comparison's sake) but it later becomes something that is personal. You have a VERY direct involvement in the plot and it really adds something to it for me. That's the kind of flavour I seek 🤌 🤌 🤌

And veilguard is definitely more on the inquisition side where literally any heroic person could fill in for the protagonist (and tbf, I liked it more than inquisition), when I think what really would’ve brought it over the top for me would’ve been some act 2 Personalized Horror event to happen. Easiest option would be something related to the faction, like maybe one of the recurring NPCs ends up dying in some really hardcore way. It wouldn’t be that hard to implement imo because it could be roughly the same quest, just with tweaks to fit the chosen faction. Giving Rook a personal motivation would’ve really spice things up and give the factions more depth too. If you play as a warden, I think weisshaupt may have that affect (which is why my second run will be a warden lmao), but it would be nice to have something really devastating for the character regardless of faction

(And to be perfectly honest, if we were going to lose a companion anyway, having that happen in the middle of the game might have actually been spicier and really cemented Rook’s conviction while still having the regret prison concept work imo. It would mean missing out on a companion arc, but it’s another option at least)

This would also give an opportunity to really boost the companion relationships. Like the Bad Thing happens and then you get maybe a little scene with the current love interest, or even just some dialogue with each of the companions. Something with them being the ones to comfort Rook for a change. Cause all that remains is devastating, and the bg3 act 2 redemptive durge scene is wonderful, but it’s also the aftermath that’s really tasty. And having some sort of Personalized Horror for Rook would’ve given us an opportunity to have that moment of them being vulnerable, and the companions stepping up to help them. That really would’ve made the team feel good and cemented, like they really were a strong team

And again, I know this is a personal preference thing. I have a friend who struggles whenever a game has any kind of established background at all and thinks that bg3’s tav is the absolute perfect kind of rpg protagonist and I’m sure there’s plenty of people who agree and prefer the fully blank slate. Some people do prefer to just headcanon all of this rather than have it directly in the game. And that’s fine. But for me, that personal involvement and motive is the real special sauce for rpgs and I think that’s why DA2 specifically is the one that made me insane lmao. And I think if veilguard had’ve had that bit of personalized angst, I would’ve put it an entire bracket higher than I did. It would’ve fit really well imo and idk if it was something bioware ever planned for the game, but I, for one, really would’ve loved it

#this is one of the things I've been thinking about a lot #and I think it does come down to people who really enjoy making ocs vs people who are more meh on that topic #and if you couldn't tell I'm more meh on that topic lmao #like sure I do make them for video games but I approach it more from the pov of making a character who will do the story I want #rather than 'this is my little guy who is a whole person in my head'#but yeah anyway #this is a personal preference thing but I did want to talk about it cause I find it interesting #also if you know of any other rpgs that have this special sauce of Personalized Horrors at the da2 level. let me know lmao #veilguard spoilers #text #shut up nerd #dragon age

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donetbhlmao · 1 month ago

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i just. something about the intimacy of mel saying "you're here!" to frank from across a packed ER. not "dr. langdon, you're here!". nothing to grab his attention.

i don't know, it's just an incredibly intimate scene? like she recognizes his voice (!!), double-takes, and can't contain her excitement at the fact that he's back. this little exchange also happens at an extremely pivotal point in mel's arc - we see her struggling with the responsibility and wondering whether she even has the "special sauce," and because her hype man has been missing, she doesn't have the reassurance. until she sees langdon again.

and he KNOWS she's calling to him. im going insane does anyone want anything.

#the pitt #melfrank #kingdon #and if i said it was like a wife calling to her husband?????#see the kind of reaction you'd get from the so-called tolerant left

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2-dsimp · 13 days ago

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“Order up! With an extra tip on the side!”

Tw: NSFW MDNI, yandere pizza deliverymen x bimbo reader! Dubcon, sexual transactions, food tampering, obsessive/posseive tendencies, cum eating, handjobs,

≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡ ≡≡≡≡≡

yandere! Pizza deliverymen who fight over the rotations in who’d get to deliver to their favorite regular customer, and receive a special tip in return.

You always had a craving for pizza so you got to know most of the delivery staff for YanSlicers. They only accept cash for payment at the door, to which you forgot about half the time.

So you’d always be so embarrassed going up to the door with insufficient funds. As you had difficulty handling cash and figuring out the percentage of tips and whatnot.

Bottomline is you sucked at math, even the basics. So the nice deliverymen would always offer you an alternative.

One day, you didn’t have enough and the youngest pizza delivery man showed up leaning at your frame door panting out of breath.

Oma had won the ticket lottery to come to your address. And despite being pulled into a minor scuffle by his sore loser colleagues. Which left him looking like he came outta a car wreck.

He just boyishly grinned at you as if he wasn’t wearing a torn uniform, a head wrap bandage, and a dozen hello kitty bandaids slapped across his face.

“Oh I can already tell! You must not have enough this time either huh cutie pie?” Oma sounded so elated that you couldn’t even pay him. As if he didn’t work to get paid to begin with, and only does it to see you.

His sweaty hands were already fumbling with the buckles on his pants. Knowing the drill you got on your knees looking bashful as but determined to get that box of hot pizza.

“Aweee you look so damn adorable when you get on your knees for me~ we trained you up real good.” He gushed, with a heavy flush on his cheeks. Eyes blown wide staring down your cleavage. “C-can you do me a favor and take out a slice for me?”

Oma was the most tame, when it came to alternative payments. Or was mainly scared that if he fucked you like the others, he’d make a fool outta himself.

Since he knew the moment, he’d attempt to penetrate inside that juicy cunt of yours. He’d seen from pictures and videos his colleagues sent in the group chat that he’d bust a fat nut instantly.

You opened the box he handed to you, smelling the lovely aroma of melted cheese, fresh toppings, and toasted bread. Making you salivate before you held the slice up for him to aim at with the tip of his cock.

“Now lend me your other hand, uh huh that’s it keep pumping me just like that and squeeze it real tight.” He was always so vocal about what he wanted from you to make him feel good. And he relished in how obedient you were.

His length was warm, and slimy twitching in your hand. He helped in guided you to fap it faster and squeeze tighter around his thick girth.

Damn his knees were already starting to buckle, which was understandable as he’s been erect. Pathetically palming at himself the whole car ride to your place.

His tongue lolled out as his hips stuttered into your enclosed fist. Small dollops of precum dripped onto the pizza slice. “You’re doing amazing honey, just one more favor, tell me I’m your favorite. That you love it when I’m the one knocking at your door. Please?”

Oma always was a stickler for being praised and wanted by you, as your favorite deliveryman.

He wanted to rub it in his colleagues face, tell them that their adorable regular adored him the most.

While he may get ganged up on and possibly get stomped on by his jealous coworkers. Nothing would ever break his inflated ego which came from your cute voice telling him he’s the best.

You really did enjoy how needy he was and continued on praising him with a sweet smile on your face. He was just so charming when he was an sniveling overstimulated mess.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck I’m cumming sweetness, this love sauce is just for you! T-take it all for me!” He whined, head tossed back using your hand to jerk off his shaft furiously, till his mushroom tip spurted ropes of his hot jizz all over your face and the pizza slice.

You continued to stroke him, even when his hand left yours. Making sure to coax all of his extra love sauce onto your slice. Making him curl his toes and squirm while biting his lip.

“Haa, thank you. I— shit I need to take a picture.” Gods, you drove him wild he got so flustered looking at you. That He nearly dropped the phone he was fishing out of his pockets.

“O-okay uh smile for the camera baby, need a clear shot so I can mount this moment on my wall—I mean mark it for a delivery well received!” You merely gazed up at him, making him groan from how slutty you looked with his baby batter, sticking to your cheeks.

Fuck his dick was rearing up for more again, and really it didn’t help when you bit into the cum covered slice giving a peace sign.

He didn’t have much time left, before the others would rally up and complain about him going over the time limit of delivery.

Oma shakily exhaled, clumsily angling his phone to take a momento of this transaction.

It was a procedure they said that was required of them to do, to make sure you get more points for your VIP membership.

Funny thing is they never had a rewards membership program to begin with being a new franchise. They just needed an excuse to spread their photos of you in the group chat. And gloat about who left you marked up as theirs the most.

But you didn’t have to know that.

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katsukikitten · 7 months ago

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Retired pro hero Bakugou buying a really old abandoned home in Japan and restoring it while living in it.

It's all he's got, a lot of his friends have wives, families, kids, some of them even expecting a first grandkid and Bakugou in his 40s has nothing of his life to show for aside from the undisputed number one spot on the hero charts for 20 years straight and more scars than he can count.

He feels he relates to the house, old, once adored but now empty.

He wants to change that, wants to be more than an idea or idol, wants to disassociate from Dynamight and just be Bakugou Katsuki but he isn't sure he knows who that is. Dynamight is still parts of him yes but exaggerated, in all his years Katsuki knows he can soften he just doesn't know where.

Although he's ready to find out. Sadly or maybe fortunately, he's the type of man who has to find out through action and hard work. He bought the house site unseen, didn't even Google what the front of the home looked like he didn't care.

Standing in front of his mostly dilapidated home he feels good, crossing his arms over his chest as he lets his mind wander on where to start. Eyes sharp, cutting into the features of the home as he assesses just like he would any villain situation.

"Excuse me Dyna-" You clear your throat before he looks at you, as you remember his retiring announcement of him saying Dynamight can go fuck himself. I'm Bakugou Katsuki now.

"Excuse me Bakugou. I brought you a little welcome gift. I'm your neighbor." You don't flinch when his heavy gaze flicks to you, don't shy away from his snarl and if anything your smile grows as you offer up the bento and plate of cookies.

He doesn't take them and you don't take offense, just gently pull them back to yourself as you look at the home

"I'm so happy you bought the Sato house. They were good neighbors. They lived here when I was younger by both passed suddenly. Old age does that ya know? They didn't have any children but Mrs. Sato taught me her special rice for bentos."

You're rambling but you don't care, you'd just bought your childhood home from your parents a month prior. Fearful your home would suffer the same fate as the Satos. That the love and memories would be washed away by the rain and neglect. That the air around the home would worsen each year it went unaccompanied until it became so stagnant with neglect it became a miasma that not even the toughest soul could stomach.

Yet here stood Bakugou strong and tall outside a broken home.

"I don't think it's anything special by the way. Just a bit more soy sauce or sesame seed oil, I think she was what made it special."

Katsuki looks down at you for a long time, sees your fingers twitch against the fabric of the neatly wrapped bento, watches you swallow thickly and lashes flutter to combat the burn in your eyes as you stare at the home. You turn to face him, give a polite smile and nod of your head in a brief good bye before his voice stops you.

"I'll be the judge of that." You furrow your brows in confusion, looking up at him before his big warm palm comes under the bento to lift from your hands, "If the rice is special or not."

He watches your face light up, a true genuine smile that could compete with the sun and he feels something deep in his chest ache. Feels it yearn to reach out to you but he stands firm in his spot as he watches you disappear down the short overgrown walk way back to your home.

He doesn't even need to try the fucking rice to know the answer.

The rice was going to be special because you made it, Katsuki's sure of it.

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obeymeluv · 3 months ago

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In Your Defense [PT 2 - Octavinelle, Scarabia, Pomfiore]

You decide to work at Sam's for Valentine's Day and your crush just happens to hear a customer hitting on you. If they get arrested, can you be their alibi?

AKA: This person has a death wish and you find out your crush might be jealous?

Note: Each one is random and some will be longer than others. If I made everyone the same length this thing would be MASSIVE and I would probably die.

Not proofread because of the length. Trying to get everyone done today. It's my last day off for a few.

Whatever part Ortho is in will be platonic, obvs.

Happy V-day!

Azul is no stranger to visiting different shops to stay on top of trends. Valentine's Day wasn't something they had in the Coral Sea so this trip was more for the experience than anything. He's taking in the overwhelming but impressive amount of red, pink, and white decorations while trying to look at the other shoppers out of the corner of his eye.

What are they buying? What's most popular?

The holiday seems too brief to plan a full menu, or even to-go specials. Maybe he can do something next year.

There's an emphasis on chocolates and sweets. He's not even eating any of it and his teeth hurt! The small chocolate assortments make more sense than the huge brick of chocolate--dark chocolate?--several Pomfiore students are planning to split between themselves. His stomach hurts at the thought of trying to eat even a third of what they're holding.

In his opinion it's an unimpressive holiday. A marketable one for sure, but unimpressive. Clearly it's meant for the nice, sentimental, mushy people out there.

Not to say there's no one he'd spoil. No one he cares about. Matter of fact, he's got something crunchy in his basket for Floyd! And if it weren't for his mother living underwater, she might like some of these cutesy knickknacks! A set of cookie cutters catch his eye and Azul throws them in his basket without thinking.

Damn hand-brain.

He stares into his own basket, wondering what the justification is. There's a part of his brain saying he doesn't need a reason but he's not an impulsive person. He's a practical person and the practical reason he needs those cookie cutters is to make cookies for the lounge in case any poor soul misses their chance to get something from Sam's!

Yes. Yes, that's it.

He may or may not be trying to tell you he likes you by collecting heart-shaped things. You'll check him out at the register and he'll just keep handing you heart things. Offering his heart over and over.

Not that you'd know. Azul doesn't have the guts to tell you yet. He's got three hearts but no guts.

It's just not the right time, he tells himself. Not the right way.

He puts sprinkles and chocolate stirring spoons into his basket. There's a little mushroom figurine that has white hearts instead of the usual spots. That's for Jade.

Azul weaves between the shelves to get to the refrigerated section, buying a couple of cartons of milk and ice cream. He's not fast but he's stronger than he looks. Aside from the work in his mother's restaurant in the Coral Sea, cooking on land has cultured a lot of muscle in unexpected ways--straining full stockpots, blending quarts of sauces, roasting whole chickens, and hefting huge fish onto the cutting board for portioning. It'll be nothing to carry it all back.

He just doesn't like to do it. And he doesn't like to lose his voice or go completely pink in front of you, but he does. Azul tries to look without looking, charmed by the glittery dangle in your hair and how it brings out the color of your eyes.

Then, he hears it. "How much do you cost?"

It is not enough to beg his pardon. The Seven must also be begged.

A fury whips up inside of him. He's furious that it's just so easy for that lander to chat you up. He's furious that he's not confident enough to do it when he's been drowning in these feelings for weeks. The manager part of his brain kicks in and he becomes furious that you're being accosted on the clock.

SAM WOULD NEVER, BUT WHERE IS HE?! STAFF SHOULD NOT BE MADE TO ENDURE SUCH CONDITIONS!

"Hardly appropriate for the occasion, don't you think?" Azul has stepped in with his signature smooth smile and calm demeanor. He has no cane, hat, or coat at the moment but he knows he makes people uncomfortable without them. There's something about him that makes people nervous. The pecking dread of 'he's human but not totally human' makes them jumpy and very prey-like.

"I-I was just messing around," the guy deflects.

"There's a time and a place. Unfortunately, it's not here and not now. You're interrupting the flow of business and I don't think the other patrons are happy," Azul hums a little as he and the abysmal Casonova look back at all the people in line. They are, in fact, not happy.

"I'll just go." he grabs the change bashfully and doesn't look back.

Azul thanks the person who let him cut in line, half wondering if said person will come back and try to coax a favor out of him. "Thanks, Azul." you smile at him.

"You're most welcome." Azul adjusts his glasses before layering the bags on his arms. You help him with the door. "I'd be happy to treat you to a milkshake. You know, something sweet to make up for whatever THAT was." he gestures to the guy in the distance.

WHY IS HE TALKING? WHY DID HE KEEP TALKING? THE LEGS NEED TO MOVE BUT THEY'RE NOT!

"Sounds great! I'll stop by after my shift."

"Okay," his voice cracks a bit but you don't hear it because the door's already closed. He breaths a sigh of relief.

----

Floyd was sent to pick through the pink and red chaos at Sam's while Jade and Azul redecorated for a Valentine's special at the lounge. It was a last-minute idea inspired by the deluge of advertising. They'd gotten bigger things in town like tablecloths and fancy napkins but smaller treats were lacking. He was tasked with getting melting chocolates and pre-made stuff to balance out the strawberries and fresh groceries they bought.

A big, aggravated sigh passed through his sharp teeth. The line is long and he doesn't really want to do this. Floyd feels his brain shutting off as his looks at heart streamers and silver-and-pink tinsel. At least I won't have to slave over a hot burner all night, Floyd sighs again as he looks at the goods and wonders what would make Azul happy.

The menu will be limited. Each item is heart-shaped, sweet, or both. It honestly just sounds like an excuse to sell people overpriced sugar.

Floyd buys a couple packs of melting chocolates in different colors and some crunchy sour candies for the trouble. Jade sends him a text asking him to grab a couple of cans of whipped cream for the pancakes and crepes. He steps out of line, grabs the cans, and pauses when he hears the guy shoot his shot.

"How much do you cost?"

Really?

Landers are so weird. They don't seem to have any conditions for mating. Why would you entertain this dude when he hasn't shown you he could provide or protect you? Spending money to buy things so he could talk to you isn't the way to provide. Buying your time is no different than those underwater pricks trying to curry his dad's favor with gifts.

It's disingenuous and disgusting.

"I don't see a 'for sale' sign. Can't buy it if it's not advertised." Floyd frowns at the little worm in front of him, sharp teeth poking out beneath his upper lip. "That's how shops work if you didn't know." Floyd laughs.

He was stupid enough to ask you out so he might be too stupid to realize why that pickup line didn't work.

"R-Right." the guy nods, swallowing thickly. Floyd was absently rolling his shoulder, annoyed with how long he'd held the basket. The guy noticed his working muscle and booked it, grabbing most of his change. A coin skipped off the counter, twinkling under the lights. Giggling to himself, Floyd stooped to pocket the change.

"Heya Shrimpy,"

"Hey Floyd," you started scanning the basket of items.

"Ya hungry? It's pretty busy in here."

"A little." you admitted. "But I'll be off soon. I can go back to Ramshackle and make something."

"Nah, come to the Lounge! We're doing specials for groups and couples."

"Does Grim count?" you give a little laugh. Azul lets him in sometimes depending on his attitude. At the very least, he'll let Grim get something to go.

"You get the best deal if you go with me. I'll buy your whole meal." Floyd wiggles his eyebrows at you playfully. His gold eye shines.

"Oh! I like that! I'll bite!"

"A bit early for that but I'll see you there." Floyd knows what he said has confused you. You landers aren't really keen on stuff from the Coral Sea but that's okay. He had a date with you and that's what matters.

----

Jade isn't quite sure what Sam's inventory will hold but he's been tasked with finding interesting things for the Lounge. Pink things, shiny things, profitable things--anything. Azul is convinced it will give him an edge over other places to eat. Never mind the fact that convenience is key and the students don't want to pay for the bus fare or compete with crowds in town.

He peruses the chocolate molds and candy necklaces, amused by the fact you can wear it and eat it. What a novel idea! Sam put a few types of tea on reserve for him and Jade knew they were pretty shades of pink and blue when brewed so that was something. The mer picks up a box of crunchy straw-like things and puts them in the basket. If they don't work as real straws, they can be milkshake accents.

Loaf cakes catch his eye. You could get at least ten slices out of each; top them with a bit of ice cream and you have a cheap but elegant-looking dessert. He puts a few in the basket. Teas considered, Jade is confident in his choices and ready to check out.

"Oya oya? What's this?" Jade's golden eye pierces the spineless lander in front of him. Did his ears deceive him or were you being accosted by unworthiness? "Do repeat yourself. I'm interested."

It sounds like an ask but it's not. It's a demand. A demand for this man to prostrate himself as an apology for his inferiority. For the gall to so much as breathe in your presence.

A punishment for conceiving the notion to approach you, he supposes. A light punishment, all things considered. Jade was capable of far more than some casual embarrassment, after all. His smile was polite but his words were anything but. "Go on. You may not have their full attention but you have mine."

"J-Just forget I said anything, okay?" the guy completely ignores him to whimper to you. He snatches whatever he bought so quick Jade doesn't know what it was.

No matter.

"Hello there," Jade smiles down at you. You definitely fit the holiday theme. Oh! Does that mean he should take you back to the lounge? You're interesting and that fits Azul's criteria.

Yes, he thinks you'd be perfect in the lounge.

"Hi Jade." you pack his items away dutifully. You bag the teas carefully.

Pink and shiny--yes, you must come to the lounge.

"Seeing as you're working for Sam today, I'd love for you to stop by and try these teas. I'm sure he'll appreciate feedback from more than just myself."

"I can make time for tea."

"Perfection."

----

Kalim is admiring the myriad of pinks and reds, bracelets and bangles jingling as he skips into Sam's. Valentine's Day is an interesting holiday. It's practically bursting at the seams with color and he's delighted to know red features heavily. The holiday is practically made to host in Scarabia!

Maybe they could make a red-inspired menu? A red and pink menu? He can't really think of foods that would fit the theme and he'd rather not give Jamil a stomach ache trying all of the chocolate things in here. Kalim trots off to look at the flowers and trinkets, just narrowly avoiding Jamil's stern grab. "Don't run off without me!" Jamil chastises, Kalim giving a half-hearted hum as he analyzed a pair of gold and red earrings.

They weren't cheap but they weren't expensive, either. The price point was fair, Kalim thought. Being who he was, he'd learned to tell the quality of gems and gold from a young age.

Would you like jewelry? He's never seen you wear jewelry. Kalim has bugged Jamil about you a million times, bouncing ideas off of him until he was so frustrated he left the room.

"I think they'd appreciate food more, given their circumstances." Jamil puts the earrings back on the shelf.

"But I always give them food, Jamil! Don't you think they want something different?"

"You're overthinking, Kalim," Jamil taps him in the forehead with a finger. "People are simple. Give them food and attention."

"I would've taken them out on a carpet ride but someone hid my carpet." even when Kalim was trying to cut his red eyes and look peeved, it didn't work. His face was too round and cherubic for it.

"I don't trust that thing," Jamil huffs, guiding him back to the line.

Kalim listens to people talk about plans to split chocolates and call relatives to see what they'd like and a sad pang cuts through him.

Why isn't it that easy for him? He's got more money than people could ever dream of and yet he feels like he's not doing enough for you.

Not that you'd know what he's done for you. He hasn't exactly said he likes you yet. Surely he'd made it obvious with all the invites to Scarabia, right? You hadn't quite caught on to the grocery drops yet but he understands the confusion; Crowley took credit for at least one of those and Kalim was not happy.

"I see an empty-handed Imp!" Sam makes him and Jamil jump. "Are my wares not enough for you, Little One?" he tuts at Kalim's empty hands.

"Oh there's lots of cool stuff!" Kalim promises, smiling brightly. "I just have to be careful about what I eat!"

"What about some roses? Those are popular! They're up there by the register. And we have small fruit arrangements in the refrigerated section, of course."

"Actually, we're just here to deliver an invitation." Jamil redirects Kalim when he seems to be thinking about going to the refrigerated section.

"We could get some festive napkins!" Kalim is leafing through packs of heart designs and colors. Sam seems satisfied. Jamil heaves an irritated sigh as the store owner moves on to his next mark.

Kalim almost drops the napkins when he hears what the guy said to you. It takes Jamil by surprise, too. Jamil starts to panic when Kalim doesn't move; Kalim's outbursts were rare but even rarer were the moments he just froze.

A frozen Kalim means he's contemplating. Dipping his toes into the side of himself he doesn't ever show because it disgusts and disappoints him. The young boy squares his shoulders and raises his head in a way that proves he was raised with etiquette and presence. It's the walk of someone unconcerned because he has so much money that nothing is a problem.

Quick as a flash that cunning, stewing heaviness disappears. Kalim hooks his arm around the guys neck, taking him by surprise. Disarmed by his sunny grin and stunned by his boldness, he stumbles over to a wall of cards. Jamil slithers through the aisles and positions himself just so to listen.

In these rare moments, when Kalim puts on that face, they think alike. Kalim hates these moments because it shows him that people just want money. That they'll trip over themselves for enrichment, compromising morals and anything else as long as the price is right.

But this time it works in his favor.

"Instead of asking how much they cost," the sunniness slowly drains from Kalim's voice, "ask yourself how much it would cost for you to leave them alone. Like, not ask them out again. At all. Ever."

It's the first time someone at NRC realizes Kalim's not all sunshine and rainbows. And that his pampered life hasn't left him completely soft. Kalim had to go through the same training Jamil did, being the heir to a massive fortune and all. He needs to be able to hold his own even though he shouldn't expect to.

Only he and Jamil know some of his rings are hollow and hold poisons. The guy doesn't know how close he is to said poisons.

"Y'know, it's, uh..it's on me. Free." the guy squeaks out, dipping out from under Kalim's arm.

Content, Kalim skips up to you and hands you the decorated envelope with gold calligraphy. "Please come to my party!" he looks at you hopefully, eyes shining.

"I would love to! You know I love your parties!"

"Perfect! I'll pick you up when you're done, okay?" Kalim waves to you.

"KALIM DON'T LEAVE! WE HAVE TO PAY FOR THE NAPKINS! COME BACK!" Jamil has no idea how many sets of napkins he just left with. "Keep the change," he breaths, darting after him.

----

Jamil was taking a rare moment to himself. Lilia and Cater promised they'd keep Kalim occupied for a little while so he could take a breather. They both understood what it was like to look after people, even if it wasn't as serious or to the same degree. The Pop Music Club sessions were normally two hours long, so he had time. Kalim had been yammering nonstop about the Sam's Valentine's setup so Jamil promised to take a look on his behalf.

He grew up around unfathomable finery, almost indulgent to the point of foolishness. Gold forks, gold plates, a knife handle carved from a tree in the Sunset Savanna and inlaid with diamonds--you name it. Perhaps that was why nothing caught his eye, Jamil thought.

So many people were excited about it, though. He had to put himself in their shoes. Their average shoes, just like he was forced to be average lest Kalim feel inadequate.

Poor thing, Jamil rolled his eyes. He was a pro at filtering out noise thanks to Kalim and his ridiculous number of siblings. It was easy to let his brain go and really look at the trinkets and seasonal food. Loathe as he was to admit, some of this stuff was cute.

Jamil let himself bask in the happiness. The freedom.

This is what he wanted for himself one day--traveling, seeing the sights, sampling unusual foods at special times of the year.

Maybe this wasn't so silly after all.

He picked up a few packets of instant curry, only what he felt he could eat and dispose of before fetching Kalim. Curry was a huge weakness of his and he hated that Kalim practically banned it. The amount of caffeine and tea he drank probably bordered on unhealthy (or at least deserved research) but it didn't stop him from throwing a canned coffee into his basket. Because he liked his curry savory and hot, he threw in a strawberry-rose milk drink. It seemed interesting.

Jamil felt the crick in his neck when he snapped his head up in disbelief. Who was this nobody asking you out?!

HOW MUCH DO YOU COST?!

With no Kalim here to temper him, to distract him or force him into the mediocrity, Jamil thought of letting go and lighting the guy up just because.

It really was appalling, his approach. Nothing to offer? What talents or skills did he have? What made him so special, more special than anyone else at NRC?

Nothing, that's what. He probably didn't even know HALF of what Jamil did!

"More than you will ever earn," Jamil answered him. "I'm sure your capacity to make money is on the same pitiful level as your self-awareness. Or do you need glasses to see they're not interested?"

He was known for his biting wit so this was nothing out of character. The way he stared into the boy as if to set him on fire might have been, had no one ever seen him try to get Floyd to cooperate in Basketball Club.

He'd earned his Viper namesake, the boy's ego clearly bitten and bruised as he dragged himself away. His words were deadly, much like Viper venom. Jamil didn't bother watching him leave, setting his basket quietly on the counter and taking out the items.

"Thank you."

All of that venom suddenly dried up. Jamil was feeling quite shy and toothless, not that he'd ever admit it. If he looked up at you, he knew he'd be done for. He could feel his neck heating up.

Unable to resist poking a little fun at him--when did you ever see him blush?--you handed him the change and slapped a smiley face sticker on the back of his hand.

IT HAD HEART EYES!

"I have to go." Jamil took off.

----

Vil was disciplined ninety-five percent of the time so he could indulge the other five percent. Rook all but dragged him to Sam's, waxing poetic about the holiday in all it's pink, sugary glory. He even made Vil promise not to look at any labels while he shopped. Or he could just compromise and let Rook buy him one sweet that he would have to eat no matter what.

That didn't seem too bad, so Vil conceded. Live a little, right?

Several companies had reached out to him in the beginning of February but their products were gluttonous and made him feel sick just looking at them. He felt like he'd be doing his followers a disservice to promote them because they just looked like death in a package. The only one he'd considered so far was a juice from an organic company called 'Beautiful Blends'.

No, not because they had beautiful in the name. The ingredients were organic--he researched the farms--and they had a nutritionist and dietician developing the blends. They had a blend for energy, immune support, digestion, and even one for headache relief. He was interested in the actual beauty blend; it had strawberry, coconut milk, collagen, and several other things he was interested in. It was a milky pink and perfect for Sam to sell during Valentine's Day.

NRC wasn't exactly health-minded outside of Pomfiore so he wasn't worried about missing out. He broke off from Rook, moving with grace and purpose to the refrigerated section. Vil took a split second to admire his reflection in the glass door, satisfied with his skin and the loose hair that escaped his half-bun but had the courtesy to frame his face despite its disobedience. His ring and nails clinked against the glass bottle but he paid it no mind.

"Would you like a basket?" Rook offered his. Vil peered curiously into said basket, unsurprised to see other flavors of Beautiful Blends in there. Rook knew him eerily well. Maybe he knew which ones he'd like to try. He also knew Vil was against overconsumption and wouldn't buy them all at once nor of his own volition.

"I'm fine, thanks." Vil smiled at him, appreciating his constant presence. His discipline and tenacity tended to chase a lot of people away but not Rook. There were people who appreciated him for his routines and followed him loyally, but not like Rook.

Rook wasn't just a 'yes' man. He was Vil's balance in every aspect. As if to prove that, he took the Beautiful Blend from Vil and put it in the basket. Vil didn't like his hands getting wet because that messed with the lotion he applied and it left a weird film on his hands the rest of the day.

"I just said--I BEG YOUR PARDON?" Vil was caught off guard by the flirtation and couldn't believe his ears. It was rare for anyone to surprise him but some NOBODY is trying to make nice with HIS POTATO?!

AS IF!

All he can manage is, "HOW GAUCHE!" as he breezes to the front of the line and stares at the man, absolutely floored. This moment would be a permanent reference for any scene where he needed to look surprised. And lost for words.

And disgusted. And furious.

"You don't think we'd make a cute couple?" the guy teases.

"You want to know what I think?" Vil proceeds to systematically point out the guy's flaws--posture, hair, that one zit coming up in the middle of his forehead--before pointing out that his greatest offense is his sheer selfishness. He's selfish for putting you in a situation where you might cave under peer pressure!

"That's enough, Roi du Poison," Rook shushed him, patting his arm and forcing it down so Vil quit pointing at the little gremlin. If he didn't stop him, he'd keep going. Rook was secretly glad he'd grabbed the Beauty Blend out of his hand earlier; if he was any more worked up it might've gone across the guy's head.

The guy was stunned by the takedown. Vil pointed out things he hadn't thought about. Things he was already insecure about (Vil could tell). "Apologize!" Vil barked in that Housewarden voice.

"I'm sorry." the guy left with whatever trash he bought.

Vil took a moment to compose himself, hands on his hips as he watched the gremlin leave. Fully relaxed, Vil walked to the counter and motioned for Rook to hand him the basket. He set everything out like nothing happened.

"Thank you, Vil."

"It was nothing." he clicked his tongue, waving his hand dismissively.

"Not to me."

Oh, you're clever. And honest. And cute. Maybe he'll drop a hint about his crush in his next interview. Rook forgets he knows French, too, and Vil smashes his hat down on his head on the off chance you know what 'he wants to love you and hug you and kiss you' is in French.

----

It's only natural that Rook would show up for the Valentine's Day sale. He is, after all, a lover of love. Sam never fails to disappoint with his wares and Rook is having a grand time perusing the aisles. There's copious amounts of candy, thoughtful cards, card games for couples, and fill-in-the-blank books with cute phrases and poems!

"You're mine," he smiles at said book, putting it in his basket. There's condensed versions of romantic classics and, had he not read them a million times before, that would be in his basket too. He picks up a pair of heart-shaped glasses for Vil. The desire for liver pate rises in him and he doubles back to check the canned meats. Midway through his careful search, he hears the...attempt...at woo.

A sad, beautiful, nervous attempt.

Rook rises to his full height, feather on his hat dancing almost indignantly as he moves to the front of the aisle. He has half a mind to huck that can of pate hard enough to scare the boy but that would not be very beaute of him.

"Mon amie," Rook drapes his arm around the boy's neck with a disappointed sigh, "There is much to teach you in when it comes to romance."

"Like what? I--" Rook knows that's rhetorical and the guy could care less what he's going to say but he uses his uniqueness to his advantage. He launches into a small monologue about how romance is considerate and kind, not brash and unrefined like that heartfelt confession. Love is delicate like morning dew and tender like the tempting embrace of your bed seconds before you have to get up for the day. Above all, love is knowing your partner in all aspects, which includes when things have gone too far and are not welcome.

Sure, a handful of people left the store entirely but mission accomplished. The guy left shortly after Rook subtly dragged his confession. Satisfied, Rook flashed you a kind smile and unpacked his basket.

"And sometimes love wears a purple hat with a little feather." you smirk at him.

"Oh, Trickster! My heart!" Rook places his hands on his cheeks, face a pretty pink that compliments his green eyes.

---

In the spirit of Valentine's Day, Vil loosened the reigns of Pomfiore's diet for the day. Epel wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth and immediately set off for Sam's. With luck, he'd still have some meats on sale. The holiday was all about fluff and pink and sweets so he wasn't worried about missing out on macarons.

To his delight, there was a selection of macarons. He was in hog heaven! If anyone heard the noise he made, it was probably the deepest and most demented thing they'd heard since Vil got his paws on him and 'refined' him. Epel was going to eat himself sick and regret it in the morning but not right now.

He picked up a second basket just for meats, afraid to crush his beloved macarons. The hamburger buns could share a basket with them, but not the meats. Knowing he had a calorie pass for the day unleashed something primal in Epel. All of a sudden he had SO MANY IDEAS.

Bacon burger? Bacon burger.

Hell, he could even make himself a little less homesick and have a traditional Harvestinian breakfast! He put a small thing of breakfast sausages in the basket. The instant grits were a bit of an insult, as was the 'heat and eat' pulled pork but the portion was reasonable and it wouldn't be money down the drain if Vil confiscated it tomorrow.

His patience begins to thin as he waits in line. The baskets are heavy but they're nothing he can't handle, growing up on a farm and all. The line doesn't seem to be moving at all! What in tarnation?, Epel squints menacingly, leaning out of line to see what the hold up was.

DID THAT NOBODY JUST ASK HOW MUCH YOU COST?!

It's clear you're uncomfortable and even MORE clear that this dude is NOT GETTING THE HINT.

As someone who's been hit on more than he cared for, this makes him mad on a whole 'nother level. You're doing all the right things--redirecting, professional body language--but this guy thinks he's going to get his way.

He's not. Everyone knows it but no one's saying anything.

Well he's gonna. What would his grandma say if he just stood by in a situation like this? He puts his hair up in a ponytail and glares at the guy.

"Were you raised in a barn? Couldn't be because EVEN ANIMALS KNOW WHEN TO LEAVE ALONE AN' GIT!" he gets louder with each word, rolling ups his sleeves. He spares his meat basket a quick glance and picks up the still-cold bacon. It's firmer than the hamburger patties and could give a decent wallop. "GO ON NOW, GIT!" Epel brandishes the bacon.

The guy is understandably confused and concerned. Probably the first time he'd been threatened with cold food. If he wasn't going for beef and bacon, he would've snagged a bag of frozen chicken wings and really wailed on the guy.

"I SAID GIT!" Epel chases him out like the dog he is, the guy narrowly dodging a bacon smack.

Word was going to get back to Vil for sure but he didn't care.

"Looks like you're going to have a good time!" you ring up the meats.

"I'm a free man today! Of course I'm gonna have a good time!"

"Have a good day, Epel. Thanks for stopping by!"

"I...I'd have a better time if you wanted to come eat some of this with me. I-I was plannin' on inviting Jack and Deuce, too. And Ace. Ace likes hamburgers. Vil lets me grill outside of Pomfiore sometimes." he starts to ramble, voice getting smaller and smaller as he goes.

"Sure! I'll grab some drinks and stuff when I get off." you smile, double-bagging the meats.

He's red as an apple when he leaves and that'll get back to Vil, too, but he doesn't care.

#twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #Jade Leech x Reader #Floyd Leech x Reader #Azul Ashengrotto x reader #Kalim Al-Asim x Reader #Jamil Viper x Reader #Rook Hunt x Reader #Vil x Reader #Epel x Reader

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softestqueeen · 3 months ago

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prompt: "Oh? Does that turn you on?" a/n: sub!spencer lives in my head rent free. i hope you like it, enjoy <3 so, this is a repost beacause the original post got literally 0 notes and i want to see if tumblr is the issue or if it was really my writing 😭 original post + request warings:18+ MDNI!!, smut, pet names, hand job, dom/sub dynamics, mommy kink pairing: sub!spencer reid x dom!reader I 979 words special prompts I special masterlist

You were standing in the kitchen of your boyfriends flat. Spencer Reid could do a lot of things and knew how to do even more things, but the one thing he never quite mastered, was cooking.

By no means were you a good chef, but you knew you way around a kitchen and could whip up a few meals. Which is why you were currently in Spencers kitchen, showing him how to do a simple lasagna.

"And that's how you do the layers. The key is to stay consistent and make the layers even. Now you go ahead and try, Spence."

Your boyfriend didn't enjoy the cooking as much as the close proximity while you were showing him how to do all the steps, guiding his hands or just hugging him from the side while watching something cook.

Watching Spencer cook away made pride swell in your chest. This wasn't your first cooking lesson and it was definetely a dramatic improvement from your first one, where you had a quick bathroom back and once you returned he managed to completely burn the pasta sauce. He looked like a kicked puppy while you threw the sauce away.

But since then he had gotten significantly better, even surprising you with a home cooked meal on your anniversery.

Once Spencer successfully laid out the next layer of the long pasta and sauce, you couldn't help but smile.

"You did such a good job, you're getting better and better," you knew your boyfriend loved it when you praised him, so you decided to tease him a little bit with it ,"you're such a good boy, Spencer."

That made him stop. Spencer was glad that he wasn't facing you right now, but rather was standing at the counter with you standing behind him to his right, now looking at his face. You immediately saw his blush, but Spencer was glad you couldn't see the boner he was now sporting after hearing his words.

He knew you were teasing him in a way, though you were still earnest. Still, he couldn't keep his body from reacting, the words planting a seed inside of his mind in a place he hadn't dared to discover yet.

You could see immediately what had happened, how your words affected Spencer. A slow smile spread over your face and you stepped closer to him, your lips now directly next to his ear.

"Oh, does that turn you on? I didn't know you liked being called that, though you were always my good boy." Now you were being a bit mean, but you knew that Spencer would tap out if it got too much.

At you calling him a good boy again, Spencers breath hitched. He wasn't surprised that you almost immediately caught on to his feelings.

You reached around his hip, palming his length through his trousers, making Spencer moan. Starting to pepper kisses over his neck, while Spencer leaned against you, just teasing him for now.

"You like that, baby? Me calling you a good boy?" He could hear you so clearly with your mouth directlly to his ear and his cock twitched in reaction to your filthy words.

It took him a moment to register that you asked him a question, but once he did he nodded, putting more of his weight against you.

"Words, baby, I need words. Be a good boy for me or I'll stop."

"Y- Yes, I- uhm, do like it when you call me that. Please, please I need you."

You could feel him throbbing though his trousers, deciding to have some mercy. Slowly undoing his belt and popping open the button of his jeans. Reaching inside you pull out his length, the tip glistening with precum as Spencer let out a relieved sigh.

Taking him in your hand you slowly start to move up and down, spreading the precum on his length. His pretty moans and whines only spurred you on further, not yet increasing your speed, but the grip you had on him, making him gasp.

You knew this was a new situation for the both of you, the dynamic itself already familiar. You decided to test out the waters, Spencer now being able to think clear enough incase he felt uncomfortable with anything.

"Such a good boy for mommy, huh? You like my hand wrapped arounf you?" Spencer moaned at your filthy words, his cock twitching imaptiently in your hand.

"Yes mommy, please more." Jackpot.

You went faster over his length, your free hand wandering to his front as well, slipping under his t-shirt and sprawling out over his stomach, making his muscles contract.

"You're doing so well for me, baby. I can feel you're getting closer."

"Please, mommy, make me cum. I want to be good for you." His breathing was getting more irregular and you could feel him being impossibly close to his high.

"Don't worry baby, yo're already such a good boy for me. Cum for me, cum for mommy."

Your words finally tipped him over the edge, his cum spurting all over his stomach and your hand. You continued to stroke him, your movements slowing down while he calmed down as well.

You peppered kisses onto evey free patch of skin you could reach at the moment and retracted your hand, taking a paper towel to clean you both up. After washing your hands and cleaning up the evidence of your short lived passion, you were ready to get things done.

"Well I'd say you finish the lasagna and then we'll contine. What do you say, Spence?"

With those words you left a stunned and sputtering Spencer behind. He turned around, looking at you with the biggest puppy dog eyes. But once you gave him a pointed look, he immediately went back to the lasagna.

You were sure you've never seen someone layer anything that fast.

the requests for this event are OPEN until sunday (16/02)! here are the prompts!

a/n: i hope you liked this, if so please leave some notes, likes, reblogs and comments! feedback is very appreciated!

please also consider supporting my ao3: @ softestqueeen

requests open! (now also for the x files)

taglist: @silvermagnolias@milywatermelon@bigbananaa @mmmmokdok

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inbabylontheywept · 2 months ago

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Babylon's 6 D&D Tips

I DM’d D&D for ten years. I started in middle school, and I kept it up until my sophomore year of college. This is my mini-guide for what the game is, what it isn’t, and how to play it well. So. From the top.

Tip 1: Don't make your main storyline time dependent.

D&D is an amazing open-world experience. You can pick at any detail. Nothing is a non-interactable part of the scenery. If there’s a sewer manhole, you can lift it up and climb down. If there’s a house, you can look inside and rob it. If there’s an NPC that you meet at the market, you can follow them home and see their whole life. Their parents, or their partner, their trade - all of it. It will be made up on the fly by some sort of reasonably skilled improv speaker, but it will also exist after that. That’s how the world is built. That’s the secret sauce that makes D&D beautiful.

If your plotline is too urgent, it kills those opportunities. The worst example of this that I have isn’t even from D&D, but FO4. The game is clearly built around exploration and adventure. The plot is built around rescuing your kidnapped baby. There’s a lot of tension between those goals. The plot does not work with the game mechanics, and it's really, really, jarring.

Be wary of doing that. It's surprisingly easy.

Tip 2: Don't set up giant, epic, fantasy battles between multiple armies.

D&D is not a very good epic-battle simulator. There are games that have streamlined combat mechanics to allow for whole armies to fight, but D&D is very detail oriented, and trying to control too many people at once makes combat slow to a crawl. That very creative DM who can tell you every detail of an NPC’s life is also just not very good at multitasking.

If you really, really want to - fine. But you should be ignoring standard mechanics when you do so. Move to a “cinematic mode” and just go by vibes. And generally, take a moment to “get” the game before modifying it. If the kind of plot you really want is urgent, and involves epic scale armies, maybe look into different RPG systems. D&D specializes in exploration and small, focused parties. Using it for things outside of that is kind of like hitting nails with a wrench.

Tip 3: Don't prepare your plot like it's a book. Kill your lore codex.

D&D is a collaborative storytelling adventure. That's the secret sauce. Writing out codexes and trying to crystallize the world before you start playing ruins the collaborative element. It’s genuinely better if you build as you go. It lets your players give input. And it saves you a lot of time. Why bother trying to write up who the Mayor of Snoresville is if there’s a good chance your party never even talks to him?

(I would also apply this to writing in general. If you want to write all of your world's lore before starting your book, you'll never start your book. And you'll go crazy. Fear the lore codex.)

Tip 4: Prepare your combats and your NPCS rigorously, but generically.

This ties in to Tip 3. If you spend a lot of time preparing the lore of the Bandit Leader of Redgrove, things like his family history, or his trauma, or his deep-down character motivations, and then the party never goes to Redgrove, it all goes to waste. D&D evolves rapidly and chaotically, so building things in a modular, reusable way really pays off.

So. I tend to have two big pools for my NPC work. One is a character sheet pool. I keep it small and focused. I can generalize most melee classes ahead of time, so I can have an Archer, a Brawler, a Tank, and some Generalist Infantry. That’s like, 80% of your martial enemies, done. Spellcasters are a bigger pain in the ass, but a few pre-mades thrown into a campaign pays off if you know your themes. If you’re dealing with a death cult, make some death clerics. A dragon will probably have sorcerer acolytes.

My second pool is a pool of character mannerisms. Some should absolutely be practiced ahead of time. Figure out what mannerisms make your villain really pop. And if the party skips that villain, just move those mannerisms to some new guy down the line and you’ll still be fine. Nothing wasted. A lot of the mannerisms are going to be picked with no heads up when the party does something weird, like following a random merchant around for a few days just to see how they live. You can get through almost all of those extremely well with just variations on the 4 humors, the 3 socioeconomic classes, and regional dialects.

Tip 5: Give your players permission to inject themselves into the world.

It is common for people to over-formalize the rules and responsibilities of “being a player” vs. “being a DM.” I think the most common way to phrase it is something like “The Players are in charge of their characters and their backstories, the DM is responsible for the worlds and its NPCs, and both need to stay in their lanes.”

It’s isn't just better to mix it, it's necessary.

Failing to share these roles forces the world to exist in a crystallized state before the campaign even starts - at least if you want to integrate backstories into the plot. Groups that fail to do this can often feel like the characters were born the day the campaign began, and did nothing interesting beforehand.

So, for DMs: Don’t be afraid of trying to inject NPCs and details of this world into your player's past. Imagine that your party rogue goes into a town and finds a fence for selling some stolen trinkets. Maybe, have the fence recognize the rogue. “Gods of fire, it’s McClellan. I haven’t thought about you since the candy-rat incident. You took a real beating making sure I got away that day. Glad to finally have a chance to pay you back!”

Now, the rogue still has a choice here. They can say something like “Ah, this guy is mistaking me for someone else, but I can roll with it to get a better deal.” It’s their character, and their choice. But they can also go, hey, I do know this guy. I was apparently part of something called “The candy-rat incident.” I can decide how I know this guy, and where, and for how long, and what that incident was. That’s not less control - that’s more!

And for players: Don’t be afraid of injecting your past into the world. Maybe you’re a fighter in a wartorn setting and you run into a group of deserters robbing refugees by the roadside. The DM has clearly planned this as some vindication, some enemies you get to thrash without feeling bad. But you have different plans. You take your helmet off, and you look the deserter’s leader in the face, and you say “Jack, you saved my life back on Stone Ridge. You were a good man once. You could be one again. Ride with us.”

Now that's powerful stuff. Do you even know what Stone Ridge is? Hell no. Are you gonna? Hell yeah. And what you just did was way better than the DMs plan of bonking bad guys to feel good. You changed the writing of the world, commandeered an NPC, and made the whole encounter far more interesting.

Tip 6: Ignore all portrayals of D&D in the media.

The best players that I get are people with no experience with D&D of any kind. The second best are those that are willing to drop their preconceptions at the door and just play. The worst are people that have seen D&D portrayed somewhere and are insistent on imitating the portrayal. The exact nature of the failure varies - at worst, they’ve seen some kind of tongue-in-cheek parody, like order of the stick, and then hyperfocused on all the worst parodied aspects as the whole point of the game. D&D is not about outsmarting the mechanics (which is trivially easy, and largely pointless - it just makes your own storytelling less fun), nor is about turning everything into shallow tropes about Horny Bards and Dumb Fighters and Insufferable Paladins. At best, they’ll have seen some kind of ultra-cinematic example of D&D played on a podcast, where the DM has a theatre degree and ever party member is a professional actor. Those people are nice, but they often have unrealistic expectations.

#d&d #DM tips #player tips #collaborative storytelling #I mostly played 3.5 #and then later pathfinder #I tried 5e but i never did it long enough to get super good at it #the game economy being so vague put a lot of pressure on DMs which i didnt like #but it also removed a constant source of dumb shenanigans #something something these are just my opinions #but it was good at what i did #and im cocky enough to say ignore at your own peril #a player that can't be trusted with some creative control of a minor bandit is a player that shouldnt be in the game #and if you have a good player #hell #let them try out the bbeg

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ozzgin · 4 months ago

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Is mushroom boy adding his “special sauce” into the food to make us sleepy? Or are we just huffing in his spores to make us sleepy? 🧐

Could we nibble on him if we get hungry? Or is he a dangerous no munchie mushroom? Will we start to see eldritch gods that’ll fuck our holes if we eat him? 😗

Is his “head down south” big like the top of his real head? Or does it grow continuously till you rip it off to eat, then regrow again? 🤔

-👘

Do not chomp the boy!! No matter how tempting it looks.

If you ask nicely, he could certainly add a little bit of special sauce to your cookies and tea. Or maybe you'd like some spores for a better sleep.

Depending on his mood...hmm…perhaps you can have a nibble, but don't make a habit of it. He doesn't know the full effect it has on humans.

[Mushroom Yandere]

#mushroom boy #yandere #yandere x reader #mushroom hybrid #👘 anon #doodle #comic

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seiwas · 2 years ago

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₊˚⊹｡ see me through the morning glow | gojo satoru

wc: 1.0k summary: you and gojo have a slow morning. contains: f!reader in mind, suggestive if you squint, food descriptions. a/n: unedited, i honestly dk what this is i just really needed to get this out of my system! this is how i cope with 236.

re-uploaded because i accidentally deleted!

You slip out of bed faced with the promise of sunlight.

The curtains in your bedroom radiate a glow that bounces off the man lying next to you; it’s soft, near-white, almost ethereal, the color of his skin, hair, and bones. His back is exposed, arm reaching out over the (now) empty space beside him—the crinkles and folds where you once were.

You’ve always thought your bedroom had good lighting, and now you can confirm why: in the shadows, deepening the line that runs down his spine; in the highlights, guiding your eyes to the pockets of muscle behind his shoulders.

You look away, trying your best not to stare; the only reason he’s undressed is because of a cold sweat, from the nightmares—and the very need for skin-to-skin, to ground him in your touch.

On mornings like this, you let Gojo sleep in.

(Because you’re lucky if he can fall back asleep again).

It’s slow today—no work, no missions that need you or him. It’s your favorite kind of day, and Gojo’s too (once he wakes up and smells the waffles you’ve prepared, double topped with whipped cream and maple syrup—his special, of course).

A steady stream of warmth flows through the window to your kitchen countertop, the marble glimmering as light hits. The material was his choice; you don’t care much for glamor but Gojo likes pretty things—you especially, he likes to say.

The batter is quick to prepare, a recipe you’ve done many times before, so you ladle it into the waffle maker before letting it set on its own. Then, you grab a pan to heat up, spooning in last night’s leftover rice, some soy sauce, and mirin, adding salt to taste, as needed. A standard fried rice breakfast, with a yolk to mix in later.

The sound of his footsteps are concealed by the sizzles of the pan in front of you, but you’re caught off guard by arms wrapped around your waist, and his chin nestling itself into your shoulder as he nuzzles you.

He’s still shirtless, you notice, so you inch backwards in case of any oil spatter.

“Good sleep?” you mumble, certain that he heard you.

He hums, before whispering, lips tickling the edges of your ear on purpose, pouting, “Not anymore when you left.”

This man—a giant baby, puffed cheeks with long limbs hunched over you.

Your big baby.

Despite his whines, he’s telling the truth, you know, and you feel warm because of it, affection seeping in the cracks between his arms and the kitchen stove.

You blow on a spoonful of rice before lifting it up to his lips. Gojo’s breakfasts are always sweet, but every time you cook, he looks forward to this: waiting right behind you to be fed over your shoulder.

His review will always be the same, of course, everything you touch turns out good.

He reaches for the waffle maker with one hand while the other keeps you close, and you plate his little breakfast for him, whipped cream with little hearts drawn in maple syrup.

You grab a bowl for your rice and sit by the counter, Gojo sitting thigh-to-thigh beside you despite the abundance of space around you.

You realize then, that Gojo tends to hover.

Not necessarily in a bad way, just that, he does it all the time—always wanting to be near.

And for someone so perceiving, practically all-seeing, he doesn’t really have to for him to know what you’re up to, but with every opportunity he has, he never misses a moment to be close to you.

When you wash the dishes by the sink, he stays beside you, shoulder-to-shoulder, even when the sink is wide enough to accommodate him a few inches farther.

Even the walk to the bathroom has him tailing you, following your footsteps as he traces the footprints of slow mornings with you.

Your bathroom counter has two sinks, but of course, today, he chooses to stay by yours.

“Skincare?” you raise a tub of face mask.

He doesn’t need it, but you love pampering him, so he nods, whatever you want.

You struggle for a bit (he’s just too tall), so he picks you up by the waist and rests you on the bathroom counter, against the mirror.

He stays in the space between your legs, hands flat against your thighs. His thumb kneads your skin gently, and any other time, this position would end very differently, but there’s a look he’s giving you—all words without speaking.

And—

“Quit staring,” you mumble, turning shy. You’re about to rub the product onto his cheeks, under his eyes.

“What, I can’t look at you?” he moves closer, keeping his eyes locked on you as he rubs circles on your thighs.

“No, you can, but,” you swallow, “you’re looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” his brows furrow.

“Like that.” you sigh, gesturing to his face.

“Like I love you?”

And it is like that. Like he loves you. That’s why he says it so casually.

Because he does.

You stay quiet, stunned, before you clear your throat and finish up the final area on his face.

“Yeah.” you mumble, reaching over to wash your hands on the sink.

Gojo waits for you to finish before he takes a small towel to dry your hands with it.

“As if you don’t know.” he scoffs, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter.

He’s right—it’s been said before, but there’s something else in his eyes right now, shiny and devoted, as if this is all he could ever want. As if you, on this slow morning, in this too-big bathroom is all he could ever need.

But he doesn’t say anything. At least, not what he really means.

“Not my fault you’re so pretty today,” he adds on, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

It should be funny, that he’s telling you all this with a mask slathered all over his face, but his compliments always speak to the depths of you, even when you don’t expect them to.

His fingers mold against your cheek, to your ears, down to the back of your head, bringing you closer until he kisses you softly, a gentle peck.

Bits of the face mask transfer to your nose and you giggle, wiping it off.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, they say.” you joke.

Gojo smiles, that look on his face, “Good for you then, you’re the only one I see.”

re-uploaded because i accidentally deleted!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

#gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo satoru #gojo #satoru #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #shotorus.writes #gojo x yn #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #gojo fluff #was considering deleting this tbh but it racked up notes this morning so !#but then... i accidentally deleted it too so now im reposting !!

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prongsx · 8 months ago

Text

THREE TIMES YOU TRIED TO SAY YOU LOVED JASON AND ONCE HE TOLD YOU

warnings: fluff, kisses, female reader. English its not my first language and this is the first time I have had the courage to post something.

Jason loves you. Simple and pure. You are all he thinks about when he wakes up and when he goes to sleep. It's like your name is engraved in his bones. The problem is that you love him too. He can see it in your puppy dog eyes, in the softest touch anyone has ever had with him, in the kisses as if his life was at risk with every breath.

He is fine with loving you, with being devoted to you, with protecting you. But you loving him? He can't accept that, he doesn't deserve the love of someone so sweet and perfect. His killer hands don't deserve to be held and caressed by someone like you.

He wants to say he loves you, he really does, but something inside him wants to deserve it by saying it, wants to fight to deserve your love. The problem is that you seem desperate to say those three magic words, it seems so simple to you. But he won't let you say it first, no, you deserve more than that.

His apartment smells like Italian food, grilled chicken in the pan and pasta cooking as he stirs the special sauce Alfred taught him. He was really trying to impress you.

"It smells delicious, Jay," you hummed, sitting on the counter as you admired your boyfriend's back, his shirt exposing his muscular arms flexed constantly as he tended to the pans.

"I hope it tastes good too." he said, turning and kissing your cheek, one hand resting on your thigh, his blue eyes shining in the low light of the kitchen.

You both stayed silent, with those stupid smiles of lovers, your hands coming up to caress his jaw. Then it happened, he almost felt it happening, your eyes getting softer, your lower lip trembling, the touch more intimate. He'd always been good at reading people, especially you.

"Jay, I lo.." You were brutally abruptly interrupted when Jason shoved a spoonful of the warm sauce into your mouth, making your eyes widen in surprise.

"Is the salt okay? A lot of pepper?" He asked, trying hard to look innocent. There was no way he would let you admit it first, he didn't deserve this pure love you offered him.The disguise was enough for you to forget, at least for now.

♡♡♡♡

The second time, the relationship had been going strong for months enough for both of you to sleep at each other's houses. You spent most of the nights at Jason's safe house, but there was always a storage problem. Jason was too methodical with his own things, there was only enough space for his things.

"I thought about ordering Japanese" You said to Jason, as you entered his room, a toiletry bag in your hands. Then you froze.

There was a new piece of furniture in your boyfriend's room. A white dresser with a mirror, similar to a vanity. You looked at your boyfriend questioningly when he entered the room and he had the decency to look embarrassed.

"Oh, about that. Well, you always have to leave early to get your things from your place and you always complain about doing your makeup in the bathroom. So. Well." He said, his hands scratching the back of his neck, a little anxious. Maybe he was too exaggerated? Did you think he was taking the relationship too far?

The doubts dissipated when he felt your arms wrap around him and your face hidden in his chest, he hugged you back, his hands wrapping around your waist.

"Honey?" He called softly.

"You're adorable." You whispered against his chest. He smiled, grateful that you couldn't see the redness in his cheeks, he felt like a damn teenager. Then again, he felt his body tense up as you lifted your head and stared at him with your adoring eyes, he could almost feel the loving vibration of it.

"I lov..." His hands quickly left your waist and cupped your face, his lips pressing against yours, slowly running his tongue over your lower lip, using the techniques he knew left you too confused to think about.

And when you tried to speak again, he pushed you against the wall, his hands returning to your waist. And he made sure to try hard to make you forget your initial intention.

Almost there, he was almost there to finally speak.

♡♡♡

The third time you tried, he was half ready to speak, but you chose a moment he hated. The Waynes' dance. You looked beautiful, of course, the red dress did something to his heart. But he wouldn't let you say such sacred words in the midst of people he hated in part.

It was a soft song, his hands resting on your waist, your hands on his chest, your head raised looking at him as you danced to the rhythm of the music. Jason was beautiful, in your eyes, of course, he had that half-scowl look he always had at heartthrob dances but always softened when he looked at you.

"Who knew you could dance?" You teased, reaching out to fix his red tie, a loving smile on your lips. He let out a playful sigh but didn't respond, too focused on admiring you.

He almost rolled his eyes when you once again had that soft look in your eyes. For the love of God, how could someone be so absurdly loving and determined to express love?

Before you could open your mouth, he spun you around, changing the rhythm of the dance, the surprise making you forget what you wanted to say. There was no way he would let you share those words in a place full of people who didn't even deserve to look at you.

Weeks later, on a Friday night, you arrived at Jason's house tired. It was a friend's birthday party and you had gone out to a bar. You weren't drunk, just slightly cheerful and with flushed cheeks. You had worked all day and partied all night, your body taking its toll from the fatigue. When you staggered into Jason's living room, he gently picked you up.

"Fun night, honey?" He asked, a small smile.

"Yeah. But I'm so sleepy," you mumbled, leaning against him, your eyes closing.

You let him take care of you, sit you down on the bed and gently take off your dirty clothes, sliding one of his shirts over your body. He used one of those wet cloths he knew you used to take off your makeup and removed the pins from your hair, so gently that he was surprised himself. The same hands that had already killed people were now caressing your skin, taking care of you while all you did was babble and cuddle against him.

So when you two lay down, with him hugging you from behind and putting his hand on your belly, he whispered in your ear.

"I love you." He felt the slightest movement from you, but too tired to form words, it made him laugh at the thought of how furious you must be that he chose this particular moment. "I don't know if I'm ready to be loved. But I love you. With everything that I am." He says and kisses your cheek, closing his eyes as he cuddles into you.

Because Jason loves you and slowly learned to be loved back.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #red hood x reader #dc universe #batfamily

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love44lew · 8 months ago

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what turns them on/off

彡drivers lewis hamilton, max verstappen, charles leclerc, sebastian vettel, jenson button

彡genre hcs/scenarios

彡summary what gets their wheels spinning and what makes ‘em dnf ★

彡notes i apologize for the wait my loves i didn’t want any of these to feel rushed </3 thank you for 100 followers ❤️❤️

彡warnings sexual content

————-꧁🪼🦈🐋🐬🦭꧂-————

lewis

pleasuring you lewis loves to satisfy the people he loves. getting them gifts, compliments, paying the bill for any meal, you name it. as long as his special ones are happy, hes happy. so in bed you can expect those same things to apply. he gets pleasure from pleasuring you, he loves it. he enjoys seeing you trembling, blushing and fucked out more than his own pleasure. thats why his favorite thing to do is eat you out. and by life itself, this man can EAT!! its almost like your pussy put a spell on him he gets so lost in the sauce. you physically have to push him off to make him stop and by that time your legs are already shaking. he really touches the ocean floor if you know what i mean!! and the d is fire!! and it will put you to sleep. lewis loves being your personal melatonin.

meaningless sex when lewis was single and needed some pleasure every once in a while, he would just go on raya or hit up one of the six trillion girls who wanted him. he wasn’t satisfied with living that way. lewis is a lover not a player. he’s been through a lot of stuff to make him this way and he learned this the hard way through his late twenties and early thirties. born to be a lover, forced to be a hoe !! fortunately though, he met you and looking back on it, he’s realized how much he hated the shallowness of it all. lewis craves for deep meaningful connections and just having sex with random women didn’t fill that hole in his heart. he had to relearn the true meaning of sex and how magical and special such an experience can be. you helped him rediscover this important aspect of his life and it feels great. being with you has definitely taught him quality over quantity.

max

loss of senses max needs to see you, so darkness is a no no. plus, more unnecessary risk of hurting yourselves. he loves the sound of your voice, weather its your moaning and whining as he works your body in every way you enjoy or its just you rambling about your day while running your soft fingers through his thin silky hair. max needs the stimulation of sight and sound to get himself going. “let me hear you” he’ll whisper into your ear

this may be why he loves his mirrors !! the only solution to this issue is to just fuck u in front of a mirror. most men love to do that for their own pleasure but the only thing max is looking at while fucking you in front of a mirror is the way your face twitches, contorts, and relaxes with every thrust. the way your doe eyes roll back and cross, further showing to him how good he fucks you. he picks you up by your neck forcing you to straighten your back as he whispers sweet praise into your ear. “you look so pretty like this baby” “you want me to keep doing that gorgeous?” “uhuh im fucking you good baby” your legs twitch every time his sweet voice sings into your ear telling you everything you need to hear.

charles

charles loves to see you in lace, latex, and silk. the way the latex hugs your figure so beautifully makes you almost look naked. weather its black, beige, white, or print he loves when you look all sexy just for him. silk is almost like maternal for him. as much as he loves to see your curves he also loves the look of ‘sheets after sex’ the open back with the jewelry and the flowy trim, he loves it. it simply just makes him want to imagine you bloated with your shared creation but still keeping your elegance and beauty along with it. the look of silk makes your skin glow like the sun and you simply look like a greek goddess in his eyes. the beautiful custom embroidery that revolves around your every curve when you wear lace is unmatched. he loves that it shows just enough that he can imagine what hes already seen but also covers enough that others cant. the sexy elegant vibe of lace changes your aura enough to make him want to eat you out through your thin panties. your beautiful skin covered by a thin soft custom embroidery made just for him makes his mind go wild.

waiting charles is very impatient when it comes to his pleasure. weather its the pleasure of winning or reaching tip of his climax so good that he’ll just want to fall asleep after, he’ll work hard to make sure he gets there, for you too. sure, he can do foreplay but only for a certain amount of time until he begins to bore. ‘lets get to the good stuff already’ ((sass)) charles is a gentleman, so he will make sure you finish before him. plus, he has amazing stamina, so don’t feel rushed to reach your climax, he can wait for that. sometimes he’ll slow down just to watch you overstimulate for a little bit longer, just until you start fussing before going rough and slow, just how u like it. “whats wrong mon cœr? don’t you like it slow?” “ahh you want it harder.. yeah, just like that.”

sebastian

cuddling (smirk) the bed creaks as seb adjusts himself to face your back swinging an arm over your waist and the other snaked around your neck. “good morning, der liebling” he greeted in his raspy low morning tone, planting soft kisses on your cheek and shoulder. you turned your head to catch his lips. “good morning sunshine” you teased his nickname. he rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging his lips. he kissed your nose before diving back onto your lips, his hand now squeezing and caressing your waist and hip. you scooted back, carefully grinding your rear on his front. his hand stuck on your hip while his other now holding your neck. you continued grinding your ass back on him. little moans and purrs escaping between kisses.

full attention its important that you fully engage with seb while having relations. if you seem at all uninterested in what you’re doing he simply wont have the means to do anything anymore. its important to always make sure you’re not holding back when it comes to him. he loves when your hands are anywhere they can find groping or caressing his skin as hes burried deep in your core. he needs to feel extra wanted every time. “touch me” he whispers into your ear as he slowly inserts himself. the extra sensory makes him go wild as he resists cumming after just a couple strokes. your nails lightly scratching circles into his scalp as he’s pressing your knees into the cushion below. even when hes fucking you from behind you always reach a hand over to run down his chest and abs and make eye contact as you match his thrust rhythm.

(i might add jenson in the future but im trying to get this out for you guys asap!!)

—-

dm for tags!! plz request more ideas ❤️

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quantum1mmortality · 6 months ago

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oooooo I have so many ideas…

If you have a kid with curly, how does he react as a father? He gives me SUCH STRONG girl dad energy and I can’t tell you why. This man is a GIRL DAD. How is he as a parent? Does he cook? Can he help his kid with math homework? Is he a family man? I’m so curious to see your thoughts on this.

Prob like the 7th request I've gotten for dad/dilf Curly 😭😭 also to my very special anon who has been in my asks for a very special Jimmy request, give me a few days, it'll be out love 🪽(I'm busy asf rn)

Tw/cw; none!! All sfw this time :) see guys I can be family friendly when I want to be

Not proofread

I've actually gone over this in the tags of a different post, I do think Curly would be a girl dad. He'd want twin girls and you guys canNOT tell me different.

After you come home from the hospital, Curly would do literally everything for you and the new babies. He'd prepare healthy meals for you, he'd help clean and feed the babies, if one of them started crying in the middle of the night he'd insist on being the one to take care of it, etc.

Basically the bare minimum but is still praised because the bare minimum is hard to come by now.

I see Curly as the type of man to be raised by a single mom and having no father figure. Morbid? A bit, but it helped shape him into the super awesome sauce girl dad he is today.

Because of having an absent father, Curly would go above and beyond to make sure he's present in his children's lives. Any days he has off, he's spending time with you and your new baby girls. Oh, his daughter's are in a school play? He's calling off work and showing up with flowers and chocolates for both of them. Shit like that

Curly would come into work late or just take the day off completely if you needed extra help with the kids. He'd leave work early to pick them up from school if you couldn't. He WANTS to be there. And just remember guys, if he wanted to, he would.

Curly would also try to be home early so he could read them bedtime stories. Idk I just think that's cute.

Once they start growing up, he's getting more into their interests. Curly would be the type of dad to let his daughters put makeup on him and have them do his nails. He would happily walk into pony express as a well known captain and have nail polish everywhere on his hands BUT his nails.

And yes, he would help his kids with their homework. Something about Curly makes me think he took mathematics in college, and I can safely say he is breaking every generational curse by not making your children cry over their math homework.

BONUS CONTENT!!!; Curly would want older twin daughters (obviously, we just went over that) and a younger boy. He would want to name the boy Dallas, but I can't think of any names for the girls. He'd like the name Phoebe a lot, so probably that and maybe a name like Sophia for the other twin.

A/N; too many curly fics, must make master list

#i quite like the name dallas actually #mouthwashing curly #curly mouthwashing #mouthwashing #mouthwashing x reader #captain curly x reader #curly x reader #captain curly

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sincerestlove · 10 months ago

Text

Kitchen Cravings

i couldn't get this out of my head so i had to write it. please let me know what you think - i’d love to start writing more frequently for emily and jj - if anyone is interested, please let me know.

i hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Reader

Warnings: SMUT 18+ - MEN & MINORS DNI.

Moonlight filtered through the curtains, washing the bedroom in a faint glow. You and Emily had just finished round four? Five? You lost count after 2, barely able to think nor speak coherently. You were now cuddled up together, Emily brushing her warm fingertips gently up and down your spine as you drew lazy shapes into the soft skin of her chest.

"Hey, baby, are you hungry yet?"

Emily hums at your question, and she takes a moment to consider. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until now, but after you mention it, she can feel her stomach rumbling. "Yeah, I am, actually. Why, you thinking about food?"

"Mhm, since we haven't eaten anything since breakfast."

"Yeah, I guess we have been pretty busy..." The brunette smiles slyly and leans in to whisper in your ear. "You know what I'm craving right now, love?"

"Hm?"

Emily's voice is low and sultry as she speaks, her lips brushing against your ear. "You." She grins and nibbles playfully at your earlobe, her hand moving down to rest on your hip.

You groan dramatically, nudging her legs with your foot. "Back, you sex heathen. You wore me out."

Your wife grins at your words, feeling a sense of satisfaction at being able to exhaust you so thoroughly. She runs her fingers along your side, enjoying the feeling of the soft skin under her hands. "I did, huh? Well, I suppose I should make sure you get something to eat.”

"Yes, please. Your wife is hungry."

Emily laughs, feeling a surge of affection for you. She plants a quick kiss on your forehead, then pushes back the covers and climbs out of bed. You can’t help but drag your eyes along her naked form, muscles straining as she stretches her arms over her head. Her dark hair was mused and slightly tangled from all of the tugging you were doing on it, lips a pretty pink and swollen. She tugs a loose, large t-shirt over her head, the hem falling just above her knees. “Okay, love. I'll head down to the kitchen and whip something up for you. Any special requests?"

You shrug nonchalantly. “I’ll come with you. I like watching you cook." You yawn, before standing up and putting on your silky black lounge robe, tying it loosely in the front. Slivers of your skin were exposed, Emily’s eyes greedily taking in every inch. “And I’m fine with anything, baby."

She takes your hand, leading you both out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen. "Perfect. I love when you keep me company in the kitchen."

Once you enter, Emily leaves you at the counter and starts opening the cabinets and fridge, taking stock of the food you both have on hand. She turns, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Hmm, let's see... Do you feel like something light, or something more substantial? How hungry are you?"

"Well, you made me come like five times, so, yeah, I could eat something substantial.”

Emily laughs loudly. "I can work with that. How does pasta sound? I've got a recipe for a spicy tomato sauce that I've been wanting to try out."

"Sounds perfect."

Emily nods, feeling pleased that her idea has been approved by her hungry wife. She starts rummaging through the kitchen, gathering the ingredients she needs. "Okay, pasta it is. Be a good girl for me, yeah? Sit there and look pretty while I cook."

You grin. "I think I can do that."

Emily laughs, loving the way you respond to her teasing. She sets up a pot of water to boil, then starts chopping up onions and garlic to sauté in a pan. You watch as she moves effortlessly around the kitchen, chopping the vegetables with skill and ease. "Of course you can. You're very good at looking pretty, love." She says, shooting you a wink over her shoulder.

"Yeah? You think I'm pretty?"

Emily turns to face you, her gaze roaming over your face and figure. Her expression is tender and affectionate, almost reverent, a small smile on her lips. "Absolutely. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

You coo at her sweet words, her smile turning a little more intense, eyes lingering on your form. The way you look wrapped up in that loose robe, bare legs exposed, is very distracting. Emily feels the stirring of desire flare up in her stomach, but she does her best to push it down and focus on the task at hand.

She turns back to the stove, where the onions and garlic are sizzling away in the pan. She takes a deep breath, trying to focus her mind completely on cooking and ignore the distraction of her very attractive and very accessible wife sitting just a few feet away in a very thin robe.

She starts adding tomatoes, marinara and spices to the pan, stirring and mixing them in. She can feel your eyes on her back, and it's getting increasingly difficult for her to maintain her focus instead of turning around and pushing you against the counter.

"The, um, the water should be boiling soon. I'll add the pasta in and then the food will be ready." Emily stumbles slightly over her words, glancing over her shoulder to see you already staring, grinning at her like a cheshire cat. Your head rests casually on your hand, eyes dragging slowly down Emily’s form. There’s a twinkle in your eyes, one that she knows too well.

The pot of water starts boiling, and Emily takes it as an opportunity to turn away from you and pour the pasta into the colander, successfully draining the water, before adding it to the saucepan. She stirs, making sure that the noodles are coated evenly in sauce. She can still feel your eyes on her, and her skin prickles with anticipation.

"You almost done over there, baby?"

Your question snaps Emily out of her thoughts, and she looks over at you with a mix of frustration and hunger in her gaze. "Almost. Just, um, just another minute or two."

After a few more minutes, the food is ready, but Emily is so distracted that she continues to mindlessly stir the sauce. You smirk at the sight.

"Done?"

Emily nods jerkily. She reaches out to turn off the heat on the stove, her hands shaking. "Oh. Yeah, I'm done."

You push away from the counter, sauntering toward the fridge. You intentionally squeeze past the tight space between the counter and your wife, brushing your body against her back, hands teasingly skimming the exposed skin.

Without even realizing it, one of Emily's hands reaches out, her fingers lightly tracing along your hip. She can feel your warmth through the flimsy fabric.

She steps closer, wrapping her arms around your waist from behind and pulling herself flush against her body. She nuzzles her face into the crook of your neck, breathing in the scent of your skin, every inch of contact sending jolt after jolt of desire right through her.

Y/N smirks, craning her neck to nuzzle her nose into Emily’s skin, taking in the faint scent of her sweet perfume. "Let's go eat, love. Don't want the food to get cold, right?"

Emily groans, her hands clenching slightly on your hips as she forces herself to hold back. She wants to press you up against the kitchen counter and take you right there, but she knows she needs to wait. "Tease."

Emily reluctantly moves to the cabinet and pulls down two plates. She can still feel the ghost of your body against hers, the way your bodies were pressed flush together. The sensation is burned into her skin, her mind swimming with the memory of that heat and that desire. She carefully scoops a serving of pasta onto your plate, trying to keep her hands steady as she does.

You smile as you take the plate, pressing a soft, teasing kiss to your wife’s lips. "Thanks, baby."

"You're welcome," Emily murmurs, her voice a little huskier than usual. She watches as you take the plate to the table, her eyes tracking your movement.

As you sit down, you slide Emily a drink from across the table, her favorite seltzer, before scooping a hefty spoonful of parmesan cheese onto your pasta.

Emily picks up her own fork and tries to focus on her food, but it's hard to concentrate on anything other than the sight of you sitting across from her. She can feel the heat pooling in her stomach, her body practically aching to touch you, to feel your skin against hers again.

You watch Emily intently as she eats, smirking at the way she struggles to restrain herself. You let your robe slip a bit more down your shoulders, exposing the top of your breasts to Emily’s darkened, blown out eyes.

You can hear how her breath hitches in her throat as you make that small movement, revealing more of your bare skin. Emily's eyes rake over the newly exposed flesh, her mouth going dry at the sight. It's almost too much to bear, the sight of her wife's body nearly bared to her. She grips the edge of the table tightly, her knuckles going white with the effort it takes to hold herself back.

You grin over the top of your drink. "You okay over there?"

Emily takes a deep and shaky breath, her eyes still locked on your body. She's breathing heavily, practically shaking with desire and need. "I'm fine," She says, her voice ragged and hoarse. "I just... I need you. Like, right now. And that robe is not helping things at all."

"What? This thing?" You intentionally slip it further down, fully exposing your breasts and hardened nipples to your wife.

Emily can't tear her gaze away from the sight of you lounging before her, exposed and provocative. Her eyes rake over every inch of your body like she’s starved, taking in the curves and the dips, the planes and the lines. It's like pouring gasoline on the flames of her desire, the primal need inside her growing hotter and fiercer with every passing second.

"Are you going to just sit there, or you going to come over here and do something about all that pent up tension you’re feeling?"

Without another word, Emily lets her fork clatter onto her plate and pushes herself up from the table, stalking around it with a predatory grace, her eyes fixed on you the whole time. She's like a panther closing in on its prey, her movements slow and purposeful. She stands over you, looking down, drinking in the sight of your bare skin up close. Her eyes rake over your body hungrily, heart pounding in her chest.

You smiles up at her teasingly, allowing the robe to fall open fully.

Emily’s eyes feast on the sight, taking in every inch of your newly exposed skin, every contour and curve. Her body is thrumming with desire, the need to touch and taste you driving her mad. She steps even closer, her hands itching to reach out and touch you, to stroke your soft skin.

"Are you just going to stare, honey?"

At your challenge, Emily's last shred of self-control snaps. Without warning, she moves forward, pulling you out of your chair and pinning you up against the closest wall, her body pressing flush against yours. Her hands roam greedily over your bare skin, taking ownership of your body, hot and smooth under her touch. Emily's mouth captures yours in a fierce, hungry kiss, their tongues tangling in a possessive, dominating gesture.

You laugh breathily as your mouths separate, grabbing Emily’s hands and placing them on your bare hips. Her blunt nails dig into your skin, the light sting of her grip leaving small crescents in their wake. “There she is."

Emily grunts in response, trailing hungry kisses down your neck, nipping and biting at the sensitive skin.

"Finally snapped, huh? What did it for you, baby? Was it the robe?"

Emily's lips move up to your ear, her tongue tracing the outer shell. Her breath is hot against your skin as she speaks, her voice low and rough with desire and need. “I asked you to sit there and look pretty, not tease me in this fuckin’ robe." She groans again, biting gently on your earlobe. “Couldn’t help but make you mine.”

You grin, moaning as she feels Emily’s lips and tongue on her skin. "You know I’m already yours, Em."

"I know, but sometimes I can't help myself. I just need to remind you."

You slink your arms over Emily’s strong shoulders, leaning close to whisper in her ear. "Remind me then."

Emily's hands begin to wander, roaming over your body once again with a desperate, hungry need. She tangles her fingers in your hair, pulling your head back sharply so she can attack your neck again, biting and sucking, leaving dark purple marks as she goes, eventually moving down and landing on your hardened buds. She takes one into her warm mouth, sucking harshly, her slender fingers tugging on the other.

You groan in desperation, grabbing Emily’s hand and shoving it between your legs, as you hold her head to her chest. Emily laughs teasingly at your movements, deciding to have mercy and run her fingers through your pussy.

Her hand is immediately drenched, the feel of your wetness driving her nearly insane. She moans against your chest as her fingers run through your folds, touch hungry and urgent. “Someone’s excited.”

Her mouth trails kisses across your chest, fingers pressing and rubbing teasingly against your sensitive flesh.

You moan breathily, throwing your head back against the wall as you grinds down on your wife’s hand, chasing your pleasure.

“Look at you, sweet thing. Flushed, desperate, needy. All that teasing for what? If you wanted to be fucked, you could’ve just asked.” Emily grins cockily at you, stuffing two fingers inside of your dripping hole.

She revels in the feeling of you grinding against her hand, the sounds of your moans and sighs. Her hand begins to move faster. She knows exactly how to drive you wild, exactly how to elicit these sounds and reactions from her wife. She's single-minded in her pursuit of your pleasure, her own need and desire feeding into the primal drive to make you fall apart in her hands. She feels almost drunk on you - your scent, your skin, your sounds - it’s all encompassing.

You moan loudly, almost pornographically, at the pleasure roaring through your veins. You can feel your heartbeat in your ears, biting down harshly on your lip, feeling your orgasm quickly approaching as Emily’s thumb finds your clit, pressing down and circling harshly. She pushes her fingers even further inside you, nudging that sweet, spongy spot.

She grins against your shoulder, her fingers continuing their relentless onslaught. She can feel the tension building, the way your body is shaking and trembling against hers. She knows you’re close, she can feel it in the way your body is responding to her touch, the way your moans and gasps are becoming more desperate and ragged, chest heaving.

"Fuck, I’m close, baby, please-" Your voice breaks off at the end, squeezing your eyes shut and gripping onto her shoulders tightly, the taut muscles flexing under your hands.

Emily smirks. "You're begging so prettily, baby. You wanna come?" You nod desperately. "Yeah?"Her fingers move even faster still, her touch rougher. Her mouth moves to your ear, voice a low, husky whisper. "Come on, pretty girl. Come for me. Make a mess on my hand.”

With a final, sharp twist of her fingers, you finally cry out, your body shuddering against Emily's as ecstasy washes over you. She continues to caress and stroke you, helping you ride out the wave of your orgasm, her touch gentler now, as you squeeze her fingers inside you.

Emily keeps you pressed against the wall as you come down from your high, her hand still between your legs, gently stroking the sensitive flesh. She watches with satisfaction as you pant and whimper, body still twitching and shaking with the lingering pleasure of your orgasm. You swear you could see stars in your eyes.

After a few moments, Emily slowly withdraws her hand, bringing it up to her mouth and deliberately licking her fingers clean. The sight makes you shiver, another wave of arousal bubbling deep in your belly.

Emily kisses you deeply, tugging on your bottom lip as she pulls back slightly. "I'm not done with you yet, love."

You bark out a laugh, gently nudging your wife by her shoulders. "Jesus Christ woman, give me a break - I nearly passed out just now."

Emily laughs, nuzzling her nose into your hair and pressing a kiss there. After closing your robe, she takes you into her arms gently, ushering you to sit on the couch. “Sit down, love. Let me get your dinner so you can finish it.”

You sigh deeply as you plop yourself down on the couch, legs spread lazily, resting your head over the back cushion. Boneless and spent, you allow your eyes to slip shut momentarily as Emily gathers your plate and fork, bringing it back to you.

“Here you go, babe.” As you open your eyes and lift your head, the brunette places your bowl and fork in your hand, smiling sweetly at you.

“Where’s your food?”

“I put it in the fridge, I’ll eat it later." Emily lowers herself to her knees in front of you, never breaking eye contact. "Right now, I’m hungry for something else.” She brushes her hair out of her face before she places her warm hands on your already spread thighs, squeezing lightly.

You mouth falls open at the erotic sight, feeling your skin tingle. You were at an utter loss for words, watching as she grabbed underneath your knees, pulling you closer to her mouth.

“You are going to eat your food, and I’m going to eat you. If you don’t finish first, I’m going to edge you all night. I won’t be nice either, and you won’t get to come. Got me?”

Oh.

She looks at you, brow raised, waiting for an answer. “I…okay. Yeah.” You manage to breathe out, picking up your fork and hurriedly finishing your plate.

Emily grins, as she brings her mouth to you, warm and wet.

“Good girl.”

i will be opening my requests again soon - as always, please let me know who it's for and be as detailed as possible. thank you and i hope you liked this one! :)

#emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x y/n #criminal minds #emily prentiss smut

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