#so. other options would be ideal. perhaps.

[kalashtars]

lol you know it's bad when you start going "okay so if I just give up now and fully fail this class, how bad will it really be?"

[icewindandboringhorror]

The evil slow creep of it being like "haha these will just be quick little side quests, not much effort at all!" and then noticing each one is getting progressively longer than the last, thus no longer being minimal effort.. auGh....

[wri0thesley]

eyes - neuvillette x reader (8.5k)

you have always known, one day, you would be married off to someone not of your choosing. but you certainly never expected it to be the iudex himself.

cw: not sfw text. explicitly chubby virgin reader, some insecurity, arranged marriage. double dick neuvillette, cunnilingus, bathing together. reader is afab but referred to with neutral pronouns.

this was a commissioned work.

There are certain standards one must follow as a child of Fontainian society; certain things that are expected of you. A certain way to speak and move and act - a set of rules that have been laid out clearly for you since the day you were born. You will know which fork to use at which mealtime. You will know the difference between what is appropriate to wear to a matinee and to an evening show. You will trust your elders to guide you, and you will be grateful for the life that they have oh-so-painstakingly laid out. 

So you are not surprised when your mother tells you that you are to be wed. 

You have even been expecting it. Since you became of a marriageable age, you have looked at all of the other children of society and wondered what kind of match your family might make. One of your own generation? Older, perhaps - more secure in their wealth and their status and position? You have even laughed about it with your friends, when you were out of earshot of all of your elders - discussing who would be the worst options, gossiping about who has had who over for tea recently. 

She’s surprisingly tight-lipped about who you’re going to wed, too. That’s not unexpected either, though it does make anxiety roil hot and sour in your gut. Plenty of children have run away from home so as not to be wed to somebody decades and decades their senior, or somebody with a reputation for cruelty - or sometimes even because the match that has been made has not taken into account a love affair unbeknownst to the elders of the family. 

You have no such love affair to romantically dash off into the sunset with; you have been a good and dutiful child your whole life. And though you do, perhaps, wish that you could know what it was like to have a love so fiery and passionate you would disobey the only life you’ve ever known . . . you have come to accept that will not be your lot in life. 

You have even worried once or twice that somebody, upon finding that they were engaged to you, might wish to run away. You have looked in the mirror and scrutinised your face, your posture, your body - a body that has fallen out of fashion recently, the beauty ideal in Fontaine being very much ‘look as much like Lady Furina as possible’. It is your body, though - and it has stood you in good stead, and the night in which you are finally to meet your betrothed your mother and your maid stand in your bedroom looking approvingly at how your gown falls over the soft peaks and curves of your hips and chest. 

All you know about this person who you are to be wedded to is that every time your family talks of them, they can barely hide the smiles on their faces and the superior lilt to their tone. Whatever match has been made for you . . . they are utterly ecstatic about it. 

“I think he’ll be more than pleased,” your mother says, tugging at a fold of fabric - she had chosen to have this dress made in pale blue, though it is not a colour that has been in your wardrobe before. A man, then; a well-placed man who makes your family giddy with excitement - a man partial to the colour blue and a spouse whose figure runs more to curves than lines. 

It is not a lot to go on. 

So you do not know what to expect, as you are brought down the stairs and into the dining room. All kinds of thoughts dance through your head; some pleasant, some . . . not so. You know that you will meekly accept what you have been given, the way you have been brought up to do - and it is not lost on you that the trajectory of tonight will perhaps influence your life for years and years to come. There is always the chance that, seeing you in person, your parent’s intended will reject you--

Your mind is churning at a hundred thoughts a minute as you step inside the dining room - but when you see who is seated at the head of the table, all of those thoughts seem to clatter to the ground at once. 

It is a wonder that your mouth does not drop open. 

In all of the time you have spent gossiping about possible matches in society, nobody has ever mentioned - even off-handedly - the possibility that the Chief Justice of Fontaine may be looking to marry. 

But there sits Monsieur Neuvillette - a little awkward, yes (he is being chattered to most insistently by your father), but straight and tall and handsome in his chair, his robes of office perfectly pressed, his face schooled carefully into a polite look of vague interest. Your mother coughs, and he looks up--

And his eyes, the colour of the evening sky or a perfect sapphire, widen just a touch. His mouth opens, the barest amount - and you swear that as his gaze sweeps over your form in your carefully chosen blue dress (a choice you are beginning to understand), he visibly swallows. 

“Ah,” he says, and he stands - walking towards you, bending and inclining his head. “It’s a pleasure to . . . finally meet you in person.” You’re still rather stunned speechless by everything that is happening - you cannot help but feel as though things are happening around you, and not to you - but as Neuvillette uses one of his gloved hands to take yours and to press a lingering kiss on your palm that makes your entire body feel as though it is on fire, you are suddenly all too aware of just what is going on. “You look radiant tonight.”

“M-Monsieur,” you say in return, and you sweep what must be the clumsiest curtsey of your life. “I . . . I have to admit that this is a surprise.” 

“Not an unwelcome one,” your mother puts in before he can respond. “Of course, we’re delighted with this match, and we’re absolutely sure you’ll be delighted with them--”

“I understand,” Neuvillette says, his eyes not leaving you. “If I may be frank with you, until recently I had never thought to marry.” 

Questions rise in your throat. If he had not thought to marry, why was he doing it now? And why you, when surely he must see the upper echelons of society every single day? What had brought him to your family’s door, asking after your hand over everyone else he must have had first pick of? But these are not polite questions for the dinner table, when your mother and your father are already ushering the two of you to your seats beside one another and beaming so brightly that it hurts to look at them. 

The dinner table is a place for light, polite conversation; the last opera you saw, the weather. Neuvillette smiles into his wine glass - a glass you notice is filled with water - when you mention that it has not seemed to rain much recently. You notice him looking at you every so often, over rims of glasses and delicate bites of foods . . . but you know that you, too, cannot help but sneak a glance at the Iudex of Fontaine seated by your side. 

Your future husband! Your betrothed! The man you will spend the rest of your life with! 

As much as you may wish for a moment alone with him, you know it is not proper; so when he stands and kisses your hand again and your father takes Neuvillette into his study to hash out some further details of your impending nuptials, you swallow your disappointment and remind yourself that you will have years with Neuvillette, to learn his secrets - to discover why he has decided to take you as a spouse. 

There is little time for getting to know one another beyond the most surface of levels when a marriage has been arranged for you - there is even littler time when the man you are going to marry is one of the most powerful and busiest men in Fontaine. Even the few times you see each other as the wedding looms closer - the period your parents optimistically refer to as ‘courting’ - there is little time to get to know his heart. 

You realise, at the final fitting for your wedding clothes, that the first time you will be truly alone with the man who is to be your husband will be the night of your wedding. 

And that particular thought . . . 

You know the ways of the world. You know what will be expected of you, in order to properly consummate a marriage - you know that you will be intimate with Neuvillette for years to come. But the idea that the first time that the two of you will be able to snatch time with one another with no parents or gossip-mongers or anybody else around will also be the time in which you and he will legally become one (and you know, from experience at the Opera Epiclese, that Neuvillette is nothing if not a stickler for the law) . . . oh, it is enough to make you reconsider one last time running away from your responsibilities. 

“Mother?” You ask, your voice quiet, the night before your wedding. You have spent the entire day overseeing flowers and being asked questions, watching the cooks and the waiters bring in fine delicacies from all over Teyvat (Neuvillette had not wanted hosting duties; you get the impression that as long as the ceremony was done legally, he would be pleased enough to call you his spouse. But your parents have been preparing for this your whole life, so they had indeed wanted the spectacle of their child marrying the most powerful man in Fontaine. With no family to speak of, he had acquiesced to their desires. Your parents are in shivers of delight that Lady Furina will, too, grace the halls of your family home). “What if . . . what if I do not please him?”

You are sitting before your dressing table, in your sleeping robe, haunted by thoughts of all of the things that could go wrong whilst your mother double checks your wedding gown and the jewellery you are to wear tomorrow. She looks over at you - her face is normally hard, but as she sees the knit of your brow and the bite of your teeth into your lip, she sighs softly. 

“You have nothing to worry about,” she says, stroking your cheek. “The Iudex asked for you specifically.” You blink at her, wide-eyed, and she laughs a soft little laugh. “Don’t let it get to your head, now; they have been badgering him to marry for some time . . . but he did ask for you, out of all of the people he could have had. So take heart in that. Do you think him a foolish man?”

“No,” you shake your head, your voice a soft whisper. You suppose that Neuvillette is many things, but ‘foolish’ would not be one that would cross your mind. 

“There. You and he are going to have a happy life together.” A sly look steals over her face. “Ah . . . are you worried about the wedding night itself?”

“Mama!”

“It’s something we all go through, my dear.” She catches your chin in her hand and smiles at you, and for a moment, despite all of the times you have disliked her for the life you have been forced into . . . you are reminded that she is your mother, and she wants this to work just as much as you do. “Do not be frightened of him. Do not be overwhelmed by him. He has chosen you to be his equal, but he will not expect too much of you. I promise . . . everything is going to be fine.” She gives you a wink. “And if I were you, and were to marry a man who looked like the Chief Justice - why, I’d be positively thrilling with excitement at the thought of my wedding night!”

“Mama!” This time, your scandalised tone brings her out in peals of laughter, and she kisses the top of your head as she leaves the bedroom. The door clicks behind her. 

Your final night in your childhood room; your final night unmarried. One last slumber amongst your own silken pillows and sheets (what kind of bed, you wonder, does the Chief Justice sleep in?). 

That night, you dream of a sea that churns with a similar anxiety to the one that you feel in your own belly. 

The morning of your wedding day, it is raining. Your family fuss over it, but as you stand at your window with people running all about you, messing with your hair and rearranging your dress and having arguments about your bouquet, you cannot help but find it comforting to watch the rain fall in droplets, stopping and starting again, mirroring your own still-nervous heart. 

You think you will falter at the last hurdle, as you stand outside of the Opera Epiclese - normally a place of theatricals, but also a place of the law, and the place that the most important part of your wedding day will occur - and take a deep breath ready to start your new life. The bouquet in your hands is full of rainbow roses and romaritime flowers, bursting with colour; you are grateful to have it to hold on to, as the doors are thrown open and you walk slowly down the aisle of the theatre. 

Your eyes desperately seek out someone who will provide you an ounce of comfort in the crowd, all peering at you curiously to see the person who has finally tamed the Chief Justice. This is a spectacle as much as a wedding, you suppose; and as you see some people whisper behind their hands, you wonder if you have been found wanting. You bite your lip hard to stop yourself crying - and then, onstage, his hands clasped over his cane, your gaze finds Neuvillette himself. 

The patter of the rain on the roof of the Opera stops all at once. For a moment, you swear everything falls silent, as you and he look at each other. 

Slowly, his mouth breaks into a small, secret smile, and the buzz of whispering intensifies - but that smile is enough to steady you. To remind you he has been nothing but kind and polite. To whisper to you that perhaps this union is a thing to look forward to, and not to be feared. 

He looks as handsome as ever; his suit perfectly-pressed, his hair streaming in a neat silver white tail behind him. There are flowers that have been braided into it; and you see, as you ascend the stairs to the stage, that there are a group of Melusines sitting in the front rows with matching little bouquets of Lumidouce bells grasped in their little hands, beaming up at the Iudex. 

Lady Furina presides over the proceedings, tossing her hair and preening and holding the audience in the palm of her hand - another reminder that theatrics are more respected than the law in a land like Fontaine. But you cannot bring yourself to mind too much - not when Neuvillette’s smile is steady, his eyes trained on you the whole time. Not when, as he repeats the words in a clear voice like a ringing bell, he whispers them again as if they are only for you. Not when he takes his bare hands - ungloved, for the exchange of the rings - and holds your own, soft and round and dimpled, as he slides the ring onto your finger as if you are the most delicate thing in the world. 

When Furina - with more glee in her voice than you would have expected - announces that he may now kiss you, you feel your shoulders draw up in anxiety. The entire audience goes quiet, waiting with baited breath for this - as if it is one of the things they have been waiting for all day. Neuvillette, though, keeps his gaze on you. He acts as though there are not a thousand Fontainian citizens watching your every move - slowly, he places his arm around your waist and draws you closer to him, so close that the crowds seem to melt away and there is nobody but the two of you. 

“You look beautiful, by the way,” he murmurs into your ear, angling his head so that the crowd cannot see that he has said something that is only for the two of you (no doubt they would be baying to be privy to the marriage bed, if they thought they could get away with it) - and then, his lips brush against yours. They are cool and soft; the lightest tang of sea-salt remains on your own after he is done. The crowd roars with their approval as he steps back and bows to you, pressing his forehead to the back of your hand - and you stand there, trembling, excited and nervous and frightened and on display all at once, as your new husband takes you by the hand and gently, gently leads you back down one of the aisles of the opera, out to the waiting carriages to spirit you away from the spectacle of the opera house and into the spectacle that your parents have designed as a celebration. 

As it turns out, it is not so bad. Your parents have understood, at the very least, that the two of you will be retiring early to Neuvillette’s residence (your trunks already packed, already loaded onto a carriage to be delivered in the next few days). They have managed to rein themselves in; only invite the most important echelons of society to this celebration, despite the luxury and the excess that has been coming into the house for weeks now. 

So you bow to Lady Furina and accept her compliments with a stutter and hot cheeks, Neuvillette by your side, his steadying hand on your waist. Neuvillette expertly manages to weave around your family’s ballroom as if he has been doing it all his life - but then, remembering how much older he is than you, you suppose that he has been doing it at least as long as you have been alive. He has a remarkable way of remaining polite, yet not brokering too much room for small talk and gossip, as if he can tell that this kind of thing is not your favourite. 

You overhear, when you have been spirited away from your husband’s side for ten minutes by some of your friends, an older couple accosting Neuvillette. 

“You had all of the choice in the world,” the man says, poking Neuvillette in the centre of his chest - from the slur in his words, you think he may have partaken in a touch too much of your parent’s imported dandelion wine. “Whyever did you make this one?”

Your heart stutters in your chest; a trickle of sweat rolls down the back of your wedding gown. This is what you have been fearful of, this whole time - you being found wanting, you being seen as not good enough for Neuvillette--

But your new husband merely smiles. 

“I have eyes,” he says, mildly, and he turns away from the couple and brings an end to the conversation that you know must leave them utterly blistering. He comes to find you, instead - apologising most profusely to your friends for having to steal you away. 

You stay for as short a time as you can manage, with the congratulations and the toasts and the speeches (a Melusine or two makes a speech for Neuvillette; you much prefer their simple honesty to some of the awful gushing things that come from the mouths of connections of your parents who have never given much care to you before), with the cake being cut--

“Here,” Neuvillette murmurs, and your cheeks go hot as he feeds you a bite of his own slice from the same fork he has been using. “I must confess that this is rather too sweet for me.” 

By the time that Neuvillette begins to make his excuses, bowing and smiling and thanking his hosts and the guests, the moon is already hanging white and plump in the black velvet of the night - and as you say goodbye to your parents, your Mama gives you a wink that makes you go hot all over. 

Neuvillette’s residence is surprisingly unassuming; it is smaller than your parents house, and he does not employ half as many maids or staff. For a moment, his gaze flitters over to you, and you sense a nervousness in the air. 

“I am sorry if it is not what you were expecting,” he says, voice clipped - but you shake your head, and try and let some of the anxiety drain from your tight shoulders. 

“It’s lovely,” you say, firmly, as he helps you out of the carriage. This time, when his gloved hand - he has chosen to put his gloves back on, his wedding ring glinting over the black satin - touches your waist, you gasp. The frisson of promise that runs through the touch makes you feel dizzy with possibility. Neuvillette looks at you with those dark sapphire eyes of his, and murmurs;

“I apologise if you’re nervous. I have no wish to . . . make you do anything you don’t want to. I am more than willing to wait-- the law does not require we consummate directly on our wedding night, and if you are frightened--”

A drop of rain lands on your cheek. 

“No,” you breathe out, all in a rush, surprised to find it falling from your lips as you say it. But then you think of his lingering kiss, of the way he shut down that couple at the wedding reception, of that private smile he had given you to soothe your fears as you walked down the aisle, and you’re even more surprised to find that you mean it. “Not at all. I-- I am nervous, but . . .”

He gives you another soft, gentle smile that makes your heart feel ready to burst out of your chest. The raindrop you had felt has no companions; simply a freak occurrence in the weather. 

“I must admit,” he murmurs, as he helps you towards his front door. “I am very pleased to hear that. I hope you won’t find it remiss of me to admit that I have been . . . rather looking forward to it.”

Your cheeks go hot again. The idea of Neuvillette, imagining you like that, even waiting for it . . . it is hard not to find it at once flattering and embarrassing. Neuvillette opens the door for you, but as you go to step inside--

“Ah, just a moment--” He leans his cane against the front door, and reaches for you. “I’m aware there’s a custom about bringing one’s new spouse over the threshold, and I would hate to break tradition--”

“You don’t have to,” you say, stuttering on the words. “I’m not light--”

But Neuvillette has already reached for you, already wrapped a surprisingly strong arm about your waist - and before you know it, as if he hasn’t needed to exert any energy at all, you have been pulled into his hold, held like a princess being rescued by a knight. 

You look up at him, and he looks down at you, his smile soft once more. 

“You feel perfectly light in my arms,” he tells you, as he steps over the threshold with you and gently places you down as softly and carefully as he had picked you up. You were not expecting the strength from him - he wears his robes of office, of course, and he certainly has the height, but there’s a kind of willowiness about him that does not exactly betray him being able to do such a thing. 

(If he can do that, a wicked little voice in your head whispers, imagine what else he could do to you - how easily he could manipulate you in a more intimate moment--)

It’s almost as if he can read your mind. He laughs a clear, silvery laugh like the rushing of a river. 

“Shall I show you to our bedchambers?” He asks you. “I’m sure you’ll want to get all of your finery off soon; it looks rather heavy. If you are not opposed . . . perhaps we may bathe together?”

Your heart, beating double time in your chest. Neuvillette’s eyes, cool and calm. The way your blood seems to sing in your veins. You smile back at him. 

“I would like that very much.”

Neuvillette’s house may not be as extravagant as expected, but the bathroom more than makes up for it - and most of all, the bathtub set into the floor, as wide as a swimming pool. He sees your look of surprise and laughs, sounding for once a little embarrassed.

“I enjoy being able to relax in water - natural water most of all,” he tells you, “but it would be rather . . . scandalous, if an ordinary citizen were to find me unexpectedly. This is my compromise. One of my vices, you may say.”

As vices go, it is a tame one, and you look at the bathtub - already full of clear water, so you can see the mosaic tiles on the bottom (the tub itself is stepped, so one can simply sit and relax at one end or perhaps even use the other end to swim a few strokes). 

“I loved to swim when I was little,” you say, wistfully. “As I got older, my parents thought the idea of me wearing my swim clothes too often was improper, but . . .”

“Well,” Neuvillette says, placing his hands upon your hips with only the lightest of pressure as if he is still too afraid to touch you too much. “You are welcome to use this bathroom for swimming whenever you wish. It is not quite the same, of course, but I want nothing more than you to be happy here. What’s mine is yours now, sweet one.”

It’s the first pet name he has used for you, and it makes your mouth go dry. Slowly, you turn towards him. You are about to be naked together, you suppose - even if you are going to bathe before anything more intimate happens - so you ought to be braver. You reach for his face, palms warm on his cheeks - and though his eyes flash in surprise, he gladly leans in to let you kiss him. 

This time, you let the kiss linger for longer; this private moment in the sanctity of a home that is to be shared between you. He sighs into your mouth and pulls you closer himself, so as you cradle his face his palms rest upon the ample curve of your hip. His teeth tug, almost shyly, at your bottom lip - and you feel your lashes flutter, your heart give an answering skip in your chest. His tongue traces the seam of your mouth and you part your lips, allowing him to take you as he wants - but even this ‘taking’ is done slowly, carefully, like a man who wishes to savour you. 

You pull back, your breath coming in soft little gasps - Neuvillette’s eyes are half-lidded, but it does not stop him smiling at you, putting you at ease. 

“We ought to disrobe,” he tells you, kindly - and he gently motions for you to turn, so that he may work at the difficult laces and hooks of your bridal outfit. You feel a little shy, as the fabric pools around your ankles, and you are left bare - but then he is turning you around, and in his eyes you see something that must be close to worship. 

“I am a man who says what I mean,” he tells you, tilting your chin upward toward him. “I have not spared your ego, little one - everything I see before me is . . .” He shakes his head, letting loose a ragged breath, more undone than you’ve seen him before. “More than I could ever have asked for.” One gloved finger trails across your lips, tracing a patch from the corner of your mouth down to your throat, your collarbone - reaching behind you to unclip your undergarments, so they fall to the ground with your gown. “You’re truly the loveliest creature.” 

“I--”

He shakes his head, smiling still. 

“Perhaps in my choice of a spouse,” he murmurs, “I let my own desires overtake me a touch . . . but ah, if you could see yourself the way I see you--”

You hesitantly hook your thumbs into your underwear and stand before him, naked completely - and you win, for your bravery, another ragged breath. 

“I must warn you,” Neuvillette murmurs, as he reaches for his own collar and begins to unbutton, to untie, to work the trappings of his own outfit off of himself. “You may be . . . surprised.”

“By what?” You feel brave enough to give him a little smile, though your heart is still beating faster than you’ve ever felt it. “Am I to discover you have been hiding extra limbs?”

Neuvillette’s gaze does not falter. 

“Something like that,” he agrees, mildly, as he slips his shirt and coat from his shoulders. His skin is milky pale in the moonlight streaming in from a window set high in the wall, his hair glimmering silver. He takes your breath away. 

Who would have thought you would ever find yourself in this position with the Chief Justice of Fontaine? 

He unbuttons his placket slowly - and as he carefully works down the fabric of his trousers, you realise exactly what it was he was warning you about. 

“I hope I do not disappoint you,” he says, as your mouth falls open at the sight of his cocks; resting one atop another, both half-swollen already. Your mouth goes dry at the thought of your wedding night, still to come. “I assure you, I know exactly what to do with them.” 

“I--I didn’t mean to--!” Your voice comes out a little panicked - but then, Neuvillette lets out a soft huff of laughter. 

“It’s quite alright,” he tells you. “But I will reiterate; I will not hurt you. You are . . . more than welcome to touch. But if we do not get in soon, I fear the water will have gone cold.” 

Neuvillette helps you into the bath, surprisingly unashamed of his own nakedness. At the press of his body against yours as he helps you down the steps inlaid into the tub, you feel his cocks jump against you, the wet smear of something against the dip of your back - but then, Neuvillette is lowering himself into the water beside you and letting loose a sigh of pure bliss that sends a coil of heat spiralling to between your thighs. 

You have never partaken in the gossip that surrounds Neuvillette, about his pointed ears or his inhumanly lovely face or his age - you would never have expected what he is hiding in his trousers. But as you sit beside your new husband, you cannot help but feel as though it makes perfect sense - a man like him could not be ordinary. And you trust him when he tells you he will not hurt you; when he says he knows what he’s doing, you think of all of the time he has on you and you have to suppress a shiver of desire for what he may have to teach you. 

He touches you, as the two of you bathe together. Lets his fingers massage the shampoo into your hair, lets his hands slide the washcloth over the contours of your body until you can barely breathe for the hot trails of fire that he leaves in his wake. You do not think he means to inflame you so - but then, he allows you to do the same thing to him, and he shudders and leans back into your touch, a soft noise almost like a purr falling from the back of his throat, and he realises exactly what bathing together is doing to you both. 

Still. The two of you linger there; touching one another. Getting to know one another’s bodies without any fear, for beneath the water all is muffled and calm. His fingers learn the shape of your nipples when he pinches them, how they pucker and harden beneath him. His palms learn the weight of your breasts, heavy and ample in his hands. His mouth learns the taste of your shoulders, as he drops hot, wet kisses across the span of them, the nape of your neck. And in return you feel the silkiness of his hair, the softness of his skin, the feel of his corded muscle beneath his deceptively slender frame. 

By the time the two of you are wrapped in fluffy towels the colour of an early morning sky, you are both hot with want. Neuvillette’s twin cocks seem to pulse with his desire; you can no longer tell if you are slick and wet from the bath or from the space between your thighs. You shyly look at one another through lowered lashes, though, as the wedding night and all it entails comes closer and closer and closer. 

“It’s a beautiful night,” you say to him, when the two of you have finally entered the bedroom. Neuvillette’s window is open a crack, enough so that the lacy curtains flutter in the light night-time breeze. “You would hardly think it’s been raining on and off all day.”

“Mmm,” Neuvillette agrees, as you feel him come up behind you. He slowly takes your hands, encouraging you to drop the towel; and then you stand before him, naked again, but with something far more than a bath in your future. He leans in and presses a kiss to the sensitive place where your neck and shoulder meet, just barely grazing it with surprisingly sharp teeth. “I should not wonder if it doesn’t rain again for some time.”

Neuvillette leads you to the bed, his hand firmly around yours. He is unerringly gentle and patient with you, as he urges you to sit upon the bedcovers - and your breath catches when you do as he asks, and instead of joining you he sinks onto his knees. You have never thought to imagine the Chief Justice kneeling before you, and the sight of it makes you buzz all over in anticipation. He smiles at your unsurety - and leans in, pressing a kiss to your knee, gently urging you to spread your thighs for him. His gloves are stripped away, but his wedding ring gleams on his finger as his fingers sink into the soft, full skin of your thigh. 

He leans in, pressing another kiss to the side of your knee. Higher, higher, higher he trails them - and his breath fans cool against your heated core, and your fingers clench into the bedsheets in surprise at what he might be about to do. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmurs to you, his cheek pressing silky against your skin, as he suckles a love-bite into the part where your leg meets your pelvis. “I merely want to ensure you’re adequately prepared.”

“Y-you don’t need to,” you say, breathless, hot, embarrassed and needy all at once. This is an act of such intimacy, you do not know how to parse the thought of the Iudex doing it to you - but he gives you a smile that is not without a hint of fang, the wickedest look you have seen upon his face so far, and he reaches between the two of you to use his thumb to pull apart the lips of your sex so you are revealed to him. 

“Oh,” he breathes. “But I want to, sweet one. And . . . looking at how wet you are for me, I daresay you want me to do so too.”

“M-Monsieur--”

“Neuvillette,” he murmurs, and he presses a kiss directly onto your sex, slick and wet with your own excitement, his nose brushing across the swollen nub of your clit. “Use my name.”

“Neuvillette--” It comes out rather thin and reedy, but Neuvillette does not seem to notice - instead, he seems rather preoccupied by what lies between your thighs. Your fingers tighten when you feel his tongue slide across you, gathering your slick upon the tip. There’s a strange quality to it, almost as if it is longer and firmer than a human tongue ought to be - and as he flickers his tip over your clit, again and again and again, and you shudder from the sensations he draws forth . . . you wonder if, too, his tongue is forked--

Thoughts quickly dissipate from your head when there is a man knelt between your thighs, though, and it is no different for you. The wondering is quickly chased away by the hungry way that Neuvillette laps at you, like a man who has been parched for water for months. 

Through it, he urges you to part your thighs as wide as you can, so that he can more thoroughly attack you with his tongue - and with every stroke, with every suck and lick and groan of him against you, you feel a knot tighten in your stomach in a way you have never experienced. It is like his mouth is a match, setting fire to your core - despite how you can feel wetness dripping down you, onto his bedcovers, surely soaking his chin and his lips. 

He does something with his tongue - a twirl, a flourish - and his name comes spilling out of your lips like a prayer, and the idea that he may at some point stop using his mouth on you flashes across your synapses like a tragedy. Without realising you’re doing it, you move one hand to grip his silvery hair, to keep him anchored against you - you realise, too, that it is not merely his name spilling out of you like an overturned wineglass. Pleas and whimpers and begging have joined the fray, and you would ordinarily cringe at being thought so wanting. But with Neuvillette’s mouth, with the promise of what he is trying to wring from you--

Shame seems unimportant compared to the way he shudders at your hand in his hair, the way his tongue intensifies flicking against your clit. 

He pulls back, breathing heavy, mouth glittering with your slick. 

“I’m going to put a finger inside you,” he tells you, and you are grateful that he too sounds a little breathless. You cannot imagine just how embarrassing it would be to be the only one falling apart. 

“I want . . . you,” you say, not without a touch of petulance, and Neuvillette lets out a hoarse little laugh. Still kneeling before you, he reaches up to touch your warmed face - his thumb, too, glitters with your arousal from the way he had held you open. You cannot bring yourself to care when he softly smears it across your bottom lip like an offering, and he lets out a shuddering groan at the sight of your tongue swiping it off. 

“I want you,” he says. “Oh, you have no idea how much I want you. But I will not hurt you, sweet one. Let me prepare you.”

It feels very much like him; this way of taking charge, his firm words. This time, his hand curves up your inner thigh, and your breath catches as his finger slides between the valley of your sex, wetting itself in your slick and his saliva. Your toes curl into his plush carpet as he nudges your clit with his fingertip, as a soft noise of surprise escapes your mouth and he chuckles. 

He slides one finger inside of you with no resistance at all. His earlier ministrations have seen to that. It’s a strange sensation, to have something inside that is not one of your own fingers (rather smaller, rather shorter than his) - but it is hardly unwelcome. You whisper out his name, your eyes closing, and Neuvillette makes a gentle noise of encouragement. 

“That’s right,” he murmurs to you, as he slowly begins to pump his finger in and out of you. “You’re doing so well - you’re taking it beautifully. I’m going to put a second one in--”

He does exactly as he says, and the hand still knit in his hair tugs at the silvery strands a little harder. It is not that it is painful, but simply that it is a stretch you are unused to - and one, too, that you know will continue to intensify. 

You feel a strange, cool shock at the entrance to your sex - and you chance a glance down and realise it is his wedding ring, pressing against you. The sight and the knowledge makes you shudder, and Neuvillette huffs out a noise of want in return. 

You think of the cocks, straining beneath the vee of Neuvillette’s pelvis. You cannot see them now, but from the way they had looked when the two of you were just bathing, you feel certain they must be swollen stiff and hard, waiting for their own chance (and too, from the spots of colour on Neuvillette’s cheeks, the way his words have a strange, dry edge to them when he speaks). How will he put those inside of you? One at a time? Both at once? 

“What are you thinking about?” Neuvillette asks, raising his gaze to meet your own, a smile tugging at the corners of the lips. “You suddenly tightened around me.” 

“I--!” Your cheeks go hot, embarrassment making warmth seep down your back. Neuvillette laughs. 

“No need to keep secrets,” he murmurs, slowly establishing another rhythm, a slow pump of his two fingers inside of you, scissoring slightly to open you up. “We are married now, sweet one. We can share everything. Mmm . . . let me see. Were you imagining my fingers to be my cock?”

“Neuvillette--” Your voice is a weak little protest, and you avert your gaze shyly even as you force the words out. “I was . . . will you put them both inside of me?” Your gaze slips over his face again, nervous to see his reaction - his eyes widen in surprise, but it is not at all a look of anger. 

“Not tonight,” he tells you, and he smiles again. “I fear it may be too much for you. Ah, but if that’s what you want . . . my dear, I know you’d feel exquisite.” 

His fingers, pumping in and out, curling inside of you. His words, velvet-draped and deep - the look of concentration on his face, insistent on nothing more than drawing pleasure forward from you. You feel the hot tension inside of you reach a breaking point - a pot, ready to bubble over. 

“I must confess,” he breathes, leaning in, breath hitting your sex hot and close. “I was worried you might be afraid. I’m terribly glad to know what an effect the idea has on you.”

As he finishes the sentence, he lets his tongue drag out one slow, final lap of your clit - and it is just enough to push you over the final edge. The bubbling pot within you reaches boiling point - and the most intense pleasure you’ve ever felt, like molten heat, suffuses you entirely. Your head falls back. A noise of sheer enjoyment falls wanton from your lips - your thighs and your hips and your entire body trembles and shakes in the pleasure, and you feel your sex pulsating and throbbing around the two of Neuvillette’s fingers that are inside of you. 

“Lovely,” Neuvillette murmurs, watching you in awe, his fingers slowing down as he lets you ride out the waves of your orgasm. “Oh, you’re . . . exquisite.”

“Neuvillette,” you say, collapsing back onto the bed, your breath coming in harsh pants. “I was afraid, at first. But I don’t think I could be. Not knowing what you’re like now. Not anymore.”

“Sweet thing.” Neuvillette stands. He steps forward and you see him again - his cocks are indeed straining, silvery precome dripping from the dual tips and smeared over the flat planes of his stomach. “You have no idea what you do to me. May I . . . ?” 

He does not need to ask. You think you would grant him whatever he asked for - you cannot imagine Neuvillette overstepping your boundaries, when he has been so sweet and so careful and so guiding for as long as you’ve known him, even knowing he could do whatever he wanted to you and nobody would blame him. But it warms your heart that he asks even so. 

“Please do,” you breathe, and you spread your thighs wider to accommodate him on the bed. 

His hands scoop under your hips, his palms firm on your ass as he moves you higher up the bed, ensuring that your head and shoulders are propped up with a mound of pillows. Even with his cocks practically twitching, he prioritises you before himself, and you cannot resist another show of appreciation, wrapping your hand around his neck and pulling him down into a kiss. 

He groans into your mouth, the movement clearly welcome - but when he mouths at you now, he is far messier than he has been before, his teeth just a little more present. You think he must be losing some of his control, and as his cocks nudge against your inner thighs, you are proved correct. 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes against your lips, pulling back just far enough to be able to speak. “I cannot hold myself back a moment longer--”

“Please, Neuvillette,” you whisper, fingers still in his hair. 

His lower cock nudges against your sex, the ring of muscle that will grant him entrance - and as he opens you up, his second cock rubs over the swollen over-sensitive nub of your clit and you whine. 

He covers your whine with another kiss. He eases into you, moment by moment, inch by inch - you have nothing to compare it to, but you think from the slow tempo he goes at and the way his gaze keeps flicking over you, checking you’re alright, he must be larger than average. 

But he has prepared you well. The stretch is an ache, but a pleasant one - it does not send painful shockwaves all through you. Your thighs wrap around his hips, pulling him as close as you can manage, and Neuvillette sighs. 

“Will you kiss me again?” He murmurs, so softly you almost do not hear him. The request makes your heart feel like bursting in your chest - the soft way he looks at you, his unwillingness to pull away from you, his desire to be as close to you as he can even when he is buried inside of you. 

You do. Arms wrap around his shoulders. His hands find purchase on your hips. His mouth and yours dance against one another - his tongue learning yours as if he is learning a new language. 

He fucks you like that. 

He is not rough with you, that first night; he does not, as you have heard so many new husbands do, take you and have you and ignore what you might want. Neuvillette cherishes you. 

The slow rock of his hips, indulgent in their rhythm. The way he kisses you. He is chasing his own release, but he does not feel any need to fuck into you with abandon. At least not yet. 

But time ticks on. The two of you seem to meld into one entity, and the kissing and the fucking grows sharper at the edges. You feel that Neuvillette is hovering on something, his expression almost desperate, as he rearranges the angle of his hips and the speed of his thrusts. 

“Please,” he whispers, broken-voiced. “I’m close--”

You let go of him and he lets out a noise of distress at the lack of contact, a noise that makes you shiver with the idea of how much power you may one day have over him. But instead of anything else, one of your hands darts between you, to take a firm grip on his second cock. Neuvillette hisses through his teeth at your hand, hot and firm. 

You do not know what you’re doing, not really, but that does not seem to bother Neuvillette as he increases the speed of his hips. In fact, he does most of the work - fucking his lower cock inside of you, hot and deep and wet, and fucking the cock atop it into your fist. You manage to work out a kind of twisting motion that makes him growl in the back of his throat--

It’s a fascinating noise, really. It makes you think of him as an animal, something feral and possessive - and you wonder what, later on, you may learn about him--

But then your name is falling from his lips like a prayer, and his cock is twitching inside of you and in your grip, and your back arches at the same time as he leans forward and sinks his teeth into your shoulder--

(Almost like a claiming bite. Almost like a mark to say that you are his). 

And both of you come, together, in great waves and pants and gasps of breath. His come paints your fist and the round softness of your stomach at the same time as it paints inside of you, your body once more pulsating around his cock as if it never wants to let you go. 

Like a tide on the shore; like a moon rising high over the lakes of Fontaine. Neuvillette lets himself lay atop of you, his head against your heart, his breath coming in great heaves. 

You do not need to think this time; you simply lift your unsoiled hand and begin to stroke the silver of his hair in slow, careful motions. From the back of his throat again comes that noise, something like a purr and something like a chirrup. His eyes close contentedly. 

“Neuvillette?” You whisper into the darkness, and your husband makes a soft ‘mm?’ of response. “You really . . . could have had anyone. Why did you choose me?”

“Hmm, sweet one?” He lifts his head from your chest and looks down at you like you have asked him why the sky is blue. “Didn’t you hear me earlier? I certainly did have my pick . . . I perhaps wouldn’t have chosen to marry if Lady Furina hadn’t been so insistent, but I was lucky enough to be able to choose anybody I wanted. And I had seen you.” He shakes his head, a huff of laughter falling from his mouth. “Like I said - I do have eyes.”

Your cheeks feel hot. The thought of being coveted by Monsieur Neuvillette, when you had worried about your body and your match and your future so often it felt like second nature--

“Oh dear,” he says, looking down at the two of you - at the sweat-slicked hair, at the come drying on your inner thigh. “I fear we’ll need to have another bath before bed.” 

“And you won’t mind if I join you?”

He chuckles. 

“Why,” he says. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

[uniquexusposts]

A one-day friend - O. Piastri

Summary: Y/n and Oscar sit next to each other on a flight and get to know each other. Note: I know Oscar probably flies business or first class, but for the story he doesn't.

A small smile curved on Y/n her mouth when she looked out of the airplane window. She was leaving Europa behind. After a month of travelling through Germany, France, Switzerland and Italy, it was time to go home. Y/n was glad she finally could go home, but this trip made her realise how much she wanted to move to Europe, being free and away from home.

It was sunny outside, there were no clouds. Usually, Y/n flew on the worse times: in the night and in the bad weather. This was one of the first times she was able to have a look at the tiny countries. While looking at the view she got, her mind stopped working - in the right way. She finally cleared her mind. There was nothing she was thinking of. It was like meditating.

The entertainment system of the airplane was insanely good. There were a lot of films Y/n was planning on seeing but didn't have the chance to because...reasons. She was glad she had the time and was being able to watch the films now.

When the first film came to an end, Y/n planned on catching up with work. Her fingers touched the touch screen to look up the flight details. She tightened her jaw when her airplane neighbour was touching her arm. I get it, we don't have much space, but you are in my aura right now. Before she knew it, the head of her neighbour was softly falling on her shoulder. Y/n gently moved her head to see what exactly was going on. The man was asleep. Great. She closed her eyes and sighed, annoyed. 

There was an option to wake him up, but Y/n didn't want to. Maybe something was going on with him, and perhaps this was the first moment he could sleep? Or maybe he had anxiety? Or he just broke up? Or he was just tired? Y/n opened her eyes and looked at the screen again. She was being kind and let him sleep. Four more hours to go and a fantastic entertainment system. The option work wasn't an option anymore.

"Good evening, this is your captain speaking. In less than 20 minutes we will be arriving at Dubai International Airport. It is currently 21:45 and 30º degree celsius. On behalf of Emirates and the crew, thank you for flying Emirates, and hopefully, we will see you soon again," the captain spoke after a few hours.

Y/n stretched her legs and breathed deeply but gently in. The man was still sleeping with his head on her shoulder. It gave her two thoughts: he was a stranger, this was odd, and it wasn't as uncomfortable as she thought it would be. The cabin crew were walking through the plane to get all the garbage and inform the people to straighten their seats. The friendly steward asked if Y/n could wake up her partner. What partner?

She did what she was being asked and nudged the side of the man with her elbow. The man looked up, and his eyes widened. "We are about to land," she awkwardly smiled and pressed her lips into a thin line.

"Oh," he mumbled and looked confused around. "Thank you. And I'm sorry," he apologised. "Have I been asleep for the whole flight?"

"Yup."

"I'm sorry," the man said again.

Y/n looked at him. "It's alright," she told him. The look in her eyes was warm and friendly. The man felt sorry he might have made her flight uncomfortable. "They...erm...gave me the snacks. So..." She gave the man the two cups of water and some crackers.

"Right, thanks."

Maybe the best part of this flight was for the man, he was the one who got his sleep. Y/n, on the other hand... Sitting at the window seat is fantastic because you can look outside, but when having strangers next to you who are asleep...not ideal. Especially when you need to go to the bathroom. For those six hours, it was slightly subtle. But for the next flight, it would be hell. Why am I so helpful to people?

The plane landed safely and smoothly at Dubai International Airport. It was already dark and warm, but that didn't matter to Y/n. She needed to go to her transfer flight on the other side of the massive airport. There were two hours left to the next departure. Y/n was glad she could finally walk and stretch her legs properly. It was late in the evening, so there weren't many people around the airport anymore. She didn't mind, within 30 min she was at the right gate. It gave her the time to look around at the duty-free stores. It was the same as the airports in Europe, so there weren't many new things to see.

Even though it wasn't new, Y/n found a manner to almost miss her flight. And you know when you are a national embarrassment when they have you call your name through the speakers of the airport. But she wasn't the only one, more people were invited. Y/n made her way to the gate and showed her ticket.

"You are right on time, Miss Y/l/n," the Qantas Airline employee said.

Y/n politely smiled and walked towards the airplane. Fourteen more hours to and we are reaching the next destination: Melbourne. She ran her hand through her hair and stepped into the aircraft. The friendly crew welcomed Y/n and guided her to her seat.

"Thanks," Y/n thanked the woman and smiled.

Window seat, again.

She looked at the people who were sitting next to her. A woman and a man, but one of them was the man who slept next to her on the flight to Dubai. Her eyes widened, and she parted her lips. They both stood up to let Y/n take place on her own seat.

"Well, this is awkward," the man said and looked at Y/n. Y/n fastened her seatbelt and made herself comfortable for how comfortable an economy seat could be. "Next time, just wake me up."

What are the coincidences this is actually happening?

"I will," Y/n shortly said.

"I'm Oscar," the man introduced himself and stuck out his hand.

"Y/n." She grabbed his hand and softly squeezed in it.

"Nice to meet you, Y/n."

He was polite. "Nice to meet you too, Oscar." 

--

"This is actually the first time I have seen this film," Oscar said when 'Bohemian Rhapsody' ended.

Y/n raised her eyebrows and looked surprised at him. "You serious?" Oscar slowly nodded. "You seriously have something missed during those years. I'm glad I made you watch it."

The fourteen-hour flight was surprisingly good and fun. Oscar was a kind man, after all. They talked a bit and watched a few films together. Y/n wasn't able to sleep, she couldn't sleep on the plane, and Oscar already had his sleep from the previous flight.

Oscar smirked. "You got me," he said and stretched his arms above his head. "Four more hours to go." Y/n took a deep breath and nodded. "I'm going for a walk. Maybe you should go too."

He was right; having a walk through the plane - it probably wasn't more than 150 metres if you walked to the back of the plane and back, but it was a walk to stretch the legs on this long flight. Oscar asked the unknown woman, who was sitting on his other side if she could stand up. Oscar and Y/n got up and walked to the back of the plane.

"This is just so awkward," Y/n said. "All those people who are looking at you, yikes."

Oscar smirked and looked behind him at Y/n. "You must do something for it, Y/n."

When they arrived at the back of the plane, Y/n had no idea what she saw. There was a small bar, there were bowls filled with fruit and biscuits. She looked at Oscar, and a happy smile grew on her lips.

"See, the back of the planes are the best. Not many people know this, but this is for us, the economy section. This is another reason why you should go for a walk in the plan: drinks and food," he told her and grabbed an apple and a biscuit.

"Wow, what an invention. Brilliant," Y/n spoke and grabbed an apple as well. It felt good to walk around. Sitting on an airplane seat for several hours was awful; the little space, the many people in your aura and not being able to stretch your legs as you want to. "I will keep this in my mind. I seriously had no idea this actually was on a plane."

"Perks of a frequent flyer," he winked.

"I am too," she smirked. "But I had no idea."

"Oh."

The last four hours went by, and they landed safely on the Australian ground again. Y/n was glad she wasn't alone after all. Flying with someone on your side is a lot better than flying alone. They had talked a lot about regular stuff, like politics, the news and that kind of stuff. They left the plane and walked both towards the exit of the airport.

Y/n read the signs on the board and looked around. "I have to go to my next flight," she mentioned Oscar and stopped walking. His smile softened and looked disappointed at her. It was almost sad to see him like that like he hoped Y/n would go to Melbourne as well. "So..."

"Where do you have to go?" He asked curiously.

"Sydney," she answered and pressed her lips into a thin line. "Thanks for the great company, it absolutely made it all better," she smiled.

He nodded and gave her a small smile, he surely was disappointed to leave her behind. "Give me your phone." He had to deal with this situation quickly, as the intercom called for the flight was about to board to Sydney. Y/n squeezed her eyebrows together and grabbed her phone out of her pocket. "I really enjoyed this flight, I wish every flight was just as joyful as this one. Text me when you are home, okay?"

Is this his smooth way for asking my number? To keep in touch with me? "I will."

Y/n put her phone back in her pocket and gave him a warm but exhausted smile. An hour and thirty more hours to go, and she was home. People from their flight passed them, some were annoyed, some were happy to arrive at their home base.

"I really have to go," she said and slowly walked away. "Thanks again!"

Oscar parted his lips and knew he needed to say something. "You can 'accidentally' miss your flight so I can take you out on a coffee!"

Y/n looked at him and lowered her eyebrows while a cheeky smile curved on her lips. "Safe trip home, Oscar," she chuckled.

"It was worth a shot," Oscar said loudly and pointed at her. It made her laugh. "Have a good flight, Y/n!" He showed one of his best smiles and winked.

Y/n bit her lip and turned around while she walked away. A small smile played on her lips. It was just a friend on the plane. Sometimes you have friends for a short time because you are in the same situation. This is a situation like that. But this oddly felt more than just a friend.

No Y/n, just a one day-friend, great company on the flight, maybe a little bit too much coincidence, but a one day-friend.

Her eyes fell on the dark airport. There were lights of a landing plane, the runway and...and the ugly self-reflection of herself in the windows. A sigh left her mouth, and she went to the gate of her last flight.

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

w.count: 1.8k- he's back.. as a treat c:

recently, kyojurou always sleeps best with a weight on his chest.

this hasn't always been the case, however. no, for the vast majority of his life, sleep had usually always found him quite easily. the small douse of sleep resistance in his early days was the only time on mental record that he could truly recall sleep evading him. on top of his usual power naps on the clock- since traveling in the sun and working under the moon left little time for many full nights rest- he can say he does well for himself in the exhaustless department.

of course, that was until you threw a wrench into everything.

the casual relationship you both had was something both frustrating and comforting to the 20-something flame hashira. on one hand, you both knew that relationships could prove to be difficult in the long run with this occupation. with him being sent out on near back-to-back high-level jobs dealing with more lethal demons than others... he didn't want to unintentionally burden you with anxiety over his safety and well-being. kyojuro was strong, stronger than other fellow hashira, but still weaker than others. and even if his strength seemed flawless in the eyes of weaker people- he isn't infallible and you know that.

so, after a long discussion with you on a night where he had downtime, the conclusion you both came to was- as forementioned- a simple and complicated one. he would continue to care for and about you, treating you with affection he knows you deserve. but he would always be mindful never to cross that threshold into a labeled relationship. you agreed to his terms and offered to return everything he gave you in kind.

however, even if that was what was decided by you both mutually, the turning in his gut when something happened to his distaste didn't just go away. situations where someone was too close to you, where you looked someone else's way so that you wouldn't stick to him like a leech looking for sustenance. when you would excuse yourself to some other task so you wouldn't overstep the bonds of your agreement. it irked him down into the pit of his stomach.

perhaps it was jealousy of others or maybe it was envy since even though he cared so much he couldn't comfortably have you like others could.

it was moments like the one he found himself a week ago where all those feelings fell off his shoulders like dried clumps of dirt. cracking and chipping off his body. a rare chance to accompany you on a mission was always a welcome occasion in his books.

the missions location was in the moutains and the rain was heavy all day and well into the evening. with the lack of light from the sun that had long since set and the terrain that was only worsening, he implored that you both seek shelter in the nearest abandoned hut or cave you could find.

"it would be far too careless to continue on this way," he instructs. to ensure you stay at his side, his hand held tightly onto yours. the way the rain and wind tried to make his hand slip against yours and threaten to break you apart from him only made his hold tighten. "come, under here." he yanks you gently into a small undercut of rock and grass and mud. it was hardly the ideal place for shelter, but it was the best option for the current situation.

grabbing onto the cutout rock made throughout time, he lets you sit and tuck your knees in first before he's clambering under beside you. admittedly, the fit is tight since this particular undercut courtesy of the land wasn't particularly large. in fact, the longer you both sat squeezed together with your toes still getting soaked by rainwater and mud, the more it seemed like this was actually a bad idea and that you should've just kept on going until something more suitable popped up.

"perhaps we should-" his suggestion of possibly relocating somewhere else was promptly cut off by your body sliding off his shoulder that you had been leaning against. your head lulled off, ducking and acting as a weight that caused your whole upper body to shift. your shoulder slides off his and across half of his chest before he quickly catches it in the palm of his opposite hand to stop you from falling into his lap entirely. "are you-" the word 'alright' never makes it out of his mouth when he sees you... "asleep?"

how in the world you managed to tune out the sound of the heavy downpour a foot away from your face, or even find comfort in your soaked and chilly clothes is lost on him. maybe you had been exhausted and he didn't notice- which sends a pang of guilt through his chest- but surely you would've told him so if that were the case.

using his other hand that wasn't holding your shoulder up, he wraps his arm around your shoulders, bringing it around to place on your forehead. you weren't sick, were you? through the dampness of your skin, he felt no heat of fever, so that wasn't it.

kyojuro doesn't understand, but he doesn't truly need to. understanding wouldn't change the fact you were asleep.

his arm that was used to check your temperature stayed around you and even pulls you closer to him. his knee that was closest to you was bent to avoid the rain, though he extends it back out into the rainfall once again to make room for your comfort soaking the fabric straight through. your back pushed against his chest in a comforting sense of pressure. your head lay tilted under his jaw- nose just barely brushing against his throat- which he had adjusted so he could rest his chin easily on your crown.

you smell of rain and grass, but under it, he still could smell the scent of you among the elements. even though you were both drenched, he still found you warm against him and as he shut his eyes to take in the moment of peace, he thought that perhaps this peace was how you managed to fall asleep in the first place.

now, kyojuro sits irritated. legs and arms crossed as his eyes scrunch closed. his leg bounces and his fingers tap against his bicep as he sits in his resting robes on top of his futon.

since that day, the great annoyance he feels creep up his neck when he lays down to rest keeps him from doing so. boring himself to sleep has worked once or twice, but it never lasts. even when he did get sleep, he was always restless, which he greatly disliked since his whole life before this, he was a fairly heavy sleeper.

he's tried other possible solutions. using an extra pillow and laying it on his chest. folding a large blanket up to sit on top of him. he's even contemplating getting a stray dog off the street just for it to curl up on his warm chest- even if that was a considerably foolish idea.

kyojuro's stay at this abode was temporary. it was one of the few wisteria houses that take in and care of demon slayers, and he was set to leave in a day or so. becoming fed up with his impossible plight, he pulls his robes tighter around his waist and shifts the sleeves to cover his shoulders more appropriately before he leaves his temporary room.

perhaps some fresh air would be good for him.

he barely makes it two steps out of his room before he's being addressed. down the hall, his name comes from the mouth that is the cause for all his restless nights unbeknownst to you.

"kyojuro!" you softly call so as to not wake anyone sleeping at the late hour. he turns to see you waving at him and coming closer. at your approach feels his resolve crack. "i heard you were staying here when i arrived earlier. what're you still doing up?"

when you come up to him and stop at his bare feet standing on the veranda, he splinters more. he can hear the cracks in his subconscious instead of your words he knows what you're saying because your lips are moving.

"are you going to sleep?" his sudden question cuts you off and you stare at him with pure confusion since it had nothing to do with what you were previously saying. even in this dull lighting, he seemed awfully tired. more so than you remember ever seeing before. reaching up, you cup his cheek in one of your hands with concern painting your face.

kyojuro shatters at the contact.

you yelp when he gently takes your hand into his and pulls it off his face only to march back into his still-open door and drag you in after him. kyojuro shuts the door behind you before he grabs your shoulders and pushes you down as gently as he can onto his futon after marching you to it.

"hey!" you whisper yell, hardly able to see anything aside from the moonlight casting shadows into his room. "what's this all about?" you yelp again when he wordlessly yanks the covers out from under you so he can crawl under them. before you can start questioning him again, he's snaking his arm under your arm and pushing his palm against the middle of your back.

your hands brace yourself against his chest as he falls onto his back, and you're left awkwardly lying halfway on top of him. at your weight, you feel him let out a deflating breath onto the top of your head.

"uh, kyojuro?" you attempt to push against his chest and sit up to ask him what in the world has gotten into him, but he stops you. his grip around you is solid and you feel the tips of his fingers push further into your back to keep you in place.

"stay." he all but commands in a tone that was soaked in irritated drozziness. you simply drop your forehead into the crook of his neck defeated. there are no more words exchanged that night. with you perched on top of him, kyojuro easily falls asleep for the first full nights rest he's had in a week.

in the morning, when he fesses up to his body's sudden demand of your presence, weight, and warmth for even a decent night of rest, you can't help but tease him.

it takes a while to find some sort of middle solution to his sleepless problems since you can't always be around him for obvious work-related reasons. kyojuro doesn't say it out loud, but you're his just as much as he's yours- as per your agreement. that alone should give him the right to hold you at night when you're around at the very least.

a/n: mmmm i feel like this could've been so much better but im rUSTY ;n;

[muletia]

𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

[tfp] obsessed!starscream x human!reader

+18 content / valveplug

summary: still feeling megatron's claws all over his body, starscream goes to visit the only person who can let him forget the horrors of abuse - you

cw: hurt/comfort, angst, megatron abuses starscream, slight gore, established (but it's complicated) relationship, very ooc starscream, get catified idiot; yandere themes: obsessive thoughts, possessiveness and jealousy, emotional manipulation, clinginess and unhealthy behavior; valveplug with plot: gentle!dom!top!reader, sub!bottom!starscream, backshots (starscream receiving), reader uses a strap (referred as cock a few times), overstimulation, praise kink

word count: 5450

inspired by this ask, bless you for it anon 🙏 :

He isn’t sure what provoked the attack. Did he speak too soon? Stepped into Megatron's personal space? Maybe the warlord noticed his mind wandering for a few nanokliks, wishing the speech would end so he could return to you. Or maybe he didn’t need a reason. Perhaps no provocation was ever necessary for Megatron to lash out. To hit, crush, scratch, humiliate him in front of everyone. Sometimes, all it took was a bad mood and a single glance to spill energon. Often, Megatron didn’t need a reason at all to vent his fury. A whim was enough — a need to display aggression, to assert forced, undeserved dominance.

Starscream doesn’t want to think about it anymore. He’s suffered enough physically. Instead, he focuses on you, channeling the gentleness you always showed him, the calculated grace of your movements. You always knew how to make him forget, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Bruised and aching, he impatiently awaits the meeting’s end. He tries to remain inconspicuous, to seem smaller than he is, hoping to avoid further humiliation, because clawing out optics of every bot present is not an option. He longs to return to you immediately, but for now, he must pretend to be the model soldier, still invested in the cause. He wonders if anyone truly cares anymore, if anyone other than Megatron still remembers the original ideals of the Decepticons and adheres to them. Does even the warlord himself believe in what he’s fighting for? He quickly abandons the thought, redirecting his focus back to you.

When the meeting finally concludes, he forces himself to walk out with composed, deliberate steps, hiding the urgency in his pedes, the way they ache to carry him out of this hell. The icy chill of the ship bites at his spark, but he waits patiently for Megatron’s dismissal, mocking the absurdity of the situation in his mind. Once granted permission, he exits the bridge alongside Knockout, who naturally heads toward the medbay, assuming Starscream will follow, but is visibly surprised when seeker doesn’t join him, instead limping stubbornly away.

"Hey, Starscream, get your aft to the medbay!" Knockout calls out.

"I don’t need your help, Knockout," Starscream replies venomously.

"Oh, really? Whose help do you need, then?" Knockout retorts, voice dripping with sarcasm. "To the medbay, before I lose my patience."

"I’m not going anywhere with you," Starscream growls. "So drop it. As long as I’m still standing, I’m fine."

"You’ve got seven lacerations, three puncture wounds, and two gunshot injuries.” he starts counting on his digits “Not to mention countless scratches. I don’t know what kind of world you live in where this counts as 'fine.'" Knockout steps closer, grabbing the stubborn seeker’s arm. "Stop resisting and let me fix you, you idiot."

Knockout’s touch feels cold, piercing like a thousand needles against mesh, gripping tightly as if intending to crush his arm, though Starscream knows it’s just an illusion. He doesn’t want such an unpleasant connection, doesn’t want to be associated with metal and its rigidity right now nor with surgical tools or Knockout’s detached approach to patching wounds.

He doesn’t want to be on the Nemesis, feeling useless, insignificant, and discarded. He wants to be with you, to feel your touch, hear your voice. Now.

He can’t endure it any longer.

"Let go!" he snarls, yanking his arm free with a dramatic sweep, immediately stepping back, closer to you. "I said I don’t want your help, didn’t I?! So leave me alone and go buff that hollow helm of yours!"

Before Knockout can fire back with a sharp retort, Starscream transforms and takes off, leaving behind nothing but a cyan puddle and a trail of exhaust fumes and energon.

"Everyone on this ship has lost their minds," the medic mutters.

It doesn’t take Starscream long to orient himself, to calculate the route to reach you. He immediately sets off toward the coordinates, forcing himself to ignore the searing pain that courses through his frame, the open, leaking wounds that drip energon he knows will eventually hit the ground. It’s reckless to draw attention, but he casts caution aside, overwhelmed by the desperate need for comfort.

From a distance, he spots you lounging in a hammock, absorbed in a book, soaking up the warm rays of the spring sun. Will you be upset if he interrupts you? When he imposes his selfish needs, bringing with him vivid evidence of the horror he endured, likely ruining your peace and cheerful mood. He knows you won’t turn him away or be angry about his unannounced visit, but he can’t shake the feeling that his presence is always unwelcome. Everywhere.

No matter how you react, no matter what you say, he won’t leave. He needs to feel your soft hands on him, convinced they’ll erase the sensation of Megatron’s fists against his plating, help him forget the claws tearing through metal, the smashing against walls, and the weight pressing his pedes to the floor. You’ll envelop not just his processor but his body as well, wrapping him in an illusion of carefreeness and convincing him, with your unparalleled talent, that everything is alright.

He sees you tilt your head from the hammock, scanning the sky for his silhouette, a smile gracing your lips when you finally spot him. You wave cheerfully, setting the book aside into the hammock’s folds. But your joy quickly fades as his alt-mode hurtles straight toward you. Before you can escape or let out a shout, Starscream transforms mid-air, landing above the hammock with you caught beneath him.

He looks down at you, and a wave of relief washes over him. He made it. Finally, he’s safe.

“Boo,” he teases.

The journey cost him more energy than he’d anticipated. To prevent collapsing, he braces himself against the massive tree in front of him. Only now does he truly feel how drained he is, how much his injuries ache. But none of it matters — he’s here with you, and for the first time in hours, the pain dulls and the cold from the Nemesis dissipates.

"Holy shit, Starscream!" you exclaim beneath him. "You almost gave me a heart attack! Never do that shit again, understand?!"

"Good to see you too," he retorts with a scoff. His legs tremble and wings sag unnaturally low, yet somehow, he feels infinitely better than he did on the Nemesis. There’s warmth here, a sense of solace.

He watches as your expression shifts — you grow pale, scanning his frame with those beautiful, observant little eyes. Fear crosses your face as you immediately climb out of the hammock. A few droplets of energon hit the ground near your feet.

You don’t ask who did this or why. You know him well enough to understand why he sometimes arrives with injuries, armed with a plethora of grievances to share. But he’s never appeared to you so broken before.

"My God, Starscream, why didn’t you let someone patch you up?"

He rolls his optics. You don’t need to know about the desperation that drove him here, his overwhelming need to reach you as quickly as possible. "Because I had more important matters on my mind," he dodges. "Now, hand over some energon."

Skeptically, you drop the topic and open the shed where you keep a few barrels of refined energon, stored specifically for emergencies like this.

"Here you go, though I doubt this will solve all of our problems."

His wings twitch upward at the word "our."

"As if I don’t have everything under control," he huffs, limping toward a barrel and drinking it greedily, yet somehow maintaining an air of grace.

"You always do," you reply sarcastically, fully aware of how often he misses the subtlety of your playful tone. The faint smile hidden behind the half-full barrel confirms your suspicion. After finishing the first, he reaches for another.

"Feeling better?" you ask gently.

He takes your care to spark, letting it flood through his frame.

"Slightly," he admits because the word incomparably got stuck in his intake.

He tosses the empty energon container aside without care, locking his optics onto you as you continue to scan his injuries.

"I’ll grab a towel," you announce, turning toward the house.

Ha, you’re going to leave him? Now, when he needs you most? No, you don’t have the right. You can’t hurt him like that.

"You’re not going anywhere."

Before you can even touch the doorknob, you feel long, slender claws wrap around your forearm. They pull you back with a soft "eep" escaping your lips until you land against his chassis, your shirt now smeared with energon.

"Seriously? Do you know how hard it is to get energon stains out?"

"You’ll manage," he replies, his servos already playing with your hair. His wings tremble slightly, betraying the emotions he struggles to suppress. "I’ve never seen blue stains on that pathetic, soft armor of yours."

"Clothes," you correct him.

"Unimportant."

Holding you in his arms, he truly feels that everything is alright. The open wounds don’t sting as fiercely as they did moments ago, his battered body can rest, and his processor is enveloped by a rare sense of peace. Everything feels better when you’re near, when your unimaginable softness surrounds him, and your tiny hands stroke his chassis, careful to avoid every wound. It’s soothing, and comforting, to have someone who brings solace just to him. To belong to someone, as much as he belongs to you. Almost cozy.

But soon, merely holding you isn’t enough. It’s unsatisfying, incomplete. Always craving luxuries, he wants more, and he wants it now.

He leans in, kissing your neck greedily while his servo slips beneath your shirt, making his desires abundantly clear.

"Starscream," you chide, "there’s a puddle of energon under you."

"Good thing I don’t care," he mutters between kisses, with no intention of stopping.

“And will you start caring when I say I won’t let you into bed in this state?”

"Stop ruining the mood," he hisses. "I don’t need your berth to interface!"

"But I do," you reply calmly, unfazed by his accusatory tone. To emphasize your point, you cross your arms over your chest, creating a small but significant distance between you. Starscream loathes this gesture, hates the boundary it creates between you. He wants to erase it, destroy it because whether you realize it or not, you hurt him with your cruelty. You set a boundary he never wanted to feel between you again.

"Star, you know I only want what’s best for you, right?"

"And that’s why you want to leave me, huh? Fine, go ahead, leave and never come back if you can’t be bothered to pay attention to me!" He releases you, and this time it's him crossing his arms over his chassis, but defensively, for comfort. Without you near, an unbearable, chilling loneliness takes hold of him and he despises it. “You have the incredible opportunity to interface with me, and you’re turning me down because of a little energon stain? Foolish human, if only you understood what honor I bestow on you by allowing you to even touch me.”

"It’ll only take me a minute," you reassure him, cupping his mauled faceplate in your hand. Starscream tries to resist the trap, to demonstrate the seriousness of his words through his body language, but within a nanoklik, he knows you have caught him. He leans into your hand, now smeared with energon, savoring the scraps of attention you offer. His wings flutter joyfully, and his engines hum softly, imitating a purr, a telltale sign of his true feelings, unspoken and originating from his very spark. “You’re a good mech. You’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

He stomps his pede and taps his claws against his arm, wrestling with his thoughts. A single compliment, and he’s already willing to do anything you ask, just to earn another, as if enchanted.

"You have exactly one klik. And you’d better hurry because I’ll be counting."

You disappear into the house, and he battles the urge to follow, to accompany you everywhere in pursuit of the phenomenon that is your touch and its incredible power to immerse him in pleasure. What a cruel joke, he thinks, as a few nanokliks pass and the pain creeps back. His wings droop and his frame begins to tremble, betraying the weakness and torment he carries within. He doesn’t want to be alone — can’t bear the lack of you any longer, though not even a single klik has passed. Feeling as if the cold has intensified, mocking him just like it did back on the Nemesis, he hugs himself tighter.

"[Name]?" he calls out weakly, his voice lonely, pathetic, like an addict in withdrawal.

He steps forward but collapses mid-motion, his journey ending there.

"I’m here! And what, I made it in time, didn’t I?" you ask playfully, though your tone quickly shifts to concern when you see the trembling seeker. "Hey, it’s okay. I’m not leaving you again," you assure warmly. "I’m not going anywhere."

"Have you finally realized what an honor it is to be in my presence?" His self-admiration returns, a defensive mechanism to shield his vulnerable, true self. With the last bits of his strength, he suppresses his shaking as you guide him to sit on the ground, which he complies with. You shift slightly to the side to avoid the sharp edges of his armor on his knees.

"Star, it’s been an honor from the very beginning," you assure him, gently dabbing at his wounds with a towel. You press it against his chassis, ignoring his winces and hisses, soothing him instead with soft strokes along his cheek.

"So, you do have some sense after all. For a human, that is."

"Thanks, I try," you reply, moving to the largest wound and tending to it with a fresh towel. "But I’m afraid you’ll still need to see a medic, erm, what was his name again… Knockout?"

Oh, he dislikes how easily you utter another’s name, inviting its owner into his sanctuary. Jealousy claws at his spark, fuelling anger, because you should know and adore only his name. No one else is necessary for your happiness.

He regrets ever telling you the medic’s name.

A sudden urge to merge his glossa with your tongue overwhelms him. To erase the taste of the intruder. But he restrains himself when he sees the genuine concern etched on your face. Starscream doesn’t want to ruin this moment, this rare display of sincerity, though his jealousy remains. Instinctively, his wings raise higher, making him appear larger, desperate for your attention.

"Don’t say that idiot’s name," he growls. "From now on, I’m the only mech you’re allowed to address. Understand? No one else deserves it."

"Hm, good thing the only mech I interact with is you," you say. Starscream doesn’t bother hiding the smug smile spreading across his faceplate, his wings trembling with satisfaction… until you add "But I’m not kidding, you need medical help and best I can do is very basic care."

"Have you not realized yet that that’s all I need? Think, if I wanted to see a medic, I’d have gone to one instantly."

He dislikes the way you’re looking at him, as if you don’t believe him, even though he’s laid his cards bare for you. How can he explain that he sped toward you recklessly, risking everything, because he needed you, not Knockout, not specialized instruments, nor the familiar texture of an operating table beneath him? How can he make you understand that with just your touch, you’ve repaired him more effectively than the Decepticon medic could dream of? Would you ever truly grasp how much you mean to him, how much he’s willing to sacrifice for you? Probably not, he thinks bitterly. He’ll never be able to convey it through gestures, words, or even the most tender acts of affection.

"I just don’t want you to suffer," you confess sincerely.

His silence speaks volumes — it tells you that he can’t grant you this wish.

"Oh, Star," you sigh.

"What?" he hisses. "Do you think it’s that easy when you are being punished for merely existing?"

"I… I know. I’m sorry," you reply, your voice laced with such raw remorse that it’s as if you’d struck him. Once, he might have relished your guilt, your groveling for sins he never wanted to be atoned for but deserved. Yet now, he just wants to scrape that remorse off your face, to bury it deep and forever. He longs for your sincere, cheerful smile, the one that crinkles your eyelids, softens your features, and radiates enough warmth to thaw even his cold, egoistic spark.

But your expression brings back unwanted memories of today’s horrors. For a moment, his mind drifts back to the Nemesis bridge, to the echoes of his own screams reverberating against the walls, the thrashing, the scent of energon, and the tyrant treating his body like a toy. For a fleeting instant, he was convinced this time Megatron would truly break him, kill him, and he wouldn’t even get the chance to say goodbye to you.

He doesn’t want to remember — not here, not with you, especially when you need him. So he resorts to the one trick that helps him forget, hoping you’ll forgive him for it.

He buries his helm in the crook of your neck and begins kissing, silently pleading for interface, a counterbalance to the agony, because maybe if you frag him hard enough his mind will finally break, freeing him from Megatron’s torment.

"Am I clean enough for your bed now?" he asks between kisses. His servo slides under your shirt again, while the other finds your butt, massaging it without subtlety.

"Yes, you are now," you reply, your voice half-lost in a breathy sigh.

Starscream leans forward, almost pressing his entire weight against you, losing himself in you. If not for your gentle reminder, a hand on his chassis, he might have released his spike here and now, demanding mindless, wild fragging under the open sky.

"Bed, remember?"

"You and your impossible demands," he mutters but complies, fully submissive only to you. The change of location doesn’t stop him, though, he continues nibbling and caressing your delicate skin, undeterred even as you bend to pick up the soiled towels and rise to lead him inside.

"Say something nice to me," he demands, still clinging to you as you guide him toward the house.

"You’re relentless. Strong, because you keep pushing forward. W-warm…" Your voice breaks as his servo brushes against your chest. "And so beautiful. I couldn’t dream of a more stunning mech."

Vasking in the genuine praise, he moans into your neck and quickens the movements of his servo, now roaming all over your body — exploring, eager to take everything he possibly could for himself.

Your home is spacious enough for him to stand upright, his wings slightly lowered. Though such tight, enclosed spaces once felt like torture for the seeker, he’s come to appreciate your strange, human dwelling. Here, he feels safe, surrounded by the comforting presence of your scent. Because only here he can stop pretending to be someone and fully accept that he is yours.

Dropping the towels by the front door, you move toward a cabinet where you keep supplies for occasions like this, but having a leech clinging to your neck — one evidently unwilling to let go for even a second — makes it especially awkward.

"Star, wait," you plead. Turning your head to look at him, you find him too preoccupied with leaving love bites on your neck to notice your attempt to meet his gaze. He only hums softly to signal he’s listening. "How do you want to handle this?"

His answer comes without hesitation. "Make me forget."

You know exactly what he means. "As you wish, love."

You hastily remove your pants and underwear, reaching for the strap you’d prepared earlier.

"Go get ready," you instruct, nodding toward the bed. Aside from this brief, vague command, you leave the rest to him. He can decide in which position you’ll rearrange his insides.

"Starscream," you chide again as he continues to toy with your skin — both at your neck and your stomach, where one servo has come to rest.

He has no desire to stop touching you, to abandon the contact for even the short moments you need to prepare. Not when he so desperately needs you. Yet the tingling pleasure from his valve and the swollen spike tapping against the panel now dictate his actions. The directive is clear: make his processor think of nothing but you.

Reluctantly, with a trademark dose of dramatics, he detaches himself from your back, letting you do what you need. "Fine," he groans, making his way to your velvet berth. He rests his chassis and long, slender arms on it, sinking into the softness (though it still doesn’t compare to yours) and his interface panel retracts, exposing the toys you love to play with. Deliberately, he angles his aft toward you, ensuring you see how neglected he is, how much he needs you, tempting your self-control to deal with him immediately.

"How long are you going to make me wait?"

"Just a second," you soothe. He hears you fumbling with your endearing silicone toy, followed by the sound of your sharp intake of breath. Tilting his helm slightly, he glances back at you and grins triumphantly at the hungry, dreamy look on your face. The plan worked.

To entice you further, he gives his aft a calculated wiggle.

"You like teasing, don’t you?" you murmur, stepping closer and gripping his hips. You steady yourself, aligning the tip of your cock to the entrance of his needy, hot valve. "So beautiful," you whisper.

"Is that a rhetorical question?" he snaps back playfully. "You’re no better in that regard. How much longer do I ha — AHH!"

Before he can fully dive into another dramatic complaint, you thrust your cock deep into his slick valve, successfully silencing his tirade. His pedes shoot upward in response, and his previously relaxed, widely spread wings now draw closer together, trembling visibly. You enjoy the show before you, always having been fascinated by their expressiveness, especially since their owner likes to hide his true feelings. They’re a window to his soul, a delightfully honest indicator of how well you’re loving him.

"F-finally…" he whimpers, pushing himself harder against the silicone, eager to feel it reach the deepest parts of his valve, as though he wants it to enter even his tank, making his entire frame bask in the pleasure you’re providing.

He’s always considered himself a tough mech to please when it comes to interfacing — rarely satisfied, and even more rarely willing to open his panel to anyone. To him, such access is a privilege to be earned. But when it’s you exploring his inner workings with deliberate thrusts of your hips, Starscream spreads his legs wider, making your job easier. Isn’t he generous, letting you join the exclusive few who get to interface with him? Doesn’t he deserve praise and adoration for it?

"You’re not even trying…" he taunts, voice trembling. "You were supposed to turn me into your mindless toy, ah! And yet I still AHH!"

You cut off his rant by firmly grasping the base of his larger wings.

"Anything else you’d like to add, darling?" you tease, your rhythm steady and deliberate as you continue to thrust.

Still ramming your hips, pushing the toy deep into him only to let go immediately and repeat the process, you bend over him now having better access to the sensitive and delicate wings. You massage them at the base, where they meld with his back, drawing meaningless patterns and occasionally kneading, watching with a sense of triumph as the proud creature beneath you trembles all over and clamps his servo tightly around your sheets, exposing pure, unfiltered ecstasy.

"Starscream, we’ve only just begun…" you say, feigning disappointment, still caressing his sensitive wings. You can hear his engines roaring loudly, and his cooling vents struggling to keep up with the heat radiating from his frame, which has grown unbearably warm, pleasantly heating the tips of your fingers.

"Shut, agh! Shut up…" he growls weakly, his words slurred and broken by moans and whines.

Your pace is relentless. Your cock slides effortlessly inside, gliding against slick walls and pushing pleasurably, but it can’t savor the sensation with how quickly you aim to finish and bring this to its sweet conclusion. Yet he can’t pout about it when you’re so attentively tormenting his valve and vibrating wings. You care not just for his insides but his outer shell, too.

He feels as though his whole body is on fire, like his own anatomy will fail to handle the heat and explode, burning both you and himself. But he still wants more, wants to be gracefully ravaged, to climax so many times he loses count. To transform into your ideal plaything so you won’t need anyone else. His valve, his spike, his glossa, and digits. Only his. His, his, his!

“W-why are you, agh! so quiet?!” he stammers, oblivious to how he’s contradicting himself. “Don’t ignore me! L-love! Haah, adore! Worship…” he begs.

He’s no longer lying idly, passively letting you penetrate him. He begins moving his hips, quickly matching your rhythm and milking your shaft with even greater fervor and intensity.

“So beautiful…” you murmur, straining to reach his trembling wings with your lips. “So wonderful,” you add, mere millimeters above the gray metal.

You kiss the scars and marks left by particularly sharp claws that carved canyons into his delicate wings.

“My pretty Star, doing so well.”

Starscream can feel the care you pour into each kiss, and it’s enough to make his spike spasm and tremble, heralding fireworks. Yet he knows he must ask your permission to release the accumulated transfluid.

“Ah, ah, I’m… I’m close!” he howls, voice glitching, engines whining, and cooling fans falling behind. “I beg you, haah, please let me overload!”

You kiss him tenderly over another marred spot and allow yourself a few more thrusts to coax out those exotically strange but delightful cries of pleasure.

“Go ahead, my beautiful one, overload for me.”

Pink transfluid gushes from his spike, spilling over the panels amid loud screams and moans. But you don’t stop yet, knowing full well that one release won’t be enough, not with him and his inhuman endurance. Instead of pulling back, you lean in, running your fingertips over his sleek, intricate back now arched gracefully. You explore the valleys and ridges of his back strut, admiring its exotic design, unaware that the valve you’re docked in is trying to milk you, tightly clenched around your cock, signaling his desire for more. He wants more, wants you.

“You did wonderfully,” you praise and kiss his back a few times, earning a melodious whimper.

With trembling servos still clutching the bedding, Starscream is convinced he’s ascended to paradise. How else could he explain the overwhelming bliss you so generously bestow upon him? How can he rationalize the way his field of vision is dotted with hearts, his valve pulsing in time with your heartbeat? He has to stay here longer, to discover what else you have to offer him.

As if it were possible, he presses his aft harder into your cock, goading you to continue the play.

“W-what are you waiting for? We’re not done yet!”

“Ask nicely”

Oh, how he despises those games of yours, yet he eagerly awaits them, knowing they always come with a reward. Impatiently, he moves his aft, pleasuring himself now. The valve slides off your cock only to devour it again, savoring its dangerous proximity to his tank until his spike starts to shudder. He’s trying to entice you to move, to abandon your stillness, even though he knows it’s all part of the game, a fact you swiftly remind him of as you grip his hips firmly to hold him in place.

He turns his helm to gauge you, to test how far he can push, but seeing your chastising gaze, he stops teasing, pressing himself tightly against your hips once more and moaning from the feeling of disarming, carefree fullness that makes his valve burst.

“Hngh, please!” he pleads. “Ah, I can’t hold on any longer. I beg you, let me overload again, ah! Please…”

“Good mech,” you praise, resuming your thrusts, feeding his still-hungry valve with your synthetic shaft, dragging it over his abused, slick walls.

“Haah, thank you! Th-thank you!” he cries, claws raking the delicate bedding.

“Mhm, for my most magnificent mech, absolutely anything,” you adore him as he asked, placing kisses along his arched back, especially on his battered and tender wings.

There’s not a shred of romance in how you treat his valve. It’s primitive, animalistic rutting meant to rob him of breath from nonexistent lungs, to make his legs quake with excess pleasure, his claws pierce through the bedding completely, and most of all, to make him forget. The complete opposite of the tenderness and love you bestow on his back, ensuring every scratch you can reach taste your affection.

“The most magnificent,” you murmur.

After several more powerful thrusts, magenta transfluid spills onto your floor again, mixing with droplets from the last climax.

“The most wonderful,” you add.

Starscream climaxes again.

“The most beautiful.”

And again.

“The most perfect.”

And again. Again and again.

“Captivating.”

Until the moans turn into howls and only small, adorable pearls drip from his spike, as there’s nothing left to give.

“My Lord Starscream.”

Until your bedding is soaked with coolant, which also coats his chin.

“Star, for fuck’s sake, I can’t keep going.”

Until your hips themselves refuse to obey. You manage to push him into one more empty overload before withdrawing smoothly and unceremoniously, collapsing against the bed with labored breaths. You already know your hips will be sore tomorrow, but for now, you’re more concerned about the state of your thoroughly ravaged partner. To make sure you haven’t caused a short circuit in his processor, you turn your head toward him, unable to suppress a strange, barbaric sense of pride at the sight of his blank, foolish expression, glossa hanging out, optics rolled far back. Because you were the one who brought the great, megalomaniacal Starscream to bliss, and it’s a sight reserved solely for you.

“Hey, Star, how’re you feeling?” you ask gently, shifting closer to him and reaching for his helm, immediately beginning to stroke it. This seems to bring him back to life as he blinks a few times, as if reminding himself of the world he’s in, and finally focuses his optics on you. His drooped wings lift at the sight of you, his engines, now quieter, start whirring again, and — most surprisingly — Starscream smiles faintly but sincerely, with pure bliss, devoid of malice or mockery.

It’s hard not to mirror that smile and tuck it deep in your heart, a gesture he clearly takes as an invitation to move closer.

“Star?” you call, but he ignores you, more intent on invading your personal space than answering. He leans in to nestle his helm in the crook of your neck. For a moment, you think he’ll start nipping and sucking, demanding more, but he surprises you again, wrapping you in a loose but possessive embrace.

Now the grating sound of his engines shifts into a purr that vibrates through your chest, reaching your heart. It’s an odd sensation, like holding a working speaker to your chest, but you can’t deny that it’s pleasant and relaxing, almost lulling you to sleep if not for the distracting engine hum. Wanting to return the favor for this peculiar massage, you start gently stroking his helm, unable to stop thinking that you’re petting an oversized, cunning cat.

“You didn’t do… atrociously,” he finally speaks, dangerously close to your ear. “For a human, of course.”

You couldn’t have hoped for higher praise.

“Thanks. You were incredible too,” you reply, showing him how it’s done, though you doubt he understands, especially since his wings twitch slightly, pleased with the compliment.

For a moment, silence reigns as you both recover, but you’re forced to break it when you suddenly realize you need water. Turns out, constantly showering your insatiable partner with compliments can really dry out your throat.

“Star,” you begin.

As if he has access to your brain, he tightens his hold around you, his purring intensifying.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he declares. “You won’t leave me.”

You merely sigh and return to stroking his helm.

[youraverageaemondsimp]

Metanoia ;

Aemond Targaryen x Transmigrated!Strong!Reader

>> Chapter IV : The Fervour.

Summary: You decide to apologize to Aemond.

WARNINGS: nothing nsfw, I left it for the next chapter 🤭, canon typical incest, anxiety etc. + not proofread

A/N: divider credits @cafekitsune, this is a short chapter but the next one is gonna be long and intense 🤭🤭

<- prev // masterlist // next ->

Your heart drummed loudly against your rib cage, each beat accompanied by a gasp of air as you stared into the emptiness of your chamber.

A dream— no, a memory.

Was this the original body's memory?

Is this body not yours?

It doesn't seem likely because this body has exactly all your features, each and every detail pasted right into itself, from your head to your feet; nothing was amiss.

A blanket of dullness washes over your body and you plop back down onto the mattress, hugging your cotton blanket and you laid sideways, pondering with curiosity as you thought about everything.

You have to apologise to Aemond.

Suddenly his hostility, hatred, sly remarks all made sense.

You mentally face palmed yourself.

How were you gonna save the plot or prevent war when knowing that you were the cause of major events?

Had it not been Viserys’ command, you would've been stuck deeper in the mess, his decision of marrying you and Aemond gave you a heads up.

Can you perhaps talk the greens out of it once you're Aemond's wife? Then again, if talking truly worked then there wouldn't be a show at all. You sigh heavily, closing your eyes before reopening them.

You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling before your eyes averted towards the window, noticing how it's still the heartbeat of the night. Going to Aemond's room would seem very scandalous at this hour; regardless of whether you're soon to be married.

And to make matters even more complicated; Alicent and Rhaenyra had caught you guys kissing. You wondered why Aemond kissed you in the first place so suddenly, was he containing his urge to kill through it? Most likely.

You decide that you'd think of everything on the morrow, choosing sleep over restlessness, closing your eyes and waiting for the slumber to grab you down to its depths.

The sound of footsteps awoke you from your sleep, looking around to see none but the maids who were bringing in a bath and water for you to freshen up and get ready for the day.

You zone out the process; having been used to it. Instead your mind now travelled to the matter at hand, which was also your main objective. You planned to go directly to Aemond and apologise, as stupid as it may sound you really had no other option before the situation got worse. At least by apologising you'll make him realise how sorry you are, which might console his inner conflict.

The maids finish touching you up. You waste no moment and immediately get off the stool, heading straight to the door and leaving your chambers.

You check the library where you first encountered him; to your surprise, he wasn't there. You then move onto the training grounds only for him to not be there either. You start wandering around the red keep in the search for him yet he seems nowhere to be found. The guards outside his room have also said that he had left his room in the morning.

You go to the garden, to the weirwood tree, hoping to find him there, yet he is nowhere.

Frustrated, you sit underneath the tree, huffing in annoyance and catching your breath. You grunt irritated; patience growing thin as time only passed with no signs of Aemond. You had searched practically everywhere. The sympathy you were feeling is slowly being replaced by exasperation.

You lean back against the tree, staring at the leaves.

It's moments like this that make you truly question your sanity and reconsider your situation. As much as you were a big fan of the show; being trapped in it isn't really ideal without any known way out. You sometimes miss your life before this.

How plain and simple it was, with no worries of a blooming war, you would work and just rest at home, cook your favourite meals by yourself, watch your favourite shows and then sleep. It's the simplicity you miss.

“I want to go back…” You say out loud, praying that the world would hear you and miraculously send you back home, however it doesn't happen; because if it did, why would you be here in the first place?

Your words were heard just not by the universe.

“You want to go back?” The voice breaks you out of your thoughts and you sit up straight, looking up at the figure who was now standing in front of you.

Aemond stood tall, with his hands behind his back, foot jutting out. Oh yes, his typical standing pose.

“Uhm, I- no? I don't—” You stutter not knowing what to say, you get up off the ground and stand straight, his gaze follows you, taking in your dress. His lips quirk up into a smirk.

You were wearing green.

“Your gown; it is quite beautiful.” He comments and you look down, not finding anything special about the plain material, “—especially, the colour.” He points it out, and that is when you realised that you were wearing green.

“The maids dressed me.” You imply slightly, indicating that you had no intention of wearing the colour of his family. He smiles mockingly, raising his eyebrows.

“You were looking for me?” He questions and you nod and take a deep breath, hoping the oxygen would calm your brain by magic but your nerves were still rampant.

You step closer to him, which he is taken aback by but doesn't move an inch. You look into his eye, your body now fueled up with the newfound determination of completing your goal.

“I apologise.” You choke out and Aemond frowns in confusion, “For the eye- the night, driftmark.” You stumble over your words unable to form coherent sentences as the previously felt anxiety blooms in your gut again.

Seriously, what is wrong with this body?

The atmosphere falls silent only being interrupted by the whispers of the wind blowing past both of you. Aemond opens his mouth to speak but he closes it immediately after; trying to find words that do not sound harsh as a response.

“Aemond.” His name left your mouth involuntarily and he snapped his gaze to you, he watched your form waiting for you to say something but you just stood there unable to speak, your tongue all tied up in your mouth, having no idea how to continue this conversation anymore.

“Aemond, I am sorry, I really am, I regret it; I didn't mean to hurt you, I was protecting jace- my brother; I never meant for any of this to happen— please.” Your voice croaks, breaking as your mouth begins to move on its own, the noise coming out of your throat— yet it wasn't you speaking, it wasn't you forming these words, they came from somewhere innate.

You grab his arm, eyes tearing up as you stare at him, searching for an ounce of forgiveness on his face, an expression of reassurance that can calm the brewing storm inside you. Your gut wrenched and turned as the silence only prolonged with every passing second the pit inside you became deep and deeper.

You didn't know what was going on, it was as if your body had a mind of its own; but it didn't feel that way. Although you felt like you were in the backseat watching it all happen; it also felt like you were the one that was operating as well.

“It was a cruel mistake, a mistake that ruined everything. Perhaps it is why the Gods have punished me, they put me in a state of death for years but never truly killed me. It was my punishment for that crime I have committed against an innocent boy. But was I not innocent too?” You stammered, your body shuddering out of control.

Aemond grabs your shoulders; a poor attempt at consoling you while you shivered, tears dripped down your face like streams of river, Aemond wiped them off, pulling you into him, engulfing in his embrace, holding your head as you sobbed into him.

He did not know how to react.

He did not expect any of this.

Yet he knew one thing, which he hated himself for, which he came to terms with just last night.

The fact that he had already forgiven you.

You both stand there like that for a moment, your cries dissipated from sobs to sniffs and that's when you pull away from the hug, staring at him back again.

Aemond tucked a stray hair strand behind your ear before resting his hand on your cheek, he didn't want to admit this to you but he had to; for his own sake— watching you cry felt like a thousand swords being pierced into his heart, he didn't want to see you like this anymore.

“You're forgiven.” Those two words left his mouth as he held you close and you did not know how much of an impact they'd have on you until you felt the pit in your stomach vanish completely as if it ceased to exist.

You felt calm.

Euphoric.

You felt lightheaded, the world spinning as you stared at him. You gave him a small smile in return, caressing his scar as your vision grew weary.

The last thing you remember seeing was Aemond's panicked expression before you completely blacked out.

@gabriella-aesthetic @delaynew @idonotknowenglish @dixie-elocin @intheheartoftheking @dracaryxzs @ladyoffandoms @zoleea-exultant @saturnssrings @uniquecutie-puffs @aleemendoza2425-blog @marvelita85 @feelingfaye @sylvievil @cypherpt5fttaehyung @ttysmfwna @void21 @technicallystrangereview @feyresqueen @evergreen9083 @mirandasidefics @org12 @blorbo-brainrot @thisishwrworld @shadowqueen09 @watermel0nsugarhigh @cottoncandyclouds-stuff @madislayyy @the-hufflebird-girl @hiatuswhore

[sunderwight]

Honestly fascinated trying to figure out how both of Ambessa's kids ended up being diametrically opposed to her whole jock spartan might-makes-right mentality.

Tthe obvious answer, of course, is that Ambessa's husband (Kino's dad, and the guy Mel thought was her bio dad until recently) was way more of a diplomat and way less of a fighter, both philosophically as well as in terms of skill. And that he's the one who passed this on to the kids.

This fits well enough as an answer. The guy in the portrait certainly looks more like a talker than a fighter, and we know that Ambessa has a thing for pretty, submissive men thanks to her whole introduction in S1. Also, regardless of Mel's genetics this is presumably the man who raised her and is her father in the "nurture" sense of the equation, so it would be completely reasonable for her to take after him.

However, there are a few issues here.

One is the fact that even when Mel is talking to who she thinks is Kino about the possibility of one of them being a bastard, or of a bastard half-sibling existing, neither of them mention their father at all. While I doubt either of them would hold illusions about Ambessa remaining faithful to a spouse (for all we know the guy's still alive while she's off carousing with twinks), you would think that if both kids were close to their dad or took after him particularly, there'd be at least a passing mention of him in the midst of this discussion.

Maybe Mr. Medarda died a long time ago, though. Perhaps it's a topic so buried that it's an established habit to simply never mention it. Or maybe there is an issue of estrangement between him and his children for other reasons. He doesn't seem to have factored into Ambessa's decision to send Mel away, nor is his potential grief brought up around the subject of Kino. Despite confirmation of his existence, he seems (ironically) to be out of the picture, though it could also just be that the writers wanted to leave their options open for what he might be like in case another Arcane-adjacent series comes into production. I am fairly sure that Mel is the most likely character from Arcane to create continuity into a show about Noxus or Demacia or something, if we get another LoL series, especially since her story feels the most unfinished.

However, there's another possibility, which is that Mr. Medarda up there was such a nonentity in his kids lives that he doesn't come up because there's not much of a relationship to acknowledge. In which case, even if he is more of a diplomat (and he and Ambessa were a political marriage, presumably?) it'd be hard to credit him with influencing the kids so significantly.

One of the interesting things about Mel and Kino is that even though they are at odds with their mother on a lot of topics, topics that even seem to tie into prevailing Noxian cultural ideals (so, things they'd have been overall raised to believe in by the rest of their house and not just their mother too), they are also kind of astonishingly confident in expressing themselves?

So, somebody must have been supporting their alternative viewpoints and validating them as opinions worth expressing, even if they weren't things Ambessa approved of or actually wanted to foster in them as opinions/philosophies.

I think an interesting option is that it was Ambessa herself who did this, actually.

Ambessa's lore mentions that she figured out really early on that Kino did not share her temperament at all. Also, that she started searching about for ways of ensuring not only her house's domination, but the survival of her children specifically. Because the succession in a Noxian noble house doesn't seem to be guaranteed by birthright, which means that Kino and Mel would probably face rivals from their own family if they seemed too weak or vulnerable to lead, and someone else contested it. An easy way to remove a "weak" leader would also be to just kill them off. That's even apart from external rivals (like the ones who actually did kill Kino).

Which means that even if her kids had different values and priorities, Ambessa would probably have wanted them to still present those opinions with ferocity and confidence. If they cower to her, they will cower to others, and that's worse than them just not being aggressive combatants or warlord types. If you're gonna be a peacenik weirdo (by Ambessa's standards) in Noxus then you better damn well still be an assertive one.

I like this idea partly because the image of Ambessa trying to balance her kids having totally alien opinions about things like the value of life and importance of compassion, with trying not to actually beat down their spirits about it. Just spending a lot of their formative years being like, ugh, I have to listen to my nerd ass loser children tell me why they think mercy is a good idea. Such a fucking chore. Anyway great job presenting your arguments kids, lots to think about, let's go get ice cream. Then Mother has to fire one of your military tactics instructors for daring to call you a couple of wieners. Again. Even though she's right.

[i-starcreamed]

Beggingggg for a Megatron (Transformers One) x kind male reader who looked up to him not as a friend but as a small crush. Megatron saw jt at first when he was D-16 and didn’t think much until when he declared to kill their leader (did not like him that I forgot his name) and tries to take advantage of the readers fondness towards him to make him join his side. The reader knows it’s wrong and declines which turns into a small argument about why the reader should join them..

THINKS OF SOME TOXIC TANGO OF LOVE AND LOYALTY WHERE ONE ISNT SURE—

MEGATRON X READER

Basically megop but with Y/N. You two are divorced YOU COULD HAVE BEEN SO MUCH MORE!! Also I don’t mention pronouns that often in my work but I’m tagging this as male reader :3

[cybertronian! male reader Angst AGAIN 😭 not that much though, you guys just argue a lil]

As D-16, he hadn’t thought much of your crush. He knew you as the mech who treated everyone with kindness, a trait he silently admired. You were almost an even softer version of Orion, gentle to a fault sometimes.

You were with them when you went to find the Primes, there, you uncovered the truth as they did. You watched as D-16's expression fell with every detail revealed about Sentinel and..everything he did.

Gesturing for him to follow you, you pulled him aside. He did so without hesitation—he knew you had no ill intent. Maybe his entire life had been a lie, but at least you were still there. As genuine as ever.

"I can’t believe…” he muttered, his voice strained. His optics moved across the ground, he had to blink rapidly to snap himself out of whatever thoughts he was having. You quickly placed a comforting servo on his shoulder, grounding him before he could spiral.

“D, look at me. I can’t believe it either,” you whispered, locking optics with him.

“We’re going to stop him…okay? I’m here with you.” You murmured. Was it a confession? Maybe so.

Your words hung in the air, heavy with hesitation. “I’ll follow you anywhere. We’ll get through this..together.”

D eyed you, his own voice faltering for a second.

“Yeah… yeah, okay.” He exvented, his optics again panning towards the ground as he let you comfort him. Despite the small flutter in his spark, the sudden goal to make Sentinel pay overrode any other emotion. He will pay.

When D-16 spiraled into Megatron, you were the first he sought out. His eyes were not the vibrant golden they used to be. You questioned him, to which he eagerly—almost desperately, held onto your shoulders in response.

“Y/N…listen to me. Do you trust me?”

“..I do trust you.”

“Then join me, come with me. I know how I’m going to make Sentinel pay for his lies. Unlike Orion's plan, I will make sure it gets done.”

You slightly shook your helm, “But D.. you two should be working together. Not split apart. I don’t want you doing anything uh.. extreme.”

His optics turned cold, narrowing in anger. “Extreme? You call my ideas extreme? Sentinel was the one that has been keeping us as slaves,” He hissed, inching towards you. “For years, for years, I thought we were doing the right thing. But no, everything was a lie. You, Y/N—you have to understand”

You watched in horror as Megatron killed Sentinel. He should have been satisfied now, but he wasn't. He called upon an army. Freedom fighters, but now they fought for a cause that no longer needed fighting. From his elevated position on the structure above, you locked optics.

His gaze flickered, just for a moment, as he took in the fear in your expression. Once, you looked up to him as someone you admired. Hell, you thought you loved him. Deep down, a part of you still did.

He’s still D-16, maybe. He must be, right?

You realized maybe you did have different ideals, different goals. To you, it should have ended when Sentinel was exposed. Then you had no option, perhaps after his death? You all would have rebuilt Cybertron together. Maybe even properly confess to D. Things just didn't go as planned in many ways.

But now, you could only watch as he descended the stairs toward you, his steps slow and deliberate.

You flinched, feeling his servo against the side of your helm. He stopped a couple inches away from you, leaning down, his voice a low hiss,

“Do you see it now, Y/N? That…I did that for you. For us.” His fingers traced the ridges of your helm, a caress that made your spark stutter in confusion. He was never, ever, this bold as D-16.

“I want you to join me. We can do this together.”

You hesitated, still trying to process how affectionate he was being with you. As much as you've dreamt of this, there was something off about it. D-16 was always soft, and casual about his demeanor. This Megatron was intense, his red optics burning into yours.

“Megs…I can’t.” You murmured. This was wrong. Very very wrong.

Megatron raised a brow, “You cannot?”

His servo shifted, cupping your chin and tilting your helm upward to meet his gaze. “Tell me something, Y/N. Are you a liar too?”

You furrowed your brow, “What? No, no, I haven’t lied to yo—“

“You said you’d follow me anywhere," He interrupted, "I need you to do that now.” He said in a softer tone, but you heard the hint of menace in his voice. It was an order, not a plead.

You took a deep intake, slowly stepping back from his grasp—his servo hung in the air for a moment before falling to his side.

“I don’t want to kill anyone, Megatron. I’m sorry, I can’t do this with you.” You said firmly, your voice steady. You had made up your mind.

His teeth clenched, frustration flaring in his optics as he stepped closer again, closing the distance between you two.

“Where is loyalty when you need it the most!? Where is it?! Tell me!” He exclaimed, his outburst making you take another step back.

Your optics flickered back to where Orion and your friends should be, then back at Megatron. “I want to be with you, Megs, I do. But this fight.. it’s over. Sentinel is dead.”

You stepped forward despite your frantic sparkbeat, your servos grasped onto his which were balled into fists.

“Come with me. We can help build Cybertron together, all of us. I need you to trust me.” You urged softly.

For a moment, you thought you had reached him. His optics softened, and his fists slowly unclenched, his gaze drifting to where your servos held his.

“I don’t want to rebuild Cybertron,”

He slowly scowled, his servos tightened around yours.

“I want to fix it.”

He turned away, leaving you standing in the dust and debris. You coughed, the air thick with smoke, watching him disappear into the distance with Primus knows how many High Guard fliers behind him.

You begin to wonder if you made the right choice. You wanted your D-16 back, but you couldn't bear the death and destruction that came along with Megatron.

As doubt crept in, you realized one terrible truth.

He had already won you over.

[pascaloverx]

BABYBOY

PREVIEW: NICHOLAS CHAVEZ x READER

Author's Note: As a test to see if this fanfic might resonate with others besides myself, I’ve decided to share a preview with you all. If you enjoy it, please leave a comment! I haven’t yet decided whether I’ll continue writing it. This fanfic is for those who’d love to imagine themselves in a romance with Nicholas Chavez. I should warn you that there’s a possibility the reader might get involved with Nicholas while he’s still in a relationship with someone else, though nothing is set in stone yet.

AO3 link one

PREVIEW

You are utterly doomed—there is simply no other way to describe your situation. As most of your groceries tumble to the floor, you realize you've locked your boss's dog inside his luxurious apartment. What a splendid mess.

"Baby! Baby, don't get upset. I'll rescue you as soon as..." You shove your hands into your pants pockets but fail to find the cursed key. You now remember leaving the keys on the counter right after ushering Baby inside the apartment to fetch the groceries you'd left in the hallway.

"Damn it! I'm screwed, absolutely screwed," you exclaim loudly. Normally, in a posh building full of important people like this, you would temper your voice. But your boss is the sole tenant on this floor—or so you thought until you see a half-dressed man emerge from the apartment across the hall, visibly alarmed.

"My goodness, is everything all right?" he asks, stepping closer with genuine concern etched across his face.

"Not exactly. My boss's dog is locked inside the apartment," you reply, doing your best not to focus on the fact that he is nearly naked, wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist, and instead on the sound of the puppy barking. "Baby, I'll rescue you soon. No need to stress. Just listen to my voice and stay calm," you say to the dog, who seems to settle down.

"Excuse me, but did you leave a dog or an actual baby inside the apartment?" The man—who, you must admit, is very attractive—asks in a deep voice.

"There’s no time to clarify that. Baby has anxiety. He’ll get overly stressed, start chewing on himself, and lose his fur. When that happens, my job will be out the window. And poor thing, he’s so cute. Could you please help me?" you plead, trying to keep your nerves under control. Your boss devastatingly handsome neighbor flashes you a roguish smile, as if considering his options.

"Wouldn't it be better to call a locksmith?" he suggests, stepping closer to the door, testing how securely it’s locked.

"That would be ideal, but by the time a locksmith gets here, Baby will either be in a stress-induced coma or have eaten the few groceries left on the floor within reach. So, I’m begging you, emotional support hot guy, help me out here," you implore, your voice edging toward desperation. Your hand clings to his arm in a bid to either earn his sympathy—or steal a moment to enjoy the feel of him.

"That leaves us with only one option. Breaking down the door would certainly solve one problem, but it would undoubtedly create another, wouldn't it?" he asks, as though he already knows the answer—which, of course, he does. Yes, it would create a problem, but you're confident you can have the door fixed quickly, thanks to the connections you've gained as your boss's employee. However, your boss would never forgive you if anything happened to the dog.

"No offense, but I'm willing to take the risk. Please, break down the door and save my day," you reply, gazing into his bright, beautiful brown eyes. He hesitates, but as Baby's barking grows more insistent, he relents. Adjusting his stance to attempt the feat, you suddenly realize the absurdity of him doing this while nearly naked.

"Perhaps you might want to put on some clothes—" you begin, but before you can finish, he’s already forced the door open with the strength of Hercules. Baby bolts out of the apartment, tail wagging joyfully, heading straight into the arms of your boss's attractive neighbor.

"I think he’s grateful for the rescue," the neighbor says, remarkably still holding onto the towel around his waist.

"He's probably upset that I left him alone and is punishing me," you reply, pouting slightly to appeal to the dog’s sympathy. For a moment, Baby whimpers as you pet him, but he soon relents and accepts your affection. When the neighbor, now standing upright, lifts the dog to hand him back to you, his towel slips to the floor. Your eyes catch the sight of his completely bare physique before you instinctively cover them with your hands.

"I believe it’s best if you take the dog while I go put on some clothes," he says, his tone tinged with embarrassment. You stifle a laugh, the memory of the divine sight you just witnessed lingering in your mind.

"I mean, I’d love to, but I’d have to open my eyes, and that would mean seeing your body—practically carved by Greek sculptors—and I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable," you reply, keeping your eyes tightly shut. He chuckles softly, the sound deep and surprisingly pleasant. "Is that your way of saying I look like a Greek god?" he asks, clearly entertained.

You flush with embarrassment, realizing how disastrous your attempt at flirting must have sounded. "Horrible pickup line, right? I get flustered in situations like this," you confess, desperately trying to figure out how to grab the dog without accidentally disrespecting his modesty—or making things even more awkward.

"Here’s the plan," you suggest, "you pass Baby to me while I raise my arms, and I promise to keep my eyes closed the entire time." Determined to maintain your composure, you steel yourself, mentally repeating your goal: focus on the dog, nothing else.

He carefully places Baby into your hands, and you hold the little dog close. When you finally open your eyes, the neighbor is no longer there. With a sigh of relief, you decide to gather the scattered groceries and put everything in order. Once done, you prepare Baby’s special food and, to make up for the ordeal, give him a soothing massage.

When Baby finally drifts off to sleep, you remember the chocolate cake you had baked earlier. Grabbing a slice, you head to the handsome neighbor’s apartment.

"I know you might be feeling embarrassed, but I brought you a piece of chocolate cake as a thank-you," you say, holding out the dish between the two of you.

The man looks at you with a warm smile, taking the dish from your hands. His hands are surprisingly soft.

"I wasn’t embarrassed, just busy," he replies with an intriguing charm. "But I’ll enjoy your cake and let you know—you owe me a coffee."

"Am I interrupting you?" you ask, curious about what—or who—has been keeping him occupied. "Wait, how exactly do I owe you a coffee?"

Your curiosity seems to amuse the man before you, who leans casually against his open door, holding the dish with the chocolate cake in hand.

"The cake covers the rescue," he says with a teasing smirk. "But the coffee? That’s for the striptease I unintentionally performed for you earlier. Seems fair to me." His mischievous gaze lingers on you, playful yet bold.

You stifle a chuckle, tilting your head as you meet his eyes. "I suppose we’ll save the coffee for another time since you’re clearly occupied. But I’ll consider your case, emotional support hot guy," you quip, your tone light as you attempt to sneak a peek inside his apartment.

His home is as stylish as you might have imagined, the kind of space that exudes effortless charm. The soft strains of music playing in the background suggest he’s not alone, perhaps entertaining someone he hopes to impress. His lips curl into a knowing smile, as if catching your subtle glance inside. "You’ve got a sharp eye, don’t you? Careful, or I might think you’re more interested in my life than the coffee."

"Who wouldn’t be curious?" you reply, flashing a playful grin before stepping back toward your own door. "Enjoy the cake."

"Hey, I feel like we’ve skipped a few steps. If we’re going to keep running into each other, it’s probably important that we know more than the fact that you’re terrible with locks and I ended up naked in front of you," he says, stepping closer with a hint of interest in his eyes.

"My name is Nicholas," he continues, extending his hand toward you. You reach out to shake it, but instead, he lifts your hand to his lips and places a soft kiss on its back.

"Y/N," you reply, feeling a little flustered by the gesture. "But I doubt we’ll see each other that much. I’ll probably be fired soon after all of this."

"I hope you keep your job—and your spot across from my apartment. I think I’ve grown attached to Baby," Nicholas says with a grin, his voice laced with an undeniable charm. "And don’t forget, you still owe me that coffee."

You can’t ignore the spark of chemistry between you, though you tell yourself it’s probably just your imagination. "Wish me luck, nudist neighbor," you reply with a small smirk. "And if you ever need career advice, you might have a future as a professional striptease artist." The words escape your lips before you can fully process them, leaving you both embarrassed and bold. Without waiting to see his reaction, you step back into your boss’s apartment, closing the door behind you. As you wait for the locksmith to fix the damaged door, you can’t help but replay the encounter in your mind, a smile tugging at your lips.

[otakusheep15]

Flufftober Day 31: Proposal - Pomefiore

Characters included: Vil Schoenheit, Rook Hunt, Epel Felmier

Word count; 1980

Vil

Who proposes: Vil

Vil was convinced from a very early age that he would never have a normal relationship. He’s always been in the public eye, and he was always scared of making friends because they always got dragged into unnecessary drama. He very quickly leadered to distance himself from others. 

But you just had to come into his life. Stubborn, loveable you who just wouldn’t leave him alone no matter how much he pretended to be disinterested in you. It was no wonder he fell for you eventually. How could he not? You broke down pretty much all of his walls almost immediately, but instead of feeling vulnerable, he felt safe. 

From then on, he kept you strictly by his side. People certainly tried to pry into your relationship as you slowly became more public, but Vil is always always quick to shoot down any attempts. Eventually, most people simply gave up because Vil was giving them absolutely nothing, and neither were you. 

Domestic life became nice to Vil. He never thought he would have something like this. So many celebrities before him struggled with too much information being shared to the world, ruining their seemingly happy relationship. Vil assumed this would be the case for him, but that day never came. Your relationship stayed strong even through the worst of times. 

Then came the thoughts of marriage. Was he ready for such a thing? His acting and modeling careers are both going strong still, and you’re focused on your own pursuits. Is marriage the best idea right now? Of course, he’d like to get married at some point, but right now?

As it turns out, yes, the time would be right now. Vil, while working on a job, came across the most stunning ring he’s ever seen in his life. He knew then and there that it was a sign, and he bought it immediately. Ring now in his possession, Vil began working on how he should propose. 

The natural option would be taking you out to a nice restaurant, but would you want something so public? Would he want something so public? Paparazzi and the general public would probably ruin the moment for you, and that would not be ideal. 

He settles on doing a simple proposal away from the public eye. Perhaps he can take you out for a celebratory dinner after you say yes. Of course you’re going to say yes. You love him and he loves you, so he’s sure you’ll say yes.

Vil returns to your home, holding the box in the pocket of his coat. You greet him as always, and just seeing you is enough to relax his thoughts. He’s overthinking this far too much. He’s not usually so impulsive, but seeing you here in your shared home, all of his thoughts clear out, and all that’s left is for him to propose. 

You’re sitting on the couch, so Vil sits down next to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer to him. He pulls out the box, drawing your attention to it. He opens it with his free hand and presents the ring inside, leaving you shocked as you stare at him in awe. 

He explains himself and his thought process. How he’s not usually this impulsive, how he saw the perfect ring and just knew it had to be yours, and just how much he loves you and wants to marry you. 

You say yes, taking the ring out of the box and putting it on, leaning up to kiss him. In this moment, Vil’s thoughts are calm. All he can think about is how lucky he is to have you. 

Your wedding is shockingly simple. Not shocking for either of you, but shocking for most others. The general public always tends to assume that, the more famous the person, the grander the wedding. However, Vil wanted to keep it simple, if still elegant and classy. The guest list is small, limited to the most important people in each of your lives. Unlike some celebrities, this wedding is not about the scale or the content. It’s about Vil’s undying love for you. 

Rook

Who proposes: Rook

Rook has always been into romance. He was a very fanciful kid growing up, always daydreaming about the perfect romance. Even as he got older, those fantasies never quite went away. If anything, they simply evolved with him, growing more developed as he experienced the world around him. 

When he met you, Rook knew his dreams had officially become reality. You are right out of his fantasies, everything he has ever wanted in a person. He pursues you almost immediately, doing his best to woo you as you get closer. 

Eventually, you do end up dating him, and Rook is living the dream. Every day feels so special and beautiful because he has you by his side. He does his best to shower you with romance as often as possible, always giving you compliments and giving you plenty of attention. 

Marriage is something he’s always wanted. The thought of binding your soul with the person you love more than anything else is the ultimate form of romance for him. Being with you only solidified that desire. 

He’s been planning his proposal to you since you first began dating. An entire speech has been written, a ring has been chosen and purchased, and all he needs to do is simply pop the question. 

To be honest, he would have proposed a lot sooner, but he wanted to wait until he knew you were ready as well. Realistically, Rook knows you’re not nearly as intense as he is. He’s self-aware enough to know that much. If you were, he would’ve proposed the second he laid eyes on you, but he wanted to wait until he was absolutely sure you would say yes. 

And, he thinks the day has finally arrived. It’s a wonderful day today. You both wake up refreshed, the sun is bright but not overbearing, and everything just feels perfect. That’s how he knows he should propose today. 

Rook decides to waste no time, pulling out the ring right as you get out of bed. You freeze where you stand, absolutely floored at the sudden situation you’ve found yourself in. Your brain, although refreshed from a good sleep, is still lagging behind as you process what’s happening. Rook simply stands there, smiling at you as if he isn’t literally proposing to you right now. It’s actually kind of comforting to see him acting like himself even now. 

Once your brain officially catches up, you immediately say yes, and Rook is ecstatic at your reply. He hugs you and spins you around before kissing you so softly. He then places the ring on your finger, bringing your hand up to kiss your knuckles. 

Your wedding is a rather small one. Rook has a big family compared to most, but they’re really the only one’s he invites. You both have some friends you invite as well, but other than that, it’s a pretty small affair. It’s perfect for you. It’s intimate and fun, and you get to spend a lot of time being cute and romantic with Rook. 

Epel

Who proposes: Epel

Epel always thought the idea of marriage was stupid. In his village, all of the couples were either overly mushy or constantly fighting. Even so, it was still encouraged by his family for as far back as he can remember. Everyone was always telling him how, one day, his feelings would change and he would find someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. 

He hates that they ended up being right. 

Meeting you ruined pretty much every opinion he had on relationships, but he can’t exactly say that he minds. You’re always so sweet to him, treating him kindly even when he isn’t the nicest to you. He acts out like a child, being mean to you in the hopes that his feelings will go away, but to no avail. No matter how hard he tries, he just falls more and more every time he sees you. 

Eventually, he does pluck up the courage to ask you out properly. You agree, of course, and he’s actually so happy. From that point on, your relationship is actually very good. He treats you well, and most of his issues are usually targeted at himself and his own internalized feelings. 

Sometimes, he feels like being overly mushy and sweet makes him less of a man, but you’re always quick to reassure him that he’s so manly and cool. He absolutely loves it when you reassure him like that, as it shows him that you’re always there to support him when he needs it. 

Despite all of this, Epel still has pretty negative views on marriage. He wouldn’t mind getting married to you, but the idea of actually proposing and having a wedding? It’s not something that sounds very fun to him. If he could, he would just skip those and get right to married life with you. 

Realistically, he knows not much would change. The two of you are already quite domestic, and marriage won’t do much to change up the dynamic. And yet, his brain continues to doubt itself, constantly pulled between wanting to propose and wanting to keep things how they are now. 

It ends up being his Meemaw who knocks some sense into him. During a visit to his hometown, he brings up his concerns to his Meemaw, and she immediately berates him for being so wimpy. If he wants to propose, then he should just be a man and propose already. That hits him hard, and it’s actually enough to convince him. 

That night, Epel buys a ring. He doesn’t plan on doing it that night since he wants a few days to prepare, but at least he’ll have the ring. Over the course of a few days, he meticulously plans out exactly how he wants to propose. 

Finally, the day arrives. Epel first takes you out for brunch at a nice restaurant. It’s a fairly normal date, and you seem to be having fun so far. Then, he takes you to the local gardens, knowing you’ll like how beautiful they are. You spend hours just walking and talking as you admire all of the plants. Epel, meanwhile, can only admire you. 

The last place he takes you is home, and he cooks up the fanciest dinner he could possibly make. It’s certainly nothing crazy, but it’s amazing all the same. Once you’re finished eating, he puts the final part of his plan into action. 

He cleans up the dishes and returns to the table where you sit, and he kneels down in front of you. He then pulls out the ring box he was hiding from you, opening it to show you the ring he bought. You sit there, stunned. Never did you think Epel would be proposing to you, especially after such a cheesy and romantic day like this. Of course you say yes, pulling him up to kiss him. He then takes the ring and slips it on your finger. 

This was very unlike his usual self. This was cheesy and over-the-top, which he used to hate. Now though, as he looks at how happy you are, he thinks that, maybe, it’s okay to be sappy. 

Your wedding is in Harveston, obviously. All of the village is invited, as well as all of your friends. It’s less of a wedding and more of a giant party. Everyone is celebrating and having a fun time, and you and Epel are at the center of it all. It’s a fun time and it lasts well into the night. Lots of apple treats of course, a lot of them made by Epel’s family.

[cepheustarot]

What do people find attractive about you?

Attention! This reading is for entertainment purposes only. This tarot reading does not give a 100% guarantee that all the describes being ultimate truth. Only you know yourself best.

Paid readings

Pick a pile. Choose one or more pictures. Trust your intuition.

Pile 1: Firstly, people are attracted to your appearance and your image, in general, the way you present yourself in society. Your appearance is quite cute, perhaps you have childish facial features or you are short, you may have a simple character, slightly naive, but you are always optimistic and cheerful. You can also prefer bright colors in clothes, wear "plush" things with cute prints (like jackets, hoodies), use a lot of  accessories. People are also attracted to you by the fact that you are easy-going, you are very active and agree to any adventure, you are attracted to everything new and unexplored, so it is very comfortable and cozy to study something new with you, you share interest with people. Your vivid facial expressions, emotionality also attracts people, you have many interesting stories from life, you like to share any details, and at the same time you tell it so fascinatingly and interestingly that others listen to you attentively, strongly immersing themselves in the topic of conversation; time passes very quickly and imperceptibly while talking with you. In addition, you create an aura of comfort, coziness, for people you are associated with home, with something warm and very cozy. You can also be perceived as a native person and you can often be compared to the sun, because you always feel warm and your mood rises next to you, wanting to stay with you as long as possible.

Pile 2: You give off an aura of mystery and this attracts people, because they want to get to know you better, to solve you as a riddle. You can generally be a person who prefers to spend time alone with yourself or you are detached from other people, immersed more in your own thoughts. You can also tell some things about yourself, but not completely, without telling some facts, thereby leaving some mystery about your life, personality. This arouses people's interest, they begin to sort through many options, making up image about you according to puzzles — this is an exciting process for them. Many people also see you as a very confident person, you are one of those who respects yourself and your opinion, your priorities, so you will never let others offend or hurt yourself, many people really appreciate this side of you. You can also have a very attractive, to some extent sexy, charming appearance and many people believe that your appearance is the ideal type of appearance.

Pile 3: Most likely you are an empath, a person who knows how to sympathize, empathize with others and get into their story. People are attracted to this trait in you, because you sincerely show your interest in them, you know how to maintain a dialogue and you can always give those tips that really help people or you always say the words that they want to hear. In general, you can engage the dialogue in such a way that it is interesting for everyone to communicate, including you! People are also attracted to your wisdom, you are very smart, you have a lot of experience, I would generally call you a spiritually developed person who understands the meaning of life, what he wants from life. You can calmly relate to any difficulties, problems in life because you understand that everything is temporary and everything is solvable, sooner or later everything will get better and there will be a white stripe in life. This is your calmness attracts people, forcing them to relax as well and not think too much about problems at least for a while.

Thank you for reading! I will be glad of any feedback 🖤

[jimblejamblewritings]

love letters and second sons | part 4.

Summary: The princess is finally ready to debut in society. But before she does, she decides to disguise herself and see the true faces of the ton.

Warnings for the Series: light sexism in line with the times, light classism in line with the times, mental health stigma, shitty doctor care, smut, suicide attempt (will get it's own warning when the time comes)

Warnings for this part: smut

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x princess!reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Previous Part | Series Masterlist

The cloak wrapped around you felt like velvet. The softness between your fingers calmed you down significantly. Reynolds grabbed your hand after the fifth time you balled it up in your skirts. You looked up to see your three valets trying to hide the concern on their faces. You could have an incident or get caught or both. None of those three options were ideal or even good. 

“Do I look decent?” you asked as the carriage got closer and closer to the party. 

“You look perfect.” 

“Maybe I shouldn’t wear the mask?” 

“You don’t have to but keep it on you.” 

You agreed, exiting the carriage with a letter from the princess version of you — complete with a wax seal — that was basically a pass to enter any establishment no matter what. Spotting Penelope and Colin out of the corner of your eye, you breathed out a sigh of relief and ran over to them. Both of them wore wide smiles at your surprise arrival. They had been expecting a letter or something to signal your arrival back from Ireland. 

You were sad to hear about Marina not joining you all for this evening. It would have been nice to know her more than a little bit in between the courting of suitors. But there would be more times to meet and catch up later. Plus, hearing your friends’ stories of their daily lives proved to be a good enough distraction. You let them go after a while so Colin could escort Penelope to the dance floor like he promised to do after a run in with Cressida Cowper. 

Looking around, you failed to immediately locate the rest of the Bridgerton children. You grabbed a drink from the lemonade table and began to wander. The alcohol had looked appealing but you had never drank, afraid of the consequences if drink mixed with your illness. Someday you’d try some but not after an episode. Never right after one. 

On the outskirts of the party, still close enough to hear the music, you ran into Benedict. He gave you a smile and the same surprised look on his face as Penelope and Colin. You leaned in closer to hear him over the deafening melodies of the orchestra. Small talk that was mainly about your fictitious trip made up the first half of your conversation. After a while, you grew comfortable with each other as if you never left. 

“The lights are beautiful,” he commented, staring at the small lantern display that a scientist presented. 

You nodded. “We have some at the palace. They add more day by day but it would be nice if all of London, maybe all of the world, had these little lights. How has your art been?” 

“Not terribly well. Nothing seems to be good enough.” 

“Well, what are you drawing?” 

“Still life. I can’t expect my free drawings to be good if I can’t depict what is right in front of me.” 

“You are too hard on yourself, Benedict seriously,” you argued when he scoffed. “Sometimes we have a problem seeing our own greatness. You ju—” 

“Would you ever consider marriage to someone, me, perhaps?” 

You choked on your lemonade. “Pardon?” 

“Apologies.” He finally turned to look at you. “With Daphne out in society, people have started looking at Anthony and because my dear brother does not care to at least pretend to be a proper viscount, they have started to look at me. Ravenous mamas are eyeing me and it must be a matter of time before they talk to me.” 

You laughed. “You still call me Miss Beckett yet you want me to help you through a marriage?” 

“Wait, what is your name, actually? If you are to continue being a friend of the family then I am at liberty to refer to you by first name.” 

“Bergamot. My parents were a bit too keen on gardens. My second name is Sophie.” 

“Bergamot Sophie Beckett. That is a lovely name.” 

“Thank you… I still won’t marry you.”

Benedict scrunched up his face as he bent over to try and plead with you. “Please! I can’t be out here with the wolves.” 

You patted him on the shoulder. “Your whining, no matter how pathetic and cute, will not work. I will see you tomorrow, alright.” 

He muttered something that you didn’t hear while you took off into the gardens for a stroll. You’d have to leave soon, pressing your luck wasn’t the way to go. You put your cloak back on and closed it to hide your dress completely as you finally put your mask on. The gardens at night were very beautiful. Perhaps because you were alone. 

You chuckled at the thought of your interaction with Benedict. Even if it happened only a few moments ago, it was hysterical. It was only funnier because you were sure that when you finally introduced yourself to society, you’d get even stranger proposals. Only they wouldn’t be to avoid hungry mamas. And they wouldn’t be coming from one of your friends. 

Hopefully, they wouldn’t be too upset with you. Hyacinth would never but she was more like a little sister than a friend. Benedict would think the whole situation is funny, hopefully. Daphne might as well. Eloise and Penelope could go either way. Anthony would probably be mad that you let him attempt to woo the princess when you knew the truth which would make Colin and Gregory and Francesca mad at you as well. But maybe it would be fine after you explained everything. 

The sound of voices caught your attention. Spying was wrong but you couldn’t help yourself. You started to walk into the hedges, ignoring the twigs catching everywhere. The view wasn’t the best but you could see well enough. What could be a scandal between Daphne Bridgerton and Nigel Berbrooke seemed to be a very different scene to you because you knew the man from her letters. You tightened the mask around you just in case you needed to leave the bushes. 

Nigel kept coming close to Daphne. You began to run when he grabbed her, thinking of how to protect your friend. You’d have to hit him. That was the only option. There was nothing else you could do about it… You paused as Daphne pulled her hand back. There was Nigel Berbrooke on the ground. After being punched. 

You and Daphne looked up from Nigel to see the Duke of Hastings running into the garden clearing as well. The two of them seemed to realize that you were the princess and you were in the garden with them having witnessed everything. They bowed to you deeply, something you returned. 

“I will survey the area. If I do not return then you two may safely leave the garden.” 

“Thank you, Your Highness.” 

“It is no trouble really. I am so sorry for your distress, Miss Bridgerton, and I do hope your hand feels better in the morning.”  

You did a thorough check of the area to make sure that Daphne wasn’t compromised before fleeing to your carriage before anyone could spot the mask. Assuring your valets nothing went wrong, you closed the carriage door and let it drive back to Kew. 

“Thank you,” you said as you took off your mask and cloak and opened the carriage window since it was night. 

“For what?” 

“For making me go out tonight. I did need it. I feel better, immensely.” 

“That is good. We are glad to hear it. Will you be going out again tomorrow?” 

“Just to the Bridgertons.” 

“Oh, to home then.” 

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue because they were right. Being at the Bridgertons felt like home more than your own at times. Maybe because your mother and father were the only ones who even tried to be a proper family. But there was no trying with the Bridgertons. They just were family. 

That much was true when you walked into the house a lot later than the early morning to see everyone but Eloise in the drawing room, talking about Daphne and the Duke. You said hello, greeted by hugs from everyone who didn’t see you yesterday. You took the plate of toast from Violet, who was trying to get her daughter to eat, and shoved the bread under Daphne’s nose. She took a bite before actually grabbing it from you. Relieved of your mother bird duties, you plopped down on the couch in between Benedict and Colin. 

“What are your plans for today?” 

“Fencing and then a gentlemen’s club and then preparing for a party tomorrow and, dreadfully, a picnic the next day,” Colin said as he handed you a chocolate from the box on the side table. 

“May I watch?” 

“Of course, Sophie. A beautiful lady will only encourage us.” 

“Since when did you learn to be a flirt?” 

He just shrugged, sitting back to listen to Daphne play the pianoforte and tease her about the duke. You clapped at the end of her piece and requested a second one that she obliged. Daphne would have to play at the palace some time or at least at Kew. She sounded lovely. Closing your eyes, you just listened for a moment. 

“How does a lady come to be with child?” 

Your eyes flew open to see Eloise standing in front of everyone. Violet jumped up from her brief moment of sitting on the couch across from you. 

“Eloise, what a question!” 

“I thought marriage was a requirement.” 

Daphne tilted her head. “What?” 

“Apparently, it’s not even a requirement.” 

“Eloise.” 

“Mama, the princess did say all young women nearing their debut should learn.” 

Violet stuttered as she took the tray of food out of the room, forcing Hyacinth and Gregory to go with her, stating she’d be back in a moment she just needed some water. She turned back for a moment. 

“Daphne, dear, do go on. I’d like to hear some calming music when we return.” 

Eloise trudged over to the couch, sitting on the other side of Benedict. She smacked her brothers’ knees but neither one of them wanted to answer her directly. Colin turned his head. 

“Have you ever visited a farm, El?” 

You laughed as Benedict smacked the back of Colin’s head but stopped when Eloise slumped down in her seat. You tapped her on the shoulder, making her perk up again. Your hand rested on Benedict’s thigh so you could prop yourself up as you leaned over him.

Covering your mouth and Eloise’s ear, you began whispering to your friend everything you thought she needed to know about sex. Unable to help himself, Benedict leaned in to spy, surprised that your information was actually correct. You weren’t lying, the Princess’ court really taught all the valets everything. Eloise sat back, finally satisfied and a lot less worried about a spontaneous pregnancy. Until she became curious again. 

“But why would anyone want to initiate it? Who wants to be with child?” 

You leaned over once again. “No one wants to be with child. Even those who want children. It’s about the pleasure. Sometimes the pleasure of actually liking someone and other times the pleasure being about nothing but you.” 

“What?” 

“The… think about when you start breathing a bit heavier, feeling warm when you touch each other, a… I’ll tell you the rest when your brothers aren’t here. It is a bit awkward. Oh, I’ll even draw you pictures. Only a certain amount of posit— mov— steps are important. The rest you should figure out with your husband.” 

“So you do truly know what you’re talking about?” Benedict interrupted the nearly finished meeting. 

“Did you doubt me?” 

“A bit,” he admitted. 

You sat back down. “Men aren’t the only ones that know what they are talking about.” 

“Sorry to offend.” 

“No offense. None at all. I expect even the kindest and smartest and prudest of men to think such things.” 

“Well, I am still sorry. If not because of offense then because of my ignorance.”

You squeezed his thigh in appreciation. Benedict laid his hand on top of yours. The two of you stayed like that for a moment until his hand held onto yours a bit tighter. He turned to look at you. There was an understanding shared between your eyes. There was no breathing heavy or loving eyes. It was for both of you but in purely selfish pleasurable ways. 

“Sophie, are you coming to watch our fencing match?” Benedict asked.

“Yes.” At that he moved your hand closer to his private. “A bit after the calling hour starts. I like to watch the men make fools of themselves.” 

“I am not surprised by that at all. Shall we wait for you?” 

You closed the gap and placed your hand over the top of Benedict’s pants. “No. You may start without me and I’ll just come when I find the time.” 

“Okay. We’ll play again soon, maybe even another game today. So don’t be too bothered if you miss us playing for your calling hour.” 

Giving an experimental squeeze, you watched the man next to you nod ever so slightly and swallow his spit before moving your hand himself. You both relaxed into the couch completely, satisfied with your understanding. The two men left when Violet came back — it was fairly obvious that calling hour was about to start. The calling hour was several hours but at some point you had just dropped the s and you weren’t sure why. 

You thought it would be only one or two men but the duke seemed to have lit a fire under the other men’s feet. The line became rather long rather quickly. You were happy for Daphne. The more men the better. Maybe she could get a love match.

You took the last bouquet of flowers for Daphne, thanked Lord Colfield, and went to go put the flowers in a vase on the fireplace mantle. You were about to tell Daphne that you were leaving to see her brothers’ fencing match when Anthony came storming in. A gasp escaped you when Nigel Berbrooke came up behind. You were completely over this little man and his obsession. 

Without thinking, you approached Anthony. “What do you think you ar— Anthony, you and Nigel need to either leave the drawing room as this is your sister’s calling hour or wait in line if he is here to call? These lords and gentlemen have waited a great deal to talk to her and they are very patient. It is not right nor just nor of any class to disrespect the patience they have shown.” 

“Nigel?” Berbrooke scoffed. “Who do think yo—” 

“The Young Princess’ valet. She’s become a family friend,” Anthony cut Nigel off. 

At least Berbrooke had the decency to be surprised and then give you a bow. Their tunes towards you changed completely as they almost looked like they were going to wait their turn or just leave. Nigel smiled. 

“Callers were unexpected as we have already been talking extensively.” 

“Lord Berbrooke is the only man who proposed and therefore the only person I consider.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” You looked at Anthony.

“He is the on—” 

“Everyone! I am very sorry but you must leave. Miss Bridgerton’s calling hour is currently closed. Please leave your name with Heroldt, starting with the order you have been waiting, and two days from now we will continue.” You turned to Anthony as everyone filed out without complaint since they thought the princess was the reason for calling hour being over. “There. Now, Lord Berbrooke, I must speak with the Bridgertons alone. I hope that speech staved off the wolves for you if only for two days while matters are discussed.” 

“Thank you, Lady…” 

“Miss Beckett,” Anthony answered. “Thank you, Sophie. Lord Berbrooke, do you need me to escort you?” 

“No, no. You have business. I can find the front door on my own.” 

The moment he left, you, Daphne, and Violet descended on Anthony. Every word that came out of Anthony’s mouth made you scoff. Violet looked between all three of you, very upset. Anthony was ruining both Daphne’s prospects as well as his own prospects with the princess. And you were there to witness it all.

You backed Daphne on everything. Even if she was wrong, Nigel was a foul man that you would never allow to marry. You approached Anthony, speaking lowly although your friend and her mother could still hear it. 

“I hope you survive whatever poison you are drinking. Whether the Duke is a serious man or not, there are plenty of serious men here. You will not sign away your sister to such a foul man that you barely know as well and pretend it is in her best interest. And you will not expect her to be understanding or appreciative when you don’t care an ounce for your sister’s happiness. And you still wish to draw up a marriage contract? Please, just think for a moment… Good day, Viscount Bridgerton.” 

You stormed out of the drawing room and straight into the backyard where Colin and Benedict were handing their fencing gear back to a servant. They noticed the furrow in your brow. Benedict clicked his tongue. 

“I will find out what is wrong. You, brother, instruct the kitchen to leave something out for us. If there is crying then we will be long.” 

Benedict practically dragged you to the far side of the backyard. He knew no one would think anything of it when you were very angry about something Anthony did — that part was loud enough for everyone to hear. He looked at you when the two of you finally stopped. 

“Was that a ploy to get away? Or are you genuinely mad at my brother?” 

“I don’t want to talk about why I’m mad at Anthony. There’s nothing you can do anyway. Not without a good scandal… Sorry, I came out here for a fencing match. Let us focus on it. On you.” 

He took your hand again, placing it over his trousers. You began to rub it back and forth, the fabric between you guys creating friction. You reached into his pants and pulled out his cock, stroking it a bit more freely. Benedict pulled you closer. His hand reached around your ass to squeeze it.

Every time you stroked him closer to finishing he would squeeze harder than before. You watched his face the entire time. If you got back exactly what you were giving him then you would be a very happy woman. It was truly going to be about selfish pleasure for both of you. 

You gasped when he all but ripped the top part of the dress as he tried to push it all down to expose your breasts. He wanted something else to stare at that would get him off even quicker. You tried to stifle any moans threatening to escape your lips as he groped you — some of the marks so hard you were sure they would be a bit red until tomorrow. This was his turn. Yours would be later. If you both tried to get pleasure at the same time... Well, that's how people fall in love. The two of you weren't stupid to test that.

Benedict moaned and for a moment both of you were worried someone would come see what was the matter. He laughed underneath your hand covering his mouth. 

A shudder went through him and he grabbed your wrist. “I’m going to come. I-if you let g-go… just in m-my britches.” 

You dropped to your knees, shocking your friend. He grabbed your head with one hand while he bit down on the other until he finished. A very gentle touch lifted you up. He wiped stray bits of lipstick from around your mouth, wiping the evidence away on the inside of his vest. 

“I have to say I did not expect you to sit down for the last round of fencing. We were done anyway.” 

“Well, I wanted to help put up the equipment so we could all relax later. Plus, if the princess does choose to invite you all to Kew then I would like you to help put up the equipment there too.” 

Benedict laughed. 

“I promise whether I win or lose. The next time we have a round of fencing, I will put up the equipment. All of it.”

He leaned down to whisper.

“Even if you are not a lover, I would never have you on the ground, sullying your pretty gowns and body..." He squeezed your breasts one last time before helping pull your dress back up. "with grass and dirt stains. I promise I’ll bring you your pleasure next time we are inside and alone. I will leave first and retire to my room. You stay out here and eat the sandwiches the cook left. I won’t be able to return for at least an hour.” 

“Okay. I have to go see the Featheringtons and Miss Thompson anyway.” 

You did just as Benedict suggested and no one even gave you a suspicious look. You took your own sweet time going across the street. You had moved the physician and all of Wednesdays special tutors to Tuesdays so you would have more time in the city. Despite not wanting any visitors, you were the obvious exception and could go upstairs to see Marina. She looked up from her writing desk when Penelope announced she was coming with a visitor. 

The three of you gathered on the bed to share a plate of sweets. You mainly listened to Marina and Penelope, not having much to add. You wanted to figure out a way to help her. Trying to meddle in daily affairs and save the lives of one subject at a time seemed almost ridiculous. But, that was what you should do as a royal. 

“Did you say Spain?” 

“Yes. That’s where all of George’s letters are coming from at the moment. They all say Spain.”

“If you ever need a letter to Spain or to anywhere else they send Sir George, just let me know. The princess wants to help her subjects, especially women, so give me a letter and I’ll give it to her. Whenever you need.” 

Marina flung herself at you. “Thank you. If there shall ever be a problem, I promise I will say such.” 

“Oh, the princess is going back to the palace for a few weeks because of something important so I won’t be so available for a little bit.” 

“What will she be there for?” 

“You will find out when it happens.” 

The two of them giggled. “You are so mysterious.” 

~~

You were tired after an exhausting day but a letter you received from a footman that same day made you get up. Anthony had given you a key to the front and back garden gates as well as the back door that led into the kitchen. You entered through the backyard so you could actually get inside the house without waking the entire house with your knocking. You only needed Violet and Daphne. And you had a letter to leave just in case you couldn’t wake a single person. 

Voices made you pause. You recognized Eloise and Benedict talking. Instead of going any further, you just listened. Eloise — like so many other women — wanted better for herself. It had never been a question of something you would plead to your brother… You sighed. You knew your brother. It was time to stop thinking of him as the heir. There was a reason everyone was going to support Younger Charlotte’s claim over her father. And Young Charlotte listened to you. She planned on making you her advisor. There would be no pleading. You would make better laws for women. 

You didn’t want to disturb them too much so you flung the letter at Benedict’s head. Running as fast as you could, you ignored their confused calling out for you once they recognized the letter coming from the princess. Hopefully, Benedict or Eloise would get the letter to their mother before Nigel could come back. 

Dear Dowager Viscountess, 

I am nothing but my mother’s daughter and therefore it is, in fact, my job to meddle in the lives of our precious subjects for a better and more peaceful United Kingdom. Miss Beckett has told me much of your troubles in regards to a man called Lord Nigel Berbrooke. I don’t have much information on him but I do have a request that I would ask you to aid your princess in. 

I recall an acquaintance of his. A maid. She used to work at the palace but asked for a job in the ton so she could be closer to her aging parents. I believe she was employed by a neighbor of the Berbrookes? Or a friend? Or maybe them, who knows. She was supposed to come back two years after they died but has yet to return. Nigel or one of his neighbors must know. Or perhaps, his mother, she’s very close to the maids. Knows every single one of them by name. I care terribly for this maid and would like her working back at the palace.  

Please meet with his mother. She loves crumpets with any sort of preserves or a chocolate dipping sauce. It was all she wanted when she requested a meeting with my second brother. 

That is all I have to say. I do look forward to seeing your family properly. 

Yours Truly, 

Princess Y/N Kew 

P.S. Please tell Anthony that it took him long enough but I am proud he finally came to his senses. If only he can learn to listen to a woman first then he might have less problems.

You smiled to yourself as you sat in the kitchens. The staff couldn’t stop talking about Nigel Berbrooke’s bastard that he doesn’t take care of and the mother he sent away before she even gave birth. You would feel bad but you had a very personal and up-close view of the man’s real personality. The morning only got better when Brimsley and Reynolds came in with Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers. It was on the front page of the pamphlets. Absolutely worth paying the two pounds per pamphlet for everyone in the Kew household. 

“Do you think he’ll ever show his face again?” 

“No,” the cook said as she handed you your breakfast. “You did a good thing for Miss Bridgerton, Your Grace.” 

“Your Grace?” 

“It is just a title we are trying out.” 

You hummed suspiciously. The cook ignored you. 

“You better pack if you don’t want to be late for the carriage coming today.” 

You nearly forgot. The reason you couldn’t hang out with the Featheringtons and the Bridgertons arrived. Your cousin Friedrich, the prince of Prussia, was coming for a visit. He agreed to marry a British girl to strengthen the alliances and prove that Prussia and Britain were still close family. It was neither a complete truth or a complete lie. The entire family was not close. But you, your cousin, your father, your mother, and your aunt were very close. 

Sneaking out wasn’t an option. You thought that much as the carriage neared Buckingham. It had been a while since you snuck out the palace — a completely different thing from simply leaving Kew. Pandora, Brimsley, or Reynolds would sneak you your letters and you would be satisfied. Besides, even though your family was coming for an indefinite amount of time, you only had to stay a week or two. 

The carriage hadn’t even stopped completely before you ran to hug your cousin. It had been years since you last saw each other. You could hear your mothers laughing in the background. They left to have tea inside while the two of you stayed out. 

Friedrich took your hand in the crook of his arm. “Come, cousin, let us take a promenade. Have you been well?” 

“I have been better. However, I am doing well.” 

“And your illness?” 

“Not better. But I haven’t had an episode that I couldn't recover from on my own.” 

“That is good. I suppose that is the best we can ask for. Especially since I have a surprise for you.” 

“A surprise?” 

“I asked Aunt Charlotte and she agreed to let the princess accompany me to events as she knows the ton better than the both of us. You have to wear your mask but it is still a good deal.” 

“It is a wonderful deal.”

“Good. The first event is a ball tonight.” 

“Tonight?! But I’m not prepared.” 

“I’ve already had everything arranged.” 

“You planned this?” 

“I figured it would do you good to get some fresh air and get out of the palace… or Kew, now.” 

“Thank you, Friedrich. Seriously, thank you.”

(part 5)

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[tender-rosiey]

“AND MY HEART SCREAMS: IT’S ALWAYS BEEN YOU”

— the moment dazai, chuuya, kunikida, fyodor, nikola, ranpo, and fukuzawa knew they wanted to spend their entire life with you

DAZAI OSAMU: the moment he revealed his scars to you—scars that told of the past, details of the past, details that he thought he would never reveal. there were multiple outcomes, but his lonesome heart forced him to expect only one: you getting disgusted and perhaps even refusing to stay any longer. he wouldn’t blame you if you did.

so imagine his surprise when your eyes held nothing but sympathy and the utmost tenderness as you gently kissed his scars and whispered only one sentence, ‘I just wanted to be able to be by your side then’. what was he supposed to do other than pull you close and embrace you tightly, burying his face in your hair to hide a face that failed this once to master the mask?

NAKAHARA CHUUYA: when you went out of your way to prepare an unwinding night for the both of you. chuuya loves his with his entire heart and trusts with his entire being. and he sometimes doesn’t know just what to expect from people. so seeing you put so much effort into ensuring his happiness and your own had a certain hold on his heart.

he loves you unconditionally so when you responded to that love with the same intensity, he couldn’t help but gravitate towards you even more. he falls harder, but you’re there to catch him a smile. he approaches you, unaware of what will slip out of his mouth—a desire that has been on his mind for far longer that he thinks, “marry me,” he whispers, gentle and hopeful eyes looking at your own.

KUNIKIDA DOPPO: he is a man who sticks to his ideals and those ideals are to protect others not himself. it pained you, seeing him so ready to sacrifice himself to try and follow up to said ideals till the end. so you held his hand, crying about how you don’t want him to be so careless with himself and that your heart can’t handle seeing him choose his own death as a solution anymore.

he found himself breaking down and pulling you into a tight embrace, constantly murmuring ‘I am sorry’ with kisses pressed on top of your head and reassuring that he will always stay with you. your hold on him doesn’t falter as you feel his tears and he feels his heart getting even more fond of you, his dear true love.

FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY: entertainment is something he loves, but it surprises him when he can’t handle entertainment at your expense. when he goes through his plans, even when the most ‘fun’ option involves you, he doesn’t choose it. he finds himself unable to put you in danger he knows he can avoid.

he doesn’t fight the place you have acquired in his heart; instead, he goes to you and his head finds home on your lap. his hand caresses your own and he looks at you with longing like you’re the epitome of what he truly wants for himself. a gentle whisper of your name and you look towards him and he finds sanctity in your gaze. the true form of purity: your love that he succumbs to and accepts as a part of his being.

NIKOLAI GOGOL: when you showed him that you truly understand or even try to him. you don’t call him a maniac or a monster; instead, you smile patiently, heart open for him, and ask him to tell you more. and he does. words spill out of his mouth in an unbelievable speed, thoughts—a jumbled mess—are thrown into the air and you listen.

emotions—the shackles of humans—overwhelm him in a way that he is surprised that he doesn’t hate. His legs grow weak and he falls at your feet, screaming, crying, and repeating a mantra of I love you. when he does calm down, he takes your hand and puts it on his face. he is now held back by love, shackled by you. he knows and he—somehow—doesn’t mind. he just sinks deeper.

EDOGAWA RANPO: when you slept in the office, beside him, while he was planning their next move. it is not often that ranpo actually works. so, it wouldn’t have made him upset if you left because with all his confidence, he values your smile the most. but you stayed, you always did. ‘y/n, you can go back home you know,’ he had murmured, patting your head with a small grin, but you just told him to shut up and you cuddled closer to him.

it’s not the first time you hugged, but, for some reason, this certain hug had him tightening his arms around you before shouting about how he needs to get done quicker so his sleeping beauty can rest properly with an undeniably lovesick and joyful grin on his face.

FUKUZAWA YUKICHI: when you patted his head with a murmur that you trust him. in the eyes of others, it is ultimately meaningless and silly. yet, to him, that single gesture meant the world. and behind closed doors, he rests at ease, knowing his heart is in your hands.

he dotes on others like a strict father, yet when the same affection and trust is thrown at him, he can’t help but smile helplessly while you stroke his hair and pull him close. he also feels his heart set ablaze when he sees you laughing and pulling on his hand, wanting him to join whatever fun you’re having. and he follows you, like he always did and always will—with a smile so serene it tugs at your own heart.

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copyright © tender-rosiey

do not copy or plagiarize or I will dislocate your shoulders

[temis-de-leon]

Shy gn!reader goes to their first date with the Dateables

Characters: Diavolo, Barbatos, Solomon and Simeon (x reader, separately)

Masterlist

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 4 , Demon Brothers version

Romance Anon: Could I request headcanons for Diavolo, Barbatos, Solomon, and Simeon react to shy gn s/o who asked what he would like to do for their first date because he made them happy by accepting their confession so they want to make him happy?

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A/N: wrote this while my upstairs neighbors were doing the nasty, so I got a little distracted

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Diavolo

He feels somewhat conflicted, to say the least. Growing up having everything his way, you could believe this would be easy for him, but you would be wrong. On the contrary, it’s precisely for that reason that he doesn’t want to be the only one organizing the date.

Still, you asked him directly, so he’ll humour you.

He asks Lucifer and Barbatos for ideas and he’s left with even more questions.

He could go big, book Ristorante Six so it’s just the two of you and hire a string quartet to set the mood; or he could literally go home, as they say, ask his butler to cook a special dinner and make the garden look pretty.

There’s also the possibility of going downtown, share some ice cream and take a stroll in the park or the busy avenue.

His indecision doesn’t come from a lack of interest, but rather from cluelessness.

Should he do all of that? Should he make another plan? Something more extravagant? Something tamer?

He’s completely lost. You made him happy when you agreed to go out with him as well, so there’s no need for letting him decide everything, especially for your first date.

He wants to be with you, talk to you, have your whole attention and let you have his as well, so, in the end, he settles for the most private option.

Hopefully, you both will have time for more.

Barbatos

There’s a contradiction in your interests.

He’s immensely glad you’re happy upon going out with him, but what he wants the most is to know you more than anyone else has ever done before.

Therefore, his idea of a perfect first date is to know what’s your ideal first date and to make that a reality.

Do you like big gestures? He can take you to the opera or to a luxurious dinner, maybe even both.

Or perhaps you prefer a more intimate setting, which would be most preferable.

He excels in tea parties after all, something the both of you know, and he can use the opportunity to try new recipes and impress you. Maybe even use the tea blend he prepared just for you, a part of his efforts he deeply hopes you like.

Barbatos is perfectly aware that serving his date as a first date may not seem like something one may do for his own enjoyment, even when you were the one to ask him what to do for your day out together, but you have to understand, MC.

In his eyes, the best path towards your happiness is the one where he is the cause of it.

Solomon

At first he thinks of cooking something for you, maybe ask Luke to bake dessert beforehand, and have dinner at Purgatory Hall, but his roommates’ immediate refusal confuses him.

He just wants to impress you!

But, hey, if his friends insist on changing plans... There’s plenty of other things to do anyways.

Why not get out of the Devildom for starters? A change of scenery sounds like a good idea and it’s not like you’re going to be away for too long. Plus, you can forget the brothers for once and he gets the opportunity of having your sole attention for a whole day.

It’s a win-win situation.

You’re going to be a human couple spending time in the human realm doing human things.

And what’s more human than the sun? The warmth, the light… He could take you to a coastal city and sunbathe in the beach or to a small mountain town and walk through its green pastures.

Do you know how to make flower crowns? You could learn with him!

Take advantage of your human curiosity! What better companion than him?

Sure, the brothers and the royals could sweep you off your feet in many different ways, but if there’s something only he can give you is understanding.

You’re going through so much, learning and improving, saying goodbye to the person you once were, he’s the only one capable of comprehend the change in your humanity.

Trust in him to take the weight off your shoulders.

Simeon

He knows exactly what to do.

While he would love to have a traditional date with you, dining in a nice place before going for a stroll and take you home, he knows Luke wouldn’t understand the concept of a date per se.

And as much as he loves the kid, he wants to be just with you for the night.

So, he does just that. He invites you to go out for the night while Luke is sleeping.

There’s a spot in one of the rooftops of RAD and he has visited it enough times to know it’s the perfect place for your date.

He asks Belphie for help and Diavolo for permission, borrowing books and asking simple questions about the sky, the constellations and the legends behind it.

It’s not about studying as much as possible about the stars to impress you, which he’d prefer happening in a more natural setting, but rather having you discover the wonders that surround you with him.

Just the thought of keeping you close, shielding you from the cold of the night and staring at the dark sky with your fingers tightly intertwined with his, sends an involuntary smile to his face.

He wants to spend time with you, it’s as simple as that, but why not make it even more beautiful?

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[zeyris-daydreams]

Not a request, but how do you think poly yandere Boothil and Robin would work together

Yandere! Boothill x reader x Yandere!Robin

Omg!! I absolutely love the idea of a Robinhill poly!! The mutual worry goes insane, and I’ll make sure to marinate their experiences in a seasoning of their experiences!

Boothill is a man who knows what loss is. After all, loss sent him on his journey, and bore a seed of vengeance in him. For Robin, loss was immaterial. It was what she felt to be loss of freedom, and loss of close ties. In that Robin and Boothill understood each other, and their experiences, albeit similar on the surface, shaped them differently.

Boothill is protective from his past experiences; scared that if he doesn’t hold his close ones, they’ll slip to never be seen again. The fear of further loss, embraced by his single-mindedness as a Galaxy Ranger, is quite the shake to deal with. It’s worsened by a sense of posessiveness, creating a similarly determined approach with you.

Robin however knows how it feels to be left with limited options, and so despite her ever-growing affection to you, she is rather reasonable. She can’t stop her feelings, but she can judge things from another perspective as well; Boothill never doubted her abilities or expertise when they combated the monkey-virus, after all. And, despite his possessiveness and jealousy, he knows she can take care of himself. She truly is an angel, in all the meanings of this word.

Then again there’s you, too, fortunate or unfortunate enough to have their gazes on you. Perhaps it is Robin to initiate, and perhaps it is Boothill. Both work out in the end; one way or another, their relationship based on trust and understanding starts to encase you too. Maybe not in the same understanding or trustful way, but still, it is based upon care for your being.

I believe Robin and Boothill may initially find their ideals to crash, it doesn’t lead to an argument. With your person, Boothill believes that the best course of action was to protect what he likes most; you, and Robin. Robin however understands it, and given she likes Boothill too, there is no fuss around the topic. Therefore no extreme measures need to be taken.

In your case… compliance isn’t promised, that’s what Boothill had told “singing queen” when discussing you over lunch. Because in case of you rejecting them, how can they ensure your safety? Robin does not wish to cage you. Boothill believes the only way to ensure safety would be to keep an eye on you, supervised.

And, given your acceptance isn’t promised, Robin is fairly easy to convince. While she doesn’t plan to hold you hostage - goodness, no. She’d never do that to someone else - she can try other ways of conviction. If you understand their care, then you’ll surely choose to stay; that is something that Boothill can get behind.

And, if you choose to stay, then it’s not keeping a bird in a cage.

Their mutual care for each other extends equally to you, really! I mean, Boothill can take care of himself! And, Robin is intelligent, she did well all this time too, dealing with so many things. . .

You have to understand why it’s just different with you. You have to.

Maybe she will have to.. tune you slightly. Slightly, promise, it’s not even going to hurt! Boothill and Robin mutually don’t want anyone’s feelings hurt. And so it’s unacceptable if you offend either of them as well - same as if you were being treated badly.

Obsessive care and being protective of you isn’t bad treatment, however. You simply have different needs from them. That’s it.