#now my jaw is cool and I can eat better

[luxjii]

my pj’s when I was recovering from a surgery

[luveline]

your bombshell!reader x spencer is feeding me so well, i'm obsessed!! SJSJS since we've seen reader jealous, is it possible to have a fic where it's spencer that's jealous?

thank u!! fem!reader

Your outfit today is simple. Pencil skirt, dark stockings, hair pristine. The thing that catches Spencer's attention, holds it between two squeezing palms, is the shirt and blazer ensemble you've styled. It's cut to fit, sleek and dark and hard to look away from. 

You brush past the back of Hotch's chair with a sigh, clearly unaware of the attention you're garnering from across the way. “What's wrong with him?” you ask. 

“The same thing as usual,” Hotch says. 

“It's not like we've ever instantly solved a case. Gideon knows this takes time.”

Elle pokes her tongue into her cheek, eyes flared wide. She says a lot without saying anything, flicking through the police files in front of her dispassionately.

“How come you stayed?”

It takes Spencer a moment to realise you're talking to him. “What?” 

“You didn't go with Gideon?” You hold your chin in your hand. “Not getting along anymore?” 

Spencer isn't not getting along with his mentor. He would've accompanied Gideon to meet with a past mass murderer, only you're here, and so he'd found unrelated reasons to stay. 

“We're fine,” Spencer says, not wanting to say more and give himself away. 

“Well, he took Morgan.” You pout, your voice dripping to a wistful whine. “What am I gonna do now without him? None of you guys ever wanna play with me.” 

Hotch smiles to himself. Spencer's stomach ties itself in knots, a tight noose that grows tighter still when you notice his expression and lean in toward your superior. “What's that smile for, Hotchner?” 

“Don't you have emails to look through?”  

You hold your cheek in your hand lightly, fingertips digging into the soft of your cheek. Your smile is like a kick to the chest, achingly sweet on such a pretty face. “No…” Your pinky digs into the corner of your mouth. “I don't remember that being on my agenda today.” 

“Consider it an addition.” 

Is Hotch flirting back? Spencer isn't sure why that strikes him so hard. Maybe because Hotch would actually have a chance with you if he wanted it; your flirting with Hotch is more real than if it were with Spencer, because Spencer is a twenty-something know-it-all who still dresses like his mom buys his clothes. 

“It's a lot of emails, boss,” you say. 

“You have time. Start with the ones sent by Hughes and work your way down.” Hotch slides the login information across the desk into your reach. 

You look at it unhappily. Look up at him. 

Just being looked at by you is a full body experience. Whenever you look at him, he begs himself to play it cool as Hotch is now, to treat it as the affectionate playfulness of a friend rather than serious flirting. He'd have a better chance of being taken seriously by you if he didn't blush whenever you so much as breathed in the same room. 

He wishes he could respond calmly like Hotch. (He wishes you'd flirt with him and him alone. He buries that deep.) 

Envy eats at his hands. Pins and needles he tries to shake away. His movements draw your attention, and your smile worsens, which is to say sweetens, like seeing him again is a treat for the eyes. 

“You'll help me, won't you, baby?” you ask.

He goes a little blind. 

Hotch and Elle watch the encounter with similar parts pity and amusement. 

“You can read through them so quickly, I could really use your…” —you drag your fingertips down your face until your nails are at your jaw— “expertise.” 

“Reid has his own tasks–” 

“I can help,” Spencer interrupts. 

You drop your hand from your face altogether. “Thank you. Have I mentioned how much I missed you while I was away?” 

“Only five times,” Elle says under her breath. 

“They try so very hard to keep us apart. It's not fair.” 

Because unlike Reid, you don't have multiple degrees. You're still learning, and you can't be here permanently, but your talent, your knack for profiling, is unignorable. You're guaranteed a place on the team as soon as you can prove yourself to Strauss. Without a Gideon to vouch for you, that could take a while, and yet you're never jealous of Spencer skipping a few hurdles to get here. 

If anything, you admire him. “They don't understand our bond, that's all. And together we're hard to beat. Isn't that right, Spence?” 

Perhaps Spencer shouldn't be jealous. You don't call Hotch by anything so saccharine, after all. 

[shy-writer-999]

Baking Christmas cookies with Sanji 🍪❤️

Summary: Sanji has the cutest idea for a Christmas cookie date. But what happens when he gets too carried away? ~900 words. CW: Smutty/spicy/nsfw since I mentioned he gets... excited... a couple times. Heavy makeout sesh & lots of hands. Pet names (e.g., angel), but no overtly gendered language.

Artwork by @hirakyun13~ (thank you so much for collabing with me!)

A pretty blonde chef with a holiday apron and a pan full of cookies stands in front of you and you can’t help but be distracted. He’s just too cute.

You can’t even pay attention to the pan of cookies because you’re lost in those pretty eyes, mesmerized by that pretty smile, pretty hair, swirly eyebrows, soft skin, sweet lips—“My love?” He snaps you out of the stupor you’re lost in. “My love, did you hear me? What color of icing do you think would look best on these?”

The present moment races back to you—you’re been making cookies with Sanji, Christmas cookies, no less. It’s a cute date idea he proposed to you.

You tell him the colors you have in mind for the icing. The baking tray is covered with two kinds of cookies—gingersnaps and sugar cookies in pretty shapes. They smell heavenly, and they’re going to taste even better (Sanji’s own recipe).

“Fantastic choices, beautiful.” Sanji responds and sets the pan on a cooling rack.

After a few more minutes, you’ve rolled out and shaped another tray full. They go in the oven and Sanji sets the kitchen timer—at least, he thinks he does. He’s too distracted by you, though. When his finger goes to press the ‘start’ button, he misses, but doesn’t realize it. So, the timer doesn’t actually start. You don’t notice, though.

“Now that we’ve got fifteen minutes, what should we do?” He smiles and sidles over to you, a whole two feet, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you towards him.

“You’re looking pretty delicious, gorgeous.” He grins and blushes. He’s about to say something extremely corny. “Even more delicious than the cookies we’re making. I could just eat you up.”

His last few words are broken up by kisses that he peppers on every part of your face. His lips press onto your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your eyes, and your jaw. Eventually they land on your lips.

Through his smile, he kisses you delicately. You’d think he’s afraid of breaking you. You’ve told him countless times that you’re not made of glass, but no matter how many times you’ve told him, he doesn’t seem to listen.

He smells clean and barely musky, with an overtone (obviously) of cigarettes, coffee, and sugar (from the cookies). It’s a smell that only Sanji could have, a distinct and yummy one. It almost makes your mouth water.

His hands wander. They love to do that. From your waist, they inch downwards. For a few moments, for a few kisses, his hands stay perched on your hips. But then they pass lower and he bends with them. He scoops you up and you’ve got the position memorized. Sanji reaches under your thighs and you hop ever-so slightly.

You’ve memorized the routine—he picks you up and you wrap your legs around him.

Walking a couple of paces over to open counter space, Sanji places you there and your hands come to rest over his shoulders.

His kisses get sloppier. Greedier. Needier. His hands do the same. They snake down to your ass and he grabs rough handfuls. After kneading for a second, Sanji’s lips start to wander, too.

He leaves butterfly-style kisses across your neck, sucking softly for a moment before moving lower to the hollow of your throat, then the slope of your collar bone. He leaves a bite, and his hands inch to your chest.

You can tell that the gentle cook has forgotten that there are cookies in the oven that demand his attention.

As Sanji starts getting more worked up, you can also tell he’s getting hard. He’s so easily worked up like this that it’s endearing.

His hair shifts as he kisses you and his soft strands softly pass over the skin on your forehead. You can feel him slowly rutting his hips into you, and you squeeze him closer to you with your legs.

As his hands creep under the hem of your shirt and trail upwards, he freezes.

It smells like smoke. Like something is on fire.

Sanji’s head whips around to look at the oven and, sure enough, the cookies are burning, bad.

“Fuck!” he exclaims and practically jumps. After a second, he pulls himself together, trying not to be too jarring around you, but you know that if he was alone right now he’d be being a whole lot more dramatic.

Sanji pulls his hands off of you and goes to open the oven—a puff of smoke wafts out and he gets a face-full.

“It looks like the cookies are burnt, gorgeous. I guess I didn’t actually start the timer.”

He’s frowning in the cutest way possible, but it turns into a sweet smile after a second.

“How about we throw these ones away, and we let the first batch keep cooling while we go do something else?”

You nod in agreement to his proposition and hop down from the counter.

As Sanji does away with the burned up, blackened crisps that once were holiday cookies, you watch him attentively. Even the way he moves his hands is graceful and intentional, measured and deliberate.

He turns and gives you a smile when he realizes you’re observing him. “Like what you see, angel?”

When you turn bright red, he takes off his apron and puts it over your head.

“That’s more like it. Now let’s go be distracted together.”

thank u so much for reading and happy holidays!! another reminder that the lovely lovely @hirakyun13 did the art for this and please go check out here page!

here's my masterlist and the holiday event masterlist 🎄 xoxo

[aceyalonso]

champagne & lace - LANCE STROLL

pairing : rival!lance stroll x fashion designer!reader

summary : the fashion industry has always been a dog-eat-dog world or a rival-fuck-rival world (for lance and y/n, at least)

warnings/notes : swearing, smut, nipple play, unprotected sex (always use a condom guys!), rough sex, fingering, praise kink, HEAVY degrading kink, oral (fem!receiving), spanking, biting, slight overstimulation, use of "good boy", creampie, multiple orgasms, porn with a little plot (most of the plot is after the smut), i lowkey don't understand the power dynamic here

word count : 2.3k

a/n : god i love this SO MUCH

main masterlist | kinktober masterlist

Lance stood in the middle of his opulent office, his eyes narrowed as he stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the sprawling city below. The sun was setting, casting an orange glow across the skyline, but Lance barely noticed. His mind was consumed with thoughts of Y/n, his rival in the fashion industry.

He had always admired her designs, even as he despised her. Her creations were innovative, daring, and always seemed to be one step ahead of his own. It was infuriating, and yet, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of excitement every time he saw her latest collection.

A knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. "Come in," he called out, his voice sharp and authoritative.

The door swung open, and there she was. Y/n stood in the doorway, her black hair falling in sleek waves around her face, her eyes hidden behind a pair of oversized sunglasses. She was wearing one of her own designs, a sleek black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places.

"Lance," she said, her voice cool and dismissive.

Y/n strode into the room, a bottle of champagne tucked under her arm. She let the door click shut behind her, her sunglasses still shielding her eyes. "Do you know why I'm here, Lance?" she asked, her voice dripping with contempt. "I won. I won Designer of the Year.:

Lance's jaw clenched as she sauntered over to his desk, setting the bottle down with a flourish. "Congratulations," he muttered, his voice thick with bitterness.

Y/n pulled out two glasses from a drawer and began pouring the champagne, the bubbles fizzing as they filled the crystal. "Thank you," she replied, handing him a glass. "But I'm afraid it's not just a celebration. I want to make sure you understand that this is the beginning of the end for you."

He took a sip of the champagne, the bitter taste mirroring his mood. He set the glass down on his desk, his eyes never leaving hers. "And what makes you think you've won?"

Y/n's lips curled into a smirk as she took a sip of her champagne. "Oh, Lance. You're so naive. I'm not just more talented than you; I'm redefining the fashion industry. My designs are fresh, innovative, and speak to a new generation. Meanwhile, you're just playing dress-up with daddy's money."

Lance's face flushed with anger, his hands clenching into fists on his desk. "You think you're some goddess, don't you? Just because you have some flashy designs and a few awards?"

Y/n laughed, a cold, harsh sound that echoed off the walls. "Flashy? Oh, you mean like your tacky, overpriced suits? Please, Lance. You're a joke in this industry. And now, with this award, everyone knows it."

She took another sip of her champagne, her eyes never leaving Lance's. "I'm better, Lance. Better at designing, better at business, and better at being a human being. You'll see. Soon, your name will be nothing more than a footnote in fashion history."

With that, she set her champagne flute down on his desk, the glass clinking against the polished wood. Then, she poked him in the chest, her finger jabbing at his heart like a dagger. "And I'll be the one to bury you."

Lance's face twisted into a mask of rage, his eyes blazing with fury. "You think you’re better than me? let’s see how much you can take.”

Lance's anger boiled over, his hands gripping Y/n's shoulders as he pulled her close. She gasped in surprise, her eyes widening behind her sunglasses. Before she could react, Lance crashed his lips against hers in a brutal, punishing kiss.

Y/n struggled against him at first, her hands pushing at his chest. But as the kiss deepened, she found herself melting into it, her body responding to his touch despite her mind's protests.

Lance's hands roamed over her curves, his fingers digging into her flesh as he claimed her mouth. Y/n's own hands slid up to tangle in his hair, tugging roughly as she kissed him back with equal fervor.

They stumbled backwards, Lance's desk creaking under their weight as he pushed her down onto the polished surface. Papers and pens scattered to the floor, forgotten in the heat of the moment.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Lance growled against her lips, his hands already working at the zipper of her dress. "To prove you're better than me?"

Y/n's breath hitched as Lance's hands slid the zipper of her dress down, exposing her lacy black bra. "You're right," she hissed, her voice laced with desire and hatred. "I want to show you exactly how much better I am."

She reached for the buttons of his shirt, her fingers deftly undoing them one by one. Lance's chest heaved with anticipation, his muscles rippling under her touch. As the last button came undone, Y/n pushed the fabric aside, revealing his toned torso.

Lance's hands slid up her thighs, pushing her dress higher and higher until it bunched around her waist. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her panties, tugging them down her legs. Y/n kicked them off, her eyes never leaving his as she reached behind her back to unclasp her bra.

He watched as Y/n unclasped her bra, her breasts spilling free. He couldn't resist the temptation, leaning down to take one of her nipples into his mouth. Y/n gasped, her back arching off the desk as he sucked and nibbled at the sensitive bud.

"See how pathetic you are," she taunted, her voice breathless. "Desperate for me, even though you're openly against my winning. You can't resist me, can you?"

Lance released her nipple with a pop, his lips curling into a smirk. "You're right," he admitted, his hands sliding down to grip her hips. "I can't resist you. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you win."

Y/n pulled Lance up into a searing kiss, her lips curling into a wicked smile against his. "I'll make you a deal," she purred, her voice low and seductive. "If you can be a good boy and make me cum, I'll convince the board that the both of us will be mentioned as designers of the year."

Lance's eyes darkened with lust, his hands gripping her hips tighter. "And if I refuse?" he asked, his voice a low growl.

She traced a finger along his jawline, her nail digging into his skin. "Then you'll never hear the end of it. I'll make sure everyone knows what a fucking coward you are, too scared to even try."

Lance's pride bristled at her words, and he knew he couldn't back down. He nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. "Fine. I'll do it."

Y/n's smile widened, her eyes glinting with triumph. "Good boy," she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Now, let's see what you're made of."

He slid down her body, his hands gripping her thighs as he settled between her legs. He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire, before leaning in and running his tongue along her slit.

Y/n's head fell back, a moan escaping her lips as Lance's tongue delved deeper, exploring her most intimate parts. His skillful ministrations sent shockwaves of pleasure through her body, her hips bucking against his face.

"That's it," she gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair. "Finally, something you're good at."

Lance growled against her, the vibrations adding to her pleasure. He redoubled his efforts, his tongue flicking over her clit as he slid two fingers inside her, curling them just right.

Y/n's moans grew louder, her body tensing as she neared her peak. "Don't you dare stop," she demanded, her voice strained.

He continued his assault, not daring to stop despite the degrading words. Y/n's insults only seemed to fuel his desire, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony.

"You're nothing but a leech off your dad's money," Y/n spat, her voice laced with contempt. "You're only good at tarnishing your family's company and eating me out. How pathetic is that?"

Lance ignored her words, focusing on the task at hand. His tongue flicked over her clit, his fingers pumping in and out of her. Y/n's body shook, her nails digging into his scalp as she cried out, her orgasm washing over her.

Lance continued to pleasure her, even as her body shuddered and went limp. When she finally came down from her high, Y/n lay panting, her chest heaving.

Y/n's eyes fluttered open, her expression a mix of satisfaction and false disappointment. "You know, I expected better from you," she said, her voice dripping with scorn. "You're still not good enough to be mentioned alongside me."

Lance's jaw clenched, the insults stoking the fire within him. He grabbed Y/n by the hips, flipping her over the desk so that she was bent over it, her ass in the air.

"Then I'll show you how good I can be," he growled, his hands sliding between her legs to find his throbbing erection.

Y/n let out a soft moan, her body trembling in anticipation. "Prove it, then," she challenged, her voice thick with desire. "Show me how you can be better than me."

Lance positioned himself at her entrance, his hands gripping her hips tightly. With a powerful thrust, he entered her, filling her completely. Y/n cried out, her body arching as he began to move, his hips slamming against her ass with a sense of urgency.

Lance's thrusts grew rougher with each passing moment, his hands leaving bruising imprints on Y/n's skin as he spanked her with each powerful impact. The desk creaked and shook beneath them, the force of his movements enough to dislodge her champagne flute from the desk, which shattered on the floor.

Their other champagne flute precariously balanced on the edge of the desk, swayed with each thrust. The bottle, too, began to slide closer and closer to the edge. Y/n's breaths came in ragged gasps, her body trembling with each impact.

Their bodies moved in a frenzied rhythm, driven by a need to prove dominance. Lance's teeth sank into Y/n's shoulder, his growls of frustration and desire muffled against her skin.

Her fingers clawed at the desk, her nails digging into the polished wood. "Harder," she cried out, her voice hoarse. "Show me how much better you are."

He obliged, his thrusts becoming almost punishing in their intensity. The desk shuddered and shook, the champagne bottle teetering on the edge, threatening to fall at any moment.

Y/n's cries grew louder, her body quivering with each impact. She could feel the pressure building within her, her orgasm approaching rapidly. "Don't you dare cum before me," she demanded, her voice strained.

Lance's only response was a low growl, his hips snapping forward with renewed vigor. The desk creaked and groaned, the champagne bottle finally losing its precarious balance and falling to the floor with a loud crash.

The sound seemed to spur them on, their movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. Y/n's nails dug into the desk, her knuckles turning white as she clung on for dear life.

As the champagne bottle crashed to the floor, the sound mingled with Y/n's scream of ecstasy as her orgasm crashed over her. Her body shook and convulsed, her walls clenching around Lance's throbbing member.

Lance groaned, his hips stuttering as he fought to maintain control. He wanted to prolong her pleasure, to make her cum again and again until she was a writhing, incoherent mess. But the feeling of her walls fluttering around him was too much, and with a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside her, his own orgasm overtaking him.

They collapsed onto the desk, their bodies slick with sweat and other fluids. Lance's chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his heart pounding in his ears. Y/n lay limp beneath him, her eyes closed, a satisfied smile on her face.

"Not bad," she murmured, her voice husky. "For a pathetic leech."

Lance chuckled breathlessly, his hand coming down on Y/n's ass in a playful spank. "I see you're still full of insults," he teased, his fingers trailing along her spine. "But you can't deny that was incredible."

Y/n's eyes fluttered open, a mischievous glint in them. "I suppose it was," she conceded, her voice laced with amusement. "But don't get too cocky. This doesn't change anything between us."

Lance leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it," he whispered, his voice low and seductive. "But I'm looking forward to our next encounter. Who knows, maybe next time I'll be the one walking away with the title of Designer of the Year."

Y/n scoffed, pushing Lance off her body gently. "You're delusional," she said, her voice laced with amusement. "But I'll be waiting to see if you can back up your words."

Lance smirked, watching as Y/n gathered her clothes, which had landed on his chair and the floor. He did the same, his movements slow and deliberate.

Once they were both dressed, Lance straightened his tie, his eyes never leaving Y/n's. "Consider this a challenge, Y/n," he said, his voice low and intense. "I'll see you at the top."

She nodded, her expression unreadable. "Until then, Lance," Y/n replied, her voice a soft purr.

Y/n picked up her phone and dialed a number as she spoke to Lance. "You know, you should probably get a janitor to clean up the champagne and glass," she said, her eyes never leaving his. "Wouldn't want anyone to slip and fall, would we?"

Lance's eyes narrowed, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. "I'll take care of it," he said, his voice tight.

She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Good." With that, she turned and walked out of his office, leaving him alone with the mess they had created.

As Y/n walked out of Lance's office, the ringing tone disappeared, before a voice greeted her. She answered it immediately, "Hello? Fernando? Can I talk to you about the Designer of the Year award? I have someone in mind that... deserves equal recognition."

taglist

for all post; @nepobbylver @wobblymug @xoscar03 @irishmanwhore

kinktober taglist; @cloud-55 @emryb @sie17136 @jaimeleannavanlloman @wosof1 @wholetmewritethat @glitterbitch1 @under-seasoned-pasta @sinners-98-world

[endless-ineffabilities]

ewan robert mitchell having his way with you in his holy place (18+)

masterlist

The movie drones on, but you can’t focus. Not with Ewan’s hand inching higher up your thigh, his touch electric underneath your skirt. The faint rustle of movement is hidden beneath the booming soundtrack, but your heart pounds in your ears as his fingers trace the edge of your panties.

You have your coat draped over your lap, pretending it’s for warmth, but you miscreants know better. His fingers dip below the already-wet fabric, and your breath hitches. Your thighs clamp together instinctively, but his quiet chuckle from the side sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

“Relax, baby,” he whispers. The bastard's very clearly enjoying this. “No one’s paying attention.”

You aren’t so sure. The thrill of being caught coils low in your stomach as his fingers soak in your slickness. It carries an even heavier implication given your boyfriend's celebrity status, but he doesn't seem to give a shit.

All he can focus on is that his girl's practically dripping, her walls clenching around his digits. You steal a glance to find him biting down hard on his lip, and you know that he's doubtlessly rock hard beneath those navy sweatpants.

“Careful,” he murmurs as he leans over, teasing, his breath hot against your neck, “or you might leave a stain on the seat.”

Your cheeks burn, but there’s no stopping him now. His fingers work in slow, torturous circles, coaxing every ounce of restraint from you. You grip the armrest with one hand, the other fisting your coat as you fight to keep quiet. Like him, you sink your teeth onto your lip, desperate to stifle the moan building in your throat.

Ewan’s free hand reaches across and squeezes your thigh as his fingers plunge deeper, curling just right. You’re trembling, barely holding it together, when he pulls his hand away suddenly. Your protest dies in your throat as he lifts his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean with deliberate slowness, his dark eyes locked on yours.

“You taste so fucking sweet, baby,” he purrs, practically taunting you, then offers his hand, the glow of saliva on his fingers catching the faint light.

The moment the bathroom door locks behind you, he’s on you. His lips crash against yours as his hands tug at your skirt. The material hitches at your hips, and he hoists you onto the counter, his body pressed firmly between your legs.

“You’ve been driving me insane. It’s your fault I can't focus on the film,” he growls. If he didn't look like he wanted to eat you alive, you'd probably buy into his annoyance. But his eyes are fully shot through with lust, and his movements are frantic as he takes his cock out and lines himself up.

The first thrust steals your breath, and he doesn’t give you a moment to recover. You’re grateful to be on the pill. Ewan even more so, because the feel of his unprotected cock sheated inside the walls of your warm, fleshy core is something straight out of a miracle. His pace is bruising, nearly devoid of all gentleness, each movement sending shocks of pleasure through you. The cool tile of the counter against your arse is a sharp contrast to the heat between your bodies, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pushes you higher, closer to the edge.

“Ewan,” you gasp, his name breaking like a prayer from your lips, louder than the squelchy noises of skin slapping against skin, of juices squirting from your cunt onto his pelvis. “Oh, baby, fuck yeah—”

“Say it louder,” he demands, his hand slipping to your jaw, tilting your face roughly to meet his gaze. “Go on, baby, scream my name. Let them hear.” You comply. It’s the best you can do. He is giving you the best movie theatre sex of your life after all. And he's not normally like this. In fact, he's notorious for being the complete opposite. Shy, intense Ewan. Introverted, brooding artist Ewan. Except when he's with his baby—then he completely lets himself loose.

He keeps bottoming out until you’re unraveling around him, your moans echoing off the mirrored walls.

When you finally come back down, he’s smirking, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You’re gonna think about this every time we go to the movies now, aren’t ya?” he says smugly.

And he’s damn fuckin right.

[vrystalius]

How would the Hashira + Upper moons react to their S/O reader kissing them during an argument (it's up to you what the argument is about but i was thinking maybe they were jealous bc she was way too nice to someone else) Like i can imagine them being angry and when they confront her she just kisses them and says a small "Sorry" they can't help but forgive her right?

The Upper Moons getting kissed during a fight

You kiss the Upper Moons during a fight. How will they react?

Pairing: Kokushibo, Douma, Akaza x reader

Note: Sorry for doing it a little differently, I only realised just now that I kind of misunderstood the ask. I’m planning on doing a version for the hashira as well where I will write it more accurately!

(Slight angst, arguments)

Kokushibo

Your arguments are more like debates and discussions rather than screaming. Somehow, Kokushibo demolishes you everytime. He delivers one argument after another, every single word was planned out to make you feel like you’re in the wrong everytime. You’re kind of starting to get sick of feeling stupid by him using terms you’ve never heard of. He has an unfair advantage of being alive for hundreds of years and having six piercing eyes that make you doubt your own ability to think.

This time, you’re prepared. You pulled Kokushibo in by his yukata. Your lips crashed onto his and all of his eyes widened. His jaw locked as you caressed his collarbone while his lips loved against yours for a moment. After pulling away, he became quiet for a moment, as if thinking, before speaking up.

“You use very dirty tricks. I will use them myself in the future.”

Douma

Douma is incredibly pouty and bored during your arguments. He mostly listens while you talk, only trying to tease you into becoming even angrier every now and then. After you went on and on for minutes on why he should stop having his meals inside your bedrooms, he again grew bored. At first, Douma just checked out his nails and picked on some loose skin while listening. After you went from complaining about eating his bloody meals in the bedroom over to how you don’t wanna sit on his lap during his sermons anymore, he began to zone out. Your lips look so soft while you talk. His rainbow eyes were locked with them, dreaming of pulling you close and just shutting you up with a kiss. Yes, that’s a good idea.

While you rambled on and on, Douma grabbed you by your arm and crashed his lips onto yours. He hungrily nibbled on your lower lip while giggling quietly.

“Did I distract you? My apologies, go on! I’m listening, I swear!… What’s with that look, huh?”

Akaza

He gets nervous when you two have an argument. Akaza tries his best not to get too angry and to lash out at you. He doesn’t want to scare you, or even worse, to hurt you in any way. But sometimes, you make it really hard for him to keep his cool. To him, your irritated face and words are the equivalent of the sun hitting his skin. His fists are clenching while he tries to listen properly, but he can’t concentrate. Akaza is trying not to threaten or yell back at you to be able to listsn to your talking properly.

You noticed how hard your boyfriend was trying not to be aggressive towards you and how hard Akaza was concentrating. You sighed and crossed your arms across your chest, watching how his lower lip was quivering. You can’t help but grow softer at the sight. Your hands cupped his cold cheeks as you pulled him closer, placing a kiss on his lips to reassure him that you still love him. You saw how quickly Akaza’s face softened up after your kiss. He let out a soft sigh and placed your hands into his palm.

“Sorry for being like this all the time. I’ll… try to be better. Can I have another kiss though?”

💠

I think Muzan would just continue to ramble on after kissing him, probably even taking offence that you have the audacity to interrupt him during his speech. Also, I really wanna write about cuddles and sleep lately, but I’ll try to restrain myself XD

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <3

[doumadono]

Congratulations! You desetrved every follower you have!

For the celebration I'd love to order:

Raspberry ice cream in a cup with Maple syrup and Cherries!

All of this for Kai Chisaki!!!

STAY AMAZING AND NEVER CHANGE! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE FICS THAT MADE MY LIFE A LITTLE BETTER.

Warnings: smut w/o plot, fem!reader, pussy fingering/eating, rough p in v, overstimulation, yandere Overhaul

Synopsis: after a fruitless meeting with Shigaraki, you're the only one who can help Overhaul cool down

A/N: thank you very much for your support, dear Nonnie!

5k FOLLOWERS EVENT MASTERLIST MY HERO ACADEMIA

Overhaul had an aura that was impossible to ignore. His obsessive nature and unwavering belief in his cause were both terrifying and captivating, a dangerous combination that drew you in like a moth to a flame. You were his girlfriend, a fact that both thrilled and terrified you.

One day, the meeting with Shigaraki Tomura hadn't gone as planned, and as you left, you could sense the simmering anger radiating from Overhaul. His jaw clenched tightly, and his usually composed demeanor was marred by frustration.

Despite the tension between Overhaul and Shigaraki, the latter was surprisingly kind to you during the meeting. In response, you maintained a polite demeanor, careful not to trigger any further conflict. Kai noticed Shigaraki's unexpected civility towards you and responded by acting even sweeter than usual. He gently brushed the top of your palm with his gloved fingers, and at times, he would possessively wrap his arm around your shoulders, particularly when he sensed Shigaraki's gaze lingering on your face for a little too long.

After the meeting, as you walked back to your flat, Kai remained silent, lost in his thoughts. You could feel the tension building between you, and you knew that it was only a matter of time before his anger would spill over.

Once you were home, Kai suddenly turned to you, his eyes flashing with intensity. "I can't believe that fool!" he spat, his voice laced with venom. "He thinks he can just walk all over us! "Did you see how he checked you out?" he asked bluntly.

You blinked, tilting your head in confusion, completely taken aback by the sudden question. "Who? Shigaraki? He wasn't."

"Of course he was. I'm sure his thoughts were damn dirty. What a pervert. But you're mine. Always been mine."

You reached out to him, placing a comforting hand on his arm. "Kai, please calm down," you urged softly, trying to soothe his agitation. "You'll figure something out. You always do. You need to cool down now."

Kai took a deep breath, visibly trying to rein in his emotions. "You're right," he conceded, his tone still edged with frustration. "Damn it!" Kai shouted, his fists clenched at his sides as he paced back and forth in your living room. "I won't stand for this disrespect!"

After watching you for a moment, he scoffed, realizing that he could easily unload his frustration on you and relieve himself of the burden. So he approached you, his steps slow and deliberate. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, his touch surprisingly tender. His eyes, however, were were dark, filled with a hunger that made your heart race. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "I need to relax a bit before I return to plotting more."

His words sent a jolt of electricity through your body. You nodded silently, understanding exactly what he meant. He gently took your hand and guided you to the bedroom without a word.

The room was dimly lit, the shadows dancing on the walls as Kai closed the door behind him. He turned to face you, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to undress.

You watched, feeling your breath catch in your throat, as he swiftly discarded his shirt and jeans, revealing his toned body. His cock stood erect, already hard and proud, leaving you unable to tear your eyes away.

Overhaul smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction. He moved towards you, his hands reaching for the hem of your dress. He pulled it off in one swift motion, leaving you standing in nothing but your lingerie. His eyes roamed over your body, appreciation clear in his gaze. He reached out, undone the clasp of your bra, and then his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. He pulled them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

You stepped out of them, now completely naked before him.

Overhaul's gaze darkened, his cock twitching in response. He pushed you back onto the bed, his body covering yours as he kissed you deeply. His tongue invaded your mouth. He moved down your body, his lips trailing kisses along your warm skin. He reached your pussy, his tongue darting out to taste you. "Fuck."

You gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets as he licked and sucked on your clit.

He slid two fingers inside you, pumping them in and out as he continued to lick and suck on your sensitive folds, feasting on you. "Fuck, that's what I fucking needed," he groaned.

You moaned, your hips bucking against his face. "Kai," you gasped, "I'm close…"

He hummed in response, his fingers moving faster, penetrating your pussy and massaging that sweet spot inside.

You cried out, your orgasm hitting you like a wave as you arched your back, grinding your pussy against his lips.

Overhaul didn't stop however, drawing out all of your pleasure until you were begging him to stop.

"Kai, Kai, Kai! I can't! Please! I can't breathe!" You whined, suffocating yourself on your own moans and pants.

He moved back up your body, licking his way up, his cock nudging at your entrance shortly after.

You looked down at the right moment, watching as he quickly pushed inside you; his cock's red, mushroom tip disappeared into your warm, wet pussy. "Oh, fuck," you moaned, your eyes fluttering closed as he filled you completely. "O-Oh God!"

Chisaki groaned, his eyes glued to the spot where your bodies were joined. He pulled out almost completely, observing how his cock shimmered with your sweet juices, before plunging back in, his hips maintaining a relentless rhythm. "Fuck, yeah, yeah, you're so fucking good, bitch."

You cried out, your nails digging into his back as he fucked you. "Harder," you begged, "Fuck me harder, Kai."

He obliged, his thrusts becoming rougher.

The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with your moans and Kai's grunts.

"Yes," you gasped, "Yes, yes, yes." You could feel another orgasm building, your body coiling tight.

As the overwhelming pleasure washed over you, causing your eyes to roll back into your skull, Kai didn't hesitate to slap your cheek a few times. "Look at me, bitch," he commanded, his voice low and demanding. "Look into my eyes as I fuck your stupid cunt senseless, you fucking bitch."

Kai reached between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit. He rubbed it in time with his thrusts, sending you over the edge.

You screamed, your body convulsing around his cock as you came. Your breath caught in your throat, stifled by your own moans and gasps, creating a quiet, wheezing sound.

Overhaul groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic before he stilled, his cock pulsing inside you as he came. "Fuuuuck." He thrust into you a few more times, ensuring every last drop of his cum was deeply embedded, before withdrawing and delivering a sharp slap to your pussy. "That's my good slut," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

You could feel his cum leaking out of your pussy, and you reached between your thighs, scooping some on your finger and bringing it to your mouth to taste it. You hummed in appreciation.

Kai rolled off you, pulling you into his arms. "Mine," Kai murmured, his lips pressing against your forehead. "You belong to me. You're fucking mine. Remember that."

[dixons-sunshine]

I’m not sure if you’re cool with writing stoner!daryl, as I didn’t see anything about that in your what you won’t write section so if you’re not ok with that it’s totally cool !! But if you are …..

Could you do a stoner!daryl x reader where they’re out on a run and reader finds some joints in a house and takes them back with her. And when they get home she shows him and they share a joint and sit on the porch to stare at the stars. I feel like high Daryl would be super touchy and needy and their stargazing would last too long before he drags her back to their bed lol

Head In The Clouds | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

A/N: Okay so I’ve had this in my drafts for a while because I’m so scared that I messed this up. I tried doing my research on this but I’m still worried. I hope I did an okay job with this.

Daryl Dixon was a rather serious guy. Sure, being with him, being his partner, had made him open up like a blooming flower, granting you the permission to see his caring, funny, care free side. However, despite that, Daryl was still a serious guy, who preferred to keep his affections for you something private, something sacred, something for the two of you only.

So it came as a big surprise to you that all of that flew out the window for him after one singular joint. It was as if he had his head in the clouds.

Earlier that day, you had gone on a run with Aaron. The two of you had stumbled across a house that had been left relatively untouched, supplies-wise, and after a bit of digging, you had come across a little bag of pre rolled joints. There was not many, only three, but it still made for a cool find—a find you were currently sharing with Daryl, whilst sitting on the porch steps of the Alexandrian home you shared with Rick, Michonne, and Carl, gazing up at the stars, like Daryl had suggested the two of you do.

You took a hit from the joint, before passing it over to Daryl again, giggling softly when he leaned over to press multiple kisses to your cheek in thanks. “Dar,” you managed through your giggles, gently pushing him away, “that tickles.”

Daryl chuckled gruffly, his cerulean eyes sparkling in the low light that flooded through the curtains inside. “What, I can’t express my gratitude no more?”

You smiled at him and shook your head your body feeling light, almost like you weren’t sitting on the steps. Almost like you were floating. “Your stubble is ticklish.”

Daryl inhaled the smoke from the joint, held it for a couple of seconds, before releasing it. By now, it was only one pull away from being done, and when Daryl extended it to you, you waved it off.

“You can have it.”

He shrugged and took the last pull, before putting it out in the ashtray next to him. Once he was certain that it was out and that it would not accidentally start a fire, he turned his attention back to you. He scooted closer to you, wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you closer, before resting his chin on top of your head.

“Have I ever told ya how goddamn beautiful you are?” he asked softly, his voice sounding like he was in awe.

You laughed lightly and nuzzled your face into his chest, suddenly feeling shy, your hazy mind already locking the compliment away in the metaphorical “love” box. “Thank you, my love.”

Daryl inhaled deeply, the scent of your clean, recently washed hair infiltrating his senses and making him higher than the joint he had smoked ever could. “Ya smell so good, too.” He began pressing kisses to your temple, trailing down to your cheek, your jaw, before he gently nibbled on your neck… “Good enough to eat. Better than any damn meal I ever tasted.”

His words were making you feel woozy. Sure, Daryl has complimented you before, but rarely were there any sexual connotations behind them. This side of Daryl was something extremely rare, one that the high from the joint was bringing out to the surface.

Slowly, his hands began trailing over your body. First your thighs, up your hips, your waist, lingering right over the swell of your breasts, before moving back down and slipping under your shirt. His hands landed flush against your skin, making you gasp softly.

Daryl pulled back slightly to gaze into your eyes, a small, lovesick smile on his face. “I love your eyes.”

“Yeah?” you asked in a soft whisper, a smile on your face.

Daryl nodded. “Yeah. Them eyes’a yours shine brighter than the stars in the night sky.”

You giggled softly. “I can say the same about yours.”

Daryl’s smile widened slightly, before he leaned down and captured your lips in his for a proper kiss. Despite his sweet words, the kiss certainly was anything but. The kiss was passionate, steamy, and a slight bit sloppy. The joint had made the two of you a bit uncoordinated, but that did not matter. The kiss was still perfect to you.

Daryl was the first to pull away. He got up and extended his hand to you, before helping you up as well. However, he kept your hand in his, lightly tugging you behind him. “C’mon.”

“Where are we going?” you asked, although you had a pretty good idea.

Daryl sent you a heated look, one that had a shiver rolling up your spine. “I dun’ need’a see the stars to stargaze. M’gon’ see ‘em anyways once we get to our room.”

“Oh, yeah?” you asked rhetorically. “Why’s that?”

“Because m’gon’ take care’a you so good, you’re gon’ be seein’ stars, anyway.”

His words sent a lightning-like bolt straight down to your core. As you and Daryl walked into the house and creeped up the stairs, thankfully lucid enough to be mindful of the other people in the house, you could not help the excitement that filled you at the prospect of what was to come.

And as Daryl closed the door behind him and pinned you up against it, the two of you sharing sloppy, messy kisses, you thanked yourself for deciding to bring those joints back with you in the first place.

[minimomoe]

The Little Things

AN: I was listening to Sexy to Someone by Clairo and thought of Nanami. short, fluffy drabble

You stood in front of the elevator and waited for the metal box to ascend to your floor. It was 8pm, well past office hours, but time waits for no man and you had work to finish. All that mattered now is that you were done. You could slip out of your drab work clothing and crawl into bed as soon as you got home.

You had hoped that you could ride down alone, but you found yourself holding the door open for Kento Nanami, your unrequited work crush. He swept in, his cologne filling up the air and you didn't find it nauseating in the slightest. It was clean, green, and oh so sexy.

"Thank you for waiting for me. Most people would let it close in my face."

"You're too not bad of company," you teased.

He smiled back down at you and you felt heat rush up to your face. It wasn't fair at all. He couldn't be this gorgeous with pretty brown eyes and be one of the nicest people you have ever met. You might not even make it down the elevator with how fast your heart thumped in your chest.

"So why did--"

"You look--"

You had both started talking at the same time. He laughed, apologized, and asked for you to go first.

"I was just gonna ask why are you staying so late?"

"They're pulling a lot of people from my department. Someone had to pick up the slack," he sighed. He ran his hands through his hair and it fell over in perfect tresses. How annoying. How gorgeous.

"Tell me about it. They're doing the same to us in the marketing department. The quarter's almost over so hopefully the workload will lessen."

You could do this with him. Small talk. Safe talk. There was nothing that could go wrong here. Nanami couldn't hear your heart racing in your chest. You just had to keep your cool.

"What were you going to say?" You remembered.

"Oh-- it... I don't think it matters anymore."

The handsome, suave Nanami was stuttering. You had the man stuttering. You snapped your head forward as if you were afraid you messed with the balance of the universe. He cleared his throat and looked at you once again.

"I hope that this doesn't come off... inappropriate. I think that blue looks wonderful with your complexion. And you got new glasses last week. I never got to compliment them."

Your ears were ringing. Did you hear him correctly? Nanami watched you, has kept you in his sights to know that your glasses have changed and complimented your favorite work dress. You peered up at him and his ears were flaming red. Your unrequited work crush could possibly be requited after all.

"Thank you, Mr. Nanami," you said softly with a shy smile. "It almost looks like were matching, right?"

He looked down at his own blue suit and chuckled. "It does, doesn't it."

The elevator dinged and the doors slowly slid opened. Nanami held his hand out for you to leave first and followed behind. You were keenly aware of how close he was to your body as you both said goodnight to the security guard on your way out of the building.

"Well... Good night to you too, Nanami. Try not to work yourself too hard this weekend," you waved. You started on the opposite direction before he called out your name.

"Would you... like to have a meal with me? I know a place," he asked.

You bit back a smile. Never would you have imagined that Kento of all people could get so shy. He patiently awaited your answer but you noticed his jaw tightening.

"I don't know. It's getting pretty late," you teased.

"This place is only open from 8pm to 12am. And a meal is always better with someone to eat with."

He was practically begging you to come with. You gingerly took your step towards him and his smile widened.

"I can take your bag," he offered. He slipped it off your shoulder and you softly hissed at his fingers grazing your shoulder. His eyes darkened at the sound but kept on strutting down the street. Once again, his ears were blushing and you internally squealed. To think that you were rushing to go home only to end up on a date with Nanami. Was this a date?

Only your brain to mouth filter was broken, and you actually asked the question out loud. He gave you a fond look. "I would like for it to be."

You hooked your hand around his raised arm. All this time you thought that your feelings would never be reciprocated, but it looks like you were sexy to someone after all.

M.list || Twitter || Ao3

[delusionalbitchinthehouse]

Here I am with summoning headcanons for the first ghouls told through Chain (my beloved). I'm pretty happy about this one, actually !

"Why d'you wear it ?"

Chain blinks slowly, lazily turning their head to look at Phantom, sprawled on the worn rug next to them.

The new kid is cute, they decide, a bit of a lightweight, so they stopped smoking a while ago. His cheeks are flushed purple, big stary eyes glazed over, a sweet little smile never leaving his lips.

Chain almost forgets they were asked a question, until Phantom tugs a bit more insistantly on the heavy chain looped around their waist. They hum.

"'s a lucky charm, stickbug."

Phantom tilts his head with a confused noise, wiggling closer until he can rest his head on Chain's chest. The water ghoul runs fingers adorned with bone tattoos on the skin of the young quint's arm, raising goosebumps in their wake.

"Y'know I was the first water ghoul summoned after the mess Nihil's ghouls were, right ?"

Phantom nods, tail swaying lightly.

"Well," Chain hums, "back then, summonings were messy. And now, with how much damage Nihil's ghouls had done, the Clergy was afraid. Everytime they summoned a ghoul, they found new reasons to be afraid."

Phantom shifts, reaching up to follow the glowing stripes under Chain's jaw with the tip of his fingers.

"Like what ?"

Chain sighs, thinking back to their very first pack.

"Most of them were ancient, powerful ghouls. 'Mega was the first...I mean, you've seen him. He's big. Sure, Earth and Air are taller, but there's that thing 'bout 'Mega, y'know ? Some kind of...aura or shit. Maybe it's the quintessence, dunno. Anyway, he spooked them real good, and Alpha didn't make it better."

Phantom wrinkles his nose.

"Uh oh. Alpha's spookier than Omega."

Chain can't help snorting at that.

"He's got a shit temper and an ego the size of a planet. Fought Omega the second he slid of the altar. Got messy real quick - that's were he got the scars on his cheek and on his stomach, and 'Mega has matching ones on his thigh, burn marks on his ribs too."

With a little gasp, Phantom pushes himself up on his elbows.

"Really ? But they're....really close."

Phantom's surprise is understandable. Omega and Alpha are pratically joined at the hips now, evolving around each other with an ease speaking of intimacy. Chain hums.

"Well, yeah. Suprisingly, once Omega made Alpha eat shit, it didn't take long for them to get along. I guess they just had a rocky start."

"Understatement."

That sets Chain off, somehow, and it takes a long while before they can speak again without being interrupted by their own giggles.

"And after that, Air and Earth were summoned. You've seen them. Fucking trees, the both of them. Looming above everyone. Air traumatized the poor summoners by screeching so loudly he made some eardrums burst. And Earth, well. Spat out blood and guts everywhere - not his fault they summoned him right after a successful hunt."

Rolling on top of them, Phantom pushes his forehead against Chain's, pawing at their shoulders absent-mindedly.

"And you ?"

Closing their eyes, they can still picture it perfectly. The dim candle-lit room, the smell of incens and fear, the anxious whispers, the rough stone of the altar under their naked skin. And that familiar clinking sound.

"Well, I was the last of Primo's original ghouls to be summoned. And by that point, the Clergy was rightfully pissing their pants. So, the second I crawled out of the pit, they threatened to chain me if I showed any sign of agression. I guess they didn't expect for me to find their shiny chain really cool."

Phantom blinks at them in disblief.

"You...thought the chain looked cool."

Shrugging, Chain ruffles the quint's hair with a huff.

"Y'sound awfully judgmental. Yes, I thought it looked cool. Hopped off the altar, took it from them, sniffed it a few time and decided it was mine. Been wearing it ever since - and got my name out of it."

They stare at each other for a second before dissolving in another fit of giggles. It feels good, Chain decides, spending time with the newer ghouls, telling them stories of before they were summoned and watching their incredulous reaction.

"You," Phantom pants in between chuckles, "are the least serious ghoul I've ever met."

"Part of my charm."

Phantom laughs again, and Chain doesn't realize they're purring until the quint joins in.

[pleasestayawayidonotlikeyou]

Could you do underswap bros (seperate) x vampire reader please!

❤❤

Featuring: Sky and Honey.

Masterlist

Sky

If I were you I'd be careful with him in the bedroom-

Now seriously, he finds it cool that you're a vampire, can you turn into a bat like people say??

His jaw is dropped if you wear vampire goth clothes, shit you look hot.

If you feed off blood, he'll try to influence you to have a better diet, it's not the most normal thing to just suck others shoulders just to eat you know? And it's inappropriate too!

He's a streamer, and knowing his fans, you can expect to receive some fan mail with drawings of you as vampire characters from them mere days after Sky showed you in his stream.

When he's editing a video or looking for games before recording and you're on his lap, he won't really mind if you start biting him.. just can't promise it won't turn into anything else.

Will proudly expose the bite marks on his neck, especially after a long long night... If you get what I'm saying.

"Bro why the hell do you have bite marks all over your neck?"

"WELL BECAUSE (_____) IS A VAMPIRE OF COURSE! I CAN'T LET MY PARTNER GET HUNGRY CAN I?"

"...Sky we're skeletons we don't bleed-"

"I Know."

*Enter Sky with a smug ass face.

Honey

Ah yes, just like the comics he reads, or maybe not-

The truth is that Honey doesn't really care if you're a vampire or not, as long as you don't go out there biting people because you're hungry..

He's not the best at drawing, yet it's something he enjoys and definitely draws you to practice.

Please watch vampire diaries with him, he's trying new types of series, + Cash's Undyne recommended it to him so... Why not watch one that contains vampires with a vampire?

He's the type to make jokes here and there, some that may not be to your liking "Why does the vampire hate going to the supermarket? Because they hate garlic! Hehe... Not good?"

Calls you his little blood sucker and then laughs when your eyes light up at the nickname.

Lets you bite his shoulder sometimes, yet no more than 3 bites and he's already asking for you to stop, it's just not his thing you know?

[bethanythebogwitch]

Wet Beast Wednesday: hagfish

After taking last week off for mental exhaustion I have returned! And what better way to mark my return than with a shitload (or perhaps a highway load) of slime? Today I'm returning to the agnathan trenches to dredge up one of two living groups of jawless fish. I covered lampreys before, so now it's hagfish time. These ooey gooey critters are both fascinating and kinda gross. Now get ready, because it's time for slime.

(Image: a hagfish in profile. It is a long, brown, eel-like animal with a fin encircling the tail and a small head with no visible eyes or mouth. End ID)

Hagfish, also known as slime eels, are approximately 76 members of the class Myxini. In addition to the living species, hagfish have been preserved in the fossil record, letting us track their evolution through history. Hagfish are one of two living groups of agnathans, commonly known as jawless fish, with the other being the lampreys. As the name suggests, jawless fish are vertebrates without hinged jaws. Way back when bones were the cool new thing in town, agnathans represented the entirety of the vertebrates and were extremely diverse, but the evolution of jawed fish resulted in them getting largely outcompeted, leading to all lineages but the hagfish and lampreys going extinct. Genetic studies indicate that hagfish and lampreys are more closely related to each other than either group is to any other vertebrate. Because they are the only jawless fish left, hagfish and lampreys are of interest to scientists studying the evolution of vertebrates.

(Image: a hagfish coiled up, under orange light. The head is visible, featuring small sensory barbels and a large hole that resembles a mouth but is actually the nostril. End ID)

Hagfish are eel-shaped animals that range in length from a few centimeters to over a meter in the largest species, Eptatretus goliath. They have no scales, flattened tails that bear the only fin, and simple, eyeless heads. The heads bear sensory barbels, a single nostril, and the mouth. The mouth has two pairs of rasping plates that normally sit within the mouth, but can be everted to face outwards. The plates can grab food and pull it into the mouth to be swallowed. Hagfish do not have true eyes, but they do have eyespots that can sense light and dark. Interestingly, their fossil ancestors did appear to have fully-developed eyes that reduced in complexity until the present state. Likewise, ancestral hagfish had a true vertebral column made of cartilage, but modern hagfish only have remnants of their ancestor's vertebrae. Hagfish skin is very loosely connected to the internal body, only attached along the spine and slime glands. This makes the skin very flexible and harder for predators to grab. A third of the blood is contained between the skin and body and is pumped around with the heart as well as a few additional pumps that act as auxiliary hearts. Hagfish have some of the lowest blood pressure of any vertebrate and the highest blood volume to body mass ration of any chordate. Hagfish are also the only vertebrates that do not osmoregulate, meaning they cannot regulate the amount of salt in their bodies. Changes in salinity, especially moving to a lower salinity environment, are very dangerous to hagfish. Hagfish skeletons barely qualify, consisting of only a skull, notochord, and fin rays, all made of cartilage. The gills are internal. Water enters through the mouth and is forced over 5-16 internal gill pouches, then ejected through pores in the side of the body.

(Image: a closeup of a hagfish head with the rasping plates everted. The plates are mounted on pink tissue around the pharynx. there are two plates on either side of the pharyx which look like rows of small, sharp teeth. End ID)

That's all well and good, but you're here because of the slime. The hagfish's main defense is to create lots and lots of slippery slime. The slime helps them slip away from predators. If a fish tries to eat a hagfish, the slime can clog up its gills, forcing the fish to either release the hagfish or suffocate. A common factoid is that a single hagfish can turn a 5-gallon bucket of water into slime in seconds. To produce the slime, the hagfish releases threads made of special proteins into the water from glands on its skin. These proteins react with seawater to create a matrix of trapped water held together by filaments similar to keratin. The slime matrix can expand 10,000 times its original size in 0.4 seconds of exposure to seawater. The slime is quite durable and resistant to breaking and dissolving in water. After sliming, hagfish have been seen wrapping their bodies into an overhand knot and running themselves through the loop to scrape the slime off of themselves. Its possible that the slime also impairs the hagfish's ability to use it's gills and it needs to do the know to get the slime off and breathe again.

(Image: a person reaching into a holding tank full of hagfish and pulling out an armload of thick, viscous, white slime. End ID)

(Video: a hagfish in the wild demonstrating its knotting behavior. This one is going in the opposite direction usually seen: tail-to-head instead of head-to-tail. End ID)

Hagfish are found in most of the oceans, with range varying based on species. They are benthic animals that rarely swim far above the seafloor. Some species dig burrows to shelter in while others will shelter under rocks and other structures to avoid predators. While lying on the sediment, some hagfish species will coil up while others will lie straight. Hagfish are carnivorous and feed with a combination of hunting and scavenging. A large portion of the hagfish diet consists of polychaete worms and other known prey species include small crustaceans and echinoderms. Some species have been known to hunt burrowing fish, possibly by clogging up the burrows with slime to suffocate the prey. If you've seen a documentary about deep-sea fish you probably know about hagfish scavenging. Using their large nostril and sensitive sense of smell, hagfish can sense carcasses from long distances and are often some of the first scavengers to arrive at a new body. They use their rasping plates to pull bits of meat off of the carcass. A similar behavior to the slime-cleaning knots is seen when scavenging, but in reverse, going from tail to head instead of the other way around. This grants the hagfish additional mechanical advantage, allowing it to rip off larger chunks of food. Hagfish will burrow into larger corpses, possibly to get access to a food source with less competition than the outside of the body. Hagfish act as part of the deep ocean's cleaning crew, consuming corpses before they can decay and release potentially harmful chemicals into the water or act as sources of disease. Unlike any other living chordate, the food a hagfish swallows is encased in a permeable membrane during digestion. Hagfish can also absorbed dissolved nutrients through their skin. Hagfish have a very slow metabolism and ones in captivity have been observed going for up to 7 months between meals.

(Image: several hagfish feeing on the body of a fish. The hagfish have their heads on the fish's body and one hagfish is entering the fish's mouth. End ID)

Hagfish reproduction is still something of an enigma as so many of them live in the deep sea, making it difficult to observe them reproducing. It has been observed that females seem to outnumber males, with the exact ration varying depending on species. In some species, the sex ratio is almost even, while in others, there are 7 females to each male. however, it should be noted that females mature sexually faster than males and it has been suggested that this is responsible for the apparent skewed ratio. Hagfish eggs have tufts at the end that cause them to get stuck to each other like velcro. It has been suggested that eggs are laid in clusters possibly in burrows, beneath rocks, or protected with slime. Some species seem to have a mating season and seasonally migrate. Hagfish have only a single ovary or testicle (the latter of which has been described as unusually small by scientists and bullies in the deep-sea locker room) and they have no specialized reproductive tract. Instead, gametes are released into the main body cavity and must find their way to the anus to leave the body. Hagfish embryology is poorly understood, though it has been reported from studies of Eptatretus stoutii (Pacific hagfish) that the eggs can take up to 11 months to hatch. Hagfish have no larval stage, unlike lampreys and bony fish.

(Image: a group of 9 hagfish eggs in a plastic tub. The eggs are ovoid and dark yellow, with tufts of fibers at each end. End ID)

The conservation status and needs of most hagfish species is hard to discern because of the depths they inhabit. Threats to them include bycatch, as hagfish are often caught during deep-sea dredges. It is alos possible the chemical pollutants may be passed to hagfish through scavenging. There is a commercial fishery for hagfish, which is largest off of the west coast of the Americas. Hagfish are eaten as a delicacy in Korea and less commonly eaten in Japan. Most of the hagfish fishery goes to Korean food markets. Hagfish skin is also values as a durable leather and often marketed as "eel leather" or "yuppie skin". Study of the slime and the highly durable threads that produce it indicates they could be used to create very strong materials, similarly to spider silk. Research is currently being undertaken to find uses for hagfish slime and threads.

Once again, these cards show up in my posts (Image the Weird n' Wild Creatures card for hagfish, featuring an exaggerated drawing on a hagfish. End ID)

[frantic-fiction]

Reunions

(Pic: lovelybluebirdie) I cropped it a bit

Astarion x gn!reader, Astarion x reincarnated!Tav

Summary: A few months after reconnecting to your past life as Tav, a party is set to meet the rest of the group. You're nervous, worried about not living up to who you once were. Will you be enough?

This is a little part 2 of I'll Find My Way Back to You

Notes/ Warning: Pretty much just fluff. Reader is insecure. Astarion is a supportive partner. I kept all 6 origin characters alive because it's my story and I don't want to imagine any of them dead. Also, Halsin's here cause druids live to be like a thousand or whatever.

Word Count: 2.1k

Masterlist

You're not panicking. Why would you be? It's not like you're meeting a group of people you've only met in dreams—a group of strangers you've painted for the better part of your existence- a family forged through hardship from a past life you're still trying to remember fully.

No, you're not panicking. You're not scared that the people who are so excited to see you will not like what they see. You're not terrified the family Astarion has helped you remember will look at you disappointed once they realize you are no longer the Tav they once knew. You're not worried at all. Not. One. Bit.

You spent the afternoon cleaning the house from top to bottom. It was sparkling, and your fingers ached from the hours of scrubbing you filled in the restless day with. No surface was left untouched. Bookshelves were dusted, baseboards were spotless, and even the top of the cupboards, where no one would ever see, were wiped down. The floors were swept and mopped three times now, but you keep finding spots you missed. Astarion even physically stopped you from scaling the roof to clean the chimney when you ran out of things to occupy yourself with.

There's a roast in the oven, potatoes, and veggies cooking alongside it, and a pie cooling on the counter. You wanted to cook more, but you were worried that not everyone would like blueberries or that someone had turned to a plant-based diet. Astarion quickly reminded you that they used to eat food out of dusty barrels and mildewed chests.

Currently, you stand in front of your floor-length mirror. Astarion is out on a quick hunt before the party arrives, leaving you to obsess over your thoughts of inadequacy. The majority of your closet littered the floor. You're scrutinizing a simple tunic and legging combo. Was it too simple? Should you wear something more eye-catching?

You're trying to remember what Tav would have worn. All you can recall is blood-stained armor and simple camp clothes. But this occasion garners something more. Fuck. Stripping off the current outfit, you replace it with an almost identical one and look at yourself in the mirror again. You weren't sure what you expected, maybe to magically love this pair of pants and old tunic. But in reality, you were just as frustrated and worried.

The clothes weren't the problem, you knew that, but it was easier to be pissed at a blouse than to accept that you were scared. You were frightened to face Astarion and Tav's friends. You have Tav's memories and feel an odd kinship with these people. But you weren't Tav, and you would never be them, at least not entirely.

You felt like an imposter to try and convince anyone otherwise. Tears of frustration and disappointment in yourself began to trail down your cheeks. How could a silly artist hold a candle to the kind and heroic savior of Baldur's Gate? You glared at yourself, wishing things could have been different.

You jump when you feel cold arms wrap around your torso and a warm kiss at the nape of your neck. Astarion loved to use his lack of reflection to sneak up on you. You, on the other hand, hated it. Still, you found yourself leaning back into his firm chest.

"Hello, my love,"

You try to stop the pathetic sniffle, but it's useless. Astarion turns you in his arms and cups your jaw. "Darling," is all he says because he knows. Of course, he knows.

That simple pet name causes the floodgates to open, and you crumple into Astarion's chest, nuzzling his neck. He tightens his arms around you, pulling you closer to his body. Astarion lets you cry, knowing how nervous you've been for this meetup.

He rubs soft circles on the small of your back and peppers kisses to the crown of your head. "You can talk to me,"

"W-what if they don't li-like me?"

Astarion moves you both to the bed, skirting around the mess you made. He sits down and pulls you onto his lap to look you in the eyes better. "Why wouldn't they love you?" He prompts, not wanting to push you.

"Star, you know why. I'm not Tav," you hiccup, and you're positive the words you're speaking are incoherent. "I have their memories and some of their mannerisms and…and I'm also allergic to bees, but I'm not them. What if they hate me because I'm not Tav."

Astarion pecks your lips to halt your panicked words. He wipes the tears from your damp face. "No, you are not Tav, but they are part of you. They live in your art, laugh, and kind heart."

"But wha-"

"Let me finish, my love," Astarion smiles, brushing some hair behind your ear. "No one expects you to be Tav. We all love them deeply, but Tav's gone." He swallows hard, the words still hard to voice for him.

Astarion kisses your forehead, then your cheek, and continues to pepper kisses over your face, catching stray tears. "They just want to get to know the beautiful artist I fell in love with. Gale's big mouth might have let them know more about our history than I would have liked, but that doesn't change anything."

"And if they don't like the person you fell in love with?" You ask softly.

"Then fuck all of them. I love you, and if they don't love you as well, then they have no place in my life." His eyes pierce deep into yours, and there's no denying the truth of his words. You are overcome with a wave of love for your vampire and kiss him softly once more. "Now come, my love, by the smell, your roast is done."

"Shit!" You jump off his lap and rush out of the room, self-doubt pushed to the side.

*

The roast is fine if slightly burnt on the top. It looked juicy and smelled amazing. The vegetables are mush, but the potatoes are tender and seasoned well. It's not your best meal, but there's nothing you can do to fix it now. You left it on the counter to rest and found Astarion in the living room.

He was rehanging one of your paintings- the one you drew late last year after waking up in a cold sweat. It was a complete picture of the party standing on a dock overlooking the Grey Harbor just as the sun rose above the horizon. Astarion helps you fill in the gaps, telling you that this followed the fall of the Absolute.

"What are you doing?" You asked, crossing your arms over your chest and leaning against the wall. You had hidden away most of your art, too embarrassed by the sheer number of canvases depicting the guest due here any minute.

Astarion finishes hanging the painting above the fireplace and turns to you. "I liked this one and thought I'd put it back."

Before you could say anything, there was a knock at the door. Your stomach instantly dropped, and your heart beat hard in your chest. As if sensing your rising anxiety, Astarion moved to your side, his large palm finding the small of your back.

He swiftly kisses your cheek. "One word and I'll throw them all out."

Astarion leaves you and walks to answer the door. Your palms are sweating, and you rub them down your thighs. You take a few deep breaths and pace the room. Not knowing what else to do, you idly fluff up the decorative pillows of the couch and stall.

"Pull yourself together." You mumbled under your breath. You hear the sounds of multiple footsteps, and you know they're all here.

Why did Astarion request for them to arrive all at once? You're still not sure. But you're suddenly very pissed at him for his decision. Having all of them looking upon you like an art exhibit terrifies you.

"My dear," Astarion pokes his head into the room, a warm smile adorning his sharp features. "Would you like to meet our guest?"

You swallowed hard and nodded. Putting on a brave smile, you rounded the couch and reached for Astarion's hand. Threading his fingers with yours, you curled around his arm like a lifeline.

Moving out into the foyer, you shyly look at the group before you. Gale, given the circumstances of your and Astarion's meeting, you had already met. He had relentlessly bothered Astarion until an introduction was made between you and the wizard. But you've only seen the others in the paintings you've made and the dreams you've seen.

Karlach bounced on her feet, Wyll smiling brightly behind her left shoulder. Haslin stood by the door, a beautifully sculpted wooden bear in his arms. Shadowheart stood beside him, her face passive but relaxed and almost pleased. Lae'zel was the farthest from the group, brooding in the corner, looking at you suspiciously. Still, she even loosened her tense shoulders and stepped forward upon your entry.

"Um, hi." You waved meekly, giving them your name, cringing when your voice cracked.

It's quiet for a moment too long, and you're a step away from fleeing when Karlach skips over to you.

"Can I hug you?!" She almost yells, shaking her fists excitedly.

"Karlach!" Astarion scolds. The Tiefling had, by the looks of it, broken a rule he had set for your comfort.

"Sorry, sorry." Karlach's smile fades, and she moves to retreat. Your heart clenches, and it's like your body moves on instinct. You detach from Astarion before you can think, and then your arms are around her waist. Her scalding heat seeps into your bones and listen to the cranks of her engine.

"Hi Karlach," you whispered into her torso. The wind squeezed from your body, and your feet were off the ground.

"It's nice to finally meet you! The letters fangs write didn't do you justice."

Quickly, the group connects like magnets. Wyll crowds in and hugs you from behind, pressing you closer to Karlach. Gale piles on after, then Halsin. Shadowheart nudges her way between the men and apologizes on behalf of everyone but gives you an equally tight squeeze. The group even wrangles Astarion and Lae'zel into this group hug.

These people are supposed to be strangers, but having them close, seeing this family you've watched through someone else's memories for most of your life right before you. It fills you with familiar warmth and affection and has tears of joy in your eyes. You might not be Tav, not entirely, but you still have a place in this little family.

"Um…excuse me, I can't breathe." You squeak out after a moment of suffocation, and the group is quick to disperse.

Wiping away the lingering dampness from your cheek, you take a moment to compose yourself, clearing your throat with a subtle grace. Your hand instinctively finds its way back, and Astarion swiftly recovers it, his touch reassuring. Soft circles dance on the back of your hand, a silent question lingering in his gaze, seeking affirmation that you're all right. You respond with a nod and a comforting squeeze of his hand.

"Ah, well…" you chuckle with a hint of self-awareness. "I have a roast with everyone's names on it. And a blueberry pie; Astarion found a wild patch on one of his hunts."

"Thank the gods, I'm famished," Wyll sighs, his appetite evident as he sniffs the air dreamily. A nudged Karlach sets the communal movement toward the dining room in motion.

Astarion emerges with the wine, gracefully pouring glasses of red for everyone. Gale, the sole visitor to your home beforehand, takes charge of the table settings. With a flick of his fingers and a whispered incantation, plates and silverware align harmoniously. The stage set, the food emerges, and the night takes flight.

It feels like a cinematic scene picking up where it had once paused, a seamless continuation. Laughter weaves through the air, stories unfold, and even the occasional argument dissolves into a chorus of joyous laughter. Though new and fresh, the conversation flows as naturally as breathing. Strangers evolve into friends, and amidst the clinking of glasses, a familial bond begins to sprout. Tav was indeed fortunate to have these beautiful souls around.

As the night bids farewell and everyone departs, you find solace curled up against Astarion. His voice, a gentle undercurrent, softly reads from his newest book, and you gaze up, fixated on the beautiful man before you. A silent expression of gratitude graces your lips, an unspoken acknowledgment directed at Tav. Thanks for giving you a family and the love of your life.

Astarion's fingers scratch your scalp, tenderly coaxing your eyes closed. "What are you thinking about, little love?"

"Just how lucky I am."

"I would argue I'm the lucky one, but I suppose we can share," he smiles; he continues to read to you and massage your scalp until you're puddy against his body, sleep having all but consumed you. The night settles into a tranquil symphony, the warmth of shared love lingering in the serenity.

Okay I know it was a bit cheesy, but I needed so fluffy shit today. Anyway, tell me what you thought I love talking with y'all.

Taglist: heartfully10, ayselluna, marina-and-the-memes

[rush-the-stars]

AFFECTION'S EDGE: PART III

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|| alpha!suguru getou x omega!afab reader || E/18+ || wc: 6.8k || ao3 || <- part ii || masterlist ||

minors and ageless blogs do not interact, 18+ only

━─━────༺༻────━─━

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he murmurs, “but what am I to expect from a stray like you? You’ve lived off scraps and abuse your whole life; of course you don’t know what to do now that I’ve given you food and shelter.” Suguru’s fingers ease up towards your neck as he continues, “a warm bed to lie in. Toys to play with. A collar—so you’ll never be lost again. No one’s ever given you this before, hm?”

***

Suguru tries to tame you.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

✧ SPRING FEVER collab ✧

cw: omegaverse, brat taming, mind games, toxic behavior, yandere suguru getou, yandere reader, biting, blood, marking, one slap from the reader to suguru and he sorta likes it, fainting, fainting from lack of food, reader refuses to eat because she doesn't want getou to feed her, getou does not let reader eat unless he feeds them; forced feeding. forced bathing, smut; masturbation, dirty talk, voyeurism, a blurring of boundaries, consent as punishment?

a/n: happy mother's day to alpha suguru getou <3 this is the third and final part of this lil series for @lorelune 's spring fever collab! pls mind the warnings, i added some! i will be honest this part feels like a fever dream to myself lol...,.not beta read..,.i barely read it back bc im terrified of my own smut JFDKLSK enjoy LMAO but on a real note, thank you to everyone who has reached out and been so kind ab this fic! i hope you enjoy this last part! let me know your thoughts <33

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When Suguru first offers you food from his own hand, you push it away. He cooked it for you and you refuse it, turn your nose up at him and shut your mouth resolutely, feel your lips cage your teeth like a muzzle

“I’ll do it myself.” You tell him firmly. 

But then he holds the food away from you. 

You go nearly a day and a half, feverish and woozy, without eating. 

You do not plan on conceding, but end up fainting not long after. Your body is under too much stress; you need sustenance. You need food and water. 

So he begins to feed you as your lashes flutter and you are too weak to deny him this time. 

It’s easier, when you can hardly keep your eyes open. His hands are impossibly gentle. You feel his fingers against your lips, careful, and loving. 

When you’re feeling better, you glower at him. 

He is rather pleased, though. 

The next time he tries to feed you by hand, you turn and bite his hand, sink your teeth into the meat of it. 

He laughs warmly, fondly. 

“Feel better to get that out of your system?” He asks, when you finally pull away. 

You don’t respond to him.

He grabs your face swiftly then, big hand fitting around your jaw and bearing down. This time, he holds you steady, and brings the slice of orange to your mouth. 

You squirm, but he says, “I will not have you fainting again.” 

“Let me feed myself then.” You manage to get out, but he holds you tighter, presses at your jaw to get it to unhinge. 

The orange pops into your mouth. 

“You’re insufferable.” You say around it, cheek puffed with the fruit. 

Unfortunately, it’s good. Sweet. A little cool. Refreshing. You do want more. 

“This doesn’t have to be so difficult.” He responds evenly, peeling away the next piece of the orange. It looks so small in his hands. 

You swallow the piece in your mouth. 

“You’re right,” you respond stubbornly, “it doesn’t.” You reach for the next piece but he holds it away from you. 

Frustration overcomes you, chokes you like thorny vines strangling out the softer plants around them. Heat hits your face again and you have to wonder if you’ll ever get over it all. If he’ll ever stop making you feel this way.

Tears prick your eyes again. 

You turn your face away from him. He sighs. 

“It isn’t so bad,” he says softly, “if you’d just give in.” 

You sniff. “I could say the same of you.” 

“I’m trying to take care of you,” he says, “and at every turn, you are still trying to refuse it.” 

“I don’t need—”

“But don’t you want it?” He asks gently, hand reaching out slowly, knuckles first, so they skim your cheek. “It’s okay to want.” 

Stubbornly, you remain silent. 

“You’ve been so alone, for so long, my little stray. It’s okay to be taken care of.” He consoles softly, voice just a rumble that warms to your ears. 

“I’ll not think you any less strong, if you let me feed you now.” He promises, “if you let me care for you this week.” 

You don’t know why, but a tear slips down your cheek. There’s a lump in your throat, hard and aching, and threatening your resolve. 

He catches your tear with a thumb. “Poor thing, so torn up.” 

You sniff hard, trying to hold everything in. It’s trembling and tender, though, your heart. The ache in your chest.

You don’t think you’ll win this one—

Your head is foggy and throbbing. You don’t even know what you’re winning or losing. Or what you’re fighting for, when he puts it that way. 

You feel silly for denying him.

Perhaps worse for agreeing.

Finally, in a voice smaller than intended? you ask, “can I have another piece?” 

Suguru studies you for a moment. 

He lifts the curved bend of the orange up to your lips, testing. Waiting. It's a half moon curve, ripe and tempting.

You give in and part your lips, accept the crescent into your mouth like holding the moon on your tongue for him. 

He presses it inside, on your tongue, and you accept the crescent like holding a soft, tangerine moon in your mouth for him. His fingers skim your teeth, placing a world there, on your tongue.

“Good girl,” he says, pleased and warm, when you close around the slice. 

And then you obediently swallow it down—worldeater that you are, hungry dog that you are. 

Another tear slips free as you chew it slowly. It’s tangy and sweet and lovely. You feel the well of emotions inside you open up, threatening to drag you down into its depths—you think if you start to cry now, you won’t ever stop.

Suguru dutifully peels off another piece of orange, making sure it’s free of rind or unwanted seeds. 

When he lifts it to your mouth, you open readily for it now. Close your lips around his fingers gently, around the sweet orange.

With tears in your eyes, you look up at him, through wet lashes. 

His scent has darkened, pungent and spicier. It lingers in the back of your mouth. It’s—it makes your head spin.

And there's a strange look in his eyes now. 

Almost hungry himself, if you didn’t know better. 

A cramp rolls through you, hips and lower back churning, and you whimper, reaching for him. 

He takes hold of you easily. 

“Hurts?” He muses softly.

You nod, tense and quick. 

“Breathe,” he urges, shifting between your knees from where you’re sitting perched on his counter. 

Instinctively, you cling to him.

You let yourself pull him closer, fit himself to you—

“Breathe,” he says again gently.

But you can feel him between your legs, you can feel his own desire, and it strikes you like a bolt of lightning. Like crashing to earth.

He’s hard and heat sweeps through you in a whirlwind, so fast it makes you feel dizzy. Your head spins as you sink your nails deep into him, bear down with your strength like a bad dog, like you could get him to stay. 

Distantly, you think he’s such a strange, awful man. 

Is he so turned on from feeding you? Or from the fight? 

“Suguru,” you mewl, clinging to him desperately. And he holds you, keeps you close, until your hips twitch. 

You seek friction and he denies you. 

Frustratingly, tears spring to your eyes again. 

“You’re so—“ you try to get out, “why are you also denying yourself?” 

“Because I made you a promise.” Suguru responds evenly. He pauses, eyes flickering over you, a lightning flash of violet, “and, perhaps,” he squeezes your waist, “to teach you a lesson.” 

A noise of frustration works its way out of you, a little growl or whine, somewhere in the back of your throat. 

“Won’t you do anything to help me?” You get out, pawing at his shoulders, his chest. 

“I’m feeding you,” he says, “I’m caring for you.” 

And then he draws away, back to the orange, and your fingers grip the edge of the counter until pain presses into them. You have to force air into your lungs, try and make your head stop spinning. 

The wooziness and the aching is perhaps the worst part. You feel out of your mind, wish you could crawl out of your body. 

When Suguru returns, he has another piece of orange between his fingers. 

You glare up at him with glassy eyes. 

“Open,” he says, warm and low.

Pleased.

Turned on. 

Your lips part and you accept the fruit and his fingers into your mouth. You let yourself close around them, feel his knuckles on the inside of your warm, wet cheek. 

You’re slow about it, or maybe he is. 

You hold his gaze furiously. 

Maybe it was time you taught him a lesson, too. You bite down hard into the orange. It bursts in your mouth. 

***

The third day is perhaps the worst.

You’re so hot and somehow both overstimulated and undertouched. Your skin crawls until Suguru touches you. You ache in a way that makes you fear for your own health; several times you start to cry—not just cry, but bawl—from the pain. From the frustration.

At one point, you beg Suguru to take you to the hospital. To help you. To save you. 

You babble that you’re going to split apart. You’re going to lose your mind.

Like a colicky baby, you can’t calm down. 

And this time, he can’t quite seem to soothe you, either.

You twist and turn and pull at your clothes and your hair. You dig your nails into your own skin and drag them down in vicious, curving marks. 

You press and scratch at inflamed, painful scent glands. 

Your jaw hurts strangely in the joints. 

(You realize you want something in your mouth. Maybe you want it between your teeth.) 

Suguru tries to hold your hands away from yourself, tries to keep you from tearing into your own skin, but it only worsens you. It only makes you fight harder and cry harder. You lash out more, using more force with yourself, with him. 

When he snaps finally, pinning you roughly and with a flash of his sharper, greater canines, something inside of you howls. 

All you can do is beg and plead and cry. Press up against him desperately. Sink your face into his throat and inhale and—

Bite.

Your teeth close around the skin of his throat and bear down harshly.

He inhales sharply, spine going rigid with the pain for a moment.

You taste his blood on your tongue and feel your eyes roll blissfully to the back of your head. Darkness as your lashes flutter shut. You whimper into his throat—

“Is that what you needed?” He hisses, slipping his hand behind you to cradle your head to him, to keep you at his throat, “you just needed to get your teeth into me?” 

As if in response, you twine yourself around him, hitching your legs around his waist. Your arms winding around his broad shoulders, as if you could absorb him into your very body, your very soul. 

“Too bad it won’t take, hm?” Suguru muses, unmoving, allowing himself to melt into your vice grip on him. 

You make a soft noise; one that would be embarrassing if you didn’t—if you weren’t so—

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To Mark me properly?” He continues, voice bedroom soft, “you want to scar me with your own teeth?” 

As if in response, you try and fasten your mouth down harder, grinder your teeth into his flesh until he groans. The sound reverberates through you, rattles around inside your head until you’re mindless with it. 

When you finally manage to unlatch your teeth, he hisses and pulls away to grab your jaw. 

“What a little beast,” he sneers at you, “with my blood all over your mouth.” 

Something inside of you snaps. 

Unintentionally, you shudder into your cursed form—teeth elongating, nails sharpening. Strength rips through your otherwise feeble, heat-laddled body. In a sudden move of power, you shove him hard, and throw him off you. 

In an instant, you are back atop him. 

This time, when your teeth sink into the juncture of his other shoulder, they are far longer. 

He actually cries out in pain. 

The sound sparks beneath your skin, roars to life like a sudden fire and when he tries to grab your jaw and pry you off him, your claws sink into his wrist. 

You struggle with each other, using your cursed energy, using all the strength you have. 

Blood drips down his chest, dampening the collar of his shirt. 

He barks out a pained laugh, “you really are a curse.”

And then he is forcing you off of him, wrenching your teeth out of his skin in a brutal drag, shoving you away from him. 

You hiss, baring your dripping fangs at him and he growls back. The sound low and primal. Warning bells ping around your head, but you lunge for him again. 

This time, he isn’t so ill-prepared. 

He grapples with you on the bed, shoving you down into it with his forearm bearing down hard into your chest. 

You make a noise of pain but he doesn’t let up.

He’s panting and bleeding, his long hair slipping from its usual half-up appearance. 

Something inside of you is quite pleased at the image of him. 

Not so pristine. 

Perhaps unsure, for once in all the time you’ve known him. 

“Calm down.” He says low and soft. Part growl, part purr. “Your aggression is misguided.” 

Your teeth are bared in a snarl, “you are my tormentor.” 

“I am only respecting your wishes.” Suguru says and there is a horrible, smug lift to the corner of his lips. Maybe it’s more a threat of his teeth, which gleam in the lowlight. “I made you a promise and I’m keeping it.” 

“Let me up,” you snap. 

“Will you be good?” Suguru asks. 

Your fever spikes, tears pricking again at your eyes, and you finally lose your transformation. It melts from you, until you are fangless and drained once more. 

So drained, in fact, that your eyes gutter.

Suguru is off you in an instant. Air rushes into your lungs, the pressure from your chest lifting and he lets you heave for breath rough and hard. 

You don’t catch him move, but suddenly a glass of water is brought to your lips. When you can breathe, you drink. You let him guide it to your lips. And this time, when you try to pull away, he stops you. 

His hand cradles the back of your head, keeping your mouth to the glass.

“More,” he presses, “you’re weaker than you know.” 

And for once, you don’t fight him. 

You gulp down the rest of it, some of it slipping from your mouth, down your chin, rolling down your working throat. It’s cool but barely a balm to the oppressive heat inside of you. 

When you finish, Suguru pulls the glass away. He sets it down and studies you.

He tsks softly, “you’re a mess.” 

You take him in, though your eyes are growing heavy, all of that fighting took a lot out of you. It’s catching up with you quickly now. 

But your eyes land on the bite marks you’ve littered him with. The one, specifically, that is still ringed and bleeding, dripping down his chest. 

“So are you.” You reply, words slurring. 

You don’t catch what he says next, muffled, as you fade from consciousness. Darkness sweeps in to cradle you, much the way Suguru is now, and you fall into a restless sleep. 

***

Suguru wakes you at some point. 

It’s pitch black outside the window; there is very little light in the room at all, which adds to your confusion. Your head is throbbing. 

You whimper. 

“Sit up for me,” his voice is a hush, “can you do that?” 

“Let me sleep,” you reply, pushing weakly at him as he forces you up. Everything swims. Your head lolls like a doll and he catches it so you don’t give yourself whiplash. 

“You’re burning up,” he replies, “I need to get the fever down.” 

You don’t have the wherewithal to understand this. 

For a moment, you hope that he means—

“I’m going to give you a bath.” 

You make another noise, this one in disagreement. Fussy. 

He tuts softly at you, the way mothers do at bad children, and then he disappears, allowing you to fall back against the bed once more. 

You’re not sure for how long, but you doze off again, unable to keep your eyes open. You only awake when Suguru lifts you clear from the bed and into his arms. Again, you make a noise of protest, pushing weakly at him, but he pays you no mind. 

You open your eyes and wince against the bathroom light. 

The bath is running, filling with water. You frown and squirm in his hold, just as he gently sets you on the floor beside the tub. 

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” he murmurs and you push his hands away.

“No,” you snap, “leave.” 

He sighs, “you can hardly sit up right now. I don’t trust you in the bath alone.” 

“I’m not a child,” you protest.

“No, but you’re experiencing a compounded Heat, after years of not having one and you don’t have a knot to soothe you.” Suguru’s voice is cool. His eyes are, too. 

You level him with the best glare you can manage, “and whose fault is that?” 

“I’m only keeping my promise.” He almost sings. 

You swat at him but he catches your wrist easily and pulls you up further as you begin to slouch further and further down against the edge of the tub. “Come,” he says, “don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” 

This time, when he reaches to remove your shirt, you only grumble in protest. He peels it from you carefully, revealing bare skin. Despite how hot you are, you shiver hard. 

You ache. 

This is the worst fever you’ve ever had. Perhaps, this is one of the worst you’ve felt ever. 

You can hardly move enough to allow Suguru to slip your bottoms off and you feel so miserable that you can’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed or frustrated or angry. 

Tears bead at your eyes again but it’s purely because you are in so much pain. 

Suguru lifts you into the bath. 

It’s lukewarm. Tufts of bubbles smell like lavender. The water is milky and gentle. 

You don’t realize it, but you’ve started to cry again, reaching out for Suguru. You realize he’s cleaned and bandaged his bite mark. He also coos to you, rolling up his sleeves to reach you in the water, stroking at your throat, your cheek.

And then he takes a wash cloth in hand and begins to do the same. He bathes you with a strange gentleness. A gentleness you have not given him. Your tears continue, tracking down your face, which he dutifully washes, too. He wipes away your tears, any sweat and grime, until you feel shining and new.

Eventually, you rest your arms on the lip of the bathtub, folded, and lay your cheek against them. You’re exhausted and still hurting, but at least quiet for now. At least you are cleaned and—

Suguru strokes at your cheek, traces the curve and folds of your ear, gently strokes through your hair. 

“Poor thing,” Suguru murmurs, knuckles drawing across your jaw, down your throat. When he passes along your scent gland, you shiver, you wince a little. 

“Hurts,” you get out and he coos more to you.

Babying you.

And you don’t have the strength to deny him any longer, so you let yourself be babied. You whimper at him and let him try to soothe you, you let him quiet and pet you. 

You’re looking at each other rather frankly, through the haze of your Heat, through all the lust or aggression or fear. In a rare moment of peace, you gaze up at his face and he looks down into yours. 

“Do you hate me?” You ask and your voice is rather raw from all the crying, “is that why you’ve led me here?” 

A strangely fond smile touches his lips, “on the contrary,” Suguru replies, fingers careful along your cheek, “I adore you.” 

“You have such a strange way of showing it.” You tell him. 

“I’m only keeping my promise,” he says again and all you have in you is a deep, dejected sigh. 

“I’m going to make you pay for this, Suguru.” And though your tone is docile, even sleepy, it is a promise. 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll try.” He agrees, touch growing stronger, bolder, as he pets down your throat, your shoulder. You lean into the touch like a cat, too exhausted to deny it. “And I’ll still be here after—your ire or punishment will not scare me away.” 

You look at him for a moment, long and hard, and only find the truth there. Something strangely raw.

After a moment, you say, “I know.” 

He hums softly, leaning forward to give your burning forehead a rare and gentle kiss, “do your worst, then.” 

You pick your head up barely, tilt your face to his and catch him in a sudden, burning kiss. 

You pull away as quickly as you’d done it. 

You can tell you’ve surprised him only momentarily, it passes over his features like a bird flickering through the sky, there and gone. 

And you say, “no,” soft, and against his lips, “I’ll do my best this time.” 

He pulls away, creating carefully controlled distance. “Come,” he says, urging you up and out of the bath, “let’s get you to bed.” 

“Carry me?” You ask as he bundles you into a soft towel. “Let me wear your shirt?” 

His eyes glint violet, dark and quick, but he says, “of course.” And indulges you.

He even holds you all night and lets you sleep in late. 

The fever only worsens. 

And you can’t tell if your resolve crumbles or strengthens; but either way, you’re born anew with the sun the next day. 

*** 

Suguru woke up before you. He let you sleep in. But now you're awake and waiting for him. When Suguru returns to wake you in the early afternoon, instead of sleeping, you are half-lidded and sun-warmed, laying in his sheets still. The fever has reached a pitch inside you. You’re sure it’s done irreparable damage to your mind and psyche because of how you find yourself.

Because of how Suguru finds you. 

The shirt of his you’d worn to bed is pushed up to your chin, revealing your bare chest, your stomach, flexing and twitching, with your legs spread. Your fingers between them, working messily against yourself, against where you’ve needed since your Heat began. 

For once, you have shocked Suguru. 

Enough that his lips part. 

Just a flash, a ripple of his features, before he smooths them out quickly. Effortlessly. But it is enough to spur you on regardless, to feel just slightly triumphant. 

You keen softly, arching your back, pushing your fingers gently through silken folds. 

“Suguru,” you mewl his name, all soft and broken, arching your hips into your own touch desperately. Beyond your desire for revenge, is simply your desire, the need to feel full, to feel pleasure like this. And you reasoned with yourself, all night, and all morning, that you’d win regardless; either you’d wrestle his tightly held control from his grasp, and get what you so desperately want from him, or you’d still get to touch yourself and find some brief moment of reprieve. 

Beyond either of those two things, you could not think. They ran around your mind like wild, starved dogs hunting down the possibility of a rabbit. 

(Or are you the rabbit? Running around and around your mind, trying to escape the bite? Or are you looking for it?) 

“What do you think you’re doing?” He asks and for a moment, he doesn’t dare step closer to you or the bed. 

You push a finger inside yourself, it goes in easy—so slick and easy—that the next pass, you add a second and gasp. 

What are you doing? You feel half out of your mind. 

“Can’t help it—” you get out, “it hurts so bad. It’s—I’m so—” 

You watch a muscle in his jaw feather and tick. His scent is—

It hits you like a blow to the chest, the way he smells. It’s dark and spiced with warmth; tobacco and the oud in his scent has become heavier. You can almost taste it in the air.

“Suguru—“ you mewl again, pleading and cloying. You tilt your hips up towards your hand, towards him. You’re trying to entice him. 

You can nearly hear the way his teeth grind together. 

“You’re a brat,” he hisses but you can sense the way his control has slipped and thinned. You can nearly feel it fraying in his voice alone.

You practically purr, fingers pushing desperately inside yourself. 

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” you simper, “I’ve been so good letting you feed me and bathe me—I’m wearing the shirt you put me in, too.” 

For a moment, you watch as his eyes slowly dip down the length of your body, to where your fingers are. You watch his expression flicker, the tilt of his eyebrows, the slight parting of his lips. You whimper, knowing he’s watching, and try to curl your fingers. 

But they don’t reach as deep as his might—not thick enough, either, and the ache inside you grows monstrously. 

Perhaps only soothed by the way, for once, you’ve rendered Suguru Getou rather speechless. You toss your head back and moan at the thought. 

“Suguru—won’t you help me? Even a little?” You arch off the bed and catch his gaze when his eyes fly back up to your face. 

“No,” he snaps quickly, “I promised you—“

“Then tell me what to do—talk to me.” You beg, “it hurts so bad, Suguru—“

The muscle in his jaw feathers again. But this time, he wades carefully into the room, stepping closer to the edge of the bed.

The moment he’s there, you adjust so he can see you better, move so your foot is just nearly touching his thigh at the end of the bed. And even that small potential for touch has you crying out again. 

“I’m not sure I should, after the way you’ve been acting.” He says and though he’s trying for casualness, you can sense the tension lurking underneath.

“Touch yourself then,” you breathe, your own eyes drifting down to his sweatpants—to the noticeable bulge—

In a bold move, you place your foot on his lower abdomen, looking up at him through your lashes as your fingers gently push in and out, walls fluttering desperately around them.

He catches your ankle before you can move another inch. The way he squeezes you makes a thrill run through you, race up your spine, pool somewhere low and hot in the depths of you. 

“Is this your way of trying to make me suffer?” He asks and despite everything, a hint of a smile flickers across your heated, panting face.

“Is it working?” You ask. 

All he does is hum, thumb stroking along the bone of your ankle.

Even that is enough for pleasure to skitter and flare beneath your skin. 

“Wanna see you,” you get out, breathy and soft, “wanna see what I’m missing.”

Suguru curses and you laugh, delirious and soft.

Pleasure blushes and surges beneath your skin. 

“No,” he says again but he has to grind the word out, pull it and wrestle it from his own mouth. “You won’t get the better of me here.” 

“Don’t you get tired of your tightly wound control?” You get out, twisting a little so that you might free your ankle from his grasp, but he holds firm.

“I should be asking the same of you—but clearly,” his eyes flicker again, “you do.” 

“Need you so bad—“ you get out, almost pouting. 

You can nearly hear his teeth grind together. He inhales sharply, as if to try and steady himself, but you can tell it only worsens him. Your scent must be thick in the air, sweetened and cloying.

Your fingers slip messily, desperately, over your clit, down inside of yourself and back out. You whine, a little frustrated, trying again and again to satiate the ache inside of you. But anything you do, isn’t enough. 

It almost feels as if it’s made it worse. 

“Poor thing,” Suguru finally says and you realize, he’s regained some of his composure, “look what you’ve done to yourself.” 

You curse this time. 

But you press on, unwilling to give up your win yet, “you’ve also done this—because you wanted the upper hand so bad.” You press inside yourself, hips lifting towards your fingers, “you didn’t have to take the suppressants.” 

His brow flickers up, “I did it for you.” 

“Did you?” You gasp, adding a second finger. 

He swallows, eyes falling to the apex of your thighs, watching, as you fitfully try to pleasure yourself. 

“You didn’t have to—you could’ve let me trigger your Rut. Then we both would’ve been like this—” your voice hitches, “then you would’ve gotten what you wanted sooner and you could’ve feigned innocence.” 

“You didn’t want that,” he says, watching you carefully, “who's to say you won’t come out of this Heat and resist me again?”  

“I won’t,” you breathe, “I did—” you mewl, hips arching and falling, trying so hard, working yourself up so horribly. 

You bite off a groan. 

Suguru clicks his tongue, makes a soft, disapproving noise. “And now look at you,” his hand slides along your calf, so large, and—

“Don’t even know how to properly touch yourself.” 

“Suguru—” 

Suddenly, he tugs you gently, so you’re down at the edge of the bed, your legs on either side of his thighs as he stands above you. 

He leans down slightly and you sit up, towards him, hoping, desperate—

“Such a terrible, little Omega. Do you need me to teach you this, too? Do you need me to help you?” 

You cry out, kitten soft, as needy and tender as a child. 

“Please,” you beg, “please, I need you—”

His hand traces up the outside of your calf, up to your thigh and you squirm, hope fluttering, heart racing—

“Don’t move,” he murmurs, “or I won’t help you.” 

“Suguru,” you growl in frustration. 

“Ah, ah, I thought you were being good?” 

Your head spins—you have no idea how he managed to flip it on you so sharply, but suddenly he has, and suddenly you're nearly underneath him, and he’s leaning over you and watching so intensely—so— 

You try to go still for him. Your chest is heaving. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs and his hand slowly arcs over the bend of your hip, and towards your stomach. Your hips twitch and he stills, “careful—” he warns. 

You force yourself to freeze, still panting. 

And then he lays the broadness of his hand on your lower stomach, his thumb just barely brushing your mound. 

“This is as far as I’ll go,” he says and with the way you almost fall into a frustrated groan, he seizes your chin with his other hand, “I’ll not touch you sexually. This is all I’ll give you—be grateful for even this.” 

You sneer at him and he takes his hand away. 

Instantly, you miss the warmth, the pressure, the—

“Be good, or I’ll leave the room now and let you suffer even worse than before—see what you’ve done to yourself? Worked yourself up so horribly, and all for what?”  Suguru’s voice is soft and smooth and so, horribly in control again. When did he get it back? When did he take it from you? 

“My attention? The hopes that I’d give in?” He asks. 

When you don’t respond, he squeezes your face, prompting you, “answer me, pet.” 

“Yes—I want your attention. I want—” the words break over you like a wave, the realization like a blow. You want. 

You desire. 

You want him. You want an Alpha and not just any Alpha but Suguru, despite everything, maybe because of everything. Maybe because you made him chase, and he did. Maybe because you have run your whole life from this—this attention and this desire and this intimacy—and you have finally found someone willing to hunt you down like a fox, and in the face of your gnashing teeth and growling and yipping, to treat you gently. Like you’re a beloved house pet and not a snarling, wild beast. 

“I want you,” you say honestly and his hold slackens on your cheeks to let you speak, “I hate you and I want you and—there’s no one but you—it’s only you and you’re awful but I am, too, and I need—” 

It cracks out of you, voice raw, a half-sob. 

Your tears make him smile. 

He hushes you gently, “oh, sweet girl,” he soothes, and his other hand slowly returns to its place on your trembling, lower stomach, “you’re so torn up about this. How much grief have you given yourself? Hm? Just for wanting?” 

You heave, unable to respond, suddenly reaching with your free hand for him, pulling on his shirt, closer to you. 

He gives in and goes, lets you claw at his back and bury your face in his shoulder. He finally lets go of your face, in favor of letting you fall to pieces beneath him. His knee dips on the mattress. But he holds himself above you still.

“I’ll guide you now,” he murmurs and his voice is by your ear. He turns his nose to nudge against your temple, inhaling slowly. 

You can feel the rumble of a groan through him that he holds back, a soft growl. 

And then, “look at me.” 

You sniffle and with a great deal of reluctance, you pull your face away from the safety of his shoulder to find his gaze. Midnight violet. Depthless. 

“Hate me all you want,” he says, “but I adore you—no matter how you are. Willing and pliant, or vicious and biting. I’ll always adore you. And I’ll always do what’s best for you.” 

Something inside of you cleaves open. Fractures in a way that is irreparable. 

You want to say something but you don’t know what, you have something so tremendous and terrifying inside of you, because of him—all you can get out is a soft cry. 

“Now,” he continues, eyes flickering over your body, and his thumb gently strokes over your lower stomach. “You feel empty, don’t you?” 

A whimper eeks out of you. You nod slowly. Empty and torn apart and open and aching. 

“Use three fingers, not two.” He commands gently, “you want something bigger, hm? I’m sure it hurts so badly—you’re so wet.” 

Without thinking, you obey him. 

You press three fingers carefully inside of you and it’s the first stretch you’ve gotten, the first spark of relief. 

You cry out, clinging to him. 

“That’s it,” he encourages, “in and out for me.” 

You tilt your hips up into his hand, towards your fingers, and he doesn’t scold you. The pressure on your lower stomach makes pleasure bloom and strengthen there. For a moment, it’s just the soft, slick noises of yourself, and it’s so—

Embarrassing. So horrible. 

You must look out of your depth, you must look lost or terrified, because he finally speaks again, “curl your fingers for me, darling.” 

You do just that and moan the moment you press deeper inside yourself. 

“Good girl,” he praises, “does that feel better? Answer me.” 

“Yes—yeah.” You get out, crooking your fingers inside yourself. “I still want—” 

“More?” He murmurs, pressing his hand gently against your lower stomach, “this time, you have to make do with just this.” 

You bite back your whine or complaint, head hazy—fingers moving desperately. But you don’t complain, you don’t fuss. 

He smiles when he realizes how you’ve caught yourself, “oh, look at that,” he purrs, “you can be tamed after all.” 

And before you can ruin it for yourself, Suguru sweeps his thumb just barely over your mound again, and says, “rock your hips now, gentle.” 

The moment you do, the friction against your palm makes you moan, head falling back, baring your throat. 

Perhaps without thinking, he dips forward, nose tracing over the cure of your neck, following instinct. You make another soft noise, and in your haze, wish desperately that he would just bite down—

All you get is the brief skim of his warm, soft lips. No teeth and you miss them, achingly. 

He presses his hand down just a little more and—

Pleasure bursts beneath your skin with enough force that your back bows off the bed, mouth parted. 

You sob. 

You feel your walls flutter uselessly around your fingers, feel your body desperate for something you can’t have this time, and fall apart.

Suguru is there to catch you. 

He coos to you, soft and easy, and even kisses at your damp, tear-struck cheeks. He lets you arch and twist and chase your pleasure, lets you be wanton and shameless and desperate. He lets you claw him and bite him and cry into his shoulder. 

And when you begin to quiet, he suddenly hitches your legs around his waist and lifts you clear from the bed. You lope your arms weakly around his neck and bury your face into his throat. 

You don’t protest or fight him, you are grateful and eager for all the places you touch, feeling incredibly fragile in his broad arms.  

You don’t bother to look where he’s taking you—can’t find it in yourself to care, if you can feel him against your center, feel where he’s hard and aching himself, even with the suppressants—

But between one breath and the next, you’re in the bathtub again, and the water from the shower blasts on from above. 

Ice cold water pours on you. 

You shriek and Suguru has the nerve to laugh, which makes you lunge for him, yanking him towards the spray of water. 

It soaks his shirt, his hair, as he holds himself over you, before stepping carefully into the tub to join you. 

He sits with you, beneath the cold water, and pushes his hair out of his face as you clamber into his lap. 

You pull at his wet shirt and he lets you take it off of him, throw it over the side of the tub in a heap. 

He reaches to do the same to you, ridding you of the only article of clothing you’d had on. 

You grit your teeth, “does it have to be so cold?” You ask, feeling the spray now rain against your back, your shoulders. You lean away from it, into his arms. 

“You needed this.” He says fondly. And then, as he strokes your wet hair, “I did, too.” 

“You’re an awful man,” you curse him, shivering.

“I know,” he agrees with a soft, fond smile. 

You look at him, hair inky and dark, lashes damp against his cheek, and the pleased way he smiles. Like an insufferable, giant cat. You’re aching and furious and freezing and so—so tender. 

“I hate you,” you tell him but it sounds more like a confession, soft around the edges. 

He kisses your temple, lingers there, and you can feel the curve of his smile. You can hear it color his voice;

“I know.” 

***

Something shifts between the two of you after that. And the following day, your Heat finally begins to wane slightly. 

You try to touch yourself again and Suguru forbids it this time. You fight and snarl with him, but you let him hold you and lull you to sleep. You let him feed you. And bathe you. You sleep bare against his naked chest and are soothed by it the way a fussy baby is calmed by the bare skin of their mother. 

You feel infinitely closer to him. 

You lounge with him in bed, in his living room, hanging off him all that you can. 

He indulges this behavior, encourages it, even. 

And on the eighth day, your Heat finally breaks. 

When you wake, still curled on his chest, with his hands stroking tenderly over your bare back, he asks, “how do you feel?” 

“Sane, I think.” You murmur it into his chest. 

“Your Heat broke in the night.” He says and touches your head, your forehead, like he’s taking your temperature. “You’re still a little warmer, but it’s over now, I think.” 

Slowly, you pick yourself up to look at him. To hover over him. 

He looks up at you, too, uncertain. Waiting. You’re sure he’s waiting to see if you’ll return to your usual self, if you’ll snap or snarl or chew him out—will you storm out? Or seethe? Will you fight him still, after everything, even as he holds you in his arms now? 

“Thank you for respecting my wishes,” you say instead and lean down to suddenly press your lips to his. 

You feel his surprise, the way his lips part, the way he freezes and you sink down into it. For a moment, you worry he won’t reciprocate again. 

But then, his hand comes up to cradle your face, and he nudges into the kiss. Hungry. Deep. 

You give into him, you encourage him, coaxing him with soft tongue and eager mouth. 

When you pull away, you grab his face this time, the way he always grabs yours, squeezing his lips into a little pout, “but if you ever make me suffer like that again through a Heat,” your nails dig into his cheek, “I’ll fucking kill you.” 

He laughs, canines flashing, and surges forward to kiss you again. Harder. Meaner. 

It’s all teeth and heat, a little vicious, the way you are. He wrestles you beneath him, kisses you into the mattress. And when he pulls away, he says;

“If you ever make me suffer like that again, you’ll wish you’d killed me first.” 

You feel your own smile against his neck, against one of the ridges of your own bite mark, and with all the satisfaction in the world, you sink your teeth down into it again. 

It’s like a key coming up against a lock, fitting snugly to their own indents, and finding their own, well-worn place. 

It’s like finally coming home. 

[arxhslayer]

Kinds of Kisses pt. 2 (Carlisle Cullen x Reader)

Neck kisses

A/N: this fic is inspired by @futuremrsdrcullen's "I'm Always in This Twilight" series. All rights to the Twilight Saga go to Stephanie Meyer. This is also inspired by mushroom ravioli, which I'm having for dinner tonight.

WC: 533

CW: a tiny bit of swearing & a fair amount of kissing

~~~~~

I had just about finished carefully chopping up the mushrooms for dinner when I heard Carlisle’s car pulling up the driveway. The rush of air behind me that soon followed indicated his presence. The rest of the Cullens were out for various reasons: Alice was with Bella, Edward was probably brooding in the forest, and Rosalie, Emmett, and Jasper were out hunting.

“Hello love,” he greeted, wrapping his arms around me from behind, already having changed out of his work clothes. I’m still baffled by just how fast he is. “What are you making?”

Turning to look at him, I responded, “Mushroom ravioli. Bella’s coming over for dinner tonight and I remembered that she likes it. Figured it was my turn to try making Italian cuisine.”

“Is there anything you want help with?” he asked me. I shook my head, and placed a quick peck to his lips before going back to cutting. He hummed behind me, placing a gentle kiss to the crook of my neck as I asked, “So how was your shift at the hospital?”

He sighed, cool breath drifting over my shoulder. “It’s been worse.” “But it’s been better,” I said, filling in what he left unsaid. He nodded, and I gently pulled away to add the rest of the ingredients to the pan on the stove.

Carlisle continued, “We had the usual. Stomach pains, headache, that sort of thing. But there was also a car crash today.”

I made a mental note to call my dad later, and to send some food home with Bella.

“Luckily there were no fatalities, but the drivers involved both got pretty beat up. One of them had a couple passengers too, some kids.”

“Are they all going to be okay?” I asked as I moved back to him, putting my arms around his neck.

“They should all be fine. One of the drivers was rushed in for emergency surgery, and we’re keeping him at the hospital for a few days. But the family was able to be discharged quickly.” He smiled, hugging me back, but his golden eyes betrayed how tired he felt. The bruise-like marks underneath them seemed worse than usual too.

“I can reschedule dinner if you’d like, we can have a quiet night in. Or I can go over to my dad’s house to eat so you can go join Rosalie, Emmett, and Jasper.”

Chuckling, he replied, “Don’t reschedule. I’ll go out hunting later tonight, after Bella arrives.” He paused, pulling me closer so that our foreheads rested together. “I just want to be with you right now.” I leaned up to kiss him, but his eyes widened slightly as he turned towards the stove.

“Shit, the ravioli!” I spun to the stove, but Carlisle was already there, turning down the heat. Thankfully nothing was burned too badly, and I started to spoon the filling onto the pasta dough. Carlisle was behind me again, arms around my waist, holding me to him. He rested his chin on my shoulder, occasionally pressing kisses against my shoulder, neck, or jaw.

That’s how we spent the next hour, before cuddling on the couch and watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer until Bella arrived.

[inkdrinkerworld]

For Remus and sick reader I had a thought!!

I have a friend who always cries when she gets sick—like literally without fail she’ll be sobbing if she has a cold, that’s just how her body handles feeling bad. She makes fun of herself a bit for it bc she always ends up crying over nothing when she’s sick. I just think Remus with a sick reader who cries like that would be so cute 😭 like he’d be so worried the first time it happens and then as it happens more he just does what he can to make her feel better, holds her and watches a comfort movie or smth with her (which may end up with her crying even more depending on the movie LOL)

I hope this is close to what you were wanting, sorry if it’s too long!!! Hope you’re having a great day <3

Remus worries when he gets back from the supermarket and you’re not bundled up on the sofa where he’s left you.

“Dove?” His voice is mainly concerned, especially when he notices the shower on and you don’t respond.

By the time Remus reaches the bathroom, there’s steam curling out from the door. He pushes it open and breathes a sigh of relief that morphs right back to concern.

You’re sitting on the shower floor, hot water beating on your back.

“I had a fever,” you explain to Remus croakily.

“I know, but you’re meant to use cold water, lovely girl.”

You shake your head vehemently, tears springing to your eyes as Remus reaches for the shower dial.

“No please Remmy. I can’t, I don’t want it cold.” You’re waterlogged now, shivering under the hot water. Remus feels bad, his heart aching as you sniffle and wipe your eyes.

“I’m just taking it off, dove.” He shuts off the water, reaching for your towel and wrapping you up. “I got soup for you and your medicine.”

You sniffle again, leaning into Remus as he dries your skin.

Remus dresses you, not wanting you to exert a single bit of strength. He feels sorry for how fast this cold has settled upon you. You were fine this morning and then by one you were burning up with a sore throat and with body aches like nothing else.

“I’m sorry for being a baby about the shower.” You rub your face with the sleeve of the sweatshirt you’re in now, goosebumps spread over your skin.

Remus tuts, his lips to your jaw. “You’re not well, plus you’re my baby. Doesn’t bother me.”

You whine and push at Remus’ chest making him chuckle. “C’mon, I’ve got soup and ginger tea and lozenges; the honey ones you like.”

You let Remus lead you, not above being coddled and cooed at as he’s extra sweet on you.

Remus keeps a hand to your back as you eat, offering to feed you every time your hand shakes or you shiver. You appreciate the offer, you just think being fed would be a bit of overkill.

You lay your head on his shoulder when you’re halfway through your soup and wince at the action.

Remus is even gentler than usual when he asks, “What is it, love?” His hand coasts up and down your arm, he can feel your fever through your clothes and it worries him a bit but he doesn’t want to stress you out more.

“My head kills.” You shut your eyes and grit your teeth, head spinning as Remus shifts position.

“Sorry dove,” he coos as he helps you lay down. “M’gonna go get the syrup.” You want to whine and shake your head and put up more of a fight but you’re tired, achy and honestly the sleep that comes when you take the medicine is welcome.

You’re not awake to take it when Remus comes back, he dots a kiss to your forehead and sets a cool rag on it as you sleep; hoping that at least that would bring down your fever.