#shadow bluster

[candywitch15]

Shadow Bluster! We are so back baby!

Ko-Fi<3

Mario Sunshine looking ass-

This is my season 2!

[kaitoru]

NO DIGGITY ── ᡣ𐭩 K.N

summary ୨୧ the man that had his massive cock buried in your throat, the man who fucked you like he hated you on that booth, turns out to be your boss at your new job!?

pairing ୨୧ ceo nanami x stripper reader

warning ୨୧ non-consensual undertones. consent ambiguity. public humiliation. rough physical interactions. spanking. hair-pulling. physical aggression. sexual tension and unresolved conflict. clothing fetish (implied) degradation. exhibitionism. power play. aggressive physical handling. emotional manipulation. non proof-read.

word count ୨୧ 4.5k

“you! what the fuck are you doing?!” he’d roared, his face so close you could feel the heat of his breath, sour with cheap whiskey and nicotine.

his eyes bulged, veins pulsing at his temples as he jabbed a finger toward the private booths. “get your ass to booth three and entertain the gentleman now! don’t make me tell you twice!”

you’d rolled your eyes, the motion slow, a silent rebellion against his bluster.

your fingers found the strap of your thigh high stockings, tugging it with a snap that echoed like a whip in the charged air.

“okay, gosh,” you drawled, your voice thick with sarcasm, dripping like honey laced with venom.

the click of your stilettos on the tiles was a metronome of defiance, each step a declaration that you were in control, no matter what he thought.

the corridor to the private booths stretched before you, a tunnel of dim light and muffled moans, the air growing cooler as you approached booth three.

the door swung open, and the chilled air hit you like a slap, sharp and invigorating, laced with the musky scent of expensive cologne cedar and leather.

it was a man’s scent, one that spoke of wealth and restraint, and it curled around you like a whispered promise.

the booth itself was a cocoon of shadows, its plush velvet walls swallowing the light, save for the soft glow of amber sconces that cast a warm, honeyed haze over the space.

a single pole gleamed in the center, its polished surface catching the light like a beacon, and beyond it, seated on a low leather couch, was him.

kento nanami.

he sat with an air of quiet authority, his blonde hair catching the light like burnished gold, each strand meticulously in place despite the late hour.

his suit was immaculate, charcoal, tailored to perfection, the kind of outfit that screamed money without shouting.

but it was his eyes that pinned you, like twin blades slicing through the dimness.

you swayed your hips, letting the distant thrum of the club’s music guide your movements, your fingers brushing the cool metal of the pole.

it was smooth under your touch, a grounding contrast to the heat building in your chest.

you wrapped one leg around it, the motion fluid, your body arching as you let out a low, throaty groan.

the sound was a challenge, a siren’s call, and you tossed your head back, letting your hair cascade like a dark waterfall, catching the light in glints of silver.

his gaze was a physical weight, raising goosebumps along your arms, as if the air itself had grown electric under his scrutiny.

you sauntered toward him, each step a calculated tease, your heels clicking like the ticking of a bomb.

the sequins of your outfit glittered like scattered stars, catching the amber light and throwing it back in defiance.

but his expression stopped you cold—bored? detached? His lips were set in a straight line, his posture rigid, as if he were sitting through a board meeting rather than a private show.

the audacity of it sparked a flicker of annoyance in your chest, hot and sharp.

you planted your hands on your hips, cocking your head.

“what, i’m not your type?” your voice was a blade, sharp with irritation. “or is that suit just too tight for you to feel anything?”

nanami’s eyes widened, a crack in his stoic facade, like a stone wall showing its first fracture.

he raised his hands, palms out, as if to deflect your words. “no,” he said quickly, his voice low and controlled.

he coughed, straightening his tie as if it could anchor him. “i mean… just keep going. please.” you arched an eyebrow, crossing your arms, the sequins digging into your skin like tiny teeth.

“keep going?” you echoed, your tone dripping with incredulity, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“you sure you’re not just here to fuck me? or is that tie choking out your honesty too?”

his jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone.

his eyes darkened, the storm behind them stirring, but his voice remained steady, a low rumble that sent a shiver skittering down your spine like a spark along a fuse.

“i’m here to unwind,” he said, each word clipped, precise, as if he were reciting a mantra to keep himself in check. “not… whatever you’re implying.”

you let out a loud, throaty laugh, the sound bouncing off the velvet walls like a ricochet.

“unwind? Are you fucking kidding me?” you said, stepping closer, your hips swaying with every word.

“tou’re in a private booth, with me. you don’t come here to ‘unwind’ like you’re sipping tea at a goddamn spa.” you leaned in, your breath warm against his ear, your voice dropping to a sultry purr.

“you paid for this, might as well get your money’s worth.” his breath hitched, a sharp intake that sent a thrill through you, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

his hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling as if fighting the urge to reach out.

you didn’t give him the chance to decide.

your fingers found his belt, tugging it loose with a rough pull, the leather snapping free like a whip.

his cock sprang out, already hard, pulsing with a heat that matched the fire in your veins.

the sight of it sent a jolt through you, your lips curling into a wicked grin.

“unwind, huh,” you muttered, your voice low and mocking. “what a fucking joke.” you leaned down, your tongue flicking across his tip, tasting the salt and heat of him, a tang that sparked something primal in your core.

nanami’s head snapped back, a low groan tearing from his throat, the sound raw and unguarded, like a dam finally giving way.

his carefully constructed control frayed like a worn rope, and you smirked at the sight, muttering,

“unwind, my ass,” before plunging your lips over him, taking him deep, the warmth of his skin against your tongue was electric, each pulse of his arousal sending a shiver through you, your own body responding with a heat that pooled low in your belly.

you worked him with deliberate slowness, savoring every reaction, the way his breath caught, the way his fingers twitched against the leather couch, the way his stoic facade crumbled with each passing second.

“you like this, don’t you?” you teased, pulling back just enough to let your words brush against him, your lips grazing his skin.

“all that talk about unwinding, but look at you, hard as a rock and barely holding it together.”

he didn’t respond, but his eyes burned into you, dark and intense, a silent admission that you were unraveling him.

you dove back in, your movements bolder, faster, your tongue swirling as you took him deeper.

his hand shot out, fingers tangling in your hair, gripping tight with a sting that sent a jolt of heat through your core.

“enough,” he growled, his voice rough, like gravel underfoot.

he pushed your throat down onto him, the roughness making you gasp, a muffled whine escaping as the intensity sent your senses spiraling.

you pulled back, catching your breath, your lips slick and swollen. “oh, so now you’re into it,” you taunted, your voice dripping with defiance.

“what happened to mr. unwind?” his eyes narrowed, but there was no time for words.

his control snapped like a taut wire, and he came hard, the warmth of his release coating your face, a shock of heat that made your breath catch.

before you could recover, he yanked you up by your hair, the sting sharp and exhilarating, and slammed you against the back of the velvet couch.

the fabric was cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the fire in his touch. “you wanted my money’s worth,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, like thunder rolling in the distance.

his hands pinned you down, fingers digging into your hips with a force that made your heart race.

“let’s see if you can keep up.” he didn’t wait for a response, his cock, still hard, impossibly so, thrusting into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs.

you screamed, the sound raw and unrestrained, your body arching against the couch as the heat of him filled you.

each movement was a wave of intensity, scorching your senses, your nails digging into the velvet as you braced yourself against the onslaught.

the booth seemed to shrink around you, the world narrowing to the rhythm of his need and your defiance, the air thick with the scent of sweat and desire.

“fuck,” you gasped, your voice trembling with a mix of pain and pleasure, your body responding to every thrust with a fire that threatened to consume you.

“you call this unwinding?” his lips curled into something resembling a smirk, but it was fleeting, swallowed by the intensity in his eyes.

“you talk too much,” he said, his voice a low growl as he leaned in, breath hot against your neck.

his pace quickened, each thrust deeper, harder, as if he were pouring every ounce of his pent up tension into you.

your screams mingled with his grunts, the sounds swallowed by the velvet walls, the booth a private inferno where restraint had no place.

well… that was something.

the office was a stark contrast to the sultry haze of the club, all crisp lines and sterile air, but the tension between you and kento nanami was just as suffocating, a living pulse that thrummed beneath the polished surface of professionalism.

nanami stood behind his desk, a folder gripped tightly in one hand, his knuckles pale as if it were the only thing anchoring him against the storm brewing in the room.

his suit was impeccable, charcoal gray hugging his broad shoulders, the tie knotted with military precision, but his eyes—those sharp, hazel eyes that had burned into you under the amber glow of the booth—betrayed him.

the memory of that night hung between you like a live wire, sparking with every glance, every breath. “you—” your voice caught, sharp and disbelieving, as you tried to wrap your head around the absurdity of it.

“you’re my boss?” the words came out louder than intended, slicing through the quiet like a blade.

you crossed your arms, the fabric of your blazer pulling tight across your shoulders, a faint reminder of the sequined outfit you’d worn when you’d last faced him, when your skin had prickled under his gaze and his hands had been anything but professional.

he coughed, a sharp, controlled sound, as if he could clear the tension with it.

his jaw tightened, and he straightened, slipping back into the facade of composure that seemed to be his armor.

“yes,” he said, his voice low and clipped, each syllable a brick in the wall he was trying to rebuild.

“i expect you to behave, do as you’re told, you’re my assistant, don’t fuck things up.” his words were a command.

you raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips as you leaned forward, your hands bracing against the edge of his desk.

the wood was cool under your palms, grounding you as you met his gaze head-on. “you’re the one who fucked me in that booth—” the words slipped out before you could stop them, sharp and reckless, a spark tossed into dry tinder.

you froze, the air thickening, and looked down, your cheeks burning despite yourself. “yes, sir,” you muttered, the title dripping with mockery, a defiance you couldn’t quite suppress.

nanami’s grip on the folder tightened, the paper crinkling under his fingers.

his eyes darkened, the storm behind them stirring, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch. “that,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, like a man choosing his words with the precision of a surgeon.

“was a mistake, a lapse in judgment, it won’t happen again.” he set the folder down with a controlled thud, the sound echoing like a gavel in the quiet office.

“you’re here to work, not to… dredge up the past.” you scoffed, straightening up, your heels clicking softly on the hardwood floor as you shifted your weight.

“a mistake?” you echoed, your tone sharp enough to cut glass. “you didn’t seem to think it was a mistake when you had me pinned against that couch, or when you were groaning my name like it was the only word you knew.”

you tilted your head, letting your hair fall over one shoulder, a deliberate echo of the way you’d moved in the booth.

“don’t tell me you’ve forgotten already.” his jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone, and for a moment, you thought you saw the facade crack, his eyes flickered, a flash of heat that mirrored the intensity of that night, when his hands had been rough and his control had shattered like glass.

but he recovered quickly, leaning forward, his hands flat on the desk, his posture all business despite the fire in his gaze. “i haven’t forgotten,” he said “but this is my office, not some seedy booth, you’ll do your job, or you’ll find yourself out of one.”

you laughed, a low, throaty sound that filled the room like smoke. “oh, i’ll do my job,”

you’d spent the day swallowing your rage, each of his criticisms a fresh cut to your pride, he’d been relentless, a bastard cloaked in professionalism, calling out every typo, every misstep, in front of the entire team.

“this report is sloppy,” he’d said, his voice cold as steel, his hazel eyes pinning you in place as snickers rippled through the room. “do better.”

the memory of it burned, a coal lodged in your chest, fueling the anger that now surged through your veins like wildfire.

you weren’t just embarrassed, you were humiliated, your first day as his assistant reduced to a public flogging.

and you weren’t about to let it slide.

you’d stayed late on purpose, waiting until the office emptied, the clatter of keyboards and polite chatter fading into silence.

the clock on the wall ticked past 10 p.m., each second a drumbeat to your resolve.

now was your chance.

you stormed down the hall, your heels clicking like gunfire on the hardwood, your blazer tight against your shoulders as if it could contain the fury simmering beneath your skin.

the door to his office loomed ahead, a slab of dark wood that felt like a challenge.

you didn’t knock, you barged in, the hinges creaking as the door swung wide.

nanami sat behind his desk, bathed in the dim glow of his laptop, his tie slightly loosened, a rare crack in his polished armor.

he lifted his chin, his sharp gaze meeting yours, and for a moment, the air crackled, thick with the weight of everything unspoken.

“you embarrassed me,” you said, your voice shaking, not with fear but with the raw edge of anger, each word a stone hurled at him.

your hands clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms, the pain grounding you against the heat flooding your chest.

he raised an eyebrow, his expression infuriatingly calm, as if your words were a mild inconvenience.

“did i?” he asked, his tone cool, almost dismissive, as he turned his attention back to the laptop, his fingers hovering over the keys.

the nonchalance was a slap, and it sent your blood boiling.

you stomped toward him, the sound of your heels a war drum in the quiet, and slammed his laptop shut with a force that made the desk shudder.

the click of the lid echoed like a gunshot, and nanami’s eyes shot to yours, wide with surprise, a frown creasing his brow.

“what the—?” he started, his voice sharp with irritation. “what do you think you’re doing?” you didn’t answer, not with words. Your fingers moved to your blazer, unbuttoning it with deliberate slowness, each snap of fabric a challenge, a defiance.

“why did you embarrass me out there?” you demanded, your voice low and venomous, trembling with the weight of your humiliation.

“you made me look like an idiot in front of everyone. it’s my first day!” he stood, his chair scraping back, but before he could step away, you rounded the desk, your movements swift and unyielding.

you pushed him back down, your hands firm against his chest, the heat of him searing through his crisp cloth.

he froze, his hands gripping the armrests, his knuckles pale as he looked up at you.

“i didn’t—” he started, but his voice faltered as you threw your blazer across the room, the fabric landing in a heap against the wall.

you stood before him in your bra, the black lace stark against your skin, catching the faint light like a dare.

his breath hitched, a sharp sound that betrayed the crack in his composure. “what—what are you doing?” he stammered, his voice rough, caught between shock and something deeper, something that mirrored the hunger you’d seen in him that night.

you didn’t stop.

your fingers found the hem of your tight skirt, hiking it up just enough to reveal the red thong beneath, the fabric a bold slash of color against your thighs.

the air in the room seemed to thicken, heavy with the scent of your perfume and the faint musk of his cologne, a collision of scents that made your head spin.

“you think you can humiliate me and just sit there like it’s nothing?” you said, your voice a low grow. “you think you can call me out, make me feel small, and i’ll just take it?”

his grip on the armrests tightened, his fingers digging into the leather, and his eyes locked onto yours, a storm brewing behind them.

“you’re out of line,” he said, his voice low and controlled, but there was a tremor in it, a crack in the stone that hinted at the fire beneath.

“this isn’t the club, this is my office. you need to stop.” you leaned in, your hands braced on the armrests, caging him in, your face inches from his.

his breath was warm against your skin, and you could see the pulse at his throat, quick and unsteady, betraying the calm he was trying so hard to maintain.

“stop?” you echoed, your tone mocking, a smirk curling your lips. “you didn’t want me to stop in that booth, you were all over me, losing control, and now you’re acting like you’re above it all? like you’re not thinking about it every time you look at me?”

his jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath his cheek, and for a moment, you thought he might push you away, might reclaim the distance he’d been trying to enforce all day.

but his eyes flickered, drifting to the curve of your lips, the lace of your bra, the red thong peeking from beneath your hiked up skirt.

“you’re making this harder than it needs to be,” he said, his voice a low rumble, like thunder trapped in a bottle. “i told you, that night was a mistake. i'm your boss now, we can’t—”

“can’t?” you cut him off, your voice sharp enough to slice through his words. “don’t give me that bullshit, you can’t stand there and pretend you don’t want this.”

you straightened, stepping back just enough to let him see you fully, the dim light catching the contours of your body, the defiance in your stance.

“you humiliated me today, and i'm not letting it go. you want to play the cold, hard boss? fine. but i’m not some intern you can push around.”

he exhaled sharply, his breath a hiss through his teeth, and stood again.

he towered over you, his height imposing, but you didn’t back down, your chin lifted, your eyes locked on his.

“you think this is the way to handle it?” he asked, voice low. “storming in here, throwing your clothes off? you think that’s going to fix anything?”

you smirked, undeterred, your hands resting on your hips, the red thong a deliberate taunt. “i’m not trying to fix anything,” you said, your voice a sultry purr, laced with the anger that still burned in your chest.

“i’m making a point, you don’t get to humiliate me and walk away clean, you want to call me out in front of everyone? fine, but you’re going to face me now, just you and me.”

his eyes darkened, the storm behind them breaking free.

“you’re playing a dangerous game,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a threat, or a promise.

“this isn’t the place for this, you need to leave. Now.” you stepped closer, closing the distance, your body brushing against his, the heat of him searing through the thin barrier of his shirt.

“make me,” you whispered, your voice a challenge, your breath warm against his jaw.

the office seemed to shrink around you, the dim light casting long shadows that danced like specters.

you surged forward, your body crashing against his, the heat of him searing through the crisp fabric of his shirt.

your lips met his in a kiss born of rage, rough and devoid of tenderness, a clash of teeth and spite that tasted of anger and unresolved need.

for a fleeting moment, he froze, his muscles taut as if poised to push you away, his restraint a wall you were determined to demolish.

your heart pounded, the silence between you a taut wire ready to snap, and you braced for rejection, your anger flaring hotter at the thought.

but then, to your surprise, his hands found your waist, pulling you closer with a force that stole your breath, his fingers digging into your skin like anchors in a storm.

his teeth grazed your lips, sharp and hungry, a bite that drew a whine from your throat, raw and unfiltered, the sound igniting the air like a spark in dry tinder.

the kiss deepened, a chaotic dance of tongues and fury, his grip tightening as if he could hold back the tide of desire threatening to sweep you both under.

you pressed yourself closer, your chest flush against his, the black lace of your bra scratching against his shirt, a reminder of the vulnerability you’d bared and the power you still held.

the heat between you was a living thing, pulsing like the bass of the club that night, and you could feel his resolve fraying, thread by thread.Without warning, he moved, his hands rough as they spun you around and pressed you against the glass wall.

the cold surface was a shock against your heated skin, your chest flattening against it, the city lights beyond blurring into a kaleidoscope of neon pinks and blues.

you gasped, the sensation sending a jolt through your core, your palms splaying against the glass as if to brace yourself against the onslaught of his presence.

he grabbed a handful of your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands with a sting that made your breath hitch, and leaned down, his breath hot and ragged against your ear.

“this is how you wanted to handle it?” he whispered, his voice a low growl, laced with something dangerous, a blade wrapped in velvet that cut through the haze of your anger.

the words were a challenge, a taunt, and they sent a shiver down your spine, the heat of his body pressed against yours a stark contrast to the cold glass.

before you could respond, his hand came down on your ass with a sharp slap, the sound echoing like a crack of thunder in the silent office.

you squirmed, the pain blooming into a heat that pooled low in your belly, a wildfire spreading through your veins, but he held you firm, his grip unyielding, pinning you against the glass.

“you think you can storm in here, throw yourself at me, and i'll just bend?” he murmuredl, his body pressed closer, the hard line of his arousal evident through his slacks, and you felt the tip of him brush against you, teasing the edge of your red thong.

the anticipation was electric, a live wire sparking through your senses, and you pushed back against him, a silent defiance that dared him to act.

“you humiliated me,” you hissed, your voice trembling with fury and need, your nails scraping against the glass.

“you think you can make me look like a fool and just sit there, all high and mighty? you’re not getting away with it.”his grip tightened in your hair, the sting sending a jolt through you, and he leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear.

“you’re out of control,” he said, his voice low. “this isn’t the club, this is my office, you need to stop.” tou smirked, twisting your head just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes burning with the same fire that had driven you to barge in here.

“make me,” you challenged, your voice a sultry purr, laced with the anger that still burned in your chest.

without warning, he shoved himself inside you, the intrusion harsh, filling you with a heat that made you cry out.

the glass vibrated under your palms, your breath fogging the surface as he fucked you with no mercy, each thrust a punishment, a release, a collision of everything you’d both been holding back.

your body rocked against the wall, the cold glass a stark contrast to the fire of his movements, your senses overwhelmed by the scent of his cologne, the sting of his grip, the relentless rhythm that drove you to the edge.

“fuck,” you gasped, your voice trembling with a mix of defiance and need, your nails scraping against the glass as you braced yourself.

“you think this makes up for today? you’re still a bastard.” he didn’t answer, but his grip tightened, his breath ragged against your neck.

with a sudden movement, he pulled you away from the glass, spinning you around to face him.

his eyes were dark, the restraint he’d clung to shattered, and before you could catch your breath, he lifted you, his hands strong and unyielding under your thighs.

he slammed you onto the desk, the wood creaking under your weight, papers scattering like leaves in a storm.

the impact sent a jolt through you, your skirt bunched around your hips, the red thong a vivid slash against your skin in the dim light.

he pinned your wrists above your head, his fingers like iron, and thrust into you again, the desk rocking with the force of it.

the air was thick with the scent of sweat and desire, the city lights beyond the glass casting fleeting shadows across his face, illuminating the sharp lines of his jaw, the hunger in his eyes.

“you wanted my attention,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous, each word punctuated by a thrust that made you gasp.

“you’ve got it now. happy?” you smirked, despite the intensity, your voice sharp and mocking.

© written by kaizer | do not copy plagiarize or translate any.

[jobean12-blog]

Defenseless in Love

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader

Word Count: 3.6K

Summary: You've been friends with Sam for a while and you've trained with him here and there but never really got to the point where you feel you could properly defend yourself and when you ask him to teach you self-defense his new job as Captain America makes him a little less available so he directs you to his friend Bucky.

Author's Note: I always loved the thought of Bucky teaching us to be badass and even though he's lethal he's gentle and patient and wonderful! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy! 🥰

Warnings: lots of fluff and flirty things and tension and a minor (totally fine) injury, soft Bucky

 “Why me?”

“Why not you?” Sam raises a brow, setting his hands on his hips.

Bucky remains quiet with a shake of his head.

“She doesn’t want to take a class. Says it makes her uncomfortable and she would rather train one on one with someone she trusts.”

“Then you do it,” Bucky sighs.

“I can’t.”

Bucky pins Sam with an incredulous glare.

“I’m kinda busy at the moment,” Sam explains with a lopsided smirk. “You know…Captain America and all.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens and he mindlessly stirs the spoon in his coffee.

“How do you know I won’t make her uncomfortable?”

The words are quietly spoken, and Bucky’s eyes stay fixed on the dark liquid in front of him.

“Buck,” Sam says softly. “I told her I was going to ask you to do it and that I trust you completely.”

Bucky looks up to meet Sam’s eyes.

“She was fine with it. She said, ‘if you trust him then I do too.’”

He’s tall, with tousled dark hair and a strong jaw covered with dark stubble. He stands and waits, his arms crossed over his torso in a way that makes the muscles in his chest and forearms shift deliciously. And his eyes…his eyes are a shade of blue that rivals the ocean. They’re gorgeous-like the rest of him.

Taking a deep breath, you remove yourself from the hidden shadows just outside the gym door and grab the handle.

His head snaps in your direction, his gaze turning fully on you and making your heart skip a beat.

He says your name; his voice is low and gravelly, and it skates down your spine with a tingle. You nod and say hello.

“I was wondering how long you were going to stand out there.”

You suck in a breath and your lips remain parted.

“First lesson,” he continues, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, “always be aware of your surroundings.”

“Right,” you manage to say as you step inside and let the door shut.

An hour later, after stretching and taking the time to talk through any jitters you’re standing in front of Bucky in your best defensive stance.

“That’s really the best you’ve got?” he says, his tone neither mocking or malicious.

“I’m more dangerous than you think,” you bluster.

The corners of his mouth rise into a challenging smirk.

You hate how beautiful he is. It’s a distraction and if you really want to learn you’re going to have to steel yourself against it.

He wiggles his fingers in your direction, and you pause.

“Shouldn’t you be attacking me first?” you ask. “Isn’t that why I need to learn to defend myself…you know self-defense.”

“I just want to see what I’m working with here,” he replies, keeping those perfect lips titled upward.

You let out a long exhale and rush toward him, barely able to register what happens before you’re wrapped in his arms, your back pressed tightly to his chest. You struggle in his grip, moving against him to try and loosen his hold.

He goes still and you swear he stops breathing for a heartbeat before he let’s you go.

You spin and face him again, breathing heavily and not from exertion. This time he moves toward you, and holy shit he’s fast. You try to swipe his feet out from under him in a move that he artfully dodges and captures your arm. The earth spins and you brace for the impact of your back smacking the mat but instead all you feel is the strength of his arms behind you as he holds you up and slowly lets you sink down. He leans down so his face is only inches from yours, “you’re strong,” he whispers, “but you’re gonna need more finesse.”

You huff in response, but he releases you and stands, offering you a hand. “We’re not done yet. We’ve barely gotten started.”

He tugs you to your feet, then twists your arm behind your back and yanks you against his hard chest, pinning your joined hands before you even catch your balance.

“Shit,” you snap, trying to steady your breathing.

He releases your hand and steps back and you whirl, going for a punch to his throat. He knocks your hand aside easily.

“Good,” he says with a smile, deflecting your next blow without even breaking a sweat. “Going for the throat is always a good option as long as it’s exposed.”

You kick out again, mostly from frustration, and he captures your leg, this time, holding it for a second before dropping it to the mat with a frown. “I expect you to learn from your mistakes.”

Your frustration turns to fury, and you glare at him, noting the way he stands there with loose arms, rocking back on his heels.

“You’re not even trying,” you grit out.

His lips curve into a smile and this time you don’t think, you just act, going low and kicking out the backs of his knees. He goes down hard, and you pounce, trying for a headlock. Doesn’t matter how big someone is- they still need to breathe.

Instead of going for your arms, he twists, grabbing a hold of the backs of your thighs so you lose your leverage and your bodies careen into a roll. Of course, he lands on top.

His forearm rests against your throat and his hips have you pinned; your legs useless on either side of his as he lies heavily between your thighs. Your body becomes so acutely aware of him that he’s all you can feel. Your breath catches and your body warms.

“Where did you learn that move?” he asks with an approving smile.

Your chin lifts. “Sam taught me a few things here and there.”

“If your opponent is bigger you need to stop going for moves that will expose you,” he explains, keeping you pressed to the mat with his weight. “A rib shot would work just fine.” He gently pulls your hand free and drags your fingertips down his side. Then he guides your hands around his back. “Kidneys are a good fit from this angle too.”

You swallow hard, refusing to let your mind wander to other things that are a good fit in this position.

He leads your hands to his waist and you’re sure you feel the muscles of his abdominals tense under your touch. “There’s weakness here too. Three easy places to strike.”

You stare at him, your fingers still pressed against his shirt and feeling the hardness beneath.

“You hear me doll?”

You nod.

“This looks promising,” Sam says with a mischievous tone.

You’re suddenly reminded of your surroundings and the realization of your current entanglement with Bucky makes your skin heat.

“Sam!” you say as you try and get out from under Bucky.

Bucky presses up from the mat a few inches and then slides your hand away from his side, slowly, inch by inch.

“That’s it?” you ask, surprised at the disappointment you feel.

“I hate to break it up, but I need Bucky,” Sam says.

Bucky pushes up all the way, removing his weight from your body and offering you another hand. You don’t take it this time and rise from the mat with ease. His approving smile makes you feel warm all the way down to your toes.

Sam’s smile is wide and knowing but you ignore it, focusing on Bucky.

“I’ll be right there Wilson,” Bucky says, the short dismissal enough to get Sam to give you two privacy.

“You did well,” Bucky says, filling the space in front of you.

Your head drops and you scoff, kicking at some invisible object on the mat. Warm, strong fingers press gently under your chin and raise your face until your eyes lock with ocean blue.

“You did,” he says again.

“Thanks,” you whisper, mourning the loss of his fingers when he drops his hand.

“I’ll be more organized next time…if you want to do this again.”

“I do,” you answer quickly. “I want to feel safe. And strong.”

Bucky nods. “You will doll.”

The next week you’re back at the gym, feeling more confident and even more comfortable. After your first session you and Bucky exchanged phone numbers, the text messages flowing easily between you the past few days. This time you open the door without hesitation and find Bucky leaning against the far wall, cutting the pieces off a plum with a knife. His eyes lift and lock with yours just as he opens his mouth to pop a bite in.

Your entire body tingles.

He didn’t lie when he said he’d be more prepared and organized for this session. He works you through some stretches and a warmup and then takes you through several take downs step by step, each one building on the next. You’re moving faster and even getting a few hits in here and there. The confidence fuels you and coupled with some adrenaline you really push yourself, pressing Bucky to work you harder.

He does but when you try something new, something he wasn’t anticipating, you end up ramming your ribs into his metal forearm. It’s completely by accident but knocks the wind out of you nonetheless and you fall to your knees to catch your breath.

“Shit doll,” Bucky says, falling down next to you and grabbing your shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

You wheeze out an “I’m ok,” and when you look up to reassure him, the lines of worry etched into his features make it even harder to breathe.

“Let me see,” he says, the panic in his eyes softening your own before he looks down at your side.

“I’m fine,” you say.

His focus snaps back to your eyes. “Don’t lie to me.”

“It hurts,” you admit after a stuttered inhale.

“Let me see,” he says again.

“Is that a request or a demand?” you ask, trying to sound teasing.

“You pick as long as I can check to see how bad it is.”

You swallow, then nod, reaching for the hem of your shirt. He stops you with a soft hand and then with surprising gentleness his fingers skim your bare skin as he slowly lifts your shirt. You suppress a shiver, locking your muscles so you don’t melt against him.

“Sorry if my hands are cold,” he says, clearing his throat as more of your skin is exposed.

Your eyes meet and warmth flutters in your stomach. He drops his eyes and inspects your side, gentle fingers stroking your ribs before they prod carefully.

“You’re gonna have one hell of a bruise doll. I really am sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong and thanks for checking.”

He drags your shirt back down, letting his knuckles graze you skin in the process. He waits for you to stand, watching you closely and letting out a relieved exhale when he notices your breathing is more even.

Your eyes widen when he drops to his knees in front of you. “Your shoe is untied.”

“Oh.”

Your hands twitch at your sides, his long, soft strands of hair at the perfect level for you to run your fingers through.

“Thank you.”

He gives you a real smile, not a cocky smirk or a teasing tilt to his lips. A real, honest, heart-stopping smile that you’re anything but immune to.

“It’s the least I could do after…that.”

“Not your fault Bucky,” you assure him again. “It happened by complete accident.”

Bucky texts you at least forty-seven times over the next week, constantly checking in and asking about your ribs. But you’re still surprised when the day before you’re next session he calls, asking if you want to meet for breakfast beforehand.

“This place has the best coffee. And muffins. And scones,” he says as he holds the door open for you.

You laugh and walk through, instantly soothed by the smell of coffee beans and baked goods. “And you know this because you’ve tried them all of course.”

“Of course,” he says while rubbing his stomach.

Your eyes track the movement and you’re positive you can see ridges of muscles beneath his shirt. It takes all your concentration to tear your gaze away and focus on the menu. After ordering your drinks and two of everything baked you head for your seats.

You try it all and let Bucky eat the rest, marveling at how he packs it away and doesn’t even seem fazed.

“I wish I could eat like that and look like you.”

The comment comes out before you can stop it, and your eyes widen slightly when they meet his narrowed ones.

“You look perfect,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Eat whatever you want. You’re gonna need the energy today.”

He gives you one of his signature teasing smirks and you stand. “Bring it on Barnes!”

The walk to the gym is short but the weather is warm, and you can feel a light sheen of sweat coating the back of your neck. The hot coffee you’re drinking doesn’t help either but it’s too good to not finish.

He holds the door open for you and then walks in, sipping his coffee as he goes. You bend over to retrieve something from your bag, and he takes a misstep, his focus on your ass instead of where he’s going.

With a tumble forward his coffee follows suit, his momentum forcing the liquid out of the cup and onto his shirt. He catches himself before he looks like a complete fool, but the damage is done. His shirt is soaked through on the front with the last of his coffee.

“AH shit,” he sighs, pulling the wet material from his stomach.

“What happened?” you ask, your brows furrowed as you turn toward him. “Did you trip?”

“Um…yeah, something like that,” he says. “I have to change.”

He reaches behind his back and starts to lift his shirt, slowly revealing tanned skin that’s all sharp lines and barely restrained power. You’ve seen shirtless men before. Many times. But never Bucky Barnes. You’d start counting his ab muscles if the rest of him wasn’t just as good to look at. Your mouth waters when he turns around and you see the muscled expanse of his back. Even the gold and gray metal plates of his arm move beautifully as he searches for a new shirt.

“Sam usually keeps some stuff stashed in here,” Bucky says.

You think you heard what he said but you’re shamelessly wondering how his skin would feel under your fingertips, how your body would react to having every ounce of him on top of you, over you…in…”

The slam of the small storage door draws your attention downward, and you shake your head to snap out of it.

“Ready?” he asks, a new shirt securely in place.

You walk to the mat and wait.

“Are you sure you’re not still in any pain…?”

“Bucky,” you sigh. “I’m really ok. I have been for days. I appreciate your concern but I’m pretty sure I’m going to need to be able to work through pain sometimes. I don’t think anyone who attacks me will care if I’m injured…”

“You’re right,” he says, pride shining in his eyes. “Let’s go…but first…”

You watch with rapt admiration as he pulls several hidden knives free, his smile growing when he takes the last one out from his boot.

“I want you to learn how to use a weapon. You can carry it with you…just in case.”

He hands you the blade and you hold it in your open palm, noticing the weight of it and how the handle seems just right.

“Wow,” is all you can think to say.

“I had it made for you,” he explains. “Most blades are made for men…you know, big hands, long fingers.”

As if to drive his point home he splays his hand in front of you, showing off just how big and long they can be.

“Right,” you whisper. “I don’t know what to say…thank you Bucky.”

He smiles again. “Now let me teach you how to use it.”

Before you can prepare or react he has you on your back, his weight settled between your thighs. It takes all your willpower not to reach up and brush the stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“You didn’t even give me a heads up,” you whisper, leaning up slightly and letting your lips brush the shell of his ear.

He jerks up, and the heat in his gaze makes you all too aware of everywhere your bodies are touching.

“You know…” he says, his eyes glittering, “distraction is a great way to do some damage.”

His eyes drop to your mouth.

“Are you distracted?” you murmur.

Before he can answer you use a move he taught you and roll him on to his back.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you sing song.

His eyes meet yours under the fluorescent lights of the gym before dropping to your lips. His metal arm slides up your back, but not in a way to remove you, it’s slow and purposeful for a completely different reason. You can feel the warmth of his touch through your clothing, your skin unbearably hot.

When you shudder in his arms his smile is like a caress and his free hand moves to your cheek, brushing across your skin.

“You have incredibly soft skin,” he murmurs. “I’ve been aching to feel it again since I checked your ribs.”

The admission makes you suck in a breath, and he studies you with an intensity that makes you sway closer. His thumbs stroke along your cheekbones and his heated gaze moves to your mouth. Hands flexing, he draws you forward a few inches before he stops.

“I…” he starts, groaning when your tongue traces your lower lip.

“Bucky.” His name comes out like a whispered plea and it’s all he needs to close the distance. He was just out of reach and now his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent. He cradles the back of your head, trapping you against him as he lays on the mat and you feel every hard line of his body. You clutch the material of his shirt at his chest, parting your lips when he angles your head for a deeper kiss.

“Fuck baby,” he moans, and the sound makes you ravenous. Your hands lift to his hair and it’s just as soft as imagined, your nails scraping lightly over his scalp.

His hips tilt upward, and you gasp at the friction but it’s not enough and in a move that rivals all the others you’ve seen him do he flips you onto your back, the impact so soft you gasp into his mouth. You surrender completely, going pliant beneath him as he claims every line and curve of your mouth with a reckless edge that makes your body sing. He breaks the kiss, sliding his mouth across your jaw, your neck, whispering words of praise as he explores every inch of your skin his lips can find.

The sound of the gym door startles you enough to pull away, but your eyes never leave Bucky’s and when you hear Sam’s voice you let out a giggle.

“You look like you’re…defending yourself well,” Sam says from above you.

“Your timing sucks,” Bucky sighs. “And she could have totally handed me my ass right now if she wanted to.” He smiles down at you with a wink.

Sam pulls Bucky away once again but before he leaves he presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth then one to your lips, lingering until Sam starts shouting from the doorway. Later that night you get a text from Bucky-‘I can’t stop thinking about kissing you again.’

You read the words over and over again as your body continuously reminds you exactly what it feels like to have his mouth on yours. Your stomach flutters and you actually press a flattened palm against it, hoping to calm the eruption of butterflies.

After washing up and throwing on some pjs you’re just about to spend the rest of your night watching something streaming on Netflix when you hear a knock at your apartment door. You check the time. It’s late and you’re not expecting anyone…maybe it’s your neighbor?

Standing on your tippy toes you check the peep hole and barely stifle your gasp of surprise.

“I’m glad you checked to see who it was first,” Bucky says when you swing the door open. “That’s part of smart self-defense.”

You stare at his face, then the flowers in his hand, then back at his face.

“Is it too late? Were you asleep?”

His eyes fill with worry but before you let him fret too long you grab his free hand and drag him into your apartment, slamming the door shut and pushing him against it. Without a word you kiss him, softly at first, just a brush of your lips, but he instantly takes over, resting the flowers on the small table by the door and taking you in his arms, spinning you and caging you with your back to the door.

“You always get the upper hand,” you smile against his lips.

“Better get used to it,” he teases, resting his metal hand next to your head as he leans back in, letting his eyes do a warm sweep of your body from head to toe.

“You look magnificent,” he murmurs.

“I’m in my pajamas.” Your reply comes out breathless.

His fingers drops to your shoulder, tracing the soft curve before ghosting down your arm and sliding to where the hem of your tank sits just above your shorts.

“Magnificent,” he repeats, slipping one finger under the material to touch your skin. “And So. Fucking. Soft.”  

“Bucky,” you whisper.

“I know doll,” he says, “but I need to take my time…I want to get my hands and mouth on every inch of you.”

[bunni-v1]

Ohhh wait what if in the pv/smc/ oc relationship the beginnings of it form from pv’s existence as truthless recluse? Like curiosity on the partners part or maybe a bit of insecure jealousy because smc has a new toy. One that can understand him better than they ever could. Maybe doubt for the first time enters their heart, not about their own feelings. No no no, but doubting the sincerity of shadow milk cookies. For all his bluster about lies and deceit his actions towards them at this point would paint him as surprisingly sincere. But in the game even candy apple and black sapphire cookie saw how different smc was around pv/truthless recluse. I can see the partner seeking out truthless recluse because what’s so goddamn special about this cookie? (Am I not special enough?) but then meeting him and going oh Oh, he’s just like shadow milk cookie. Not the same, but similar, opposite. They seek them out and try to extend some kindness to him, initially out of pity maybe? Imagining that looking at pv is the same as seeing smc before his fall from grace. And smc probably wouldn’t be happy with this development, I wonder how he’d react. Thoughts?

So I know what I said about waiting for the poly hcs, but I’m a notorious liar when it comes to what I get done when sooooooo… hi pookie 🫶

Anyway there’s a lot to unpack here and I’m typing this on my phone, so please excuse any typos or weird formatting lol.

Starting off with SMC and Truthless Recluse, I can definitely see Shadow Milk unintentionally neglecting you for his new toy. Truthless isn’t a replacement, Shadow Milk wouldn’t dream of replacing his dearly beloved partner, but it certainly comes off that way.

It starts as a little nagging feeling, a biting sensation in the back of your neck that irritates you just a little. You brush it off easily, though, it’s not like you never see Shadow Milk anymore. He still dotes on you and cares for you like he always does, albeit it you see him less than you normally might. He doesn’t want you around Truthless for whatever reason, so whenever he is with the new cookie you are alone with your thoughts.

It’s not until you feel his glee and excitement that you suspect something. That godforsaken bite becomes a constant reminder of just how happy he is to have this special new cookie around. This cookie that is not you. It makes your chest ache, and everyone can see how your mood sours.

The puppets are sweeter to you, Candy Apple a little less disgruntled when she’s with you, and Black Sapphire looks at you with a pity that just makes you sick. Everyone knows, everyone cares, everyone but Shadow Milk it seems.

He seems to act like nothing is different, happy to return to you and have you. Though when he is with you, you see that his mind is elsewhere. And you know he’s aware of it, you know he can feel the way your heart aches, he just doesn’t seem to care.

You rationalize it in your head. It’s his souljam, his other half, of course he’s excited. You can’t be angry at him when this is all he’s been talking about, all he’s been working for this whole time.

The dam finally breaks when you see it with your own two eyes. The way he giggles and floats around the new cookie like an excited child. The poking and prodding and borderline flirting! Witches above, it’s too much for your heart to handle.

You can’t help but feel the burn of jealousy in your gut, the ugliness of betrayal crawling through your mind. What was so special about him? What was so amazing that Shadow Milk felt the need to neglect you for some… some… some wannabe god? The very cookie Shadow Milk claims to loathe is standing there basking in the attention that was meant to be yours! It was so unfair.

You curl up in a quiet part of the spire, one that most of the cookies there didn’t bother to visit. It was secluded and comforting, a place to cry your feelings away until you felt better. For once you couldn’t feel those eyes watching you.

You’re not sure how long you’re curled up there before someone finds you. Your surprised to see Truthless Recluse himself there, but he’s who you find. You wanted to scream and shout and take your anger out on him, but with him in front of you… you couldn’t muster it. His eyes held something in them that made it impossible to stay angry.

He sits next to you, surprising you yet again. He seemed like a loner, but when he casts his eyes on you again there’s a kindness in them. Perhaps… Pure Vanilla was still there… just hidden.

“Is there something you need,” You break the silence between you, “I’m sure Shadow Milk would be more than happy to accommodate you.”

He doesn’t answer you, shifting the conversation elsewhere, “It’s quiet here.”

You uncurl a little, sitting up with your back to the wall now, “It is. I like it, I can think clearly here.”

He hums, closing his eyes as if to take in the feeling himself. You take the time to gaze at him and realize he’s very pretty. His features are soft despite how tired he looks, and there is a wiseness about him that you hadn’t felt from another cookie in such a long time. The quiet contemplation only highlighted the insecurities burning in your dough.

No wonder Shadow Milk Cookie was so enamored with him, he was pleasant. He was warm and inviting, and the sweet scent of vanilla was comforting. He felt… he felt like home. Before you knew it you were crying again, surprising the cookie next to you.

“…Did I upset you…?” He asks almost unsure of himself.

“No,” you sniffle, “No, I’m just… hah… I’m just being silly is all.”

His gaze falls from you to the floor, then to the milky way sky, “Being silly isn’t something to cry over… it’s a good thing to be silly. Better than being nothing at all.”

You laugh, “I suppose you’re right… Say, I don’t think we’ve properly met, what’s your name strange cookie?”

That begins your tentative relationship with the Cookie. You don’t get too much time with him before Shadow Milk starts to get upset, but from what you see you come to understand a few things. Truthless— No, Pure Vanilla is a lot like Shadow Milk. He’s insecure and aching for connection, but greatly powerful and incredibly intelligent. You find yourself liking his company, reminded of your dearest when he lays his eyes on you.

Now, Shadow Milk Cookie watches the development happen from the sides. Initially he’s happy that you’re getting along with Truthless Recluse so well, positively tickled! You love him so much you can get along well with any incarnation of him, how very sweet! Then he notices you look at Truthless Recluse with… longing. Your gaze is too soft, too sweet, something that should only be reserved for him.

Of course he can’t help but get in the way. Regardless of Truthless’ progress toward deceit, he can’t have the cookie thinking you’re something free for the taking. He certainly can’t have you thinking you can just look at any other cookie with so much affection, either.

He gets clingy, worse than before Pure Vanilla showed up. He doesn’t like you leaving his side, and he especially doesn’t like you spending time alone with Truthless Recluse. No, no no no! You are his little dolly, no one else’s! If he has to remind you of that fact, he will! Since he’s just so sweet and considerate~

If you bring up the way he made you feel, he shakes his head and tuts at you. It was part of the plan, of course, your jealousy was made in a controlled environment by him. He needed you to use your silly little head and come to your senses on your own! He loves you, you know that, you just had to remember on your own.

Besides, as exciting as Truthless Recluse is, you’ll always be by his side. So as much as your heart ached (and boy did he feel that, it was difficult to ignore you calling for him through that bite), now you know to trust him.

[mikkies]

「 I KNOW YOU AND YOU KNOW ME WELL. 」

Griefer x Gender Nonconforming! Reader

warnings: Mentions of Body Dysphoria

notes: I had some help from my friend who's trans, but the reader's identity isn't explicitly labeled but it’s implied that they experience body dysphoria.

THE AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT streamed through the large window of Griefer’s treehouse, casting long shadows across the cluttered floor.

His space was a mix of chaos and style, with neon green accents popping against dark, muted tones. Jackets were tossed over chairs, soda cans piled high on a table, and a grey chain dangled lazily from a hook near the door.

The faint hum of the city below seeped through the walls, a constant background to his world.

You sat cross-legged on his oversized couch, nervously tugging at the sleeves of your hoodie.

Griefer was sprawled on the armchair across from you, his usual smirk in place, though his red eyes flickered with curiosity.

His black cap, adorned with its signature red cobweb design, was tilted just enough to shade part of his face.

“Y0U’V3 B33N S1TT1NG TH3R3 F0R 4G3S,” he drawled, breaking the silence. “SP1LL. WH4T’S 0N Y0UR M1ND?”

You hesitated, your hands gripping the fabric of your hoodie tightly.

It was always hard to put your feelings into words, especially when they felt so big, so overwhelming.

But you’d come here for a reason, and Griefer, for all his bluster, had a way of making you feel heard—even if his delivery was unconventional.

“I’ve just been… feeling off,” you started, your voice barely above a whisper. “About myself. My body.”

Griefer straightened slightly, his usual cocky demeanor softening.

He tilted his head, the cobweb design catching the light. “Y0U’R3 D34L1NG W1TH TH4T 5TUFF?” he asked, his tone quieter, less brash.

You nodded, your throat tightening. “Yeah. Dysphoria. It’s just been… really bad lately.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his white hair. When he finally spoke, his voice had a rare softness.

“L00K,” he began, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “1 KN0W WH4T 1T’S L1K3 T0 F33L L1K3 Y0U’R3 N0T G00D 3N0UGH… BUT H34R M3 0UT. Y0U’R3 H3LL4 STR0NG F0R D34L1NG W1TH 4LL 0F TH1S.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his sincerity. “Griefer, I…” you began, but the words stuck in your throat.

He didn’t let you finish, grabbing a can of Bloxy Cola from the pile beside him and tossing it to you with a playful grin. “H34L1NG 1T3M,” he declared as it landed in your lap. “DR1NK UP. Y0U D3S3RV3 1T.”

You caught it, the cold metal pressing against your palms. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, laughing softly despite yourself.

“Y34H, BUT 1’M FUN,” he shot back, leaning back into his chair with a smirk. “S3R10USLY, TH0UGH, IF 4NY0N3’S G0NN4 T4LK D0WN T0 Y0U, TH3Y’R3 G0NN4 H4V3 T0 D34L W1TH M3.”

You smiled at his theatrics, but his words hit deeper than he probably realized.

The weight in your chest didn’t vanish completely, but it felt a little lighter, a little easier to carry.

Griefer might be loud and chaotic, but his loyalty and care shone through his unconventional mannerisms.

“Thanks,” you murmured, popping open the soda. “For being here. For… everything.”

“D0N’T G3T 4LL S4PPY 0N M3,” he teased, but his red eyes softened as they met yours. “Y0U’R3 W0RTH 1T.”

The two of you sat there for a while, the city sounds blending into the background as you sipped your soda. In his messy loft, surrounded by the chaos that was Griefer, you felt a sense of calm you hadn’t felt in weeks. And for now, that was enough.

[connorsui]

unspoken affection

Sukuna x reader

Synopsis: In a rare moment of vulnerability, Sukuna allows you to explore the markings on his body

Genre/Warnings: Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Soft moments. Implied sexual tension, mentions of Sukuna's intimidating nature, light teasing.

Note: I want to color his tats

The moonlight barely filters through the room, casting long shadows across Sukuna's muscular form. He lays still, eyes closed, a faint smirk on his lips as your fingers glide over the dark, jagged markings on his skin, tracing each one with an intimacy you've grown familiar with. His breaths are slow and deliberate, though you know he’s awake. He always is. Despite the quiet arrogance that lingers in his aura, the way he pretends to sleep is his subtle way of allowing these tender moments between you to happen.

Your fingers drift along the length of his back, over his broad shoulders, and down the well-defined muscles of his hips, testing your limits and feeling the heat of his body beneath your touch. The marks that cover him pulse with faint energy, a reminder of his formidable power. But here, in this room, under your hand, he is just Sukuna—your Sukuna, though he would never admit it.

His lips quirk slightly when he feels you hesitate, your fingertips hovering near the lowest of the marks, the ones that dip beneath the edge of the sheets. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to feel the heat rising in your cheeks, knowing all too well how easily he can fluster you with nothing but a smug, well-timed comment.

"Still plenty more marks below my hips, if you're interested," his voice, rich and deep, rumbles through the silence, laced with that insufferable arrogance. You swallow, heat rushing to your face, but you press on, unwilling to let him win so easily this time.

Instead of biting back, you lean in closer, your lips brushing the markings along his chest, moving with a deliberate slowness that draws a low, approving hum from him. He shifts, rolling onto his back, four arms spreading lazily across the bed as if inviting you to explore further. His crimson eyes finally open, four of them watching you intently, the gleam of amusement and something deeper lurking behind them.

"You’re quite the bold one tonight," he mutters, the corners of his mouth curving upward as you press a soft kiss to the center of his forehead, right between the small crown of black markings.

But this time, you don’t let his teasing get to you. Instead, you allow your lips to move lower, down the planes of his shoulders and along the corded muscles of his arms, planting gentle kisses onto the skin he pretends is invulnerable. You know better. You've seen it in the way he never pulls away, how he subtly leans into your touch, like he's soaking up the affection he refuses to ask for.

A low chuckle escapes him, but his taunts have softened, replaced by the steady, rhythmic hum of his breathing, as if the sensation of your lips against his skin is enough to quiet even the King of Curses.

You smile against his skin, feeling a strange sense of accomplishment wash over you. For all his bluster and arrogance, beneath the weight of his ancient power and the cruel smirk that never seems to fade, there’s a man who lets you in. One who lies still beneath your touch, his monstrous form revealing small, fleeting moments of vulnerability that are yours alone to witness.

“Are you just going to sit there, or do you plan to finish?” His voice cuts through the silence again, though it lacks its usual bite.

You chuckle softly, pressing a kiss to the dark, jagged mark on his collarbone. “I didn’t know you were so impatient, Sukuna.”

He growls, but there’s no real anger behind it. "You're pushing your luck, woman."

His four hands find their way to your waist, tugging you closer until you're practically draped over him, face pressed to his chest. It's a rare gesture from him, one he covers with arrogance, but you've come to learn the truth behind his seemingly petulant acts. He may not admit it outright, but this—your warmth, your closeness—is what he craves more than anything.

"You could stay like this all day," you tease, your voice muffled against his chest, your fingers tracing patterns along the marks that wind over his skin.

A low hum vibrates through his body, and he shifts, one of his arms snaking up to cradle the back of your head. "If you're so eager to remain in bed, I won't stop you."

You snicker, but it dies down into a soft sigh as you nestle further into him. His warmth surrounds you, the strange comfort of his presence pulling you deeper into the cocoon you've created. He may not say it, but you know—this, too, is how he shows he cares. Even if he would never dare utter the words.

As your hand rests over one of his, you press a soft kiss to his cheek, surprising him into a rare moment of silence. His gaze locks on yours, and for a heartbeat, neither of you speaks.

Sukuna’s eyes flicker with something unspoken, a fleeting glimpse of the man beneath the curse, and though his smirk quickly returns, the warmth in his eyes remains.

"Careful," he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, "I might get used to this."

You smile, shifting just enough to press your forehead against his. "Maybe that’s the point.”

I want to show this man what this throat can do

[kaayyyys]

How the walking dead men react to you getting scared of a spider

(Negan smith, Rick Grimes, Daryl Dixon)

Negan Smith and the Eight-Legged Intruder

The Savior’s compound wasn't exactly known for its pristine cleanliness. It was functional, practical, and reeked of gasoline and desperation. But, you’d carved out a small corner of it that felt like home, mostly because Negan was there. And, as much as he blustered and swaggered about being in charge, you knew he was a big softie underneath that leather jacket.

Tonight, though, the rough edges of their world felt a little too close. It started with the spider.

You were curled up on the makeshift couch, lost in a dog-eared paperback you’d salvaged from a supply run. The setting sun cast long shadows across the room, and you were enjoying the rare moment of quiet.

Then, you saw it. Skittering across the ceiling, a hairy, leggy monstrosity that seemed twice its actual size in the dim light.

A high-pitched shriek escaped your lips before you could stop it. It wasn’t a scream of terror, but more of a startled yelp, the kind you made when Negan surprised you with a playful nip on the neck.

The book went flying, your feet scrambled to get you off the couch, and you ended up huddled against the wall, eyes wide and fixed on the offending arachnid.

Negan, who had been tinkering with Lucille in the next room, burst in, his brow furrowed with concern.

"What in the holy hell is going on here? Sounds like someone's getting murdered!" he boomed, his voice echoing in the small space.

His eyes scanned the room, searching for an attacker, a walker, anything that would warrant such a commotion.

Then, he saw you, plastered against the wall, pointing a trembling finger at the ceiling.

He followed your gaze and spotted the spider. A slow grin spread across his face.

"A spider? Seriously, (Y/N)? That's what got you all riled up?" He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. The sound wasn't mean-spirited, but definitely amused.

"It's... it's huge!" you stammered, your eyes never leaving the spider.

Negan’s amusement only grew “It looks like one of those tiny things to me” he chuckled lightly.

Despite the amusement, Negan saw the genuine fear in your eyes. The way your hands were shaking, the faint tremor in your voice.

The protective switch flipped. The amusement faded, replaced by a look of concern and a surprising tenderness.

He sauntered over to you, his movements deliberate and reassuring.

"Alright, sweetheart, easy now," he said softly, his voice a stark contrast to the booming one he usually used.

He gently took your hand in his, his calloused fingers warm and strong around yours.

"I got this. No need to get your panties in a twist over a little bug."

Negan surveyed the situation, a glint in his eye. Forget the gentle approach; this was Negan.

He grabbed a nearby broom, its bristles worn and frayed.

"Time to evict this little freeloader," he declared, brandishing the broom like a weapon.

He stalked towards the spider, his movements surprisingly agile for a man of his size.

With a swift, decisive whack, he dispatched the spider, sending it plummeting to the floor.

"Problem solved," he announced, a triumphant grin on his face.

You were still a little shaken, even though the spider was now just a lifeless lump on the floor.

Negan tossed the broom aside and turned his attention back to you.

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his chest.

"You okay, baby? Still trembling like a leaf," he murmured, his voice laced with concern.

You nodded, burying your face in his leather jacket, inhaling his familiar scent of smoke and something uniquely Negan.

"Just... spiders creep me out," you admitted, feeling a little foolish.

He chuckled softly, running a hand through your hair. "I know, I know. Everyone's got something that scares 'em. Hell, I'm not too fond of walkers myself when they get too close for comfort."

He guided you back to the couch, pulling you down with him.

He didn't let go, keeping you nestled against his side, his arm wrapped securely around you.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Negan couldn't resist teasing you a little.

"So, what would you have done if I hadn't been here? Fought it off with your bare hands?" he asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

You playfully shoved him. "Shut up. I would have hidden under the covers until it went away."

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through your body.

"That's my girl. Always thinking strategically."

Then, his voice softened again, becoming serious. "But hey, you know I'll always be here to protect you, right? From spiders, walkers, crazy Saviors… whatever comes our way."

The fear had subsided completely, replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling of love and security.

You leaned up and kissed him softly on the lips.

"Thank you, Negan," you whispered.

He deepened the kiss, his lips lingering on yours.

"Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours.

"You know," he said, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, "I could probably find a few more spiders around here if you want me to be your hero again."

You rolled your eyes and playfully swatted his arm.

"Don't even think about it," you said, but your voice was light, and you were smiling.

He chuckled and pulled you closer, nuzzling his face in your hair.

"Just kidding, baby. Just kidding. But seriously, if you see another one, you just yell for me, okay? I'll be your personal exterminator."

As darkness fell, you stayed curled up on the couch with Negan, the earlier scare all but forgotten.

He turned on a battery-powered lamp, casting a warm glow over the room.

He picked up your discarded book and handed it back to you.

"Here," he said. "Let's get back to this. Maybe try to find a story without any creepy crawlies in it."

You smiled and snuggled closer, feeling safe and loved in his arms.

The world outside might be a dangerous and unpredictable place, but in that moment, in Negan's arms, you felt like everything was going to be okay.

He wrapped his arms around you tighter, places a kiss on your forhead and whispered “I love you, don’t you ever forget that.”

The spider incident, as insignificant as it seemed, had brought you even closer. It had revealed a softer, more tender side of Negan that you cherished, and it had reinforced the bond between you, a bond forged in the fires of a brutal world, but strengthened by love, laughter, and the occasional eight-legged intruder.

The sun rises gently over the peaceful community of Alexandria, casting a warm, golden light across the sleepy town.

You’re up early, savoring the rare calm of the morning, enjoying a steaming cup of coffee as you sit on the porch.

The sound of birds chirping and leaves rustling in the soft breeze brings a sense of tranquility.

As you enjoy the quiet moment, your eyes land on a tiny, yet menacing creature creeping silently across the wooden floor of the porch.

The sudden revelation—a spider—sends a wave of fear racing through you, your heart skipping a beat.

Your initial reaction is to freeze, watching its spindly legs navigate the crevices in the wood.

Inside, Rick Grimes, the ever-vigilant protector and leader, is brewing coffee for himself, completely unaware of the drama unfolding outside.

Hearing your sharp intake of breath, Rick's instincts kick in. He immediately senses something's wrong, his protective nature on high alert.

Within seconds, he's at your side, a reassuring presence amidst your escalating panic.

Rick crouches beside you, his deep concern evident in his eyes as he follows your gaze to the source of your distress—the spider.

In a gentle, soothing voice, he reassures you, "It's just a spider, darlin'. I've dealt with worse."

His calmness is infectious, and you find yourself slightly more at ease knowing Rick is there with you.

With the subtle strength and grace he's known for, Rick carefully approaches the tiny creature.

You watch in awe as he scoops up the spider with a makeshift tool—a piece of paper to guide it gently off the porch.

Rick, ever the gentle protector, makes sure the spider is safely away without causing it harm.

Once the spider is on its way, Rick turns to you with a playful smirk, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Didn't think a little spider could cause so much fuss," he teases lightly, laughter dancing in his voice.

Despite the initial fear, you can't help but join in his lighthearted banter, your anxiety evaporating under his warm gaze.

The two of you share a laugh, the ease and joy of the moment cementing a deeper bond.

You can't help but smile as you realize just how silly it was to be so afraid, especially with someone like Rick by your side.

His laughter is contagious, resonating with an authenticity that invites you to let go of your fear.

As the laughter fades, Rick reaches for your hand, enveloping it in his strong, reassuring grip.

His touch is gentle and loving, the simple gesture speaking volumes about his unwavering care and affection for you.

You bask in the closeness, the intimacy, and the silent promise of protection and companionship.

Nestled beside Rick, gratitude fills your heart—not just for the safety he provides, but for the love you share.

You find solace in the realization that life’s little fears can be effortlessly conquered together.

Rick’s presence is like an anchor, grounding you, and his unwavering strength a comforting shield against any fear.

With the spider incident behind you, the world settles back into its peaceful rhythm.

Rick wraps an arm around you, drawing you close, and you lean into his warmth, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

These small, ordinary moments with Rick remind you that love is found in the simplest interactions, where protection and laughter coexist.

Rick helps you see the humor in your earlier panic, turning the experience into a lighthearted memory to cherish.

The episode with the spider becomes part of your shared story—a testament to the trust and affection that flourishes between you.

As the sun continues its ascent, Rick kisses your forehead tenderly, a promise of endless tomorrows, filled with love and security.

You realize there's nothing to fear, not when you have a partner like Rick by your side, ready to face every challenge, big or small.

Love reveals itself in the quiet, unassuming moments where fear meets understanding, where laughter becomes a balm for the soul.

With Rick, even the smallest of fears can turn into opportunities for tenderness and growth, shared laughter, and stronger connections.

In a world where danger lurks around every corner, it's comforting to know that there are heroes in the ordinary—like Rick Grimes, your protector and confidant, always ready to turn fears into beautiful memories.

Imagine you and Daryl are nestled in your small, shared cabin at Alexandria. The day has been long, filled with the usual anxieties of survival – scavenging runs, walker patrols, and the constant background hum of worry. But now, evening has settled, casting long shadows and a sense of fragile peace.

You're both unwinding. Maybe you're curled up on the worn sofa, a tattered book in your hands, while Daryl's meticulously cleaning his crossbow at the small wooden table. The only light comes from a flickering oil lamp, painting the room in a warm, intimate glow.

The air is thick with unspoken affection. The comfortable silence, the shared space – it's a love built on trust, resilience, and the quiet understanding that comes from facing unimaginable horrors together. This is your sanctuary, your haven.

Suddenly, you spot it. A spider. Not some tiny, harmless thing, but a surprisingly large, hairy one, scuttling across the ceiling. A primal fear grips you. You've faced down walkers, battled ruthless enemies, but this…this is different.

It's irrational, you know. Silly, even. But your heart hammers in your chest. Your breath hitches. A small, involuntary gasp escapes your lips.

All your tough exterior crumbles in the face of this eight-legged invader. It's a vulnerability you rarely show, a chink in your armor that only someone you deeply trust would ever witness.

Daryl, ever vigilant, instantly picks up on the change in you. He's attuned to your every mood, your every subtle shift in body language. He glances up from his crossbow, his brow furrowing with concern.

His eyes, usually guarded and intense, soften with a protective tenderness. He sees the fear in your eyes, the way your hands clench the book, the slight tremor in your body.

He doesn't laugh, doesn't tease. He doesn't dismiss your fear as foolish. Instead, he immediately assesses the situation, his instincts honed by years of survival.

"What is it?" he asks, his voice low and steady, a calming presence in your rising panic. He sets his crossbow down carefully, his full attention now focused solely on you.

You point, your finger trembling slightly, towards the spider on the ceiling. You can barely get the words out. "Spider," you whisper, your voice tight with anxiety.

Daryl follows your gaze, his expression unreadable for a moment as he takes in the situation. Then, a flicker of understanding crosses his face. He gets it. He understands that even the strongest people have their fears, their vulnerabilities.

He doesn't say anything dismissive. He doesn't roll his eyes or tell you to calm down. Instead, he offers a quiet, reassuring nod.

"I see it," he says, his voice gentle. "I'll take care of it."

He stands up slowly, deliberately, his movements calm and controlled. He doesn't want to startle you further.

He grabs a broom from the corner of the room, his eyes never leaving the spider. He approaches it cautiously, his every move precise and efficient.

There's a quiet competence in his actions, a reassurance that he's got this under control. He's faced down hordes of walkers; a single spider is no match for him.

With a swift, decisive move, he dispatches the spider. He doesn't make a big deal out of it. It's just something that needed to be done, a threat neutralized.

He disposes of the spider without a word. he returns to you, his focus now entirely on your well-being. He kneels in front of you, his eyes searching your face for any lingering signs of distress.

"You okay?" he asks, his voice soft with concern. He reaches out and gently takes your hand, his calloused fingers warm and comforting against your skin.

You nod, still a little shaken, but immensely relieved. "Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks, Daryl."

He doesn't let go of your hand. Instead, he pulls you closer, until you're nestled against his chest. He wraps his arms around you, holding you tight, his presence a solid, reassuring anchor.

"Those things give you the creeps, huh?" he murmurs, his breath warm against your hair. There's a hint of amusement in his voice, but it's gentle, affectionate.

You bury your face in his shoulder, feeling the tension slowly drain away. "Yeah," you admit, "they do. I know it's stupid…"

He cuts you off with a soft squeeze. "Ain't stupid," he says, his voice firm. "Everyone's got something that scares 'em."

He holds you in silence for a few moments, letting you find your equilibrium. The feeling of his arms around you, the steady beat of his heart against your ear, is incredibly soothing.

He might even press a soft kiss to your forehead, a silent promise of protection and unwavering affection.

After a while, you pull back slightly, looking up at him. "Thank you," you say, your voice sincere. "I really appreciate it."

He simply nods, his eyes conveying more than words ever could. He doesn't need your gratitude. He did it because he cares about you, because your well-being is paramount to him.

He might even offer a small, rare smile, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your heart skip a beat.

The moment is intimate, precious. It's a reminder of the deep bond you share, the unspoken understanding that has grown between you in the face of unimaginable adversity.

Eventually, you both settle back into your previous positions. You return to your book, and he goes back to cleaning his crossbow.

But something has shifted. The air is thicker with affection, the silence even more comfortable. The spider incident, as insignificant as it seems, has brought you even closer.

You know, without a doubt, that Daryl will always be there for you, to protect you, to comfort you, to face your fears alongside you – even if those fears are as simple as a spider on the ceiling.

And that, you realize, is the most romantic thing of all. It's not grand gestures or flowery words, but the quiet, unwavering presence of a man who loves you fiercely and unconditionally, spider and all.

As you read, you can feel his eyes on you every so often, making sure you're truly okay. You give him a small smile, a silent thank you. He nods, then returns to his task, content in the knowledge that you're safe, you're loved, and you're together. And in this world, that's all that truly matters.

The next day, he may have moved your bed so there are no corners with spiders allowed to reach you. He may have even gone out and killed every spider he could find, he would burn them if he could.

[tragedybunny]

Something Like Love - Astarion x F!Reader

Astarion has failed to seduce you, but even so, a bond has begun to grow between the two of you. It all comes to a head when Astarion almost loses you.

You infuriated Astarion. At first it was because stopping to help every person you happened upon was delaying dealing with his problems. Now that you had been traveling together for some time, not only were these little side adventures a delay, but you didn’t seem to be careful about how much they took out of you and how tired they left you. Even your other companions didn’t seem to care, letting you agree to solve every problem that you came upon and even adding to the pile.

But not him. Astarion was always right there at your side with a glare and a snapping refusal, which you’d usually brush off, but at least he tried. The rest of them just smiled and nodded, without noticing the circles under your eyes, or how slow you moved some mornings, or how thin you’d gotten. Protector wasn’t a position he normally found himself in, but you were different, you were kind to him, without expecting anything in return, as far as he could tell anyway. The two of you hadn’t even slept together, not for lack of trying on his part. The couple times he’d tried you firmly refused, and yet somehow you stayed kind to him, even still offering him your blood. In fact you didn’t seem to want anyone in camp. That was also exasperating. How could he expect your continued kindness, and protection which he desperately needed, without repayment? And what was he better at than sex?

So he resolved he’d give you whatever small gestures he could. Whenever you tore an item of clothing, he’d mend it at first chance. When the group made camp for the night, he always made sure your tent was up first, in whatever spot you wanted, and helped you pack when it was time to move on. Every battle, he stood at the backline with you while you cast spells, aiming arrows at anyone who got too close to you, his first priority keeping you safe. And he still tried to keep you from overextending yourself, despite no one ever listening to him. Which had led to the shouting match with Halsin earlier. Well it wasn’t really a shouting match, the Druid had remained frustratingly placid in the face of Astarion’s blustering. He’d already been vocally unhappy about looking for this Thaniel or whatever, but you’d found him, and still Halsin asked more. “We need to worry about Thorm, we don’t have time to keep bothering with this!”

“Curing the land could help break Thorm’s hold. I know you all don’t owe it to me.” Gods why did he ask like that, all humble and dissembling. You would cave to that for sure,

“You’re right, we don’t.”

“But…”

“Hells, can’t you see how much all of this is taking out of her!” Astarion had exploded, voice loud enough that some of your other companions jumped.

“It’s fine Astarion,” you’d gently placed a hand on his arm, “let’s finish this.”

With a frustrated growl, he’d yanked his arm away, regretting the hurt on your face. “Fine.”

That all led to this moment, you’d fended off the creatures summoned by the corrupted spirit, and Astarion watches as you calmly approach it. Speaking softly, your words soothe it, and he could see it starting to trust you. As always, you amaze him with your ability to solve things with your words, but he feels a twinge of something else, a want for something like those kind words that fell from your lips so easily. The spirit vanishes and Astarion finally feels a bit of relief it seems over. That is until your knees give way and you collapse to the jagged paving stones beneath you.

He's at your side instantly, a scream tearing itself from his throat. “Somebody fucking help her.”

Shadowheart js the first to respond, hands peeling away the light armor you wear, revealing gashes left by one of those shadow creatures that had gotten close. Teeth bite down into his lip to hold back a sob, he hadn’t even noticed, he’d failed the one duty he had. That ire finds a new target easy enough though, as Halsin attempts to join Shadowheart in tending to you. He’s barely started to kneel next to you when Astarion lunges, hissing and fangs flashing. “No you stay the fuck away from her, this is your fault!” For a second his face falls with guilt, but Astarion is in no state for empathy, all blame now on the Druid in his mind.

Hands fight to grab hold of him, to get close enough to tear his thick throat out. A pair of strong arms wraps around his waist, pulling him back from his murderous goal. “Easy Fangs, she’ll be alright,” Karlach tries to reassure him.

He struggles against her iron hold, still flinging curses and furious words. “That’s not the point, this shouldn’t have happened. But no one wanted to listen to me, none of you selfish idiots care when you’re asking too much!”

That was it, they’d all turn on him now, especially without you aware enough to defend him. To his surprise, Karlach just holds him slightly tighter, and keeps whispering that it was going to be fine. Wyll comes over to lay a hand on his shoulder, face stoic. "Shadowheart has this.”

At least Halsin has stepped back, expression troubled. Good, let him suffer. A spell glows in Shadowheart’s hands, suturing back together your skin, and your eyes flutter open, hazy and unfocused, for a moment before closing again. Karlach wisely releases him, leaving him free to hover over you and ward off Halsin as he takes a hesitant step toward you. He’d be damned if anyone else was carrying you, the lot of them were untrustworthy. Reverently, he leans down, taking you in his arms, and lifting you from the ground. Gods, you were so small, there was almost nothing to you. How did you seem so imposing most of the time?

Silently, the group makes it’s way back to camp, Astarion holding tightly to you the whole way. When they reach the cluster of tents, he goes straight to yours to lay you down gently in your blankets. Turning back to the rest of the party he snarls in their direction. "All of you better stay the hells out of this tent until she's properly healed," he snaps the tent flap shut and wishes he had a door to slam on their faces.

Sitting down next to you, he pulls your hand into his and tried to forget about the stinging in his eyes. "You're going to be alright Darling. You have to be."

For hours he sits there, hand holding yours, waiting, watching your chest rise and fall, the reassurance he hadn’t lost you. Losing you, he can’t even fathom it. His protector, companion, he'd even go so far as to say friend. Even if you didn't notice how he was always at your side whenever you stayed up to launder your clothes, or how you never took a turn to cook alone, or how he was always walking right next to you on the road.

You sigh in your sleep and he feels a tug in that place that sometimes wonders if you could be more than friends. Which was stupid, you hadn't even wanted sex with him. Besides, what you already gave him was more than he deserved considering what he had been planning after sleeping with you.

Finally, exhausted, he drifts into meditation, still holding onto you, until your sleep heavy voice pulls him out of it. "Astarion?"

His eyes are wide immediately and without a second thought, he throws himself into your arms, nuzzling into your neck. "You're awake." Then he starts crying like an idiot; ugly, undignified sobs against your skin. "I was worried," he tries to explain leaping on you and his ridiculous tears.

"I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you." You put your arms around him, accepting him without question, like always.

"You silly, silly girl, you were the one that almost died. Don't apologize to me." He's trying desperately to stop bawling uncontrollably.

"I know, but I don't like to see you upset." Ever so lightly, he can feel your hand brushing through his hair.

"Why," he's managed to get himself somewhat under control, but doesn't move from where you've let him lay. "Why are you like this? Always giving, even when it's too much for you?"

You hesitate for a moment. "Because I care about you."

"You do," he asks, unwilling to let himself believe what he's heard.

"Well, I care about everyone," of course he should've realized, "but I care about you a very great deal, Astarion."

Astarion freezes, the words leaving warmth in that secret place inside that he's been trying to keep from himself and you. "I don't understand."

"I see you. I see how hard you try and how far you've come, and how much you try to do for me." There's a smile in your voice and impossibly he thinks it has something to do with him.

"Why didn't you say anything?" His hand searches yours out and your fingers interwine.

"I didn't think you were ready to hear it. But today it was almost too late to tell you." You've placed both of your hands over your chest and he can feel your heartbeat.

"I…I don't know how I feel." Inwardly, he quails, worried that will drive you. "But this is nice."

"It's alright Astarion, there's no rush to this." Impulsively, he leans up to leave a feather light kiss on your cheek, grateful for you in ways he can't understand.

[denim-devil]

✫ Bet U Wanna - PT 1 | S.B ✫

Summary - Ben was a douche, the biggest one you’ve ever met, yet something changed in him, especially after meeting you, after coming to realisation that your feelings may be mutual, you decide to push him to his furthest…

A/N - this is just an excuse to write some filth with Daddy Ben skdkdkd, enjoy! (The idea isn’t exactly story driven but I couldn’t pass up on news reporter reader)

As a TV presenter you primed yourself on making the viewers at home both entertained and focused.

Working for Vought never really phased you, infact, if anything, your life has just begun with opportunities rising left right and centre, connections had grown yet one.

Ben was hard to get through, even off screen, he never seemed to open up, nor did he bother even speaking to you until now, with a drink in hand and his suit sticking to his sweat-stained skin.

“Fuck, what is up with this weather!”

His voice ran through you like a blustering thunder storm, vibrations radiating throughout, focusing on the spot between your legs, it was true, you couldn’t keep away, maybe that’s why Ben had began to grow into someone less withstand-able, maybe that’s why Ben had grown to like you? maybe that’s why he called you over for drinks.

“It’s never the right temperature in here, something is always wrong-“

“Who are you? A fucking psychic?”

He glared at you with unknown temptation, ever since you showed up in blazer-suits that glued to every single best part of you, how you followed him like a lost puppy, eyes always glimmering when asking for anything that could potentially gravitate him back into popularity.

Ben didn’t want that though, people irked him enough to stay hidden, to just live life the way he wanted, although he wouldn’t say no, not just yet, he wanted to keep you around for a little longer, he was alone, so so alone.

“I’d like to think so-“

Ben chuckled deeply before chugging the rest of his drink, it was strong and bitter, like him, yet his wondering, gloved-hand krept up on your shoulder, resting there until you glanced over at him with uncertainty.

“Y’know sweetheart, startin’ to think your company maybe worth my while”

The room had began to get stuffier, the heat that travelled from your neck upwards spread like a wildfire, his grip, strong and welcome stayed, pushing you into the deep end, how could you be so willing to a…douche?

“Oh really?”

You fold over the papers you had before you, Ben taking note once your focus is on him now, forgetting the reason you were invited over, forgetting everything but him.

“Why’s that?”

Nervously stuttering, you watch the super soldier stand to his feet, the warmth now gone, the green material of his suit shimmering underneath the dim-yellow lighting which also showcased his thick five o’clock shadow, how were you holding back.

“Oh I’m sure you know darlin’ but i’ll leave that up for you to decide…”

He trails of, finishing up with a chuckle as he turns on his heel, you watch his back as he walks over to the soft couches placed upon beige carpets, your apartment was quiet and small, a place Ben loved to visit sometimes when he was missing your face, although he wouldn’t ever admit that.

Your eyebrows were furrowed, trying to place each and every move he made, it really made no sense but that could be how flustered you were, even from a shoulder squeeze Ben somehow managed to creep underneath your skin, practically controlling you.

“I-Is that an invitation?”

His meaty legs were spread as if he was trying to answer your in the air question with his body, slowly making your way over to the couch, you sit opposite him, his eyes trailing over your figure and how each part of you had it’s story.

Ben had his ways, emotionally unbalanced, fits of rage, easily pissed off but he had a soft spot for you, ever since that day you bought him coffee and asked how he was doing, he never replied but you respected his silence enough to just sit back and…stay.

“My guess is as good as yours”

He didn’t have to make it obvious, IT was obvious, from the way his lips flipped up into a smirk, how he watched you from afar, hungrily glaring at you before an inevitable pounce, like a predator with prey.

Confusion was one thing, you lacked the certain knowledge whilst conversing with Ben, a century year old man. It almost felt like talking to a brick wall, always unphased by the smack talk, unphased by his own words, unpleasant or not.

“Are you trying to hit on me?”

The question soon went over his head, the smirk faltering a little, you got his jist from the get go, yet you were unsure of what you felt from the inside, butterflies and disgust all in one.

“Am I that obvious?”

It wasn’t the alcohol talking no, it was Ben, from the dirty depths of his brain, you had no issue with that though, infact it made it easier for you to decide, the two of you haven’t felt it in so long, it was clear, wether he swung that way or not that he craved it…craved you.

So many questions were left unanswered yet Ben was so close to boiling point, he expected you to be all over, desperate for whatever he had to offer yet you still sat opposite him, sinking back into the leather, questioning reality, he could sense how lost you felt, yet that glimmer reappeared.

You were fighting with yourself inside, simmering down with the comfortable silence.

“Sorry- I’m just not…use to this.”

Glancing back up into his emerald green eyes, he too looked lost, his tongue lapping gingerly at his bottom lip, trying to figure you out. You began to choke on the words forcing their way out but coughed, calming your racing thoughts down to a comfortable speed.

“I’m just a new’s reporter, nothing special, I just work and we’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks and I-“

Ben stood, it all felt so fast yet he was careful, making his way over to you, two steps is all it took, two thuds of his heavy boots. He loomed over you, looking down, you felt that warmth again.

It took a few moments of shifting glances before his hand cupped underneath your chin, forcing you to accept the bond that had grown between the two of you.

His thumb slowly traced across your bottom lip, trapping you within his gaze, making sure you knew just how much he fucking wanted you.

“I see a pretty boy who doesn’t understand how to say “yes sir”.

[candywitch15]

OMG imagine a shadow Robbie, I would imagine how freaked out she would be if the Shadow spray (Yes I’m calling it the Shadow Spray) affected her

You no longer have to imagine it cause I got it right here!

Ko-Fi<3

[lokisgoodgirl]

The Rite: Consequence (VI)

A link to The Rite Masterlist is here A link to my regular Masterlist is here Summary: (6) It's the day of The Rite 🙈And whether Loki succeeds or fails in capturing your pleasure (and your heart) - there will be consequences. Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Mild angst. Asgardians behaving badly. Smut. I am begging, pleading for your trust. (w/c 5.6k)

Loki blocked the fall of the blade with a hanging guard, catching his brother’s wild stare through the angle of his arm.

Dust scraped across his eyes from the training ring, but he blinked it away. They both glistened with mid-afternoon sweat - muscles straining; all hard veins and gritted teeth.

Loki licked his lips, tasting salt, and his arm began to quiver beneath the press of his brother’s blade – but he wouldn’t relent. He never did.

The Rite was only hours away.

It began at sundown. He wasn’t allowed to see you, and beating his brother into the dirt was as good a distraction as any. Better than the ones I’m used to.

And besides, after the two of you had talked until sunrise – about everything and anything that avoided the question of love – there was nothing more to be done.

If Fandral had told you about the second part of The Rite, he was glad you hadn’t raised it. He didn’t think he could bear knowing its outcome in advance. Better the short, sharp shock of shame than its clammy shadow. Better to whisper in your ear and devour your lips and feel your hand searching the angles of him until he was sick with painful desire.

“Yield,” Loki grit. A thick strand of hair had come loose, trailing over his vision. The furrow of Thor’s frown grew deeper.

“Why would I? I have you on the run, little brother.” A soft grunt broke in Loki’s throat. He flexed his shoulder and parried Thor’s sword to the side with force, kicking the blonde’s left foot from under him in the same movement. Thor slammed down into the sand; sprawling and sword clattered against the stone beneath.

“You don’t fight fair, Loki” “Maybe you should fight better.” Thor scrambled to his feet, sand sticking in clumps to the sweat gathered on his chest. “I am the greatest warrior this realm has ever known because I fight with honour.” Loki rolled his eyes. “Honour,” he spat. “At least you shan’t have your ill-gotten reputation in the histories as its greatest lover for much longer.” Thor hacked a wad of dust-gritted saliva and spat it to his feet. He looked up with a twisted smile. “I don’t know about that, Loki. Of the two of us you’ve always been seen as the bigger whore. A talented one for certain, but a whore all the same. And soon enough, your Rite partner will join the throng; be forgotten like the rest.”   Before he knew it, Loki’s dagger was at Thor’s throat.

His vision flashed white, and behind him came the jangle of armoured guards, circling them with their spears readied. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Thor’s hands rise to steady them.

“Brother…” Thor said slowly, “I know you’re nervous, but killing me really would remove any chance you have at the succession—”

 “—I won’t take insult from those who wax lyrical about honour and leave their loin’s fruit to the vultures.” Thor frowned. “What are you talking about?” He tried to look down at the blade glinting by his thorax and only succeeded in nicking his skin. “Ow.” Loki released a withering sigh, flipping the dagger away and kicking Thor’s foot from beneath him. The other one, this time. His brother crumpled like a wet towel. He turned, seeing several of the guards’ facial expressions flinch between the gaps in their helmets.

“Disperse,” he muttered, striding past them and wondering mildly how long it would be until Odin found out. He needed to bathe. He needed to be alone. I need to be with her. But he couldn’t have that; so alone, it would be.

“Don’t worry brother,” he said dryly as he scraped sweat-soaked hair off his face. “I’m sure none of father’s spies will impart that you were bested by a whore.” Thor’s blustering protestations made a smirk curl the corner of his mouth. He must remember to tell you about this, when all was said and done: when the succession was set in stone, when the home for abandoned children was secured, when he knew that you loved him. And as he exited the training ring, Loki realised with horrifying clarity that one of those possibilities hung around his neck like a millstone: heavier than the others – threatening to collapse him to his knees.

If she loves me, he re-worded in his mind, beginning to walk a little quicker to the safety of solitude.

You’d been woken in late morning and bustled with minimal ceremony to the private baths on the upper floors of the palace.

Once there, your day-gown had been stripped by a flurry of exquisitely beautiful maids; each dressed in blue fabric as thin as gauze, hair like pure, precious metals. How you hated them.

You hadn’t realised you wouldn’t see Loki until The Rite itself until he’d told you last night before you parted ways. You’d kissed him so roughly against the wall, fingers digging into his scalp, that you’d almost passed out from lack of oxygen.

And now…here, with the most impossibly beautiful nymphs in all of Asgard – it felt like there was no time. You need to be near him. Isn’t that how love works? But then, you wouldn’t know. You suddenly wondered if absence before the ceremony was really part of the tradition, or if Odin and the rest of them were trying to keep you apart. Hoping he’ll fail. —Stop being so paranoid.

Steam rose from the hot spring, undulating like flame as one of the nymphs massaged your shoulders. I wonder what Loki’s doing. Does he miss me? Is he nervous…? You lifted one calf out of the water where you’d perched at the edge of the baths, the scent of orange oil thick in your nostrils.  Suddenly the fingers stopped working, and she leant down. “Loki’s very good, you know. Everyone knows it’s his favourite thing to do to a woman, or a man. You’re so lucky.” She giggled, and your stomach tightened with a wave of inexplicable anger. “I’m jealous. They say he does this thing with his tongue that—" “—Oh hush, Mavor.” You winced as Frigga’s chide sparked like a lit match. She settled, dangling her feet in the pool beside yours. “Leave the poor girl alone, I’m sure the past few days have been much to contend with.”

You turned fractionally, almost blinded by the golden assault of her sunlit hair. She’s staring at you, faint crows-feet scrunched from the vaguely discomforting smile on her lips. “What happened last night with Fandral was improper. What must you think of us?” “I don’t think it of you,” you lied, memories of the sick little girl cinching tight around your mind; the fact that Fandral and all the other court-wankers had no clue that Loki was the one clearing up their mess, doing any real good. But it was a secret, and a secret it would remain.

And then you remembered what Lagertha said when the nurse had thanked the gods. ‘Not the gods,’ she’d said, beaming with pride as Loki blushed. ‘This one’s the only one worth having.’

Frigga’s close-lipped smile grew. “We can’t blame Fandral for being in love with Loki, even if his methods were…”

Your eyebrow rose. “Petty? Spiteful? Unforgiveable?”

Frigga laughed: a practiced, twinkling chirp. “When you live as long as we do, dear…nothing is truly unforgivable.”

You frowned, vision blurring as you stifled an eyeroll and Freya continued. “Perhaps you understand how he feels…now that you’ve gotten to know my second son a little better.” “You want to know if I love him, is that it? Well, I don't know.”

Shame swelled under your thin bathing gown, and Frigga inhaled quietly. “I of all people in this palace understand that words matter less than what we feel in here-” she said, pressing a fan of fingers to her chest. “You may think our customs strange, but they were born from centuries of upheaval and selfishness of our rulers. Markers needed to be set. It’s important that the general populace knows nothing of the second requirement of The Rite. It’s sacred.” You let out a petulant sigh. Don’t sass the queen, you willed, staring ahead at the water spilling over the edge of the balcony to a waterfall below.

Frigga cleared her throat. “The Rite ensures that those in line for succession can put another before themselves, represented through giving pleasure – and can capture their heart, their love—” “—Yes…I know that now,” you spat, eyes blazing towards her. “No thanks to any of you. Fandral had to tell me, of all people. Couldn’t resist rubbing it in my face that I’d fail Loki.”

Frigga’s face fell. But now you’d started, you couldn’t stop.

“And besides…Odin, Thor…they cheated the system, didn’t they? You and Odin were engaged! Sif was pretty much raised on a diet of Thor-infatuation.” You shook your head, heat flushing up your neck. “I didn’t say it was perfect,” Frigga said. “But the succession cannot be risked. And despite your current ingratiation, you are an outsider; you cannot understand these things.” “Oh,” you said, choosing to ignore her honey-drenched barb. “It can’t be risked, I see…unless it’s Loki, the one no one cares about?”

Despite her mask of diplomacy, irritation rippled on Frigga’s face.

“He had many options, and every opportunity,” she said through perfectly straight, gritted, teeth. “And he squandered every one of them. But something’s changed these past centuries in him. Something in these past weeks, too. A mystery, certainly.”

She stood, and the wet length of her glittering gown slopped across the floor. “Although I’m pleased to see you feel so strongly in his defence – it bodes well for his performance. Perhaps he’ll succeed after all.”

Your snorted. “And if I fail him, Fandral can step in: problem solved.” Frigga sighed, waving away an approaching nymph who skittered gratefully backwards.

“That’s not how it works,” Frigga said with a cloying sweetness, "- Loki would fail you: he would have failed to bring you pleasure, and capture your heart in a meaningful way. He only has one chance at fulfilling The Rite, at joining the succession. I did urge him to wait another 500 years but..."

She gave a delicate shrug. "And besides, in his haste to tarnish you…Fandral excluded himself from ever being eligible. The arousal of a god touched his skin. You should have seen his face when he realised he’d neglected to don the gloves in his pocket: pompous little oaf.”

A whirl of butterflies erupted in your gut. “So, you see, my dear…” Frigga tipped your chin up to meet her eyes. “You are my son’s only chance…”

You looked up at her: the glint in her beautiful irises – and for the first time you saw something more than the performance she presented to the court. Mischief. “My son’s…and those sweet little children.” A smile curled at her wine-stained lips. “And I hope you are prepared for the consequences of that.”

The silent, unbroken stare shattered as the doors burst open and Lagertha hobbled inside with an entourage of three. They held something in their arms like a dead snake, spread between them, covered in thick cotton and secured with the Asgardian royal seal in five places along its length.

Lagertha clapped her hands twice and you couldn’t help but smile at the irreverence on her face as she cast an imperious glance around the room. “There she is,” she said, waving you towards her. “Come, come – we haven’t got all day. Sun will be setting soon.”

You jumped up and scooted over, and immediately her surprisingly iron grip fastened to your bicep. “Loki sends his well wishes,” she hissed abruptly, “hopes his mother ain’t been too much of a cow.”

You pressed your lips together. “He’s alright? He’s not…” “Nervous? Course he is, dear. Near-on shitting himself. Not that he’d say that out loud, but I’ve known him a long time…the real him, like you do. Bless his silken hose. But now…we need to focus on you.”

Minutes passed in a blur as one of Lagertha’s deputy Weaving Crone who wasn’t quite so nobbled rolled out a small podium. You mounted it, following instructions to raise your arms and soon the dress was pulled over your head and in a heap on the floor.

A mirror was wheeled from somewhere, and behind your naked body you tried not to look at Frigga perched on a chaise, supping from a goblet.

Over your shoulder, the assistant crones were unpacking the snake-like thing. It must’ve been twenty feet long, and as it unfurled, your breath hitched. They held up the part which went over your arms, pacing forward reverently. It was as sheer as cobweb, tiny golden flecks weaved into the impossibly fine threads.

It slid up your skin like liquid moonlight. The fabric kissed your flesh like the graze of a lover, and beside you, Lagertha smiled.

You eyed your reflection warily. “How many people will see me in this?” “Just focus on the prince, dear.” “How many, Lagertha?” Her eyes flickered up to yours before taking a renewed interest in straightening the sash. “No more than twenty.” “Twenty?” you hissed. “I thought…I don’t know what I thought. Norns. Who are they?” “Odin, Frigga, Thor…some of the high gods; selected nobles to witness. It’s an honour, remember that. For them, as well as you.” You could swear the outline of your heartbeat was visible. “Oh my god…will they see everything?” “Not everything, child,” Lagertha whispered, untying the sash loop and re-assembling it; buying time. The robes sides covered your breasts but left a gap of bare skin in the centre, gathering at the naval before the flowing, split skirt began.

“It’s all very hush hush beforehand, so the participants can’t…skew things.” “Skew things?” You saw Lagertha’s lips roll together as she tried to dampen a laugh. Her eyes darted to Frigga and quickly back to you.

“Touch ‘emselves,” she said with a straight face.

“Focus on Loki, dear.” Her voice was as calming as poppy-seed tea. “I know what I see when I see it.” She ran a nobbled hand down the curve of your waist, smoothing the fabric.

You swallowed, looking at yourself in the mirror. “How will they know if I…if I love him? How will they know if I don't know?” Lagertha spun out the silence, fussing with the fabric at your breasts. “Focus on Loki, dear,” was all she said.

And soon, you were on the move again.

After his father’s ‘motivational’ speech, Loki felt no better. Although admittedly, he did feel slightly lighter when he’d left. Lagertha’s arrival had been the only bright spot in the darkness of his mood. She’d clothed in him in the same style of ceremonial garments expected from all participants in The Rite – far less grand than yours would be, but Loki’s held more elaborate stitching than his brother’s had done centuries before: tiny runes and charms woven into the hem with wishes that whispered when he moved. “Tell her…” he’d started, realising that he didn’t know what to say. He grumbled out some inane quip about his mother. Lagertha raised an eyebrow. “I know how you feel about her, silly boy,” she said under her breath, eyeing Thor snarfing down a third plate of cold meats like he’d been raised on the streets and not in a palace. "You can't fool old Lagertha."

Loki’s chest tightened: fighting the urge to deny it, fighting the urge to let his persona of bravado take hold. “I can’t love. Everyone’s always told me I’m not…made for it.” Lagertha’s laugh caught in her throat. She made a face. “Who? Him?” She yanked her head towards Thor leering covetously at a wheel of cheese. “Please,” she added under her breath. “And if she doesn’t love me?” Loki asked, voice crackling under the weight of the words.

Lagertha rolled her eyes. “It was a big ask in such a short time – any fool could see that, even your brother. But if you can…then maybe she can too.”

She shrugged, and patted his bare pecs twice. “I saw the way she looked at you when you came to get measured, and she couldn’t look away when you were playing with little Grisyna.”

Her eyebrow rose again. “Besides…if what she feels isn’t strong enough to fulfil The Rite…doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Doesn’t mean it isn’t worth exploring, tending.” “But the children," Loki hissed, ensuring he was out of Thor's earshot. "If I’m not in the succession, then if father finds out, he’ll—” Lagertha flapped a hand. “— We’ll figure out a way. We always have. Odin isn’t going to sweep in and decimate them – Frigga wouldn’t allow it…they’ll be shifted out somewhere, all nice and quiet so no one finds out what a bunch of unworthy vagabonds his court is.”

She reached up his neck and instinctually he stooped so her hands could cup his jaw.

“You are worthy of love, Loki Odinson. Giving and receiving,” she said quietly, searching his eyes. “No matter what some daft Rite says.”

“Brother you simply must try these prunes.”

Thor belched, pressing a fist to his mouth too late. Loki and Lagertha looked at him with matching expressions of disgust, and her hands fell from his jaw. Thor chuckled.

“Seems like your partner has competition for her place tonight,” Thor said, throwing a prune up and trying to catch it with his mouth. It hit off his eye and bounced to the floor. “I’ve been laying with gods since Odin was a sparkle in your grandfather’s eye, boy…I wouldn’t possibly qualify,” she said, gathering her things. She looked at Loki a final time, sharing a conspiratorial nod as Thor flushed pink. “Boy?!” Thor balked, as she shifted from the room with a quiet, purposeful grace. “Boy!?” he said again, marching to Loki. “That old witch is too familiar. I should have her removed from royal favour.” “You’ll do no such thing, brother,” Loki drawled, picking up a goblet of wine before setting it down again, untouched. “Who will make the garments that enchant your groin to look larger?” Thor’s cheeks began to turn violet. “That was supposed to be in confidence.” “Oh, dear.” Loki spun to his reflection, tilting his head. “Well, you’re lucky I’m very good at keeping secrets - if I choose to.”

Thor's lips pursed tight. Clearly, today would not be the one he’d break the habit of a lifetime and concoct a witty response. Loki’s gaze shifted back to himself.

The ceremonial Rite garment clung to every line of muscle like shimmering skin. It rippled at the merest breath; whether it was silver, or gold, or white depended entirely on the angle of the light. Bell sleeves draped from his wrists, hanging down to his mid-thighs and melting against his skin like dregs of foam into sand.

The fabric was split down his torso; cock on full display; sheer fabric leaving no inch of the skin beneath to the imagination. The hem of the robe brushed the floor as his bare feet shuffled, inspecting himself. He looked resplendent.

Loki sighed. “Fix my hair, will you? Or try, at least.”

A box rattled as Thor combed through a variety of pins. Loki rolled his eyes. “The gold one, with the emblem.” “Which emblem?” Thor asked, bored. “My emblem, you cretin.”

Thor worked in silence, and Loki was glad of it. His brother managed to gather the hair in a serviceable knot at the top of his head: fastened with the golden snake pin at its base. Loki’s cheekbones slashed deep shadows into his face, highlighting faint blue shadows under his eyes. The sun had almost set, and soon enough, there was a knock at the door. Thor squeezed his shoulder. “I wish you fortune, brother. May her heart be open.”

Loki waited for the quip about her legs being open too, but it didn’t come. And unlike the cowing pleasantries at last night’s feast, he felt a shiver of gratitude wrench up his spine at the sentiment.

“Thank you, brother,” he whispered, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. “I need it.”

The stone seemed to pulse beneath your feet.

You walked in procession: Frigga at the front, the Asgardian nymphs flanking you each holding a clutch of your train as the golden door grew closer. Goosebumps needled your arms beneath the silk-chiffon. ‘Just focus on the prince’, Lagertha had said. ‘Just focus on him’. Finally, the procession stopped. Frigga beat a fist on the door three times, and inside there was the muffled sound of trumpets.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Heraldry? Be serious.

The doors swung open. The hall was narrow, with padded benches lining the walls like one of those Midgard chapels and torches throwing throbbing amber hues on the floor. It was so polished that the gemstone stars set deep into the dark ceiling reflected on its surface, and your feet wobbled as the world slewed around you. “It’s alright,” the nymph to your side whispered, staring ahead. “Just keep walking.” You tried not to look at the shaded figures who populated the benches, but the curiosity was too much. Fandral sat with a sullen expression, glowering at your progress, the centre of his face marred with a purple bruise which spread to his eyes. You smirked. Frigga stopped, and stepped to the side.

And then, you inhaled sharply. Loki stood with his hands clasped behind his back: posture impeccable, body tight with braced muscles and his raven hair swept up in a devastating knot.

He wore a robe made of the same material as yours. In torchlight, it looked like pure gold – rippling with opacity in time with the flames. But still, his alabaster skin was visible beneath it. The god’s bare form was as flawless as you remembered from the night in the baths – it felt like a lifetime ago.

And yes, his cock really is that big, that perfect. You thought you might have imagined it. His face was set in ceremonial stiffness, but those eyes sparkled. He isn’t embarrassed. You decided – fuck it – you weren’t going to be embarrassed either. You opened your mouth to speak but, regrettably, Odin got in first. “Gods, nobles…you are welcome to the attempt of my second son – Loki of Asgard – at fulfilling The Rite of Successional Pleasure, and taking his place as one of the realm’s true-royal sons.”

Loki sidestepped as you found yourself guided by the nymphs holding your train, nudging you towards a raised platform at the end of the hall. A firm looking cushion sat on top of it: the deepest navy blue, scattered with silver thread.

You climbed each of the four steps, turning to the crowd of shadowed faces occupying the pews and trying to ignore the graze of your hardened nipped against the fabric. For Loki, you reminded yourself.

Looking up, you could make out a golden railing suspended from the ceiling, thin bunches of material hanging from it in thin sections.   Loki mounted the steps with easy grace, cock swinging, drawing your hand to his lips when he reached the top.

“You are well?” he murmured against the skin, looking up through his lashes. Your stomach roiled with the need to kiss him, but all you could muster was a nod. A silent understanding passed between you of how fucked-up this was. “It will be over soon,” he said, brows peaking. Your lips rolled together, but as words shaped your lips—

“Loki Odinson: God of Mischief and Lies, Son of Asgard.”

Odin’s voice rang around the cloisters like a war-cry. “I command you to prove yourself worthy of the people you seek to rule by bestowing unrequited pleasure on this woman. By doing so, you prove that you can put those you rule above yourself; that if you can cultivate their love, you may one day hold the crown.”

Cultivate their love. The phrase made a shiver tighten your shoulders.

A woman even older than Lagertha shuffled up the steps, and beside you, Loki stiffened. Red markings smeared down her face, paste crusting into deep wrinkles. She gathered your hands. Her eyes closed, face tipped to the feeling. The very air seemed to sharpen. “She is untouched by a god: she has known no seed, she is eligible for the ceremonial Rite,” the woman announced. Beside you, Loki’s muscles relaxed. A nymph tapped your shoulder and you drew your eyes from Loki’s. “My lady- we need to—” “—I can do it,” Loki cut in. He observed her visible panic with clear irritation. “Nowhere does it specify this in the ceremonial texts, I assure you.”

There was a hum from the crowd, but no objections. Loki ushered you to the bed. He leant down to your ear, and the warmth of his breath ignited fierce, obscene desire in your core. The crowd, forgotten. “Lie on the bed, so that your head rests near the top," he whispered, shivers running down your limbs. "Those two women will fan the train of your robe. It’s very important that you let them arrange it how it needs to be. You’ll be restrained, but don’t fear…it will not hurt. It’s only so—” “—I don’t touch myself,” you finished. Loki smirked. “Skew the results,” he replied, eyes glittering like the gems in the ceiling. His knuckles trailed down your bicep and for that moment, there was only you and Loki in the room. “Shall we?”

You did as he’d asked, settling on your back. True enough, the two nymphs spread the train of the robe until its huge length spilled down the steps and halfway up the narrow aisle. The rest of it pooled across the bed, pearling weave undulating in shadows. When they were done, your arms were spread and satin tied to your wrists; fastened somewhere down the sides.

And all the while, Loki stood where you’d left him – facing the crowd with what you imagined was a thousand-yard-stare.

One of the nymphs approached the long material draped from the ceiling. Loki brought a hand up, clicking his fingers. The material sprung to life, metal rings scraping on metal as it worked around the railing; surrounding the bed in a circle of thin, voile fabric.

You’d been prepared to repeat Lagertha’s mantra in your head at this point, but it turned out it wasn’t only easy to focus on Loki – it was impossible not to.

He drew a portion of the curtain to the side and slipped through: utterly beautiful in his regally-repressed lust. That lithe body shifted beneath the sheer robe as he knelt on the bed: one knee, then two. You squirmed, unable to help yourself. You were already wet, arousal sliding between your thighs.

“Kiss me?” you asked quietly.

His brow furrowed, eyes falling to his crotch. He was hard. It was the first time you’d seen him erect without any clothes on. Even in the baths, he’d been underwater. Saliva welled in your mouth, heart thumping. A bead of pre-cum had already swelled at the tip. “This is rather unorthodox,” he muttered. Whispers were audible from the world beyond the curtain. Loki swallowed. “But you look so…” He swallowed again, eyelids fluttering closed and hands falling to the mattress. “I’ll get seed on you. And we can’t have that. Not now.” “Not now,” you agreed as your legs parted.

Loki’s breath hitched as he drew the sliver of fabric covering your crotch to the side. The god lowered, lips fastening to your thigh as his hands scooped under your legs. You felt like you might catch fire.

He kissed up to the knee, lingering on each inch of skin like you might vanish. Your nerves were wild, and it wasn’t until the whine of his name had left your lips you even realised you'd done it. There was a ripple of amusement from the crowd, and one of Loki’s brows rose. “As you desire,” he murmured, before fastening softly to your clit.

A moan ripped from your throat.

The touch was almost nothing, but it was a lit match to sulphur. All the desire, the longing, the denial – it came rushing up your throat in that moan.

Loki’s tongue was silk. It smoothed over the folds of your sex, coating you in his wet enthusiasm. Every long, languid lap coupled with a groan of approval in his chest; the sharp angles of his jawline slotting perfectly between your spread legs.

“Loki,” you gasped, back arching while his fingers spread against your hips.

He suckled your clit, eyes opening with calculated precision to lock with your own. “Loki,” you chanted again, reaching to tangle a hand in his hair and failing. His mouth broke from your pussy. “Yes, little owl?” he hummed, chin glistening with your arousal, a playful dimple winking at the corner of his mouth. You huffed.

“Don’t stop,” you pleaded as the god chuckled against you thigh, wet, lazy kisses bitten into the flesh. His eyes met yours as he kissed over your mound, lowering completely before dragging his nose through your cunt and covering your clit again.

“Gods, yes….f-fuck,” you gasped.

There were more titters of mirth behind the curtain. But you couldn’t hear them – you could only hear Loki’s desperate sighs of need as he worshipped you, only feel the coil winding in your belly as orgasm began to crest; only sense the press of his fingertips pulling your hips deeper into his open mouth.

Suddenly someone shouted: another, and then another. They were hushed by a voice suspiciously like Frigga’s.

You turned your face unwillingly to the side, craning up, straining against the binds. The end of the train was just visible were it ended down aisle. You squinted. Where before it was a kind of white, now it was… “Green?” Loki’s palm pressed against your chest, sliding to cup your breast with a squeeze as you lowered.

“Ignore it,” he breathed: wet, hot. And then, he pushed your knees back. Your eyes widened as he towered above you, fingers spread on your calves like a chariot-rider. A single curl had come loose from the top-knot. Loki lapped from the base of your slit to the tip.

His movements were fluid, and wild – yet perfectly controlled. You’d heard tales of how he swept through battlefields like a whirlwind; slicing enemies down like they were paper; harnessing madness with the absolute precision. And this was like that. Except his battle was your pleasure – and gods, he was winning.

You’d begun to pant, and nonsensical words shaped your tongue as his movements became slower, massaging your cunt with slow, methodical licks. “Loki…” you pleaded, chest heaving, lips parted. And then, you came.

It was like nothing you’d ever known. Everything else had been a pebble of pleasure scattered on a beach – this was the cliff. It slammed into you, spine arching as he shifted to your thrashes; holding your hips fast to his lips as you spilled into him.

Somewhere, people were clapping – but all you could feel was him, guiding your sizzling pussy from its high with gentle, careful licks.

The binds at your wrists loosened and the moment they did, you sat up – audience be damned – and collided with his mouth.

The kiss was deep, wild: fingers digging into the tight hair at the base of his skull, his lips teased open by the demands of your tongue. The taste of you was thick: sweet, hot, dark with your deepest needs. It tasted like love - like trust.

Loki’s moan as you shifted onto his lap and dragged your pussy up his cock: scorching your insides with an unquenchable drive to have him buried inside you. “It’s done,” a creaking voice announced. You squinted through the curtain, panting. The old woman from before with red crusted on her face was standing, facing the crowd. “Loki Odinson has completed the Rite of Successional Pleasure.” A roar erupted through the darkness. Loki shook you by the shoulders, his face smeared with your cum a picture of fierce delight.

I did it, those eyes said.  

For a reason you couldn’t explain, your stomach dropped.

The curtain was torn aside and you toppled from Loki’s lap, pulling bundles of the robe’s length to cover your modesty. And then, you saw it. The train spilling down the steps and onto the aisle was almost completely green: a deep emerald, like it had been dipped in ink which soaked its material like the tide. As you watched, the stain grew closer, starting an ascent of the steps. “He has proven himself able to give pleasure to those who serve him,” the woman’s voice cut through the din. “He has proven himself able to earn their love, their allegiance.” Loki stood from the bed, his arms spread wide to the applause: robe open, cock still hard. You frowned, shuffling forwards and tugged the back of his robe. He glanced over his shoulder, expression faltering.

You loved him. He knew that now. Everyone did. So why did it feel like… A mob descended and suddenly Loki was absorbed into a mass of congratulatory back slaps and cheers. Thor stood at the side, clapping all-too-slowly. His eyes darted towards you, before falling to the ground.

‘A triumph,’ the voices in the crowd around Loki said as his smile widened. ‘Never seen anything like it…magnificent.’ They pulled him down the steps. 'One for the histories.'

“Loki." Your voice broke, and you shuffled forwards and stumbled over the tangle of your train. You thought you saw the flash of Loki’s profile; you thought you saw him trying to lurch back through the throng.

But fingers curled around your arms and pulled. The mossy perfume of the Asgardian nymphs stung your eyes and you wrenched against them, hearing a rip from below as someone tore the delicate robe with their feet.

More fingers fastened to your wrist and you yanked away before meeting a pair of piercing blue eyes. Sad eyes. “Let him go,” Frigga whispered firmly. “He has much to celebrate.” Everything else was white noise. Only the memory of Fandral’s smarmy voice loud in your head. ‘He’s trying to make you fall in love with him,’ he’d said. ‘And afterwards, he’ll discard you like the commoner you imagine yourself to be.’ You faltered at the scrunch of Frigga’s brow, strength leaving your limbs.

Her pitying gaze said more than platitudes ever could. Glancing at the door, shouts of jubilation faded in echoing wisps as the green spill completed its ascent up the enchanted fabric.

Loki’s colour: proof that he held your heart in the palm of his hand, proof that you were willing to give yourself to him body, and soul.

And Loki was gone.

A/N. Just trust me, okay? Please? 🙏❤️ Please please. Tags in comments x Next Chapter : Marked (Finale) The Rite Masterlist is here

[other-lxxahazel]

hey idk if too dark but can you do alastor and g/n reader with prompt “I know every inch of your body and I know for a fact that scar wasn’t there before”. Like they suffer from sh and Al finally found it

Anon... I don't know if you're expecting smut or something, I tried, but I really can't 😭😭😭 and also this sucks 👍🏻

╰┈➤ Comfort

· · ───── ·𖥸· ───── · ·

The first time Alastor laid eyes on you, he found you utterly insufferable. You were new to the Hazbin Hotel, another lost soul meandering through the chaotic halls of Hell, and yet, you carried yourself with an infuriating air of defiance. Most residents, when confronted by the infamous Radio Demon, either cowered or blustered with transparent bravado. You, however, had simply… argued.

"Look, pal," you'd said, arms crossed, regarding him with an eyebrow raised, "I appreciate the enthusiasm, but your 'help' is mostly just making things more complicated. And the static? Honestly, it's giving me a headache."

A smile, wide and predatory, had stretched across Alastor’s face. He’d expected fear, respect, perhaps even a flicker of admiration. Not… annoyance. It was a novel sensation, like tasting a new, surprisingly tart vintage. The flicker of irritation quickly transmuted into a spark of intrigue. Most souls were so predictable.

You, however, were a delightful anomaly. A challenge. And a challenge, for Alastor, was an invitation.

"Ah, my dear," he'd purred, static crackling a little louder around him, "a soul with spirit! How… refreshing." His eyes had gleamed with an almost imperceptible shift, a predatory hunger that had nothing to do with immediate consumption and everything to do with ownership. His new goal had solidified then and there: your soul would be his. Not through a forceful taking, but through an insidious, charming persuasion. He would make a deal. And to do that, he would need to get close. Very, very close.

His approach was insidious in its subtlety. He began with what seemed like innocuous overtures. "A delightful evening for a stroll, wouldn't you agree, my dear?" he'd offer, appearing beside you as you ventured out to clear your head. He’d walk beside you, a silent, attentive presence, offering observations on the grotesque beauty of Pentagram City or recounting bizarre anecdotes from his own infernal history. He brought you little gifts – a rare, vintage microphone he’d "found," a beautifully bound, albeit slightly bloodstained, book of obscure poetry, even a peculiar, glowing flower he’d plucked from a particularly noxious bog.

He became… charming. Disarmingly so. His humor, sharp and often dark, was surprisingly engaging. He’d tease you, playfully prod at your stubbornness, and sometimes, his hand would brush yours, or he’d rest a clawed finger lightly on your arm to emphasize a point. At first, you’d flinch, uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy from a being so famously untouchable. But he was persistent, never pushing too far, merely letting his presence become a familiar, almost comforting weight.

He'd watch you, truly watch you. The way your eyes crinkled when you genuinely laughed, the small frown that appeared when you were deep in thought, the subtle shifts in your posture that betrayed your mood. And somewhere, in the shadowed, forgotten corners of his infernal being, something began to shift.

It started subtly. A slight tremor in his usually steady voice when you smiled directly at him. A peculiar warmth that unfurled in his chest, making his shadow-self twitch with an unfamiliar energy. His heart, a thing he rarely acknowledged, would beat a fraction faster whenever he saw you. When you’d recount a frustrating encounter with another demon, a possessive growl would rumble in his chest before he could suppress it. He'd find himself orchestrating situations just to see your reaction, just to hear your laughter.

He, Alastor, the Radio Demon, the very embodiment of control and detached observation, was losing his carefully constructed composure. The realization hit him with the force of a demonic explosion: he had fallen. Fallen for you.

His confession was not, by his standards, a well-executed plan. It was a moment of weakness, a surge of emotion he hadn't anticipated. You'd been laughing, head thrown back, at something Husk had grumbled, and the sound had resonated through him, shaking him to his core.

"My dear," he'd said, stepping in front of you, his smile a little strained, "I find myself in a rather… untenable position."

You'd tilted your head, still smiling, "Oh? And what might that be, Alastor?"

He’d taken a deep breath, the static around him buzzing with a frantic energy. "It appears," he'd begun, "that in my pursuit of your fascinating soul, I have inadvertently… acquired something far more perplexing. An emotion. A truly vexing emotion. It would seem, my dear, that I have developed… profound affections for you."

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the crackle of his own internal turmoil. He expected shock, perhaps even disgust. He certainly didn't expect you to simply stare at him, a slow blush creeping up your neck.

Then, you’d done the most unexpected thing. You’d reached out, a hesitant hand brushing his arm, and whispered, "Oh. Good. Because… I think I've felt the same, for a while now."

Physical touch, initially, remained an awkward dance. His instincts were to be dominant, to possess, but he'd learned that with you, a softer approach yielded far more genuine results. Your own discomfort was palpable, a lifetime of guarded personal space. But slowly, painstakingly, you both learned. A hesitant handhold during a quiet moment in the hotel lobby. A brief, chaste kiss when one of you was leaving for a task. Cuddling on the sofa while listening to his old radio broadcasts, him resting his chin on your head, your hand idly tracing patterns on his chest.

Sex, when it happened, was an exploration, sometimes intense and passionate, other times soft and lingering. It wasn't always about fireworks; sometimes it was about the simple comfort of shared warmth, the intimate sigh against skin, the quiet murmur of affection. More often than not, though, it was the simple, profound contentment of kissing, cuddling, and holding hands. It was enough. You were both content. He had your heart, and in turn, he had given you his – a rare, terrifying, and utterly precious gift.

Then, the shift began. It was subtle at first, a barely perceptible chill in the warmth that usually surrounded you. You started to become quieter, your laughter less frequent, your eyes a little more distant. You’d make excuses to avoid his company, claiming tiredness, or needing to help Charlie, or a sudden, pressing urge to… reorganize the hotel's supply closet.

Alastor, with his finely tuned senses for deception, noticed every single evasion. The familiar, possessive unease began to stir within him.

It had reached its boiling point that morning. You had been in the common room, speaking to Lucifer himself, his golden aura practically preening as he leaned in close to you. Alastor had been watching from the shadows, a possessive snarl growing on his usually cheerful face. You had been blushing. And then you had laughed, a genuine, unrestrained peal of mirth that had resonated through the hotel… and straight into Alastor's already festering jealousy.

Does she… doesn’t feel the same anymore? The ridiculous thought, born of insecurity and his own burgeoning, unfamiliar vulnerability, had taken root. He tried to deny it, to dismiss it as irrational. But the more you distanced yourself, the more his monstrous mind began to believe the insidious whisper. And he absolutely, unequivocally, hated it. He hated the feeling of being unsure. He hated the thought of losing you, of that connection, that rare bond, slipping through his clawed fingers.

That evening, he had finally snapped. He’d found you trying to slip away, muttering something about needing to "check on the imp population in the lower rings."

"My dear," his voice had been dangerously smooth, "I believe we need to have a word."

You’d paused, your shoulders stiffening, but you hadn’t turned around. "Alastor, I really can't right now—"

Before you could finish the sentence, the world had warped, the familiar oppressive feeling of his teleportation consuming you.

One moment, you were in the dimly lit hallway; the next, you were in your shared bedroom, the air suddenly thick with a crackle of static and barely restrained power. You stumbled, disoriented, and before you could regain your balance, he was there.

You felt the mattress give beneath you, felt the sudden, undeniable weight of his body pinning you. His hands, usually so gentle in these intimate moments, were firm on your wrists, pressing them above your head. His eyes, usually gleaming with amusement, were now dark, radiating an intensity that was both terrifying and undeniably alluring.

"Enough, (Y/N)," his voice was a low growl, devoid of its usual radio filter, raw and guttural. "No more excuses. No more running."

You stared up at him, your breath catching in your throat. He was a predator, yes, but he was your predator. And the dark, primal part of you that craved his possessive nature stirred to life.

"Alastor," you tried, your voice a little shaky, "you're hurting me."

His eyes narrowed, and for a terrifying second, you thought he might actually unleash his full demonic power. Instead, his gaze softened, just a fraction, the raw anger receding to a burning intensity. He loosened his grip on your wrists, but didn't release you.

"No, I'm not," he stated, his voice still low, but tinged with a dangerous edge of accusation. "But you're hurting me. You've been distant. You've been avoiding me. And then," his voice dropped to a near whisper, laden with venom, "I find you giggling with Lucifer as if… as if nothing between us matters anymore."

His chest was heaving slightly, the barely contained rage warring with something akin to desperate pain. He leaned closer, his dark red hair falling around his face, eclipsing the room. "Tell me," he demanded, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through your bones, "is he better company? Does he make you laugh more? Do you… do you prefer his touch?"

You could feel the heat radiating from him, the sheer force of his jealousy washing over you. And it was… undeniably arousing. The raw possessiveness, the barely controlled power, the sudden, desperate vulnerability beneath the fury – it was intoxicating.

A slow, deliberate smile spread across your face, a dangerous spark igniting in your eyes that he hadn't seen in weeks. You let out a soft, almost purring laugh, a sound that only seemed to infuriate him further.

"Is that what this is about, Alastor?" you whispered, your voice husky, your hips shifting slightly beneath his. "You're jealous?"

His eyes flared, a demonic symbol briefly flashing in their depths. "Jealousy is a base emotion," he snarled, but the denial was weak, overshadowed by the intense grip he had on your wrists.

"Is it?" you countered, your voice dropping, becoming a low siren's call. You arched your back subtly, pressing yourself against him. "Because you look rather… consumed by it." Your eyes trailed down his chest, down to where his hips pressed against yours. "And you feel rather… hard about it too."

The air crackled. His eyes widened slightly, the raw fury in them slowly, reluctantly, giving way to surprise. He hadn't expected this. He'd expected tears, defiance, a desperate plea. Not… this. Not this blatant, brazen invitation.

"You've been so quiet," he whispered, his voice ragged, a mix of anger and growing arousal. "So distant. I thought… I thought you were bored. With me."

You shook your head slowly, a wicked glint in your eyes. "Never bored with you, Alastor. Just… frustrated." You looked up at him, your gaze unwavering. "Frustrated that you're so dense sometimes. Frustrated that you didn't see."

He blinked, the shift in your mood, the sudden surge of playful challenge, catching him off guard. "See what, precisely?" he demanded, his voice a low growl, the last vestiges of his anger still clinging to his words.

You licked your lips slowly, your gaze dropping from his eyes to his mouth. "That sometimes," you murmured, "I want you to stop being such a gentleman. Sometimes, I want you to stop asking. And sometimes… I want you to just take."

His breath hitched. The static around him intensified, a roaring storm of conflicting emotions. The rage, the fear of losing you, the desperate vulnerability, and now… this potent, undeniable desire. He leaned down, his face inches from yours.

"You refuse to tell me what has been bothering you," he breathed, his voice a low, gravelly promise. "So, I suppose… I will have to find out for myself. The hard way."

His grip on your wrists finally released. One of his hands moved, not to your face, but lower, sliding over your stomach, fingers tracing the line of your inner thigh. His eyes, still dark with a predatory gleam, never left yours.

"Tell me what you want, my dear," he murmured, his fingers trailing higher, exploring. "Because it seems to me… you've been wanting quite a lot, haven't you?"

A shiver ran through you, both from the cold fear of his earlier rage and the scorching heat of his present touch. You gasped softly as his fingers reached their destination, pressing gently against the core of your being.

"Alastor," you whimpered, your hips lifting involuntarily.

His smile returned then, wide and sharp, but this time, it was laced with a dark triumph. "Ah, there's that delightful sound," he purred, his voice regaining its familiar radio filter, but with an underlying, throaty rasp. "Now, tell me, my dear… what exactly has been on your mind?"

He leaned down further, pressing a hot kiss to your neck, his fingers beginning their slow, deliberate dance. You arched against him, a helpless moan escaping your lips. You would tell him everything, eventually. But for now, you were content to let him explore, to let his touch coax every secret from your body, and every confession from your soul. After all, you had been waiting for him to finally, truly, understand.

His fingers worked their magic, pushing you closer and closer to the brink, the raw pleasure and overwhelming tide. He kept murmuring questions, demands for confessions, but you just clung to him, riding the wave. Just as you felt the peak approaching, a sudden, sharp pain flared in your palm.

You gasped, not in pleasure, but in shock, pulling your hand back from his shoulder with a small cry. Alastor immediately stilled, his eyes snapping open, his head lifting from your neck.

"What was that?" he demanded, the predatory glint returning, but laced with a new, sharp concern.

You clutched your hand, trying to hide it, but the sudden movement caused a few drops of crimson to fall onto the pristine white sheets. His gaze, quick and discerning, followed the blood.

"Nothing," you tried, your voice thin. "Just… a cramp."

He narrowed his eyes, his smile fading into a thin, dangerous line. "Don't lie to me, (Y/N). Not now. Not when we are… so close to understanding." He grabbed your wrist, gently but firmly, and unfurled your fingers.

There, stark against the pale skin of your palm, was a fresh, angry cut. It was deep, still welling with dark, hellish blood, but more alarmingly, the edges of the wound looked… burnt. Like something had cauterized it even as it cut.

Alastor’s eyes, usually so composed, widened. His brows furrowed, and for the first time in a long time, you saw genuine, unadulterated shock flash across his face. He leaned closer, examining the wound with an almost morbid fascination. His fingers, still holding your wrist, twitched, as if fighting an urge to touch it, to test its reality.

"This is not a 'cramp,' my dear," he stated, his voice hushed, the static around him strangely subdued. "And more importantly… this is not healing."

You swallowed hard, your previous defensiveness crumbling under his intense scrutiny. The shame, and a bizarre sense of relief that the truth was finally out, washed over you.

"It… it won't," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "It's… angelic. I found a blade. One of those holy ones. From the Extermination."

He stared at you, his eyes piercing, trying to decipher the meaning behind your words. "An angelic blade?" he repeated slowly, as if tasting the words. "And you… you cut yourself with it? Why, for heaven's sake?!" His voice rose, the static crackling back to life with his renewed frustration. "Are you mad?!"

You flinched, then squeezed your eyes shut, shame burning your cheeks. "I… I know. I'm stupid. So stupid." A bitter laugh escaped you. "I have… impulsive thoughts. Sometimes, it's just a way to… feel something. To prove I'm real, I guess. And with normal blades, it never leaves a mark. I heal. Always." You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. "But I saw that angelic one, and curiosity just… ate at me. I wondered if it felt the same. If it would… stick. And it did. It hurt. More than anything. And now… now I have this." You gestured weakly to the angry gash on your palm. "It's been there for days. It won't go away."

The air in the room was thick with unspoken words. Alastor released your wrist, sitting up slightly, but still straddling your hips. His eyes were fixed on your wounded palm, then drifted to your face, a complex storm of emotions swirling within them. The raw, possessive jealousy was gone, replaced by a profound, unsettling understanding. He finally grasped the depth of your silence, the reason for your distance. It wasn't about another demon; it was about this. This raw, self-inflicted wound that proved you were far more fragile, and far more complex, than he had ever truly accounted for.

He reached out, his clawed fingers surprisingly gentle, and lifted your hand again, turning it over to examine the wound. He ran a thumb lightly along its length, his touch sending a jolt, not of pain, but of something akin to solace through you.

"I know every inch of your body," he murmured, his voice now a low, pained thrum of static, "and I know for a fact that scar wasn't there before." His gaze met yours, filled with a new, terrifying blend of understanding, regret, and an even deeper, more desperate need to protect. "My dear," he whispered, "what have you done?"

Alastor's fingers traced the raw, unhealed gash on your palm, his expression a complicated mess of fury, concern, and something akin to bewildered pain. The static around him wasn't a growl of anger now, but a low, distressed hum, like a radio struggling to find a clear signal.

"An angelic blade," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "You subjected yourself to that? For… for a fleeting curiosity?" His eyes snapped up to yours, ablaze with a mix of disbelief and agonizing understanding. "Do you have any idea, any comprehension, of the agony that this kind of wound causes in Hell? Of its permanence?"

You could only look at him, tears finally flowing freely down your face. The shame was suffocating. "I know," you choked out, pulling your hand away gently, pressing it to your chest as if to staunch the invisible bleeding of your soul. "I told you, I'm stupid. It just… it happens sometimes. The thoughts. And then I have to see. To feel. And I just… I didn't think it would stick."

He slid off the bed, but didn't move far. He paced, a restless shadow in the dimly lit room, the click of his heels a stark counterpoint to the soft whir of the radio dial on the nightstand. His usual predatory grace was replaced by a frantic energy, as if he couldn't quite contain the torrent of emotions raging within him.

"Impulsive thoughts," he finally scoffed, stopping abruptly to face you. His arms were crossed, his smile a tight, almost painful grimace. "My dear, I am a demon of impulse! I understand the allure of a whim, a sudden, delightful urge for chaos. But this?" He gestured vaguely at your hand, then back at you. "This is not chaos. This is… self-destruction."

His voice softened, losing its edge of condemnation, replaced by a desperate plea. "Why did you not tell me? All these weeks, this distance, this frigid silence! I assumed… I assumed the worst! That my affections were unreturned, that my very presence had become a burden! You let me fester in my own ridiculous anxieties, only for it to be… this?"

You wiped at your tears with your uninjured hand. "Because it's shameful, Alastor! You're… you're Alastor. The Radio Demon. Powerful. Perfect. You don't… you don't break. And I do. All the time. And I didn't want you to see it. I didn't want you to look at me differently.

He let out a sharp, almost pained laugh. "Perfect?" He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, raw tone that sent shivers down your spine. "My dear, I am a creature of unholy appetites and deeply ingrained flaws. Perfect is a state of being utterly boring. And as for 'breaking'..." He knelt beside the bed, bringing himself to your eye level, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that demanded honesty.

"Every soul in Hell is broken in some way, my love. It is why we are here. But the truly fascinating ones, the ones that capture the attention of a connoisseur such as myself, are those that continue to mend themselves, piece by agonizing piece, despite the inherent damage. You are not broken, (Y/N). You are merely… mending. And you were doing it alone."

He reached out, his clawed fingers gently cupping your wounded hand. His thumb stroked the angry cut, not with the intention to hurt, but with an almost reverent tenderness that stole your breath.

"I know every inch of your body," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper, filled with a new depth of understanding, "and I know for a fact that scar wasn't there before." His gaze was unyielding, demanding that you truly hear him. "But it is now. And because of that, it becomes a part of us. A testament to what you have endured. And what we will face, together."

He lifted your hand, bringing the injured palm to his lips, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the unhealing wound. It was a silent promise, a profound acceptance of the fractured pieces you had so desperately tried to hide. The simple act sent a jolt through you, a warmth spreading from your palm through your entire being, a soothing balm to your ragged nerves.

"Do not," he murmured against your skin, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion, "ever keep such… vital information from me again.

Your pain, your struggles, your peculiar fascinations – they are all a part of you. And you, in your entirety, belong to me. Every delightful, frustrating, and even self-destructive aspect." He looked up, his smile returning, softer now, less predatory, more… possessive in a way that truly encompassed care. "Now. How about we get this infernal wound tended to? And then, perhaps, we can discuss in excruciating detail every single one of these 'impulsive thoughts' you seem to be having."

You let out a shaky breath, a small, genuine smile finally touching your lips. "Okay, Alastor," you whispered, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead. "Okay."

Alastor's eyes, still shimmering with that complex mix of concern and possessive adoration, lingered on the weeping gash in your palm. He finally pulled away from you, the warmth of his hand leaving a phantom tingle on your skin. He began to rise, his gaze already shifting towards the door, no doubt planning on procuring some infernal antiseptic or a demon-specific healing concoction.

"Right then, my dear," he announced, a touch of his usual brisk efficiency returning to his tone, "let's get this unsightly… mishap… tended to. Angelic wounds are notoriously stubborn, but I assure you, I have my methods."

You, however, were not quite ready for the sudden shift in focus. The raw honesty you'd just shared, the vulnerability you'd exposed, had stripped away your usual inhibitions. And the lingering ache of unsatisfied desire, now mingled with the emotional release, was a potent combination.

As he began to push himself off the bed, you reached out, your uninjured hand gently but firmly grasping his arm. "Wait," you whispered, your voice a little shaky, your gaze dropping to the sheets, suddenly feeling intensely shy.

He paused, turning his head to look at you, one eyebrow arched in question. "My dear? Is something amiss? I assure you, I shall be back in a jiffy with the necessary accoutrements to—"

"No," you interrupted, a blush creeping up your neck. You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, then quickly darting away. "You're… you're not done yet."

Alastor tilted his head, a faint, puzzled hum escaping him. "Not done with…?" He followed your gaze, which flickered down to where his fingers had been moments before. A slow, knowing smile, one that was both utterly predatory and deeply affectionate, began to spread across his face. The static in the room crackled with renewed energy.

"Ah," he purred, the sound thick with amusement, "I see. You wish to continue our… confrontation, do you? Despite your rather… open wound?" He gestured subtly to your palm. "My dear, I hardly think that would be advisable. It looks rather painful."

You squeezed his arm. "It's fine," you insisted, perhaps a little too quickly. "It's… it's just a cut. And you were… almost there. I… I want you to finish." Your voice dropped to a barely audible whisper, a desperate plea. "Please, Alastor. I want you to."

He studied you for a long moment, his eyes gleaming with a mix of surprise, delight, and that familiar, possessive hunger. He seemed to weigh your words, the vulnerability in your eyes, against the practicalities of an open wound. But the raw, uninhibited desire radiating from you was a powerful argument in itself.

A low, resonant chuckle rumbled in his chest, and he finally relented. "Very well, my dear," he purred, his smile widening into something truly wicked. He settled back onto the bed, positioning himself over you once more, his weight pressing you gently into the mattress. His eyes, dark and knowing, locked onto yours. "If you insist. After all," he leaned down, his voice a sultry whisper against your ear, "a demon always finishes what he starts.”

· · ───── ·𖥸· ───── · ·

✎ idk, though if I can, CAN rewrite it and make it longer (includes the smut)

[revelboo]

how many souls have you taken Revel bc ive seen multiple ppl promising their life to you and with your delicious writing im about to be yet another life in your debt 😭😭

So, so many souls. Maybe I’m an Eldritch horror bartering in the shadows. Maybe I’m just a collection of exceptionally clever crows in a trench coat with a stolen cell phone. You’ll never know…

Finally ran out of space on the shelf… 18+ content mass displaced mechs 🌶️

Everything Is Alright Pt 97

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

• Watching Starscream and Soundwave murmuring to you, worrying over you, makes Megatron feel uncomfortably off balance. It’s the tender way Soundwave cups your face, tucking your hair behind your ear and the way Starscream runs his servos over you to make sure you’re unharmed. He’s jealous, he realizes. And he hates it. Not only that, not only jealous, but lonely and that’s so much worse. Surrounded by his followers all the time, but unable to really trust many of them, he’s isolated himself. Alone. Growling softly, optics narrowing, a part of him despises Starscream’s happiness. After all the Seeker’s done, he doesn’t deserve for things to break his way. To be happy and it twists angrily about his spark. “If you’re not going to play with your little pet, maybe I should,” he snarls just to needle Starscream and it works, the mech glaring, wings flicking up and quivering.

• “Cut it out,” you snap at Megatron, and Starscream stiffens, wings flaring slightly. Tensed to protect you when Megatron lashes out at your impudence, because there’s no way you’ll go unscathed for that. For defying him. Watches Megatron’s optics narrow, and Starscream’s servos tighten on you. Ready to grab you and bolt. He’s a much smaller target this size, can fly off and hide with you until Megatron calms down. Soundwave can fend for himself. And then to his utter shock, Megatron laughs. “Stop being a jerk, you already got a free show.”

• Voice wavering as you glare at Megatron and your heart races, you’re encouraged that he thinks your anger is funny and that he’s not getting pissed off. Because he’d been trying to provoke Star and you’re sure all of them know it. So you’d panicked and drawn his attention to you instead. Soundwave’s hands flex against you as if wanting to tell you to stop. And Starscream reaches around you to cover your mouth, growling when you twist your head away. Know they’re worried you’ll push too hard and direct Megatron’s anger at you. “Don’t, little one,” Soundwave growls, voice low as he and Star exchange a look.

• “Let our little pet speak,” Megatron laughs, waving a hand. “Primus knows, no one else here is willing to contradict me.” Uncertain, Soundwave vents against you. Almost tempted to hook a thought in Megatron’s processor, because amusement wasn’t what he was expecting. And he desperately wants to know what their leader is thinking right then. What he thinks of you, because there’s a hunger on the warlord’s face he’s seen before. It’s the look he’d worn in the gladiator pits, defiant and starving to be seen, recognized. “You have a problem fragging in front of me? You didn’t before.”

• “To be fair, I didn’t know you were there until you said something. I was a bit busy,” you counter, chin lifting as your face reddens. And Starscream knows you well enough to know the attitude is all bluster. You’re frightened, he can feel you trembling against him, one of your hand reaching back to grip his arm, the other grabbing Soundwave like you need them to anchor you. Your fear doing things to him. “Go find your own human if you want a show.”

• “Why would I do that, when I already have my own?” Doesn’t mean to say that, to make that claim. Only to antagonize you because your irritation with him is delicious. Ignoring the two other mechs, he stares at you, daring you to contradict him. Watching those eyes narrow, before they slide over him from helm to ped in a slow perusal that makes him freeze. That to his utter shock makes his spike stir behind his plating. Because it’s one thing to taunt and tease. Giving in to that same deviancy Starscream and Soundwave are lost in the grips of? It’s tempting. So tempting. “And if I order them to frag you so I can watch?” If he frags you?

• Can feel the tension in both of your mechs, their hands almost bruising on you. “If you want to watch, just say it,” you mutter, turning in their arms to face Star. Seeing the fury there as you go up on tiptoe to brush your mouth against his. Know this whole thing is meant to demean him, to make him angry. To prove he’s powerless. That he can’t protect you, but you can protect him. If he’s a ticking time bomb about to go and cause as much collateral damage as possible, and you know he is, you have to distract him. “This isn’t his. It’s yours,” you whisper against his mouth, arching into him. “I’m yours.”

• Servos tangling in your hair as your mouth slides against his, his optics shutter. Blocking out Soundwave and Megatron, focusing on you. The warmth of you against him, those soft hands sliding down his chassis to brush against his plating. Asking. They’re watching, Soundwave is almost pressed against your back, his knuckles brushing the other mech as he strokes over you, but he slowly relaxes into you anyway. Pretending this is okay. Because no matter what happens, you are his. His sparkmate, bound to him. Let Megatron watch and see what he can’t have. Freeing his spike, he vents against your throat as Soundwave’s hands grip your hips and lift you for him. Knows the communications officer is trying to shield you from Megatron’s view as much as possible and he appreciates it even as it annoys him that he needs the help.

• That breathy noise you make, head falling back against Soundwave when Starscream enters you goes straight through Megatron. Shifting on his throne, resisting the urge to move closer to see. With Soundwave’s back to him, his body is shielding you from view. But he can hear the wet sound of Starscream thrusting inside you, the Seeker’s low growls and hitching vents. Soundwave murmuring to you, too low to pick out the words. Optics half shuttered, he tries to focus on just you. Hating Starscream in that moment more than he’s ever hated him before. For having this, for being happy when he doesn’t deserve it. He’s not the one who’s lost everything. Who’s sacrificed everything for his goals. For what he believes in. And what he gained? Ash and death. Nothing good, and he wants something warm and soft in that moment. Someone who can’t plot against him or use him. Will defy him and challenge him. He wants you.

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[reveryfics]

Damocles

Robert Reynolds x Male Reader

Summary: Haunted by your spectral presence and the silence surrounding you, a reluctant Robert Reynolds risks the return of his inner void by peering into their memories, uncovering a tragic past

A/N: A lovely person on wattpad noticed I title fics based of Sleep Token songs/lyrics and suggested I do one for Bob. On a completely unrelated note: y'all are some horny motherfuckers with all the smut requests, calm down. 3.5k+ words.

TW: Angst - Hurt - Comfort - Super soldier reader

The stale, recycled air of the Tower always tasted of secrets and suppressed anxieties. For Robert, a man intimately familiar with both, it was a constant, low-grade hum beneath the surface of his forced normalcy. He moved through the reinforced corridors like a ghost himself, a deliberate act of self-effacement to keep the ravenous maw of the Void dormant within. But lately, a new kind of spectral presence had begun to flicker at the edges of his awareness.

It was you.

Robert hadn't caught your name, hadn't heard anyone utter it. You were simply there, a fleeting figure in the halls, a still silhouette against the panoramic city view from the observation deck, a whisper of movement in the periphery during training exercises. Your face, when he managed a direct, albeit brief, glance, was a canvas of muted sorrow, eyes that seemed to gaze inward at a landscape only you could see. What truly unsettled him was the pervasive silence surrounding you. It wasn't just that no one spoke to you; it was as if you were a glitch in the Tower's reality, a detail everyone had collectively agreed to ignore.

The question of your existence, your story, gnawed at Robert. Why did you carry the weight of a thousand unspoken tragedies? Why did you move with the languor of someone already departed? It was a relentless itch beneath his skin, a discordant note in the carefully constructed symphony of his denial. He knew the risks. He knew that delving into another's mind, even for a fleeting glimpse, was like poking a sleeping beast. The Void, his monstrous shadow, thrived on connection, on the raw, unfiltered emotions of others. Yet, the stillness in your eyes, the profound absence of life within them, was a siren call his fractured soul couldn't entirely ignore. He had to know. He needed to know why your silent figure haunted the periphery of his already precarious existence. The fear of the Void's return warred with a desperate, burgeoning empathy, a flicker of the man he once was, stirring in the dust of his self-imposed exile.

Days bled into weeks, each stolen glance at the enigma solidifying Robert's resolve. He'd tried to rationalize it away – perhaps they were new, still finding their footing. But the air of profound desolation that clung to them wasn't the awkwardness of a newcomer; it was the heavy shroud of irreversible loss. Even the gruff, no-nonsense demeanor of the other Thunderbolts seemed to soften imperceptibly when they were near, a fleeting flicker of something akin to pity quickly masked by practiced indifference.

One particularly oppressive afternoon, during a mandatory team debriefing led by a typically booming General Ross, the enigma sat silently in the corner of the conference room. Their gaze was fixed on a point beyond the holographic displays, their presence so faint it was almost an illusion. Ross, in his usual blustering manner, didn't acknowledge them, didn't even seem to register their presence. It was as if they were a piece of furniture, a shadow clinging to the wall.

Robert felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. This wasn't just about quiet sadness; it was about erasure. He watched as another Thunderbolt, Moonstone, casually walked through the space where the enigma sat, a slight shimmer in the air the only indication of their physical form. It was then, witnessing this blatant disregard, this casual dismissal of a human being, that something within Robert finally snapped. The fear of the Void still lingered, a cold dread in his bones, but the silence surrounding this person had become a more potent, more immediate threat to his fractured sense of right.

Later that evening, under the cloak of a Tower-wide slumber, Robert found himself drawn to your assigned quarters. He didn't know your name, didn't know anything about you, yet he felt an undeniable pull. He stood outside your door, the metallic surface cold beneath his fingertips. He could hear nothing from within, no sound of movement, no indication of life. It was as if the room itself was holding its breath.

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the access panel. The Void was a whisper in the back of his mind, a seductive promise of power in exchange for connection, for feeling. But this wasn't about power; it was about understanding, about acknowledging the silent scream he felt emanating from behind that closed door.

Taking a shaky breath, Robert focused, reaching out with the tendrils of his dormant abilities. He pushed past the reinforced steel, not with brute force, but with a delicate, almost fearful touch. He wasn't trying to invade; he simply wanted a glimpse, a sliver of understanding. The mental resistance he encountered was faint, like a half-forgotten dream, and then, he was there.

He wasn't in your mind, not exactly. The mental landscape Robert stumbled into this time was a fractured battlefield. Not of physical debris, though those images flickered too – twisted metal, burning skies – but of shattered will. It wasn't just sadness; it was a raw, visceral agony etched into the very fabric of their being. He saw flashes of brutal, close-quarters combat, the precise, lethal movements of a honed weapon, your own hands stained crimson. There were faces, comrades perhaps, their expressions shifting from fierce determination to slack-jawed death in the blink of an eye. Each fallen figure seemed to tear a piece from your soul.

He witnessed grueling training sequences, a relentless pushing beyond human limits, your body screaming in protest, your eyes devoid of youthful exuberance, replaced by a steely, almost robotic focus. There were injections, glowing serums coursing through their veins, faces in sterile white coats observing with cold detachment. He felt the phantom sensation of forced evolution, a twisting of your very biology into something more, something less human.

The memories weren't linear; they were a chaotic storm of trauma. He saw moments of desperate camaraderie, fleeting smiles shared in the brief lulls between battles, quickly extinguished by the next wave of violence. There was a recurring image of a face, shrouded in darkness peering at you like it owned you.

Then came the catastrophic event. It wasn't a clean explosion, but a horrifying cascade of failures. A mission gone horribly wrong, a betrayal from within, the weight of impossible choices leading to unimaginable loss. He saw you, your enhanced senses overwhelmed by the screams, the chaos, the sheer magnitude of the destruction. You moved with a desperate, futile urgency, trying to save everyone, but failing, failing spectacularly. The feeling wasn't just guilt; it was the crushing weight of responsibility for countless deaths, a burden no single being was meant to bear.

He saw the aftermath, the cold indifference of superiors, the debriefings that felt like autopsies of their failures. There was no solace, no acknowledgment of the sacrifices made, only the cold calculation of what went wrong and how to prevent it from happening again – with you as a disposable asset. The light in your eyes didn't just dim; it was systematically extinguished.

And then, the shadowy face emerged again, not just as an observer, but as an orchestrator. A hand, gloved in darkness, reaching out, not to offer comfort, but to claim something. A voice, a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate in Robert's very bones, uttering barely audible words, not as a threat, but as a claim, a binding. It felt like a brand, seared onto your soul.

The connection snapped, leaving Robert gasping, his own past trauma feeling pale in comparison to the sheer, brutal endurance etched into your mind. You weren't just haunted; you were a walking testament to the horrors of war and manipulation, a super soldier broken not by a single event, but by a lifetime of them. The silence surrounding you wasn't just a dismissal; it was a shroud, meant to contain a level of suffering that no one dared to acknowledge. Robert knew then that helping you wouldn't just be an act of empathy; it would be an act of defiance against a system that chewed up and spat out its most powerful weapons, leaving only hollow shells in its wake. The Void still whispered, but now, a fiercer instinct roared louder: he had to pull you back from the brink the same way the others did for him.

Your hand shot up, a harsh, unexpected vise clamping around Robert's wrist. Your breath hitched, a ragged sound that mirrored the turmoil he had just witnessed. Your eyes, wide and haunted, locked onto his with a raw intensity that made his own breath catch in his throat. He saw the frantic pulse throbbing beneath your skin, the tremor that wracked your slender frame. It was as if the echoes of the battlefield still clung to you, the phantom screams and the weight of loss momentarily dragging you back into the nightmare.

Robert noticed the stark evidence of recent tears – the angry redness blooming on your cheeks, the puffiness around your eyes, the glistening tracks that marred your pale skin like fresh wounds. He let out a slow, deliberate breath as your grip on his wrist loosened, a fraction at a time, as if you were slowly anchoring yourself back to the present. It wasn't an aggressive act, he realized with a pang of understanding, but a desperate, primal need for a physical connection, a tether to reality. "You're hurting," he whispered, his voice a low, soothing murmur, as if any louder sound might shatter the fragile hold you had on the here and now. The words hung in the air, heavy with the unspoken horrors he had just witnessed.

You blinked, the movement slow and heavy, like eyelids weighted down by grief. Your mouth parted, a silent plea escaping, but no coherent words followed, only another strangled breath that spoke volumes of the agony churning within. Your arms, moments ago reaching out in a desperate grasp, now wrapped tightly around yourself, a protective cocoon against an unseen assault. Your eyes, still shimmering with unshed tears, darted frantically from Robert down to the cold, unforgiving metal of the floor, as if seeking solace in its unyielding stillness.

"I'm fine," you mumbled, the words barely audible, a fragile whisper lost in the sterile air of the corridor. The lie hung between you, a transparent shield against the unwanted intrusion. Robert recognized the familiar deflection. It was the same hollow reassurance he had offered countless times, the same mask worn by those who carried invisible wounds. He could almost hear Yelena's sharp, insistent voice echoing in his memory. He remembered the unwavering concern in her eyes, the way she could see through the carefully constructed walls, recognizing the tell-tale signs of your inner turmoil. Yelena, the fierce protector of the broken, the one who had instinctively gathered the wounded souls around her, recognizing a kindred spirit in your haunted gaze. She was a part of the reason you stayed, a fragile anchor in the storm of your memories. And Bucky. His own shared history with you, forged in the crucible of war and manipulation, was another silent bond, another reason you hadn't completely faded away.

Robert lowered himself slowly, his knees meeting the cool floor with a soft thud. He didn't reach out again, respecting the fragile boundaries you had erected, but his presence was a silent offering of solidarity. "I saw," he said softly, his voice a low rumble that wouldn't startle you. "I saw the battlefield… the fire… the faces…" He let the words trail off, not wanting to force you to relive the horrors, but needing you to know that your pain hadn't gone unnoticed.

Your breath hitched again, a small, shuddering sound that betrayed the carefully constructed indifference. Your fingernails dug into your forearms beneath the sleeves of your uniform, a silent testament to the internal battle raging within. You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, the polished surface reflecting a distorted image of your own distress.

"It was… a long time ago," you finally whispered, your voice raspy, as if the words had been dragged up from the depths of your soul. "It doesn't matter anymore."

But Robert knew it did matter. The past wasn't a discarded garment; it was woven into the very fabric of who you were, shaping your present and casting a long shadow over your future. The raw agony he had glimpsed in your mind was not the faded echo of a distant memory; it was a living wound, festering beneath the surface of your forced normalcy.

He remained silent for a moment, allowing you the space to gather yourself, to decide whether or not you wanted to acknowledge the truth that hung heavy in the air between you. He understood the instinct to bury the pain, to pretend it didn't exist. He had walked that desolate path himself for far too long.

"Sometimes," he said quietly, his gaze steady and unwavering, "the things that happened a long time ago are the ones that stay with us the longest." He paused, letting his words sink in. "They shape who we become."

Your head lifted slowly, your eyes finally meeting his again. This time, the defensiveness was still there, a guarded wariness, but beneath it, he saw a flicker of something else – a raw vulnerability, a desperate yearning to be seen, to be understood. Your gaze flickered over his face, searching, as if trying to decipher his intentions.

"Why?" you asked, the single word laden with suspicion and a profound weariness. "Why are you doing this?"

Robert didn't flinch from the directness of your question. He knew his actions must seem intrusive, perhaps even threatening. "Because," he said, his voice gentle but firm, "I've been where you are. I know what it's like to carry that kind of silence." He gestured vaguely towards himself, a silent acknowledgment of his own battles with the Void, the constant struggle to keep the darkness at bay. "And I know that sometimes… sometimes it helps to know that someone else sees it too."

A fragile silence descended once more, broken only by the distant hum of the Tower's machinery. He watched as a myriad of emotions flickered across your face – suspicion, fear, a flicker of something akin to hope, quickly extinguished. It was a battlefield in itself, the internal conflict between the ingrained need for self-preservation and the desperate longing for connection.

Then, you did something unexpected. Your gaze dropped from his face to his hands, resting palms down on his knees. Slowly, hesitantly, your own hand lifted, hovering just above his. It was a small, tentative gesture, a silent question hanging in the air. It was an invitation, a fragile bridge across the chasm of your pain.

Robert remained still, offering no sudden movements, allowing you to dictate the pace. He understood the immense courage it took for you to reach out, to break the carefully constructed wall of your isolation. It was a silent plea, a desperate yearning for a connection that might offer a sliver of solace in the overwhelming darkness. He waited, his heart aching with a mixture of empathy and a burgeoning hope that perhaps, just perhaps, the silent scream he had sensed might finally find a voice.

Your fingertips brushed against the back of his hand, a feather-light touch that sent a surprising jolt through him. It was a tentative exploration, a hesitant testing of the waters. The contact was fleeting, almost ephemeral, as if you might retract your hand at any moment, afraid of the connection.

Robert remained perfectly still, his breath held captive in his chest. He didn't dare to move, to speak, to do anything that might break the fragile spell. He focused on the sensation of your touch, the coolness of your skin against his, the subtle tremor that still ran through your hand. It was a small thing, this hesitant contact, but it felt monumental, a crack appearing in the seemingly impenetrable wall you had built around yourself.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, your fingers settled against his skin. It wasn't a grasp, not yet, but a gentle resting, a silent acknowledgment of his presence, his willingness to see you. The tension in your shoulders seemed to ease ever so slightly, as if the simple act of reaching out had released a small measure of the burden you carried.

The silence stretched between you, no longer heavy with unspoken pain, but now imbued with a fragile sense of shared understanding. The distant hum of the Tower seemed to fade into the background, the sterile environment momentarily forgotten. In that small, shared space, there was only the quiet acknowledgment of your intertwined pain.

Robert finally broke the silence, his voice a low, gentle murmur that wouldn't shatter the delicate moment. "It's okay," he said softly, his gaze fixed on your hand resting on his. "You don't have to be fine."

His words seemed to unlock something within you. A shudder ran through your body, and the carefully constructed composure finally began to crumble. Your breath hitched again, this time followed by a small, choked sob. The tears that had threatened earlier finally spilled over, silently tracing paths down your pale cheeks.

You didn't pull your hand away. Instead, your fingers tightened slightly on his, a subtle seeking of comfort, of reassurance. It was a silent admission of your pain, a wordless plea for understanding.

Robert turned his hand over slowly, gently enclosing yours in his. His touch was warm, steady, offering a silent anchor in the storm of your emotions. He didn't offer platitudes or empty reassurances. He simply held your hand, a tangible connection in the sterile isolation of the Tower.

The tears continued to fall, silent and unchecked. Your shoulders began to shake, and the carefully held tension in your body finally gave way. You didn't make a sound beyond the occasional choked sob, but the raw emotion radiating from you was palpable.

He sat there with you, on the cold metal floor of the corridor, two broken souls finding a fragile connection in the heart of a world that often seemed determined to erase them. He didn't try to stop your tears, didn't offer empty words of comfort. He simply held your hand, a silent promise that you weren't alone in your pain anymore. The Void still lurked in the shadows of his mind, but in that moment, it was overshadowed by a fierce, protective empathy, a burgeoning hope that perhaps, together, they could both find a way back from the brink.

The silent tears eventually subsided, leaving your face damp and your eyes red-rimmed, but the raw tension in your body had eased. Your grip on Robert's hand softened, no longer a desperate clutch but a quiet acknowledgment of his presence. You finally lifted your gaze, your eyes still shimmering with unshed tears, but holding a flicker of something new – a fragile openness.

Robert offered a small, gentle smile, the first genuine expression he'd allowed himself in what felt like an eternity. It wasn't a boisterous, carefree smile, but a quiet upturn of his lips that conveyed understanding and a shared moment of vulnerability.

You mirrored his gesture, a hesitant, watery smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, but it was there nonetheless. It was a small crack of light in the darkness, a tentative step towards the surface.

"Thank you," you whispered, the words still raspy but carrying a newfound lightness. "For… seeing."

Robert squeezed your hand gently. "You're not invisible," he said softly, his voice filled with a quiet conviction. "Not anymore."

A faint sound echoed down the corridor – the distant laughter of other Thunderbolts returning from training. It was a reminder of the world outside your shared moment of quiet intimacy, but it didn't feel intrusive. Instead, it felt like a gentle nudge towards rejoining the living.

You took a slow, deep breath, the first one that seemed to fill your lungs completely in a long time. A small, almost imperceptible shift occurred in your posture, a subtle straightening of your spine, a hint of returning strength.

Robert slowly released your hand, and you didn't recoil. You looked down at your own hand for a moment, as if surprised by the simple act of connection, then back up at him. The haunted look in your eyes hadn't completely vanished, but it was softened now, overlaid with a fragile sense of hope.

"Maybe," you said, a small, almost hesitant smile finally reaching your eyes, "maybe I'm not."

Robert stood, offering you a hand up. This time, your grasp was firmer, more confident. As you stood beside him, a sense of quiet understanding passed between you. The journey ahead might still be long and arduous, but for the first time in a long time, neither of you felt entirely alone. The stale, recycled air of the Tower still tasted of secrets, but now, there was a subtle undercurrent of something else – the quiet promise of shared healing, and the fragile dawn of a new connection.

[cabalex]

Metal Cardbot at BotCon '25 - What's new?

4 PM PST: Updated to clarify TCG information. (It's not being planned at the moment.)

Thank you to @rinovarka for covering this event! Please see the full Twitter thread for more info.

What's new since Toyfair in February?

Names have been changed, again. See below.

They showcased the first episode of the dub at the panel. The dub appears to be the same as the existing one, even down to the old names (Blue Cop, Mega Trucker). Rino writes that "A light apology is given for the English dubbing, as it was done for affordability, and that Season 2's localization should be better."

If the first wave is received well, then there's more justification for quality dubbing, marketing, etc.. Lots of things (human figures, comic, etc) were answered with "if it does well, then maybe!",

There are talks about making a new Metal Cardbot TCG for the US audience, since TCGs don't attract much attention in Asia, but it's hypothetical (source)

They hope that MCB becomes good competition in the transforming robot market (people who work on MCB know TF and the American market, and study them for fresh views/ideas).

Planned to be distributed at Entertainment Earth, BBTS, and Amazon in Fall 2025. They hope to distribute to larger, in-person retailers in the future... "maybe"

Prototype packaging was shown off (see below) - not final

Prototype Packaging (Toyfair vs BotCon)

Toyfair coverage: misswhynowhy on Twitter

Cardbots

Season 1, Wave 1 (releasing Late 2025/2026)

Names are not final, and "they acknowledge the translated names arent that great right now", and that they're still tweaking them (and possibly the names in the dub).

Names marked in blue are new.

Blue Star (Blue Cop, formerly Blue Cobalt) - $23.99

Shadow X - $23.99

Bluster Gale (Buster Gallon) - $23.99

Mech Tackle (Mega Trucker) - $32.99

Steel Hook (Black Hook) - $32.99

Heavy Iron - $49.99

Season 1, TBD price and release date

Wild Guardian (Wild Guardy)

Buffalo Crush

Med Alert (Mega Ambler)

Fire Buster (Phoenix Fire)

Dextrous (Dexter)

Fleta Z

Ultimate Blue Star (Ultimate Blue Cop)

While Season 2 toys were shown off at the event, there was no timeline or plans announced to bring them to US retailers.

TL;DR: Dub is the same. More names changed, though none of it is final. The first wave'll come out in late 2025, along with the dub on Tubi and YouTube, which'll probably be very similar to the one we already have. "Loud support when MCB hits the Western Market greatly needed to justify bigger and better things :]" - Rino

[beneathitall-thesame]

tianshan ficlet (based on chapter 411)

i've been rummaging through my old drafts and found this little thing i wrote the same day this chapter came out <3 (more than two years ago w h a t)

if you happen to read this, i hope you enjoy it!

When He Tian’s eyes open to pitch-darkness, he can only feel two things: Guan Shan’s hedgehog hair tickling his nose and the cold numbness prickling across the skin of his bandaged hand. The whole of him feels misaligned, as if something inside shifted during sleep and never clicked back into place. Where obscurity would usually send him spiraling into the grip of whatever personal nightmare chose to haunt him, its silence now leaves room for the desperation and fear to recede and for the memory of the crazy string of events that led them here to come drifting back to him.

Just hours ago, his mind had been consumed with two things: Guan Shan’s safety, and tearing She Li out of the quiet, fragile patch of peace he and Guan Shan had somehow begun to build. A peace so muted and sparse, they hadn’t noticed it growing until it was already under threat.

Fewer hours ago, there had been only one thought left in his head: Guan Shan, Guan Shan, Guan Shan. The world had receded without protest, minutes stretching wide and unhurried as they got lost in each other. It had been just one kiss, but as soon as their lips met, Guan Shan showed a kind of courage so rare—not the bluster he wore like armor when pushing people away— that it would have been a crime not to see it as the treasure it really was. He Tian had poured everything into the moment, tracing every soft exhale, every hitch in breath, every detail; the scent of his skin, the heat of his mouth, the gentleness neither of them felt they had the words to name.

When they separated, out of breath after what felt like an eternity, Guan Shan looked at him as if, for the first time in his life, he had climbed over the walls that encased his hurt and landed on his feet, instead of breaking into pieces. For the split heartbeat that display of faint hope stunned He Tian into silence, those impossibly sharp eyes, pupils now soft and unfocused, washed in a haze of colour that is the most alluring he has ever seen.

He Tian can only hope that whatever his eyes mirrored in that moment honored even a fraction of what he was given. Seeing as Guan Shan now lies beside him, back turned and exposed, maybe it did.

He’s sure as fuck banking everything on Guan Shan believing in him, because what waits ahead is a fall without wings, and they’re already leaning over the edge.

Now that the shadow eating away at Guan Shan’s life has been dispelled, the two are melting into the mattress, tension bleeding out one exhalation at a time. He Tian craves giving himself up to this sweet reprieve. And yet, a bell tolls in his mind, each sound signalling this unbelievable night's retreat.

A creak in the hallway. Pipes groaning like an old man’s knees. A truck grinding gears out on the road. The quiet snick of the front door closing. Ms. Mo, kind as ever, doesn’t want to disrupt their slumber, even when she must be up at an ungodly hour to make it to an early shift.

Every sound stings the silence with one message: Time’s almost up, He Tian.

He shifts, slowly, careful not to wake Guan Shan. The hand that still aches is useless, so he props himself up with the other, watching the curve of Guan Shan’s spine rise and fall beneath the sheet. There’s a tiny, pale scar near his nose that He Tian doesn’t remember seeing before. The blemish beckons him to commit it to memory: another marked page to come back to when sleep won’t come and he needs to remember who it all is for—everything he’s done, everything he’ll give.

When he convinces himself he's sated, he lies back down, buries his face into the pillow he knows Guan Shan fluffed up for him when he thought he wasn’t looking. He sinks into the terribly inviting warmth of the body beside him, hoping to drown in it, if only to quiet his own thoughts. In the end, he can barely soak in it, but still, he’s grateful. Grateful he gets to touch him like this: just the barest glide of his fingertips over slightly overgrown red hair, a vulnerable nape, vertebrae pressing through a thin T-shirt.

By the time the shy daylight begins to brush over their bodies, He Tian finds himself wishing for once that the night could stay, holding this moment in place forever.