#they decide to be romantic and there's a roll on whether it feels like a toddler giving you crumpled flowers or a horrifying act of violenc

[lyraarylfyrefly]

OSP's videos are great, especially the ones about power ups (superpowered evil sides my beloved) so I thought of a story wherein a supporting cast character that happens to be a ghost fucks off somewhere because they're being called by something and that something turns out to be their corpse or well their very undamaged body that is covered in the blood of the monster they died killing and the moment they're in range of their body's arms, they get pulled in and they wake up in their body, alive and sharing a mind with the creature they killed

[mugglebornmarvelite]

Game Night

Paring: Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Avenger! Fem! Reader (Grumpy x Sunshine)

Summary: Steve’s mandatory game night takes a turn when you and Bucky are paired up.

Word Count: Roughly 1.4k 

Warnings: Fluff, banter, friendly competition, implied threats, destroying property (Bucky and Sam), romantic tension everyone can feel, and some overprotective Bucky because that man does not play about his sunshine.

Author’s Note: Sorry for the delay; I was helping my friend with a research project. Ugh, it feels choppy, but I hope this is to your liking, babes ;)

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Divider by: @strangergraphics

The living room buzzed with energy as the Avengers tried to recover from the chaos of their most recent mission; the munching of chips and clinking of drinks in glasses filled the space.

Peter and you were talking animatedly about the mission, with Peter recounting how he flipped mid-air, webbing a bad guy to a nearby wall.

“I mean, I swear, the guy didn’t see it coming. I was way higher up than I thought, and then BAM!” Peter dramatically mimicked the motion with his arms, sending you into fits of laughter.

“It’s honestly kind of unfair that you can just flip your way out of everything, Pete,” you teased, elbowing him.

He shrugged, all smugness. “I mean, someone’s gotta make the web-swinging look good, right?”

Before you could reply, Steve stood up from his spot, clapping his hands for attention. “Alright, team! Time for some mandatory bonding!”

A chorus of groans erupted from the group, each one from someone hoping to escape Steve’s relentless enthusiasm for ‘team-building’ nights.

“Tonight is Charades.” Steve declared.

That’s when Steve decided to assign the partners. He glanced around the room with a twinkle in his eye and paired you with Bucky, clearly anticipating the fun to come.

You gave Bucky your signature puppy dog eyes, and he looked away with a scowl as he crossed his arms over his chest, not wanting to give in and show that he was happy to be partnered with you.

“Oh, great,” Bucky muttered, rolling his eyes. “This is gonna be a disaster.”

You didn’t let his grumpiness throw you off. “Bucky, come on!” you said, plopping beside him on the couch. “We’ve got this! We’re unstoppable!”

Bucky raised an eyebrow and shot you a skeptical look. “Sure, sure. We’ll see about that.”

He didn’t seem convinced, and as Sam overheard, he couldn’t resist adding his two cents.

"Oh, this is gonna be easy," Sam declared loudly, rolling his eyes. "Grumpy Barnes can’t even smile, let alone act."

"You’re gonna regret that," Bucky shot back, his tone thick with warning. 

His words weren’t loud, but they were laced with enough warning that Sam quickly leaned back into his seat, hands raised in mock surrender.

"Okay, okay, I get it," Sam laughed, but you caught the wariness in his eyes. "But not holding my breath, this will be easy."

Then, leaning in toward you, he whispered, “If we lose to that clown, I’m never letting it go.”

You gave him an exaggerated look of disbelief, pretending to be shocked. "Who knew you cared so much about winning?"

Bucky’s lips quirked into the faintest smirk. "Don’t mess this up," he teased.

You winked at him. “You’re with me. How could we lose?”

As the game started, it quickly became clear that Bucky treated charades less like a fun group activity and more like a tactical mission. His intense focus was almost comical, but you fell into an unspoken rhythm. 

When it was your turn to act, Bucky’s sharp eyes locked onto you, and after a few gestures, he almost always guessed your clues. When it was his turn, he leaned into the ridiculousness of it all, whether miming a gorilla or pretending to be a ballerina, just to keep your laughter ringing through the room.

By the end of the game, the scoreboard showed a landslide victory in your favor. Bucky allowed himself a small, smug grin as you squealed in delight and launched yourself into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist. 

“We’re the dream team!” you exclaimed, giggling as you clung to him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, though his grip on you was secure, his metal arm effortlessly supporting you. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Much to everyone's amusement, he carried you back to the couch, where he promptly plopped you into his lap. “You’re comfy,” you declared with a grin, making yourself home. 

Sam, clearly displeased, waved a hand in your direction. “This has to be rigged. There’s no way those two didn’t cheat.”

Natasha snorted, leaning back in her chair. “They didn’t cheat, Wilson. They’re just disgustingly in sync.”

Sam grabbed a pillow and chucked it at you. “Sync this!”

The pillow hit you square in the face, and you burst out laughing, holding it in your lap. “It’s just a pillow!”

But Bucky didn’t see it that way. His gaze turned sharp as he caught the second pillow Sam threw mid-air. “If you throw another one at her...”

Sam, of course, took that as a challenge. “What are you gonna do, Barnes?” he quipped, hurling another pillow that you easily dodged.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll give you a five-second head start.”

Sam’s smirk faltered. “Wait, what?”

Without a word, Bucky carefully brushed your hair out of your face, placed you gently on the couch, and stood up. The room went silent as he walked purposefully toward the hallway. 

“What’s he doing?” you asked, looking to Steve for answers.

Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, hiding a smile. “He’s going to smash Redwing.”

Sam’s eyes widened in panic. 

“Barnes, you touch Redwing, I swear-” He bolted after Bucky, and the two disappeared down the hall. 

Moments later, a loud crash echoed through the compound, followed by Sam’s yelling and Bucky’s retorts.

Natasha chuckled, shaking her head as she leaned back on the couch. “This happens all the time.”

You glanced between her and Steve, bewildered. “Doesn’t anyone stop them?”

Steve shrugged. “Nope. They’ll tire themselves out eventually.”

From a distance, the team could hear the muffled sounds of Bucky and Sam bickering echoing through the compound. 

“Touch Redwing, and you’re paying for a whole new one!” Sam’s voice was laced with fear.

“Oh, don’t worry, Wilson,” Bucky shot back, his tone mockingly calm. “I’ll make sure to recycle the pieces. I hear it’s good for the environment.”

A loud thud followed as if Bucky had knocked something over or thrown something against the wall. 

“Man, what is your problem?” Sam hollered. “You act like I threw a brick at her!”

“You hit her in the face!” Bucky retorted.

“It was a pillow!” Sam defended himself. “It probably felt like a marshmallow.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky countered. “You don’t throw things at her. Ever.”

Back in the living room, you stifled a laugh as Natasha shook her head in amused disbelief. “It’s always like this,” she said, smirking. “I don’t know why Sam keeps testing him.”

Steve folded his arms, looking like the exasperated dad of the group. “Because Sam likes pushing buttons. And Bucky…well, Bucky only has so much patience.”

Another crash echoed from down the hallway, followed by Sam’s yell. “Oh, come on! That wasn’t even Redwing! That was my lamp!”

“You’ve got terrible taste in decor, Wilson,” Bucky said, completely unfazed.

“YOU OWE ME A NEW LAMP!” Sam shouted.

“I did you a favor.” Bucky said dryly. “So say ‘thank you,’ it's polite.”

You couldn’t hold back your giggles any longer. “Should we...I don’t know, step in?” you asked, looking at Steve.

Steve shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Nah. Let them hash it out. Bucky’s not actually going to break Redwing. Probably.”

“Probably?” Natasha echoed. “You’re really putting a lot of faith in him.”

From the hallway, Sam yelled again. “THAT’S IT, BARNES. YOU AND ME. SPARRING MATCH TOMORROW.”

“Fine,” Bucky fired back. “But don’t be mad when I wipe the floor with you, bird brain.”

Natasha leaned over to you, her voice low. “You know he’s only this protective because it’s you, right? He doesn’t care this much when we get hit with stuff.”

You blushed, glancing down at your hands. “He’s just…looking out for me. Like a guardian.”

Natasha snorted. “Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

Steve smiled knowingly but didn’t say anything. 

The sounds of Sam and Bucky’s argument gradually faded as they came back.

Sam was glaring, his hair disheveled, and he muttered under his breath about never forgiving Bucky. 

Bucky, on the other hand, was smug, like he had just won a personal victory.

Sam threw himself back down on the couch, muttering something about "not talking to Barnes for the rest of the week," to which Bucky gave a half-hearted shrug.

He sat down beside you, his arm casually draped across the back of the couch. His eyes flicked down to you, and without a word, he reached out to brush his knuckles lightly over your knee.

“You okay, sunshine?” he asked quietly, only for you to hear.

You smiled. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

Bucky’s lips quirked upward, just slightly. “Good,” he said softly. “No one messes with you. Not even Sam.”

The others shared amused looks, but neither of you paid them any mind. Bucky’s protective side made your heart flutter in a way you didn’t quite understand, and you sank further into the couch, curling into his side.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

Tags: @princess-lil-spidey @sapphirebarnes @mgchaser @sparklystarsandstrawberries @arcadia-smith @rnurse-kole @juliebluehufflepuff @sailorsenshiuranep @alexxavicry @ficcharsimp

If you'd like to be added to my taglist or just ask me, and I'll update it!

Much love x

- Maeve

[themeraldee]

The Lucky Winner

[Masterlist]

18+ Only | 8.5k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Pre-season 1. Voice kink. Oral sex. Unprotected sex.

Summary: You're a huge fan of Homelander but you always feel too awkward to ever meet your hero at a meet & greet or similar events. Your friends enter you into a Vought competition, where you've got a chance to win a phone call from Homelander himself.  

Author’s Note: My first Homelander fic! Also, this is the first time I’m publishing my work. Obligatory English isn’t my first language so apologies if there are any strange turns of phrase but I happily take on criticism so feel free to correct me. I want to get better! I’m also not very good with sticking to the right tense. This is very self-indulgent so read with caution. 

You can’t decide whether to hug or strangle your friends. They’re trying to be nice, you get that. But this goes against everything you’d ever do! Lovely as they are, they’ve entered you into a competition to meet your hero. To meet Homelander. The thought alone makes your head spin, your heart pound and stomach twist on itself.

‘It was just 20 bucks, what’s the worst that can happen? You win?’ Reads your friend’s message. You roll your eyes, hearing the teasing tone in your head. They know about your not-so-hidden obsession and at the end of the day they just wanted to brighten their friends day.

And sure, you are a fan. Okay, fine. You’re a big fan. Obsessed even. Every-wall-of-your-bedroom adorned-with-posters-and-promotional-materials obsessed. But you don’t want to appear like that. Last thing you’d want to come across as to your idol, you hero, is an annoying screeching fan begging for his attention.

You don’t want to be part of the crowds pawing at him, inching as close as they can just to graze his uniform with their fingertips. You don’t want to look like a feral fan. You have manners. You don’t want to be just another face, just another adoring fan begging for him to look your way. It’s hard to admit to yourself that you’ll never be more than a fan. So you don’t go to meet & greets. You don’t go to premieres. You don’t pay exorbitant fees just to meet your hero.

You’re a romantic at heart. You always imagine the first meeting to be one for the books. Maybe he saves you from a burning building flying you down, his stars and stripes billowing in the wind as he looks at you with concern etched into his handsome face, his piercing blue eyes scanning you for injuries as he talks to you with a soothing rumbling tone that sends shivers down your spine. You can clearly imagine him going, Are you okay miss?, as he descends to the ground. Or you just happen to bump into each other but he catches you with his strong arms and fast reflexes and just like that it’s love at first sight. Scenarios after scenarios. All varieties of ‘meet-cute’s play in your head on a daily basis. You spend your time getting lost in your head, dreaming of the day when it will be your turn to be the protagonist of the story. When will you be the damsel in distress? But you sigh and move on with life, because this isn’t a romance novel.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself (and others) when people ask you why you haven't tried to meet your hero. 

Oh I just don’t want to be a weird obsessive fan. Plus it’s expensive!

Meeting heroes is technically easy. Vought gives people many opportunities to see their heroes for a pretty penny. They parade their heroes around like exotic animals in a zoo on a daily basis. 

For you the reality is that you simply can’t handle seeing your hero up close and personal, let alone talk to him. How are you not meant to get flustered in front of what you considered to be perfection? How are you meant to find your words or even come up with words worthy of being uttered in his presence? You’re meant to look into his eyes, tell him how much of a fan you are and not fluster and burst into tears from the anxiety coiling in your gut as you wait your turn? 

You don’t want that. You don’t want to be just another babbling fan. You want to stand out. You want him to remember you. You want him to think about you.  But you’re also a realist and you know that at most he’ll think you just another annoying fangirl if he even grants you a passing thought. So you spare yourself those hurt feelings and you avoid meet & greets, you avoid all the fan-targeted conventions, events, promotional campaigns or competitions. 

Or you always have. Until now it seems. You again scroll up in the group chat where your friends surprised you with an entry to the newest competition Vought advertised. It was presented as a fundraiser. All proceeds are planned to be donated to Samaritan’s Embrace. A simple $20 entry that would grant you a chance to be one of five lucky winners to get a personal phone call from Homelander. 

A fat chance of that, you thought when you first saw the competition announced on both Vought’s and Homelander’s twitter accounts. With a competition that invites Homelander's country-wide fanbase, there really is no chance of you winning. You half-comfort yourself with that thought. You don’t know where you’d even start should you win. Part of you thinks that maybe ‘meeting’ him over the phone could be bearable as he wouldn’t be able to witness just how badly you’re holding it together.

But then you think back to all the videos you’ve watched. The reels and the tiktoks you’ve saved. The podcasts and interviews that at this point you play almost religiously. He's perfect in every way but you're particularly fond of his voice just rumbling in your ear when it gets nice and low as he talks in lengths about the upcoming movie or his most recent save. A while back you bought yourself a decent set of noise-cancelling headphones with great audio quality and suddenly it felt like he was right behind you just purring into your ears. Very few interviews record with good enough microphones to capture how mesmerising his voice is but those that do get saved and played on repeat sending shivers down your spine, following you to bed and invading your dreams. So no, maybe a phone call wouldn’t make the experience any easier on your poor heart. 

You calm down after the initial panic reaffirming yourself with the reality where there’s no chance that you’ll get picked anyway. You text your friends again, kindly thanking them for thinking of you as you shook your head with an amused smile. That’s that done and forgotten about.

Or so you think. Few weeks down the line the mental discourse has long left your mind. The conversation moves on and your friends don’t mention anything since. That’s why it’s no surprise when you pick up the unknown call after the third ring with ease, casually answering with, “Hello, Y/N speaking.” 

Homelander looks through the list of winners Ashley brought to his desk with a scowl on his face. He’s grumpy, having to jump through everyone’s hoops is grating on him, slowly chipping away at his showmanship armour. This is just another nail in the coffin. Now he has to make private phone calls?

He wants to be revered, loved. With people bending over backwards just to get his attention. Sure, that’s right up his alley. Get the crowds to scream his name, be grateful for his divine presence. What he isn’t a fan of is making others think they’re special. He’s the special one. Where does Vought get off thinking that he’s got the time to call and visit his fans one-on-one.

He rolls his eyes looking through the unimpressive line-up that Vought carefully curated. One of each demographic, trying to hit all the targets Vought wants him to improve his numbers with.

Each candidate has a sheet of talking points assigned to them, things to highlight, mention or even promote to each one of the fans. Normally Homelander would throw Vought’s carefully crafted response straight back to their faces but right now he’s not in the slightest interested in being clever or the fans' idea of ‘authentic’ so he’d rather rattle off a few lines from a curated list of party lines. At the end of the day he doesn’t care for this. Talking to five individual fans doesn’t help him in the grand scheme of things. This isn’t happening in public, there’s no one here to witness his generosity. Nobody to witness a god, looking down and gracing his followers with his benevolence.

Vought believes the individual approach will be worth it in the long run. That apparently fans will come running to any future events and competitions seeing as real people they might know have won in the past. All Homelander sees is at most five twitter mentions from a few nobodys.

He’s got about an hour in the calendar to get through all of these. Though he's banking on this taking a lot less time. There are many more important things he could be doing instead. 

He flips through the files again, each profile is filled out with a name, number and a photo, deciding on the least painful order. A young boy, an elderly woman, a middle aged comic enthusiast, some punk teenager and you. Homelander looks at your profile with mild interest. You’re the only one who Vought didn’t manage to find a good quality recent photo of. Clearly you don’t do social media. Yet the quality doesn’t take away from the intrigue your profile inspired. You’re easily the most interesting in the list but that’s not that hard to do. Still, Homelander puts yours at the end of the list. Saving the best for last.

“Hellooo and congratulations! This is Homelander and you’re one of the few lucky cookies who get to have a little chit chat with me.” All air gets sucked out of your lungs and the ease with which you picked up the phone is gone. Your eyes widen, breath caught in your throat only coming out in confused little stutters. This isn’t real. It can’t be!

Whether it’s a particularly vivid dream or your world is actually turning upside down you’re glad this happened at home. Your knees buckle, your ass landing straight on your bed, your legs trembling with nervous energy as you sit down.

“W-what?” You manage to blurt out, more breathy than not. Your heart is pounding like never before. You wouldn’t be surprised if he can hear it over the phone, it feels loud to your ears.

“The competition? You entered, right?” His voice. His fucking voice was right in your ear and you felt like melting into a puddle of goo. Anything to spare you the embarrassing words that are surely about to come out of your mouth one way or another.

“Oh… um…” You are blowing it. There’s no other word for it. Totally embarrassing yourself. Not able to say a word, still trying to calm your heart down.

“Are you not a fan? Have I got the wrong number–?”

“N-no no! No…I mean yes. I mean sorry…fuck.” You are totally losing it. The hand holding your phone is shaking with nervous energy. 

“Hey hey hey…. Come on now. Take it easy. Now take a deep breath aaand relax.” His voice is rich and sweet like honey, just like you’ve heard on TV but here it feels intimate. Just for you. He’s not talking to anybody else. As he hears your stuttered intake of breath and a mildly calmed exhale he coos again. “That’s it. Breathe with me. Now in.” If only he knew that this is making things so much worse for you. “And out.” 

“I’m so sorry. I meant to say, I am a fan but I don’t do this.” Your voice still trembles with each word but you’re a little more composed. 

“What? Call people?” You can hear the smirk in his voice, he's clearly pleased with his little joke. 

“No.” You can’t help yourself but chuckle, your lips spreading in a wide grin. Your heart is still pounding but it’s more excitement than embarrassment. You’re actually talking to Homelander. And you have already embarrassed yourself beyond belief but he’s still here! He’s still talking to you. He doesn’t even sound upset. “I mean I don’t meet you guys. Heroes. I don’t really know how to do this. I mean I pretty much live on your doorstep and I’ve never met either one of you.” Now that he calmed you down, getting you talking, you can’t stop talking. 

“Really? Some fan you are.” Were you of a sound mind you’d hear the joke but now all you could think is that you’ve upset him. And you can’t have him think that. Sure you’ve always wanted to stand out but not in a negative way! You take it to heart and you apologize.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to offend. At all! Really! It’s just, you don’t need another person begging for an autograph that they can brag with to their friends or sell online for a quick buck.” 

He exhales a little breathy laugh that has your whole body flush hot. “Oh, aren’t you adorable.” The panic that was inflating in you like a hot air balloon finally fizzled out. Instead it’s replaced by a throbbing heat in between your legs and you place your free hand over your heart, almost trying to will your body into behaving normally. “You know if you want I can send you some, would be a shame for such a sweet fan to not have anything personalised. I’ll sign it with your name.” He offers, a nice gesture, really, but you are currently having a whole body meltdown to even appreciate it for what it was.

“O-oh,that isn’t—You don’t have to—” 

He continues nonetheless. 

“Y/N, is it? Beautiful name.” Your name rolls off his tongue perfectly, all soothing and sweet. And there you go, melting into a puddle just for him. 

“You don’t have to be nervous. I don’t bite. At least, not over the phone.” You let your hand trail down your body. He’s just talking. He’s just making jokes. He’s just trying to strike up a conversation to make such a freaked out fan of his a little calmer and there you are getting your rocks off on this. 

“Sorry. It’s hard not to be. I’ve been a fan of yours for a long while. I didn’t expect I’d ever get to talk to you. It’s kind of you to do things like this for us fans. I’m sure you’re busy. Thank you for taking the time.” You distract yourself from the throbbing that’s just calling for your hand to settle heavily in between your shaking thighs. 

“Oh no problem. Wouldn’t be where I am if it wasn’t for all my loyal fans, right?” You should really stop moving your hand down your body. But you can’t help the effect he has on you, you’re not acting normal! 

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s the fame that makes you special. It’s you.” You breathe you all dreamy before realising this isn’t just one of your fantasies. No. You really are talking to Homelander. You cough a little, pretending like you had something stuck in your throat. 

“It is?”

“I think so. Change into civilian clothing and I’m sure you’ll still be turning heads.” You speak normally now but you bite your lip at the end, your hand now just above your pubic bone. 

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this plenty.” Oh, of course you have. Your body is screaming at you to take the plunge, to slip your hand down your panties, and make yourself feel like this is more than just a friendly fan call. But your mind is, correctly, telling you that this is beyond inappropriate. 

“Ah no! I just mean that you’re perfect at what you do. There’s nobody like you. Noone could take your spot. So it’s more than just fans.” You’re surprised you’re still carrying on. You feel like your brain is turning into mush with each word he’s saying. 

“What can I say? I take my job very seriously.” He goes on to talk about being a leader of the Seven, you guess he’s just trying to fill space seeing as you’re such a blubbering mess. Even with all his efforts at making this normal, your brain turns all the innocent words into the filthiest dirty talk.

“Look, I’d love to talk to you some more but I’m afraid I’ll have to end it there. I’m late for a talk show interview.” You retract your hand as if it got burnt and instead you grab onto the comforter you’re sitting on, stopping yourself from doing anything impulsive. 

“O-of course.” Your heart rate is elevated again, something about the thought of him leaving and you never getting the chance to speak to him again makes you want to scream. 

“Tell you what, I don’t want to be unfair to you. You hardly got your prize. I’ll call you later. You free in the evening?” 

“Y-yes.”

“Perfect.” 

Perfect. You’re fucking perfect. Homelander can’t stop the way his lips stretch into a predatory grin. You are exactly what a fan should be like. Swooning over him. Grateful that he’s even bothering to grace you with his presence. You were practically kneeling, bent over before him on the floor, kissing his feet as he gave you a taste of his divine presence. He has half a mind to take care of the uncomfortable hard-on pressing into his rigid suit. He couldn’t help himself when you were being such a sweet little thing. He feels no remorse at having rubbed himself through his suit as you were there on the other side of the phone, undeniably shaking in excitement, all flustered and tense and most certainly aroused. But no, he wants to wait his turn. He needs the real thing. He’s not planning on letting you go that easy.

Originally he was pissed that most of his time on the phone was taken up by the elderly woman who was talking his ear off. Now he’s thinking about sending her a gift basket. He has a real excuse to see you. 

When Homelander wants something he’s like a hunter, doing everything he can to lure his prey into his trap. In this case he abuses his powers to get the Crime Analytics team to dig up your address and in the meanwhile he sits through a mind-numbingly boring interview at a low-tier talk show he really shouldn’t need to waste his time on. 

The only thing that keeps him going is the thought that you might be watching. You seem like a big fan. You surely wouldn’t dare miss out on his live appearances. The thought alone gives him enough drive to not laser through the talk show host everytime she asks a stupid question and instead he imagines he’s speaking straight to you.

When the show is over he takes off before his team can steer him towards another boring chore. No, he has more pressing matters to attend to. Like any good predator he observes. He waits until it’s the right time to strike. That’s why he’s perched at the top of the building that’s opposite yours. He’s got a clear line of sight to your apartment but he’s careful in making sure you can’t see him. 

He watches, his grin reappearing every damn time he sees you reach your phone, checking if your ringer is on for the tenth time. You are an easy target, he can swoop in anytime and sweep you off your feet but he wants it to be perfect. With sick fascination he keeps watching you, your behaviours and patterns as you pace around your room trying to preoccupy your mind with mindless thoughts. He knows that nothing you do can now fill the void that he left behind. What else can replace the purr of his voice in your ear, soothing and exciting you at the same time. Nothing. There’s nobody like him. You said it yourself.

An hour of self-indulgent watching later he decides to end your misery. You just look so upset and disappointed and he knows you’ll just melt in his presence. He needs to be close to you. He got a little sprinkle of what you're like over the phone and now he’s got a craving for the real thing. He needs to feel you, smell you, hear your poor heart trying to keep up with the excitement right in his ear.

So with a quick drop he descends.

The day has gone by torturously slow for you. You spend every minute checking your phone in case your ringer randomly fails you and you won’t catch the second call from Homelander. Just thinking that makes your thighs quiver. The thought of having him purr into your ear any longer wets your panties all over again. But over the coming hours your enthusiasm deflates. It’s getting late and your chances of ever getting a call back are low. 

You emerge from the bathroom, fresh and clean, in your pyjamas ready to sleep today’s rollercoaster of emotions away. Or you would be if it wasn’t for a knock at your balcony door interrupting your thoughts and making you flinch in surprise. The flash of red and blue still so vibrant and colourful against the midnight sky has your breath catching in your throat. What the fuck?!

You open the balcony door in shock, and if you had the strength to do so you would have ripped it off its hinges with pure eagerness. There he is in all his patriotic glory. Homelander. A wide grin on his face, posture ramrod straight as he clasps his gloved hands behind his back, puffing his chest out.

“H-Homelander?!” Your voice quivers at the proximity, your heart picks up speed again and you feel your entire body flush both in embarrassment and excitement. Your first thought goes to how you currently look rather than questioning his motives or how he even found where you live in the first place. 

Trying to regain your composure you shake your head, blinking as if he was just a figment of your imagination. Maybe your devout obsession with him is finally damaging your mental state, making you hallucinate.

“Good evening, Y/N.” God, how does he do that! The way your name slips off his tongue so easily, with such familiarity makes you clench and part your lips with a gasp. Any sort of composure you’ve regained crumbling to dust. Now you are just awkwardly gawking, in awe at the unreal figure in front of you, in the flesh. Homelander doesn’t wait to be invited in, strutting into your modest apartment like it belongs to him, the confident strides of his red boots loud and heavy against the creaky floor of your apartment. He takes up the living space confidently, somehow making you feel like you don't belong in your own space. His presence took priority, anything else secondary—you included. 

“How did you—” Your question of how he found where you live doesn’t even get fully asked, let alone answered. He cuts in, not actually caring about your justified worry over having your address handed out willy-nilly. 

“Our call was a bit too short to my liking. You don’t mind a little late-night visit, do you?” You feel disarmed. His voice turns gravelly, lowering with each word. His tone teasing as if he was telling you a secret, so unlike his television persona where he’s all American apple pie values and open arms with clear intentions. Here, he grinned widely—all teeth with his sharp canines bared to you like the predator he is. Like you’re his next meal. “Ohohoo, would you look at this. Maybe you are my biggest fan, huh?” 

You are distracted by his voice, his presence, just him that you fail to notice his eyes wandering around your apartment. Your face flushes red in embarrassment as you see him assessing your safe space, or what felt like your safe space before this ambush, all with an amused grin on his face. 

“These are all limited edition. Must have cost you a small fortune.” Holding a breath you watch him take his gloves off one by one, placing the leather on your table with a soft thwack. It feels forbidden, not meant for your eyes. The public doesn’t get to see Homelander as anything other than perfect. His image manicured, perfected to the tiniest details. Seeing his surprisingly elegant bare hands, this up close feels intimate yet threatening like he’s unsheathed his sword, revealing one of the many hidden weapons he can use against you. 

You watch as he brushes his fingers against limited edition action figurines, box sets, posters and trinkets featuring his likeness or the logo emblem Vought associates with him. If it was anyone else you’d tell them to keep their paws away from your most prized possessions but it's Homelander. Who else gets the right to touch special limited edition merchandise of his own likeness? 

You watch as he paces the room with an unreadable expression. The embarrassment you feel transforms into an apology, heavy on your tongue as you force your mouth open, letting your shame out into the world. It’s hard not to feel overwhelmed in his presence.

“I-I’m sorry.” 

“You’re sorry?” He turns his head over his shoulder with a curious expression. A swoop of his blonde hair handsomely falling into his face. He puts down one of the figurines he picked up earlier as he scouted the area. 

“All this stuff.” You wave your hand around, the grand display of what can only be described as the Church of Homelander, a shrine dedicated to his divine existence. You see how it looks, how it makes you look like a rabid fan. Though you’re anything but. “I know it’s a little strange. I don’t want to make you feel like a museum piece. Or-or-or a circus animal! I just admire you. A lot.”

“You do?” 

“I do.” Your breath catches in your throat as he turns around fully, facing you head on, one slow step inching towards you at a time. You gulp, feeling like you’re left in the dark regarding his intentions as you hopelessly struggle to read him. On the opposite spectrum you’re there, an open book, your heart on your sleeve, your every thought written so clearly on your face you may as well give him your diary to flip through. “More than anything.” Breathlessly you add, meeting his eyes as a challenge. You’re devout, as loyal as it gets. You’d do anything for him if he asked.

Homelander rises to your mental challenge with a grin so sharp you feel the metaphorical bite coming before he even opens his mouth as he steps closer. He’s so close now. Any ordinary man could feel the thud of your heartbeat, but to his keen senses it’s a war drum and he’s marching to a battle he’s already won. His bare, elegant hands make their way to your jaw caressing it with a surprising gentleness. You flinch. Even though you watched it happen with wide eyes, you didn’t expect his hands to leave you unmarred. You almost expect your skin to sizzle, unworthy of his divine touch.  

Homelander’s grin disappears, his tongue gliding along his teeth as if he’s cleaning them before he devours his next meal. All that leaves you is a little whimper before he pulls you in, his hands thrumming with incomprehensible strength as he kisses you. He kisses the air out of your lungs as if you could survive without it like he can. As if you could meet him in the middle. But dammit you do your best to. He’s a passionate kisser, incapable of sticking to soft kisses. No, he devours. He licks your lips open, his tongue gliding along yours. You brace your hands against his chest, already feeling weak in the knees. The heat of his breath and the wetness of his tongue in your mouth is nothing compared to how hot and wet you feel in your panties.

It doesn’t help that he’s vocal. You kiss him harder anytime he growls or moans into your lips, his voice vibrating against your lips just possessing you more. And soon it turns into a game of who can dish it out harder. Each devoted kiss makes him hum and purr which in turn melts you into a pile of goo, making you kiss him harder. Your lips feel hot, swollen from the ferocious kissing. You’re nearing the limit of what your lungs can manage without resurfacing for air.

Homelander pulls away but he doesn’t give you any time to recover. As if you could. How do you recover from that? Instead he’s adamant about making your heartbeat hit record heights. His hands glide down your body, featherlight touches that make your skin break out into goosebumps as he settles on your hips, trailing the waistband of your pants. His pink wet lips spread into another predatory smile and before you know it he leans closer to your ear, practically purring, “Tell me, if I take these off will I find you wearing Homelander panties too?” 

Flustered squeak escapes you as he laughs wholeheartedly at your embarrassment. You know he knows. He’s teasing you for a reason. “They’re comfortable.” You eventually grumble, pouting like a child getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

“I bet they are.” He sinks down to one knee, his hands taking the waistband of your pants with him as he pulls them down over your thighs, letting the fabric pool by your ankles. He pats your ankle, prompting you to step out of them. You comply, kicking the fabric away earning a little word of praise from him. “Attagirl.” You’re visibly trembling as he kneels in front of you, his eyes locked on the sight of your blue panties with his emblem and name right across the middle in gold, all accentuated by a red trim. It would be far from sexy in any other circumstance but he purrs at the sight. All pleased like the cat that got the cream. “Got my name across your pussy all day long?” 

Before you could react like any other person would, he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder. You yelp, losing your balance trying to grab onto his head or shoulders for support but he puts his arm on your back, sliding it right under your top keeping you straight and secure whether you want it or not. You’re not leaving until he says so. “Might as well fucking taste it seeing as it’s already mine, don’t you think?” He gives you a hungry look licking his lips before hoisting your other leg over his shoulder, standing up with ease. He walks you back against a wall as he eagerly inhales the scent of you, his head perfectly in between your warm thighs. 

“Woah!” You stabilise yourself, finally having more surface to lean against. The fabric of your top glides along the surface of the glossy posters he has you pressed against. Making you the centerpiece, surrounding you with his likeness. You finally process what the fuck is happening as you feel his nose pressing into the soaked fabric of your panties. “Homelander! Y-you….ohh…” You whimper, your hands automatically finding comfort and safety in between his golden locks. 

“Fuck you smell good.” Homelander growls, his hands now on your ass, holding you in place as he sticks his tongue out, pressing it wetly over your soaked panties. The taste of you already coating all his taste buds.

“O-oh fffuuck. OH god…yes…yes please.” You don’t stop yourself from moaning freely, the time for embarrassment long gone as Homelander lifts one hand from your ass, impatiently pulling the fabric of your Homelander panties to the side, his tongue already slipping in for a taste before his hand even makes it back to squeeze your ass. “Taste just as fucking good.” His voice strained, uttering filth in between your thighs.

His thick tongue pushes through the slit of your weeping pussy, lapping up what you’ve so graciously prepared just for him. And as you watch a mop of blonde hair greedily slurp at your wetness like he’s parched, you think back to the fantasies that drove you to orgasm after orgasm as the imaginary Homelander ate your pussy. 

Well, for one the real thing is a lot more enthusiastic than you ever imagined him to be. He is sucking on your clit in rhythm that has you throb harder, making your toes curl. “Ohhh, Homelander!” You reward him with a loud moan of his name, like a prayer on your lips. And you repeat it with each masterful lick around your clit that has you squirming in his hold, legs quivering around his head, fingers tugging at his hair.

The second thing you never considered was how much his powers would come into play. Here he is with a deathly strong iron grip around your ass, easily holding you up on his shoulders against the wall while pushing you as close into his face as he can. The thought of not being able to escape his grip exhilarates you as much as it terrifies you. His lack of need for air makes him a perfect devout lover. Because this is pure devotion except it seems he forgot who was meant to worship who.

You’d be embarrassed by the obscene sounds you two are making if it didn’t feel so good. You moan for him prettily as he licks up all the wetness he’s coaxing out of you. You breath hitches as you feel your orgasm building. He's consistent, giving you just the right pressure. Homelander looks up at you, eyes glassy and blown back with lust before he swiftly repositions you, needing just one arm to make you feel weightless yet secure in his hold as he takes his free hand plunging two fingers into you revelling in the feeling of your cunt clenching around him.

“Oh there there there! Ahhh!” You guide him, his fingers pumping into you and with his tongue still working magic on your clit you whimper out, “oh fuck, I’m gonna, I’m gonna–.” You fall apart in his arms, cumming on Homelander’s tongue like you’ve imagined many times over. With you thrashing around you rip the poster right behind you unaware of the mess you’re leaving behind. He licks you through the waves crashing through you. He’s smug, you can feel the smirk against your pussy as he gives it one more kiss before easily slipping you off his shoulders, preening with satisfaction. “Mhmm you did so good.” His voice purred and even in your post-orgasm haze you flush with fresh heat at the praise.

He gives you time to compose yourself but you don’t want it. You want him. You need him. Your legs feel like jelly so you immediately sink to your knees, nuzzling your face into his crotch. Too eager to wait. Homelander cooed at your enthusiasm, “Look at that. Didn’t even have to tell you.” He chuckles, voice thick with lust, his lips and chin still glistening from the way he feasted on you.

Wobbly and out of your mind, you reach for his belt, unable to figure out how to unclasp it, your dexterity not quite there either to be able to wiggle the hem of his pants underneath it and pull them down.

You look up at him with the face of a kitten that’s not getting what it wants. Pouting and pleading for help. 

“Christ, let me help you with that.” Homelander unclasps his belt, letting it hit the floor with a loud and heavy clang and the thought of it denting the cheap flooring doesn’t even graze your mind. He unzips his pants and the hiss alone makes your mouth water. He pushes his pants a little lower and you stare wide eyed at where his thematically red briefs are tented, his cock throbbing and leaking pre-cum into the thin fabric.

Okay, this you can do. Your hands slide up his thighs, getting a little feel of the bare skin of his thighs. Unmarred, smooth and hot. Your hand briefly squeezes around his cock through his briefs, forcing Homelander to hiss through his teeth. You pull down his briefs, bunching them down with the thick fabric of his suit. 

You try not to stare and drool but you’ve imagined his cock in your dreams and fantasies so many times that seeing it in real life just kind of blows your fucking mind. It’s perfect. A bit longer than average but especially nice and thick. You lick your lips in anticipation. His hand rests on the back of your head, giving your hair a tug.

“You gonna keep staring or will you put those pretty lips to work?” His gruff tone tears you from the haze. 

You blush, being caught staring. Wanting to please your hero you apologize, “sorry, it’s just so perfect. You’re perfect.” You breathe out in pure adoration. 

“Come on then, be a good girl and open up for your hero. I want my cock wet before I slide it into that needy pussy.” He looks down at you with a sharp smile, his other hand rests on your jaw before moving up squeezing the hollow of your cheeks, forcing your mouth open. Not that he has to, you’re more than willing to deliver. You open wider, making his hand withdraw as you take matter into your own hands. Literally. You grip the base of his cock, feeling how hefty and hot it feels. It hits you in that moment that you’re holding Homelander’s cock. Fuck. You’re gonna be dreaming of this moment for years to come.

You look up, giving him one more doe-eyed look before you stick your tongue out easing the swollen red head in between your lips. The salty, musky taste of his pre-cum on your tongue makes you whimper, your eyebrows furrow with concentration as you focus on banking the memory of his taste in your head. Eagerly you get right into it. Down and dirty. You focus on him, coating him with an ungodly amount of saliva until anytime you pop off him you’re followed by strings of it connecting you two. His grunts and heavy breaths just urge you to do better. So you take him deeper, slurping around the saliva you've made for him, bobbing your head up and down.

You nearly lose your rhythm when he lets out such a needy wanton moan, making your pussy throb.

“Thaaat’s it, come on—fuck!—deeper, yeah yeaahh you got it sweetheart. God fuck that’s fucking it.” He’s nearly whimpering, so lost in the sensation. And you're eating it up. Each whimper and word goes straight to your pussy and at this point you wouldn't be surprised if you were making a puddle on the floor.

His hand forces your head down deeper and you gag, choking around him as for a second your nose bumps the neat thatch of hair above his cock. He's not easily dissuaded and he pushes again, a little softer this time. You almost feel the tremble of his hands, he's so close to unravelling. Just for you. The swell of pride pushes you forward and you take him deeper. He takes the chance to push both hands into your hair as he starts fucking your face.

“Take it. Take it.” He grunts, his voice more and more broken with every thrust. You're just about to push his thighs back, attempting to fight against his unyielding force but his hips stutter and he groans, letting out broken moans as he spills on your tongue.

As if on command you swallow and he pulls out, wiping the residual dribbles of cum on your lips. Now that he’s done you realise just how fucking badly your jaw aches. You whimper at the ache of your jaw and the ache between your legs. 

You’re still kneeling on the floor, a picture of pure devotion, with your mouth messy and lips swollen. He grumbles at the picture in front of him. He pulls you up by your hair, kissing the taste of himself out of your lips. You can still taste your pussy on his lips and tongue as he shoves it into your mouth. “Bed?” He's somehow more than ready to continue and mentally you add his extraordinary refractory period to the list of his many talents. 

You nod a broken, “y-yeah, this way,” the taste of him still heavy on your tongue as you lead him to your bedroom.

He lets out a little chuckle at the state of your bedroom, just as decorated with his brand as was the rest of your apartment. “Fuck me, you really are my biggest fan.” 

You’re about to apologize, again, and he can read you like an open book already shushing you. “Shh, don’t say it. C’mere, take this off instead. Want to see you.” He tugs at your top, wanting you to take it off. Like unwrapping a present. You let out a few breathless ‘okay’s and pull the top over your head baring your entire body to him, save for the panties that were still uncomfortably pushed to the side. He clearly wants you to keep them on and you’re not sure whether that’s his narcissism or possessiveness talking. You don’t dare comment on the fact that he’s still fully dressed. You’re not gonna start demanding things from the Homelander now are you? 

With a step closer he purrs, pushing you to the bed intensely watching as your tits bounce when your back hits the comforter. He follows as he lays over the top of you but he doesn't look at you. He picks up the grimacing Homelander plushie he sees on your pillow— the one that's predominantly advertised to kids. He holds it up for you to see with a raised eyebrow, the look almost condescending. “What? They make no other official plushies!” You defend yourself. 

“Is there anything you don't have?” 

You don't know what possessed you to answer, “yeah, you,” but Homelander eats it right up as he grins at you.

“Cheeky slut. Well you're about to. On your side.” He says sliding off you to rest on his side looking you up and down hungrily. You’re clearly surprised at his choice of position and he grumbles with annoyance as you take forever to move the way he wants you to. His impatience gets the best of him and he effortlessly manipulates you to your side, slotting right behind you. Homelander grips your inner thigh lifting your leg a little higher, as he nestles his cock right against your wet cunt.

You sigh with partial relief, feeling him solid against you feels good. Feeling him inside you would feel even better. “Jesus, you're still so fucking wet.” 

“It's all your fault.” You whimper trying to wiggle in his unyielding hold. He just tuts at you gripping you tighter, cusping on pain.

He pulls you close, his cock sliding in between your slit, immediately getting the top of his cock wet. His lips trail up your jaw until he reaches your ear. He growls, low and sexy, nipping at the sensitive skin of your ear. Your heart skips a beat, your pussy throbs as the sound of him just ripples through you. 

“Maybe it is. You know, I've been thinking. You're such a nervous little thing.” He grinds his hips into you, dragging his cock back and forth, teasing you. His voice got quiet, dropping a register lower. All slow and drawled out he continues rumbling in your ear clearly aware of what it's doing to you. “You were beside yourself when I called you. So there I am thinking nobody gets that nervous, not unless they’re trying to hide how fucking turned on they are.” He keeps fucking talking and talking, making you shiver to the point where you feel goosebumps rise all over you. Your breath ragged, your eyes fluttering shut.

You're starting to understand why he was particular about this position. After all, he could read you like a book from the get go.

“At first I thought it was just me because you're such a big fan.” He coos in a condescending tone. He licks the outer edge of your ear and you shriek, thrashing in his uncompromising hold. “But no no nooo. It's not that. Because everytime I spoke, your heartbeat sped up. You know, I was worried about you there for a minute. Then there was your pussy. You get so wet the air is thick with it. I can't even fucking breathe without tasting your sweet cunt.” You let out a broken sound, close to a sob, you pussy throbbing so hard he must feel it even without being inside you. You didn't even consider that his senses can easily sniff your secret out.

He’s still rubbing his cock in between your folds, sliding the whole length of it up and down. It’s slick and loud and so good and holy shit your clit is burning from the way his head catches on it with every thrust. You're so close and your body is on fire. You so desperately want to cum with something inside you but he’s cruel. He's not gonna give it to you just yet. “And look at that, you're still getting wetter. They do say it's always the unassuming ones.” He chuckles into your ear, low and vibrating against you.

“Is that it? Do you get off to the sound of my voice? Do you watch videos of me, listening to interviews while you finger your little pussy?” He's going harder, the wet sound of your pussy slicking his way in between your slit is deafening, embarrassingly loud. “Tell me.” The little command growls in your ear and you force your lips open.

“Y-yes! Yes….I-I find your voice sexy.” You admit to your little shameful secret. You admit that one of the reasons you never met him was because you didn't want to get sopping wet in a crowd full of screaming fans. “Don't stop, please.” You moan out, quiet and broken, your embarrassment making way to pure pleasure. Now that it's out in the open, what is there to hide?

“Do you even care what I say? Huh? I could be reading out the fucking phone book and your pussy would still get wet. Greedy little thing. What’s it gonna be? You gonna cum to my voice or are you gonna be difficult?” You're burning hot, your body so so tense, the leg he's hitched up a little trembling against his strong grip. His cock is still hitting your clit in the perfect fucking way and you're so so so close. 

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop! Oh fuck, Homelander—don’t—ahhh!” The dam bursts, a wave of pleasure sweeping over you as you scream. Homelander pulls back and with one deft stroke he slides his cock inside you. He doesn't move. He growls at the feeling of your cunt just pulsing against him. He's so thick inside you, stretching you wide, filling every crevice. 

He whimpers and you feel how tense he is holding off the orgasm threatening to burst inside him.

Just as you think this must be the end of it, your mind just a buzzing noise, he pulls out moving back and he pushes you on your back. 

You never expected him to be so active in bed but he's already in between your legs, his hands clamping down on the clammy flesh of the back of your thighs and he spreads you open. He's on his knees, his hands slide and curl from the back of your thighs to the top as he pulls you in, slowly sliding his cock into you in one push. 

He doesn't wait for anything. He just fucks you. Hard and fast, really getting himself off more than you. Surrounded by posters and merch all carrying his likeness while he plunges into you again and again. Your hair is plastered to your forehead as you watch your hero utterly ruin you. You're sweaty, absolutely spent and tired while he's pushing into you without breaking a sweat. 

This round isn't for you yet it's gonna be a memory you'll frequent the most. The look on his face, pure lust and torture as he's fucking you with as much strength as he allows himself. 

With how he's got your hips propped up he's managing to hit all your best spots as your overstimulated nerves light up, giving him one last finish, your pussy’s quivers pushing him over the edge as well. 

Then there's a little hot spurt of him inside you but you're surprised when he pulls out shooting most of his load with a few strokes of his fist all over your panties and stomach. 

“Ahh fuck. Look at that, finally got your first autograph.” He snorts, amused, admiring the sight in front of him. His cum has already soaked into your panties, the ‘Homelander’ text changing into a darker colour as both his cum and your slick from the previous round drench the fabric. 

You flush hot red and you shake your head, amused by his antics. “That's disgusting.” But strangely, you're charmed. 

“I should take a picture. You look great like this.” 

He notes as he slides off your bed pulling his briefs over his finally softening cock, tucking himself back into his suit.

“Stay?” You say softly, offering him the space for his benefit more than yours. Even though you'd like him to stay for a cuddle you know you'll be out of it in a minute.

“Can't do I'm afraid, duty calls.” 

You nod, understanding. “Thank you, I really feel like a winner.” You snorted, thinking back to how the day even started.

He looks at you almost fondly, but your orgasm-hazy brain might just not be working anymore. 

“Until next time.” He says as a goodbye and you end up tucking yourself into bed. The last thing you hear is the click of his belt he picked up from the living room, the creak of the leather gloves he slides back on and the sonic boom of him flying away.

And you know that when you wake up if it wasn't for your ruined panties, your throbbing cunt or even the ripped poster in the living room you wouldn't believe any of it was real.

You sure hope there will be a next time.

[Part 2]

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[dixons-sunshine]

Improvement | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Summary: After starting a playful argument with your partner about not knowing whether or not he had improved since you two first slept together all those years ago—which you knew he had, you were just messing with him—Daryl decided to take matters into his own hands.

Era: Alexandria, can be any time post Saviour war.

Genre: Smut.

Warnings: Porn without plot, basically, soft sex (I think), unprotected p in v, swearing, dirty talk, praise, others I am probably missing.

Word count: 1.3k

A/N: So...hi lol. I haven’t written anything in over three weeks, so this was long overdue. This was mainly written for practice because I am not that confident in my smut writing skills, but I hope you all like this! And thank you so much to @dixonsdarkelf for being a second set of eyes 💜

The sound of soft gasps and groans filled the air in the bedroom. The sun had begun its descent into the horizon, illuminating the room in a way that gave the atmosphere a more romantic feel. The room was warm, the summer heat clinging to every atom it could. However, the heat in the room did not compare to the warmth of the archer on top of you.

Daryl’s warm, solid body pressed against yours, his bare chest nearly flush against yours, your breasts moving with each thrust of his hips. His face was buried in your neck, his breathing heavy and erratic, his eyes closed as he relished the feeling of pure, utter bliss that washed over his body. Your moans and gasps of pleasure reached his ears with each snap of his hips against yours, and that sound was like music.

“Oh, Daryl,” you drawled your partner’s name, your voice several octaves higher than usual. Daryl’s dick dragged against your walls deliciously, hitting that one spot inside of you that he knew well. “Oh god, just like that.”

“Yeah?” Daryl whispered into your ear, breathless and panting. He snapped his hips against yours, his cock hitting that spot once more, and it tore a breathless ‘Daryl’ from your chest. Soft, almost asking, begging, pleading for him to get you over that edge in the way that only he could. “Y’like that, Sweetheart?”

You nodded frantically, your eyes rolling to the back of your head when he picked up his pace, going a little faster, a little harder, a little deeper. “Yes,” you whined, your fingers tangling in his brown locks. “Jesus Christ, please don’t stop.”

“Not even if the world was endin’,” Daryl promised you. He pulled his head up from your neck, only to then lower it back down to capture your lips with his for a messy but absolutely perfect kiss.

If it were any other situation, you would make a joke about what he said. Probably say something along the lines of “well the world already ended.” But not now. Not while he was making you feel so good. Not while you were steadily approaching that edge, getting ready to dive headfirst off of it, right into the pool of immense pleasure.

Without breaking the kiss, and without letting his pace falter, Daryl snuck one of his hands down your body, gliding lower and lower, softly kneading at your flesh along the way, until it reached its destination. Daryl smirked slightly against your lips when he gently pressed his thumb against your clit, loving the way your body responded to his touch.

Not missing a beat, he began rubbing slow, tight circles against the little bundle of nerves, his kisses trailing from your mouth to your cheek, your jaw, down your neck to your collarbone. The urge to mark you was strong, but he resisted. You were going on a run that following day, with people in the group who would be relentless in their teasing if they saw hickeys on you. Because of that, his teeth only lightly nipped at your flesh, enough to cause pressure but not enough to leave a mark.

“Oh my—oh my god.” The sounds that escaped your mouth were downright pornographic. Your mind was clouded, that coil in your belly winding tighter and tighter. You weren’t going to last much longer, that you knew for certain.

Daryl groaned when you lightly tugged his hair, his breath hitching at the feeling of you clenching on his cock, squeezing him, a sign that you were at your peak. You just needed that little push to fully let go.

“Come on, Sweetheart,” Daryl whispered into your ear, pressing a tender kiss to the skin there. “Let go f’me. Wanna feel you.”

Almost as if his words were the key to unlock the metaphorical gate, the coil in your stomach snapped. Waves upon waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure washed over you. You arched your back and let your hands fall to Daryl’s shoulders, gripping them to try and ground yourself as your orgasm continued to take over your body. Soft whimpers spewed from your lips, muffled only by the archer kissing you once more. You could taste the faint linger of the cigarette he had earlier on his tongue, mixed with the flavour of the whiskey he had drunk before this. There was something else as well, something you could not quite make out, but that wasn’t important.

When the fog in your mind cleared just enough for you to be lucid, you detached your lips from his and focused on Daryl. His brow was furrowed, quiet grunts slipping past his lips as his thrusts grew sloppier, but his pace sped up. He was close. You knew it. You could practically feel it.

“You close, Baby?” you asked breathlessly, leaning up slightly to press your lips to his jaw. “You gonna let go for me this time?” Your lips moved lower, lightly nipping at the flesh beneath his jaw and smirking slightly when Daryl muttered a quiet fuck. “Come on, Dar.”

With one, two, three more thrusts, Daryl came undone. He snapped his hips forward, locking himself there as he spilled deep inside of you, small, quiet curses spilled past his lips. The archer dropped his head to rest against your shoulder, his body shaking and his mind clouding up in the best way possible.

You were breathless, still coming down from your own euphoric high as you held Daryl, your fingers gliding through his hair and lightly scratching his scalp as they went. The huntsman was panting, his eyes screwed shut and holding his body weight up with his shaking arms, trying his hardest not just to collapse on top of you.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, just basking in each other’s presence and slowly coming back to reality. It was peaceful, quiet, except for the sound of your erratic breathing that was beginning to even out.

You were the first to break the silence. “Wow.”

That made Daryl chuckle. He lifted his head and gazed down at you, his beautiful ocean-like eyes scanning over your face. Even after all these years together, after many times of being in this exact position, Daryl could never get over how absolutely gorgeous you looked post orgasm, how you seemed to positively glow. “Yeah. Wow.”

You raised your hand and gently cupped Daryl’s cheek, a lazy, contented smile on your face. “I love you.”

A small, genuine smile graced the archer’s features. He turned his head and pressed a tender kiss to your wrist. “Love ya too.”

Slowly and carefully, he gently eased his cock out of you, and you instantly missed the feeling of him. However, your heart swelled with love when you saw Daryl reached for his discarded shirt on the floor, using it as a makeshift rag and gently cleaning you up. When he was done, he flopped down on the bed next to you, opening his arms so that you could snuggle into his chest, which you did.

With a contented sigh, you closed your eyes. However, Daryl’s voice cut through the air before you could begin to drift off.

“Y’think I’ve improved?”

Laughing lightly, thoughts of your earlier playful argument surfaced to the forefront of your mind, the very reason you both were here at that moment. “Yeah,” you mused. “You have definitely improved since our first time.”

Daryl hummed, a small, satisfied smile tugging at his lips. “Told ya so.”

“Oh I know you’ve improved. I was just joking around earlier,” you told him, pressing a kiss to his chest. “And I was hoping that it would rile you up so that this could happen.”

“Mhm,” Daryl hummed again. “You could’a jus’ asked.”

“Now where’s the fun in that?” you joked. “Seeing you all riled up…it’s hot as fuck.”

Daryl scoffed, but that small smile didn’t falter. “If ya say so.”

[lanawinterscigarettes]

More Important (Greg House x gn reader x James Wilson)

Summary: you not feeling well is far more important than work in your boyfriends' eyes

Warnings: the reader is sick/doesn't feel good but it isn't specified the reason why so it's pretty much up for interpretation, House and Wilson are both loving and worried boyfriends, kind of hurt/comfort given the themes, brief and mild swearing, they/them pronouns are used to refer to the reader one (1) time in a gender neutral manner

A/N: I felt awful when I woke up the other day and when I went back to sleep I had a dream with House and Wilson that ended up inspiring this fic

When you woke up that morning, every muscle in your body ached as if someone had dropped a sack of bricks on you while you slept. As much as you wanted to just stay in bed, you unfortunately had to get up to use the bathroom.

House was still asleep next to you, letting out the occasional peaceful snore despite the time indicating he'd be late for work if he didn't wake up soon. Not that he cared.

Wilson was already up and ready, from what you could tell. That assumption was later confirmed when you stumbled to the bathroom, the sight before you making it seem as though your boyfriend was being serenaded by the sound of the blow dryer as he fixed his hair.

"Are you almost done? I need the bathroom," you mumbled groggily, leaning up against the side of the doorframe while you waited for him to finish.

"Well, good morning to you, too," He responded in a voice that was far too chipper for your taste given how early it was. "And yeah, almost." He shut off the blow dryer and turned to face you, his big brown eyes studying you with a slight look of concern. Being a doctor, of course he could recognize when something was physically wrong.

"Are you okay?" He tentatively asked, trying to approach the subject in a delicate manner. After all the time he'd spent with House he knew not everyone wanted to talk about their feelings or even admit when something was wrong.

"Yeah, 'm fine. Jus' have a slight headache." Technically it wasn't a full lie, as your head did hurt, but you were greatly underexaggerating the pain level in hopes he wouldn't worry.

Big mistake. Almost as soon as you shut the bathroom door did Wilson turn and head towards the bedroom with the full intent of waking up your other boyfriend.

By the time you were done, both House and Wilson were standing close together, presumably discussing your supposed symptoms, even if you couldn't hear what they were saying.

"I know you guys are talking about me," you grumbled out the accusation while shuffling back over to the bed. Wilson looked a bit guilty to be talking about something involving you behind your back, but House just seemed amused you still had the energy required to dish out snark despite not feeling good.

"Whatever led you to that conclusion?" House asked rhetorically. "We very well could've been discussing what traffic will be like on the way in to work, or our favorite romantic movies." At that, Wilson rolled his eyes in annoyance. House ignored him, finishing with, "Not everything is about you, y'know."

"Don't play dumb with me," was the only thing you could manage to get out as a response given how tired you were. Collapsing onto the bed, you curled under the covers in hopes that maybe all you needed was a couple hours of extra sleep.

Too exhausted for your brain to work properly, you only picked up bits and pieces of their conversation. From what you could tell, they were trying to decide whether or not they should stay home from work to look after you, and if so who it should be out of the two of them.

"I'll stay here with them. Just tell Cuddy I can't come in today because of a medical emergency," House offered while glancing over at your blanket clad form. As much as he acted like he didn't care, he didn't enjoy seeing you in pain, even if it was over something small.

"Are you sure?" Wilson questioned, just to double check in case he wanted to change his mind.

House nodded his head to confirm, uttering "yeah, I'm sure" in an uncharacteristically soft voice.

You heard the sound of footsteps approaching, feeling as Wilson leaned down to press a kiss to your face, murmuring the words "I have to go to work, but I'll be back soon". You just nodded, too weak to say anything more than a quiet "love you".

After he left, House made his way back over to the bed, gently nudging what he assumed to be your leg with his cane. "Move over," he commanded in his usual gruff manner that led little room for argument.

Obliging, you shifted over on the bed, giving him the space to lay down in his normal spot. "Sorry."

He let out a sigh as he got on the bed, feeling a little bad he was so rude given just how pathetic you looked. "It's fine."

The two of you were quiet for a moment before you spoke up again, your voice sounding a little hoarse. "I'm sorry you got stuck here with me. I'm sure you'd rather be doing anything else other than this."

As much as he didn't want to admit it, hearing you say that hurt his heart a little. Then again, he couldn't necessarily blame you for thinking that. "Not true. Why would I want to be in a hospital full of sick people I don't even like when I could be with only one sick person I can at least tolerate?"

You let out a snort of laughter, fully recognizing the jest in his tone. He obviously cared, the grumpy bastard, even if he didn't show it very often.

He felt accomplished when he heard your laugh, continuing in a softer and more genuine tone. "Besides, some things are more important, anyway."

"Mhm." Humming softly in agreement, you moved closer to him on the bed until your head was resting against his shoulder, making sure to give him the space to get up and stretch his leg if he needed to later on. "I love you."

A faint smile formed on his face at your words, one of his arms reaching over to wrap around you protectively. "I know." It was his own way of showing his love for you without having to say the words.

Feeling comfortable and safe in his arms, you must've dozed off because the next thing you remembered was being woken up by the sound of a door opening and shutting.

"Could you be any louder?" House's irritated voice rang out through your ears, the sound not being entirely unpleasant even if it did manage to wake you up more.

"Sorry," you heard Wilson apologize in a hushed tone. There's no way it was evening already, which meant he must've gotten off work early.

"What are you doing back here?" You called out, your voice sounding tired yet curious. "You're supposed to still be at work."

"I couldn't stay knowing you were home sick," he responded as he slipped under the covers next to you, not even bothering to change into more comfortable clothes first.

"Oh, sure, just forget all about me," House complained in mock offense, something that Wilson chose to outrightly ignore.

"But the hospital- I mean, you're the head of oncology, you can't just-"

"Some things are more important," Wilson gently cut off your worries, his hand reaching out to rest on top of yours.

"Hm, that sounds familiar," you muttered while giving House a look that said 'I know you two have been talking about me again'. He looked back as if he had no clue what your deal was.

"Go back to sleep, honey. We'll both still be here when you wake back up." It was hard to ignore the command of the oncologist next to you, especially when he spoke in such a low and soothing way.

"Okay," you agreed without a fight, snuggling comfortably into the arms of your two boyfriends as you closed your eyes and allowed sleep to overtake you yet again, starting to feel a lot better already.

End notes: I feel like I'm not very good at writing fics with poly couples which is a damn shame because I really love doing it </3

Likes < reblogs | comments are greatly appreciated | requests are currently open

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[aleksatia]

🍎Caleb – The Tea, the Rice, and Everything Between (NSFW)

🍎 Thank you so much for 100+ reblogs!

As promised — the cut scene is here, and it’s hot. Like multiple-times hot. No angst this time. No tears. Just heat, tension, and everything you’ve been waiting for.

Enjoy, sinners 💋

Original Story: Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Caleb.

CW/TW: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, squirting, emotionally charged sex, mild dom/sub dynamics, hair pulling, praise, kitchen setting, bath/shower intimacy, established relationship, break-up/reunion themes, references to past emotional conflict

Pairing: Caleb x ex-wife!you Genre: Second-chance romance with heat and history. Exes-to-lovers (again), soft smut built on old ache. Domestic intimacy, emotional vulnerability, tenderness with teeth. Kitchen floor confessions, and sex like remembering. Summary: A blind date gone wrong — or exactly right. What begins as awkward reconnection turns into something slower, deeper: a return not just to each other, but to a shared language of touch, trust, and home. Where sex isn’t just sex — it’s communication. And staying. Word Count: 6.3K AN: This was a cut scene, and honestly, I’m terrified to post something this explicit in English — it’s not my first language. I’ve written smut before, but this time I was genuinely afraid it might ruin the tone of the main story. That’s why I’m relying on your feedback and comments more than ever — to understand how I can make intimate scenes better, and whether you’d want to see this kind of content in future stories, where the sex truly means something.

The kitchen was unfamiliar.

Not because it wasn’t yours — it was. Technically. Legally. But the way he moved in it, casual and precise, made you feel like the guest.

He stood barefoot on the cold tile, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, forearms dusted with fine scars and memory. He opened cabinets like he still remembered where everything was. Like no time had passed. Like his hands hadn’t once learned to forget the shape of your cupboard handles.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, voice low, too steady.

“You make it sound like a peace offering.”

“It’s not,” he replied, not missing a beat. “It’s a ritual. And we need a buffer.”

You didn’t argue.

The kettle clicked into place with a hiss and a red glow. The same model you’d bought when you still lived together. Sleek. Quiet. Fast. He filled it, turned it on, leaned back against the counter like the space belonged to him — or like he’d decided not to care whether it did.

You watched him like you were learning a new species.

There was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Or maybe it had, and now it simply had nowhere to hide. His jaw worked — subtle, steady — as if every moment in this room was a negotiation. With himself. With you.

“You still drink green?” he asked.

“Only if it’s the thyme kind.”

He nodded. Moved to the cabinet.

You saw it before he touched it: the tin. Still there.

Still labeled in your handwriting. Still slightly dented from the time it fell when you were arguing about your night shifts — how he said he missed you, and you said he loved control more than company. You remembered the crash. The silence after. The tea everywhere. You had cried then — not because of the fight, but because the scent reminded you of a week in Kyoto, of a night in a ryokan, of him.

Now, he held it like something sacred. Not romantic — sacred. Like an object recovered from the ruins of something holy.

He didn’t speak as he measured the leaves. The kettle began its low boil, and your breath caught as the room filled with steam and tension and scent.

Caleb glanced at you then — just once. Just enough.

“You always said tea was foreplay for the soul,” he murmured. “Slow. Precise. Intimate.”

You swallowed. The air was too warm. Too full of unsaid things. “And you always made it like you were loading a gun.”

He smiled. Barely. “Still am.”

He poured. No splash. No hesitation. Just a perfect arc of water over leaves, a ritual in slow motion. You watched the steam rise. It curled between you like a phantom limb — reaching, touching, remembering.

Two cups. No sugar. No honey. Just heat and bitterness and memory.

He handed you yours without a word. Your fingers brushed.

Electric.

Your spine straightened like it had heard a command. Your lips parted, but nothing came out. The words you wanted weren’t words at all.

He leaned in, just enough to murmur against the shell of your ear:

“Tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t.

The space between you went taut — a livewire stretched thin.

He didn’t move closer. Not physically. But the way he looked at you — steady, slow, eyes dark and locked — made it feel like the room tilted toward him. Like your body might step forward without your consent.

Your breath shallowed.

He lifted a hand — not reaching, just hovering at his side, like a promise left hanging. The kind you could lean into. Or break.

You didn’t touch it. But your fingers curled.

The distance between you hummed. Your chest rose once — deep, instinctual — and you swore he noticed. Like he felt it.

A beat passed. Then another.

And then — as if some invisible string snapped — you turned away. Not retreating. Just breathing. Moving. Giving yourself an anchor.

You crossed the room, slow and careful, and sat across from him.

Now the table was between you. But it felt like nothing at all.

The sun was low, casting long golden lines across the floor, slicing through the room like truth. You didn’t turn on the lights. Neither of you said it aloud, but it was mutual. Sacred.

Shadows suited you both.

The tea was hot. Thyme, heady and clean. You lifted the cup to your lips, slowly, deliberately — not for the ritual, but for the pause it allowed. A shield. A stall. The steam curled upward, catching the light in fleeting halos.

He mirrored you, his fingers curled around the ceramic just a breath tighter than necessary. You noticed that — the way he always held things as if they might vanish. Or combust.

You took a sip.

Too hot. But you didn’t flinch. You swallowed, slow, and he noticed. You felt it — in the brief silence after, in the way his eyes flicked down to your throat and then back up. It wasn’t a leer. It was worse. It was reverence, edged with hunger.

You felt your breath catch.

He watched you like he was cataloguing reactions. Heat. Shiver. Pulse. The involuntary things. The things you didn’t mean to offer, but did.

“Still drink too fast,” he said softly, voice just this side of amused.

“And you still watch like it’s a crime,” you countered, setting your cup down with a sound softer than your own heartbeat.

That earned a ghost of a smile. The dangerous kind. The one he used when he was testing how far he could push before you snapped.

The room smelled like tea and him.

You hated that you could still pick out his scent from the air. Not cologne — that had faded. But the skin-memory of him. Leather and salt. The way a shirt held heat. The phantom weight of him in a hallway, a room, a bed.

He shifted.

Just enough for his knee to brush yours under the table. Not hard. Not even purposeful. But your breath hitched anyway, and the contact lingered a second too long to be nothing.

Your fingers tightened around the cup.

Caleb didn’t comment. He just leaned back slightly, stretching — a move that pulled his shirt across his chest, arms flexed, body all muscle memory and controlled casualness.

You knew better.

This was performance. Precision. The way predators move when they’re circling.

You exhaled through your nose, slow. Collected.

“Still stretch like you want people to notice.”

He raised a brow. “And yet only you ever did.”

There it was. The shift.

You let it land. Let it sit between you like the steam from the cups, slow and rising.

His eyes caught yours — not sharp, not heated, but slow-burning. The kind of look that traced rather than pierced. Like he was remembering you with his pupils. Carving new versions of you in real time.

“You’re doing it again,” you said, your voice quieter now.

“What?”

“Looking at me like you’re starving.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it.

“I’ve been starving,” he said, simply.

It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t a plea. It was a biological fact, laid bare like bone.

The sun moved lower.

Light sliced across the floor, catching the dust in the air — or maybe ash. Maybe some part of you had already started to burn.

You shifted slightly, and your leg brushed his again — this time unmistakable. This time yours. His jaw twitched.

Outside, a bird cried. Distant. The world, somehow, was still turning.

“You haven’t asked if I want this,” you said, not blinking.

“I don’t have to,” he said, just as soft. “You breathe differently when you do.”

You blinked once. That was all.

Then you picked up your cup again. Sipped. Let the thyme scald your mouth like penance.

The silence swelled. And it was good.

It was weighted and ripe and full of things with teeth. Things that growled low in the chest. Things that waited to be touched.

He reached out — not to you. To your cup. A finger trailing the rim after you set it down, brushing a spot still warm from your lips.

The motion was casual. The meaning wasn’t.

Your mouth went dry.

And still — still — you didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You weren’t ready to break the spell. Not yet.

The air had teeth now. And it was breathing with you.

“Want more tea?” you asked.

You didn’t mean for your voice to sound like that. Too soft. Too deliberate.

But the words were already out, and your body was already halfway to the cabinet, like something inside you had already voted yes.

He didn’t answer.

You moved.

The cabinet clicked open with a familiar sound — that slight hitch in the hinge from years of use. Your fingers weren’t steady. You tried to hide it, but they trembled — just slightly — as you reached inside.

You moved a jar. Then another. Something metal clinked softly. Your hand brushed a tin of loose thyme, nudged a spice grinder. You weren’t really looking — not at first. Just buying yourself seconds. Trying to breathe through the static building under your skin.

Finally, your fingertips found the edge of the tea tin — cool metal, familiar weight — and curled around it.

The weight of the moment settled lightly across your shoulders. But it was growing. And you hadn’t even turned around yet.

Then — you felt him. Behind you.

No sound. No warning. Just the heat of him. The presence.

His chest hovered a breath away from your spine. Not touching — not yet — but so close you could feel the current of his breath ripple the fine hairs at your nape. And then — he moved.

A single hand slid around your waist, gliding low and sure — not possessive, not greedy.

Just anchoring.

His other hand came up beside yours, fingers brushing over yours as they both closed around the tea tin — steady, intentional.

You both held it for a moment. His thumb grazed the side of your hand, and the touch was light, but it hit like a jolt.

Then, without a word, he guided your movements — the rhythm slow, precise, like teaching a forgotten dance.

You opened the lid together. The scent of thyme rose instantly — earthy, dry, sharp in the back of your throat.

His fingers dipped in first, then yours. He didn’t let go — only moved with you, hand over hand, warm against your skin. 

Together, you scooped the leaves. Together, you dropped them into the teapot — soft rustle, metal click, heat behind your sternum.

He reached for the kettle, still standing behind you, close. Too close.

He leaned in, his mouth dangerously close to your ear.

“If your hands keep shaking like that,” he murmured, voice like heat sliding down your spine, “you’re gonna drop the whole damn thing.”

His breath skimmed your skin.

“You always did fall apart in the quiet moments.”

You tried to respond. A sound caught in your throat — something between a breath and a whimper — and it stuttered out, betraying you.

That was when his second hand moved.

Up your spine. Slow.

Palm flat, gliding with unbearable care, tracing every vertebra like reading braille — and then curling gently around the back of your neck. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just claiming.

Your body tightened in response. Knees locked. Fingertips trembled.

He pressed in, finally — chest to back, hips aligned, his breath warm at your temple as his hand guided yours to tilt the kettle.

Water flowed. The hiss of the pour filled the room like breath. Steam rose between you

Steady. 

But your body — it wasn’t. Your shoulders jerked slightly with each breath, each phantom trail of his mouth near your skin. Your hand twitched, betraying you again. A spasm of want.

A soft clatter overhead.

And then —

crash.

The jar of rice tipped from the top shelf, hit the counter with a sickening grace, and burst — a spray of white scattering across the floor like bones or snow or silence breaking.

You gasped, instinctively.

And that’s when his hand — the one at your nape — clenched.

Not hard. But firm.

The kind of grip that made your lungs freeze mid-inhale. That made your throat work around the air like it was thick with heat. His fingers laced into your hair — not rough, not cruel — just decisive. Unmistakable.

He tilted your head back. Slow. Unrelenting.

And then—

His mouth found your skin.

Not lips. Not a kiss.

Mouth. Open. Hungry.

Along the curve of your cheek. Down to your jaw.

Your pulse jumped beneath his tongue when it hit the hollow of your neck. His breath was wet and warm and anchored, like he was planting a flag with every inch of contact. Claiming space that once was his and never stopped being.

Your hands had no grace left. One flew to the edge of the counter — the other clawed back, found his wrist, fingers digging into his skin. Hard.

Not to stop him.

To feel him. To mark him.

His other hand shifted — lower now — palm pressing flat to your belly, then clenching, dragging you into him, spine to chest, making it absolutely, unforgivably clear just how gone he already was.

You whimpered. This time you didn’t hide it.

It slipped out, molten and trembling, and you felt his grip tighten in response — not enough to bruise, but just enough to make you feel kept.

The room pulsed.

Your breath broke.

And still, he didn’t speak. Because he didn’t have to.

The rice lay scattered on the floor like shattered promises. Your breath fogged the inside of your chest like a storm you’d stopped outrunning. And his mouth — god, his mouth — was still at your throat.

Poised. Lingering. Like he hadn’t even started yet.

He only let go of your neck to turn you around — swift, certain, hands gripping your hips as he pulled you flush against him. You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on yours, open, hot, demanding.

No teasing now.

His tongue pushed past your lips like he owned the space, like he’d been dying to taste you for years, and you let him — moaning into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his shirt, pulling, clutching, needing.

You wanted him close enough to hurt.

He lifted you, didn’t ask, didn’t warn. Just picked you up by the thighs and laid you down onto the kitchen floor — right where the rice had scattered. Cold tile met your back, shocking at first, but it didn’t matter — not with him above you, between your legs, kneeling, eyes so dark they barely looked human.

He tore your shirt open — buttons flying. No ceremony. Just raw, frantic need.

The leather corset underneath was still on — tight, structured, hugging every breath out of you.

His eyes dragged over it like it was the only thing keeping him sane. And maybe it was.

“No bra?” he rasped, voice wrecked.

You grinned, breathless. “Didn’t expect to come home with company.”

His mouth found your nipple instantly — no hesitation, no teasing prelude, just need.

But once there, he slowed.

His tongue drew slow, deliberate circles around the stiffened peak — not touching it directly at first, just building heat, pressure, anticipation. His breath ghosted over the damp skin between passes, and your back arched, seeking more.

Then he closed his lips around you — warm, wet, and steady — sucking just hard enough to make your breath hitch. Your fingers tangled in his hair, anchoring him there, gasping as his tongue flicked rapidly, then flattened, then flicked again.

You moaned when his teeth grazed you — just a scrape, a warning. Enough to make your hips jerk up against him involuntarily.

And he felt it.

He grunted low in his throat, hand sliding up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing the second nipple with maddening gentleness — then a sudden pinch. Sharp, quick, perfect.

You cried out, biting your lip hard to catch the sound.

He switched sides without a word, mouth latching onto the other nipple like he owned it. This time he bit first — just a nip, followed by a sweep of tongue, a kiss, a suck that made your thighs clench and your breath break into fragments.

You were grinding against him now, fully clothed from the waist down, but soaking through. Desperate.

“Caleb,” you breathed, voice barely holding together. 

His mouth didn’t stop. His hands didn’t stop.

He was unraveling you one nipple at a time, with patience, with precision, with a hunger that had waited too long.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your skin, “you still make the same sound when you’re about to come.”

“Keep going,” you panted, “and you’ll hear it again.”

He undid your leather pants with one hand — rough, practiced, fingers tugging at the tight laces, then the zipper. You lifted your hips without being asked, breath catching as the cool air met your skin.

The leather peeled off your thighs slowly, sticking where your sweat had slicked the inside, and he paused, looking down — drinking you in.

Lacy black panties. Damp. Barely holding on.

He let out a low, almost reverent whistle.

“Well, fuck me,” he murmured, voice thick. “Even your underwear wants an audience.”

You laughed, breathless. “You’re one to talk. You look like you just walked off the set of Colonel Kink.”

He smirked. “I was gonna say we looked like a porn parody of Mr. & Mrs. Smith, but hey, I’ll take it.”

Then — the mood shifted. The heat didn’t go anywhere, but it sharpened.

His hands slid up your thighs again — palms flat, slow, thumbs stroking the insides where the skin was most sensitive. He sank to his knees without breaking eye contact, and you felt your breath stall completely.

“Caleb…”

“I’ve missed this,” he said, voice low, honest, almost reverent. “The way you smell when you want me. The way you taste when you’re soaked through your pretty little lace.”

You moaned, hips twitching as his breath hit your core through the damp fabric. He leaned in — pressed his face right against you — and inhaled.

Long. Deep. Like it centered him.

You gasped, one hand flying back to brace on the counter behind you. The other slid into his hair, tight.

Then —

His teeth caught the edge of your panties. He didn’t use his hands. Just his mouth. Slow, deliberate tugs — the lace catching on your hips, your thighs, your knees, until it fell away entirely.

You were shaking.

He didn’t speak.

He kissed the inside of your thigh — once, twice — then let his lips trail up, open, soft, worshipful.

Then his fingers joined in.

Two, sliding through your folds, slow and steady, spreading your slick as his mouth hovered just above you.

You whimpered, hips rolling into his touch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmured, thumb circling your clit with maddening patience. “You always were. Every twitch. Every breath. I could map you blind.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Lips sealing around your clit. Tongue flicking, then flattening, then dragging up through your folds with obscene precision. He moaned against you, the sound vibrating into your skin, and your knees nearly gave out.

His fingers slid inside — two at once — curling just right.

You cried out, legs trembling, gripping his hair like a lifeline as he devoured you with slow, skilled, devastating intent.

Not rushing. Not teasing. Just giving.

Giving you everything.

His tongue moved in rhythm with his fingers — curling inside you, pressing into that spot that made you whimper every time he found it. And he kept finding it. Over and over.

Your thighs started to shake. Your breath turned ragged. Every muscle in your abdomen coiled tighter, tighter, tighter—

“Caleb,” you gasped, voice high and wrecked. “Caleb, I—”

“I know,” he murmured against you. “Don’t fight it.”

And then he flattened his tongue, sucked your clit into his mouth at the exact moment he thrust his fingers deeper — curling, pressing, relentless.

You broke.

Your whole body seized. A strangled cry ripped from your throat as the orgasm tore through you like a wave too big to ride.

And then — you gushed.

Hot, sudden, uncontrollable.

Your release poured over his hand, his wrist, his mouth — and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop. He kept licking. Kept sucking. His fingers didn’t let up, coaxing you through every spasm, every twitch, every drop.

You tried to pull away — overwhelmed, oversensitive — but he gripped your hips, holding you there as he swallowed everything you gave him.

When you finally collapsed back against the floor, boneless and shaking, he pulled back just enough to breathe.

His mouth glistened. So did his chin.

And his eyes — fuck, his eyes — were dark. Wild. Unhinged.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked up at you.

“You squirted for me,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “You never used to—”

“I couldn’t,” you whispered, chest heaving. “Not like this. Not until now.”

That broke something in him.

He growled — actually growled — and shoved his own pants down, just enough, cock springing free.

Thick. Hard. Already leaking.

You stared — couldn’t help it — and bit your lip.

He didn’t waste time.

He surged up, caught your mouth in a desperate, wet kiss, and growled into it like he’d explode if he didn’t get inside you right fucking now.

One hand on your thigh, the other lining himself up, he ran the head of his cock along your folds — slow, deliberate, reverent — letting the slick heat of your release coat him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re still dripping for me.” His voice was raw, full of awe and hunger all at once. “You don’t even know what that does to me.”

You moaned, desperate. “Please.”

He didn’t ask again.

He pushed in with one brutal, beautiful thrust — thick stretch, sudden fullness, and your head slammed back against the tile with a moan that echoed off the cabinets.

You were so ready for him — still pulsing from release, still wet and open — and he filled you perfectly. Like he’d been made for this. For you.

“God—” he hissed. “You’re so tight. So fucking tight.”

He pulled out halfway, then slammed in again, harder — and this time, you cried out again. Not from pain. Not from relief.

From the shockwave of it.

From the way his cock hit deeper than his fingers ever could. From the sudden ache of fullness that wasn’t too much — just perfect. Every thrust dragged against oversensitive nerves, still trembling from the last orgasm, and sparked new heat — sharper, lower, hungrier.

Your body clenched around him like it didn’t want to let go. Like it knew this shape. Like it had missed the stretch, the press, the claim of him moving inside.

He felt it.

And you felt him feel it — in the way his hands gripped harder, in the way his breath stuttered, in the way he buried himself deeper, groaning your name like a man being remade from the inside out.

His pace quickened, relentless — no buildup, no mercy — just a driving, desperate rhythm that spoke every word his mouth couldn’t.

He fucked you like he was trying to erase every other man, every ghost, every moment you’d spent apart.

Your back arched. Your heels dug into his ass. Nails raked down his back as he pistoned into you, his dog tags swinging between you with every thrust — cold metal brushing your chest.

You caught them between your lips, sucked them in with a soft moan — and he growled at the sight.

Every thrust slammed your hips into the floor, scattering grains of rice that stuck to your skin like sparks from the fire you’d started.

You were panting, gasping, clawing — but you still wanted more.

“Harder,” you begged. “Fuck — Caleb, harder.”

He snarled, grabbed both your thighs, and bent them up toward your chest, folding you open.

And then he really fucked you. Deep. Rough. Unrelenting.

You felt every inch. Every pulse. His pelvis slammed into your clit with each thrust, sending lightning through your body.

You were close again. So close it hurt.

“I can feel you clenching,” he groaned, eyes locked on yours. “You gonna come on my cock? Right here, on the fucking kitchen floor?”

You nodded — couldn’t speak — hands scrabbling at his shoulders, nails biting deep.

“Say it,” he demanded, breath ragged. “Say who’s fucking you like this.”

“You,” you choked. “You are.”

“Louder.”

“You are! Caleb — fuck, I’m—”

Your orgasm hit like a detonation — white-hot, blinding, body convulsing beneath him as your scream tore from your throat. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just fucked you through it, driving deeper, chasing his own end.

And then — with a low, vicious growl — he spilled into you, hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside as he came with a force that made your thighs shake.

He collapsed over you, panting, body heavy and warm.

The only sound in the room was your breathing. Intertwined. Labored. Wild.

The floor was a mess — scattered rice, your clothes, his pants around his thighs.

But neither of you moved.

His forehead pressed to yours. His hand found your chest — palm over your racing heart — and just stayed there.

You didn’t say a word. There was nothing left to say.

Only this. Only you, full of him, aching and open and alive.

Still drunk on the wreckage of it all.

His breath was still uneven when he moved — slow, deliberate, like your body was made of something breakable. He slipped his arms beneath you, palms warm under your thighs and back, and lifted you off the tile with a quiet grunt.

You didn’t protest.

You curled into him like muscle memory, like gravity, arms looping around his shoulders, forehead pressed to his temple. He was still inside you — thick, warm, softening but not gone — and you gasped as the movement made everything inside shift.

“Jesus,” you muttered, breath catching. “There’s so much... I can’t hold it all.”

He laughed against your cheek — low, hoarse, completely wrecked.

“Well,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin, “you did say you were ready to be filled.”

You groaned, but couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet you’re clinging to me like I’m the last piece of furniture on a sinking ship.”

“Shut up,” you breathed, nuzzling into his neck. “You feel like home.”

He eased himself back against the cabinets, still holding you, your legs wrapped around his waist, bodies impossibly close. One of his hands came up to cradle your face — fingers tracing your cheekbone, your temple, your jaw — as if checking that you were real. That this was real.

You kissed him softly. Not with urgency this time. Just presence.

It tasted like salt and breath and belonging.

His thumb swept across your bottom lip. Yours followed the line of his collarbone, the dip of his throat, the stubble on his jaw. You both moved like you had all the time in the world — like the world outside didn’t exist.

Only the kitchen. Only the smell of tea. Only the aftershock still pulsing between your thighs.

“You still shake a little after,” he whispered against your lips. “Always loved that.”

You huffed a breath. “I’m trying to have a moment here, not give you a performance review.”

He grinned, forehead pressed to yours. “You passed.”

Then his hips shifted slightly, just enough for his cock to nudge deeper again — still thick, still present — and you shivered.

“…Are you—?”

You leaned back, just enough to glance between your bodies. Then raised a brow.

“Seriously?” you asked. “Already?”

He gave a slow, sheepish smile. “I mean… you’re still wrapped around me. What’d you expect?”

You tilted your head, faux innocent. “Self-control?”

He scoffed. “We’re past that.”

And god — he was right.

Because even now, you could feel him swelling again, twitching back to life inside you, warmth pooling low in your belly as your body responded without permission. You clenched around him — slowly, deliberately — and watched his jaw tighten.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” he warned, voice already lower, darker.

You smirked. “I’m not the one starting anything. You’re the one growing like a goddamn resurrection spell.”

He laughed — breathless, wrecked — and kissed you again. Deeper this time. Tongue slow and hungry, hands sliding over your back, your ass, your thighs, like he couldn’t decide what to hold onto first.

You felt the shift again. The air. The way everything started to crackle. Like the storm had only paused. Like it was about to break again — and you were both ready.

You shifted your hips, still seated on him, and he let out a low, strangled breath — head falling back against the cabinet with a quiet thud.

“Fuck, baby…” he groaned. “You’re still so tight.”

You placed your palms on his chest, steadying yourself, and rolled your hips once — slow, languid, letting his cock slide deeper inside you inch by inch. You felt every ridge, every twitch, every pulse.

And he felt everything.

His hands gripped your waist — not rough, but grounding. His eyes locked to yours, pupils blown wide, reverent.

This wasn’t desperation anymore. It was worship.

You started to move. Hips swaying in slow, controlled circles, grinding down on him, letting the heat build again — not like fire this time, but like lava. Deep. Slow. Irresistible.

His hands traveled up your sides, over your ribs, to your breasts — thumbs brushing your nipples with just enough pressure to make your head tilt back, lips part.

“You ride me like you own me,” he murmured.

“I do,” you whispered, breath hitching. “You let me.”

“I’d let you do anything.”

He shifted under you, pulling you closer, burying his face in your neck. His lips grazed your collarbone, your jaw, your throat — slow, tasting, not rushing. His cock throbbed inside you every time you clenched, and you could feel how hard he was trying to hold on.

But you didn’t want him to.

You rolled your hips forward — grinding down just right, pressing your clit against the base of him — and both of you gasped.

“You feel so good,” you moaned, forehead pressing to his. “I missed this. I missed you.”

His hands moved to your ass, squeezing, guiding your rhythm — not controlling it, just keeping pace with your body, your want.

Your mouths met again. Open. Deep. Wet. Tongues sliding, lips sucking, breathing into each other like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room unless you shared it.

“I’m close,” you whispered. “But I don’t want to stop. I want to feel this.”

“Then don’t stop,” he said, voice shaking. “Come on me. Stay on me.”

You did.

You kept moving — long, grinding thrusts, pressure building until it was everywhere — your spine, your chest, your teeth.

Your orgasm came slower this time, but deeper — wave after wave rolling through you as your body shook around him, clenching, holding, welcoming.

You cried out his name, over and over, lips pressed to his mouth, hips jerking with each aftershock.

And he was right there with you.

He gripped your hips hard, fucked up into you twice — deep, sharp thrusts — then groaned deep in his chest as he spilled inside you again, heat blooming between your thighs as his body locked and trembled beneath yours.

But you didn’t let go. Neither of you did.

You stayed wrapped around him — arms tight around his neck, forehead to forehead, bodies still joined, breathing in sync, like something sacred had just been rebuilt between your ribs.

His hands stroked your back. Yours rested over his heart.

No words. Just warmth. Just home.

Then —

A soft crinkle beneath your ankle. Another near your knee. Something tiny, hard.

You both froze.

“…is that rice?” you murmured.

He huffed out a breath, low and amused. “We really fucked right on top of dinner.”

You laughed into his shoulder. “I swear to god, if I find a grain inside me—”

“I’m already praying to Saint Basmati,” he grinned. “Patron of questionable kitchen choices.”

You smacked his arm, still laughing. “Okay, okay. Up. Before the floor gets any ideas.”

He eased you off his lap carefully, his hands lingering as you slid away — and even though he was softening inside you, he groaned like letting go physically cost him something.

You stood, legs a little shaky, wincing as you looked around. The scene was chaos: clothes scattered, skin marked, rice everywhere.

And between your thighs, a slow, unmistakable trickle of cum slid down your inner thigh — warm, sticky, impossible to ignore.

You pressed your legs together out of instinct, but it didn’t help. He’d filled you too much. You were still leaking.

He whistled under his breath. “We might need a priest.”

“We need a vacuum,” you muttered, glancing at the rice field around you.

He chuckled, about to respond — and then his eyes drifted downward.

Paused.

Saw the mess between your thighs. The way it glistened. Trailed down your leg. His expression changed — sharp and slow, heat blooming under the amusement.

He met your eyes again — darker now.

“No,” he said, voice lower. “We need a shower.”

You didn’t argue. Not this time.

He picked you up again — less out of need, more out of want. Because he could. Because you let him. Because, despite everything, it felt good to be carried by someone who knew the shape of you from memory.

The bathroom was warm. Quiet. Your reflection in the mirror looked like another version of you — hair wild, skin flushed, lips kiss-swollen, eyes too full to lie.

The water came first — steam curling like new breath around you both. He reached for the soap, worked it into his hands, and began with your shoulders.

No rush.

His palms slid over your skin slowly — lathering, rinsing, touching. Not to arouse. Not this time.

Just to care.

You returned the favor — ran your hands over his chest, his arms, his back, fingers smoothing over scars you hadn’t seen in months. He watched you. Like he needed to memorize your hands again.

And then —

You felt him.

Hard again. Pressing against your thigh as his hands moved over your stomach.

You looked down. Then back up.

He raised a brow, unashamed.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, biting your lip.

He smirked. “You’re the one rubbing soap all over me. Don’t blame me for biology.”

You chuckled — heart full, body warm — and stepped closer, resting your hand over his chest, right above the beat you trusted more than your own.

“If you’re really ready,” you said quietly, “we can move to the bedroom.”

The implication was clear. And not just about sex.

He saw it. Heard it. Understood.

And didn’t hesitate.

Later —

It was dark. But you didn’t sleep.

You lay tangled together beneath clean sheets, his chest your pillow, his heartbeat your lullaby. One of your hands rested on his stomach, fingers absently playing with his. His other hand threaded through your hair slowly, rhythmically, like he was still washing the day out of it.

The room smelled like skin and steam and thyme. And maybe something new. Or maybe something very, very old.

You didn’t look at him when you asked.

“What does this mean?” your voice was small. Honest. “Are we… together?”

He was silent for a moment. But not because he didn’t have the words.

“I don’t know if we ever weren’t,” he said softly. “Not in my heart. Even when I hated you. Even when I thought I should walk away forever… there was still a thread. Still you.”

You nodded. Bit your lip.

“I get that now,” you whispered. “But I didn’t back then.”

He waited.

You took a breath.

“I think I resented you for how natural it all was. We never really dated. Never had that honeymoon phase. No first kiss under streetlamps or awkward movie nights. No butterflies before a date. Just… us. We grew up together. Shared everything. You saw me cry over my math test, puke with the flu, and have a full-blown breakdown when I didn’t get cast as Juliet in sophomore year.”

You paused, voice thickening.

“I never had to impress you. Never had to put on makeup or play a part. And for a long time, I thought I missed something important. Like I skipped some great adventure.”

He stayed quiet. Let you speak.

“But after you left,” you whispered, “and I tried the whole thing — dating, new people, new experiences — I realized something. None of it mattered. Not without this. Not without you.”

Your fingers tightened slightly in his.

“I don’t need butterflies. I don’t need fireworks. I just need someone who sees me. All of me. And still stays. And god, Caleb, you’re the only man who’s ever done that.”

You finally looked up. Met his eyes in the dark.

“I’m sure now,” you said. “I’m not scared. I don’t need anyone else. You’re it. You’ve always been it.”

He looked at you like you’d just spoken the one truth he’d been waiting his whole life to hear. Then he cupped your face, leaned in, and kissed you — slow, deep, burning.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I always knew,” he said. “And if all the pain, all the time apart — if all of that was the cost for you to know it too… then it was worth every second.”

You kissed him again, and it wasn’t soft this time. It was full of every promise you hadn’t dared make before.

He rolled you beneath him, slowly, tenderly, and your legs opened for him like instinct. Like welcome. Like forever.

And when he slid into you again — this time in the dark, in the warmth, in the quiet — it didn’t feel like fucking.

It felt like staying. Like choosing.

And when you came, clinging to him, whispering his name into his skin like a prayer — you knew this wasn’t a return.

It was a beginning. And god, it was home.

[solxamber]

I saw your valentines event and HAD to participate in it sooooo can you do jamil, romantic, “stupid in love” by max and yunjin

love you girl stay healthy 🔥🔥‼️‼️

"Stupid in Love" || Jamil Viper

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠: Stupid in Love by MAX (ft. HUH YUNJIN)

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 880

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐬: Fluff, Established Relationship

Jamil had spent his entire life planning.

Every move, every decision—calculated. If he strayed, even once, he knew there would be consequences.

And yet, here he was, standing in a tattoo shop with you, heart hammering, watching as you flipped through the sample designs with an amused grin.

“How about this one?” you asked, pointing to a tiny, barely visible crescent moon. “Or, ooooh, what about a cobra? It’d be fitting.”

Jamil smirked, leaning against the counter. “A little on the nose, don’t you think?”

You gasped dramatically. “Fine, then you pick something.”

He should have stopped this a long time ago. When you first laughed and jokingly said, "Hey, what if we got matching tattoos?" When you dragged him into the shop “just to look.” But instead, Jamil had found himself nodding.

He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the way your eyes sparkled when you teased him, or maybe—just maybe—it was because for the first time in his life, he wanted to do something stupid.

No planning. No second-guessing. Just feeling.

The artist came over, raising an eyebrow. “So, what’ll it be?”

You turned to Jamil expectantly, clearly assuming he’d back out. But instead, he met your gaze, calm and steady, and said, “Something small. Something that won’t fade.”

Your mouth parted in surprise. “Wait. You’re actually doing it?”

Jamil exhaled through his nose, amused. “Didn’t you say it was a great idea?”

“I—yes—but—” You waved your hands. “You’re supposed to be the rational one!”

He hummed, rolling up his sleeve. “Maybe I don’t want to be rational today.”

You stared at him, lips twitching like you couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scream. “Okay. Okay. So where do you want it?”

Jamil tapped his wrist, just below his palm. A place he’d see every day. A permanent reminder of this moment. Of you.

Your expression softened, the teasing flickering into something quieter. Warmer. “Alright,” you said, tone suddenly serious. “Then I want mine in the same spot.”

And just like that, the world tilted.

Jamil had spent years convincing himself that love was something distant. That it had no place in his life, not when he was constantly cleaning up after other people’s messes.

But now, as the tattoo needle buzzed and you squeezed his hand like this is really happening, he realized—

He was completely, stupidly in love.

Jamil had never been reckless.

His whole life was a careful balance—his actions, his words, even his emotions, all measured and precise. He knew better than to want things for himself. Knew better than to love things too much.

But then there was you.

And every single rule he had ever followed suddenly felt ridiculous.

He had seen beauty before. Lived among extravagance, surrounded by splendor that others could only dream of. And yet, nothing—not the golden halls of the Asim estate, not the finest silks in the world—had ever made his breath catch like the way you looked at him.

Jamil was many things—logical, pragmatic, trained to see the world for what it was. But when you smiled, he felt something dangerous creep into his chest. Something that whispered, What if?

It was pathetic, really. You could tell him to jump, and he’d ask how high.

Not that he’d ever admit it.

You had no idea how much power you held over him. How one glance, one fleeting touch, could unravel years of careful self-control.

Maybe it was crazy.

Jamil had spent so long being cautious, watching from the sidelines, making sure no one ever got too close. Love was a luxury he couldn’t afford—not when he had obligations, responsibilities, a future that had never truly belonged to him.

And yet, when you pulled him into your ridiculous, impulsive ideas—when you laughed and said, "Let’s get matching tattoos"—he didn’t say no.

Because maybe, for once, he wanted something selfishly.

He pretended not to wait for your texts, not to anticipate the moment he’d see you next. But it was a lie, and a poor one at that.

Because the truth was, he was always waiting for you.

Marriage. Forever. Things he had never even considered before now.

The idea should have been laughable—Jamil wasn’t the type to indulge in fairytales. But when you joked about it, throwing out absurd suggestions like Vegas weddings and matching last names, he felt something tighten in his chest.

Not fear. Not discomfort.

Just the quiet, terrifying realization that if you did ask, he might actually say yes.

There were a thousand reasons why this wouldn’t last.

And yet, none of them mattered.

Because at the end of the day, Jamil was still here. Still standing beside you, still letting you pull him into things he had no business agreeing to.

Still letting himself love you.

He's stupidly in love with you.

Masterlist ; Valentine's Event

[matchaelette]

gif by @yoongi-bts

when jungkook is a vessel of love, and love is as beautiful as the poets said it was

summary: idol!jk and oc!ash, established relationship, the first time 'I love you' was spoken out aloud. the more earlier stages of their relationship. yearning, tenderness, fluff, it's all sickeningly full of love.

genre: fluff

warnings: none.

word count: 3.4k

notes: life updates. one: i'm back. obviously. two: jung hoseok is back and ksj 1 is coming (!!!) three: I am officially a uni student and majoring in civil engineering. classes start from the first week of december. four: I have decided to officially name this drabble series *drumrolls* the hopeless romantic series. so, without further ado, welcome back, our hopeless romantic couple!

you’re in love with jungkook.

no, you’re not allowed to say that.

fuck what you’re allowed and not allowed.

you’re desperately, helplessly, hopelessly in love with jeon jungkook. your gorgeous, gorgeous boy.

yours.

then why are you not allowed to be in love with him?

because you’ve been dating him for three months. three months.

only three months, since you decided to stop pining after him, decided it was enough, after god knows how long. three months since that decision led you to be extremely nonchalant around him, calm and collected to a point where it almost looked fake (you’re a terrible actor), and the next thing you knew, you were heavily making out with him in the chilly air of a fall night. calm and collected, indeed. three months since you learned that jungkook was pining for you in the same manner, if not more, and three freaking months since both of you decided to date, being head over heels for one other ever since.

it's too soon to say ‘I love you’. even if you know deep down that you were in love with him even before dating him– but there’s no way you’re treading that water. the realization of being in love with him right now is enough to freak you out. no, it’s definitely too soon to declare ‘I love you’.

because you don’t know whether jungkook feels the same way. although it’s not like you need or expect him to feel the same way you do. just because you’re in love with him doesn’t mean he has to be. you can happily wait until he’s ready and feels the same way.

you’re just scared that he doesn’t want to feel that way. that you’ll scare him away.

look at him. does he look like he feels the same as you?

jeon jungkook looks like a slow-motion daydream, standing in front of you. tight-fitting jeans, snug around the well-defined muscles of his thighs, and a black checkered shirt, sleeves rolled up, displaying the protruding veins of his arm. his curly hair covers the vein in his forehead, almost reaching down to his lips which were pouting in distress.

yeah, you don’t care how he feels. you’re in love with him.

but you are a graveyard of all the people you ever loved.

you can’t have jungkook join those ghosts of the past.

“this thing–”, the boy of your dream grumbles out loud in real life, breaking your thought train, “–hates me!”

oh, that.

“three hours now. we’ve been trying to fix it for three hours.”, you shake your head, frustrated. you’ve been out all day today and the last thing you wanted to do when you got back home was your laundry. but the lack of fresh clothes compelled you to do it anyway. and everything would’ve been fine had you not entered your laundry room to discover the whole floor flooded with water. panicked and disoriented, your first instinct was to call jungkook, despite it being past midnight. when your boyfriend heard what had happened, he immediately demanded you step aside and that he was already on his way over to your house.

now, it’s four in the morning and you’re both dripping wet, absolutely drained, standing in a puddle of water and soap. all you could do is to stare dejectedly at the washing machine. it was a losing battle.

“oh my god!”, jungkook cries out in indignation, “a minute ago it was sprinkling water in my face, now it’s sprinkling soapy water!”

“jungkook, move away”, you hurriedly pull your boyfriend away from your washing machine. he rebels under your grip, the patience he displayed half an hour ago was now transformed into rage.

how can someone be so cute when they’re mad?

“let me go, ash”, he points a threatening finger at the washing machine, “you wanted a fight, buddy? I’ll give you!”

“jungkook!”, you laugh and wrap your arms around his waist, “it already won! look at us!”

jungkook stares down at your attached bodies, soaked from top to bottom, while the washing machine looks like it is having a field trip.

“okay, I give up”, he sighs and rests his chin on the top of your head, “unless–”

“no unless.”

“hear me out first”, he smooches your hair, “you smell amazing by the way. anyways, unless– wait, what was I going to say? I was supposed to say something amazing.”

“I’m sure it was amazing, babe”, you chuckle with fondness, “but that thing is a lost cause. I’ll call maintenance in the morning. let’s take a shower and go to sleep, okay?”

“mhm. yeah”, he replies in affirmation but only tightens his arms around you.

“I’m sorry for calling you so late. I should’ve just– I don’t know. I mean, it was just a minor inconvenience. not a big deal. I don’t know why I freaked out–”

“princess, ssh”, jungkook coos, “you have a problem, you call me. doesn’t matter how small or big it is.”

“kook, I literally called you at one in the morning.”

“and I am very glad that I am the first person that crossed your mind. even though I couldn’t help you. I swear to god, this washing machine has a personal grudge against us.”

“thank you anyways”, you mumble against his chest.

“hey, this is what boyfriends are for.”

how is it possible not to love him?

you wake up to the humming of a honey-caramel voice in the distance.

you yawn and grab the crisply folded silk robe from the foot of your bed. the clothes haphazardly tossed on the ground last night were nowhere in sight, and neither was the person who did so. yet you could hear his hums, feel his warmth.

you smile.

the clock on the wall reflects a bright 11:10, and it’s safe to say that you’ve just woken up. after staying up with your rogue washing machine till four in the morning, you can’t really blame yourself. you feel very well-rested though, for the first time in a while.

jeon jungkook’s presence has that kind of power.

you make an effort to stay silent in your own house. your bare feet tiptoe against the icy floors, carrying you to the sweet melody you’re fairly certain is your boyfriend in the kitchen. and undoubtedly it is. jeon jungkook has his back turned towards you– white tee clinging to his physique, his hair damp and disheveled, singing softly to himself while doing the dishes.

you hold your breath and hug him from the back, resting your cheek against his spine.

jungkook, momentarily confused, laughs when he realizes it’s you.

“good morning princess.”

“good morning jungkook”, you inhale him in. he smells like peaches and baby soap. and fresh laundry. “you smell heavenly.”

“I just came out of the shower–”

 “–hey!”, you cut him short when he gently peels you off him, unexpectedly devoid of warmth, but jungkook hugs you back in an instant; your ear against his ribcage, his chin on the top of yours.

“mmm, that’s better”, you mumble, “did you do the laundry? you smell like detergent.”

 you can almost reach out and touch the outlines of his smile. “you couldn’t do it last night so I thought I’d take some work off your shoulders. I folded your clothes as well!”

“aww, you didn’t have to do– wait, the washing machine is fixed?”

“yeah, I called the repairmen in the morning and they said they were coming over. I was pretty surprised at how quickly they arrived.”

“what happened?”

“one of the pipes got leaked somehow. I think I also did some damage when I tried to fix it. but don’t worry, it’s as good as new.”

“not worrying”, you let go of jungkook and let muscle memory guide you to the coffee machine, “why did you wake up so early?”

 “it’s one p.m. in the afternoon. what’re you talking about?”, jungkook laughs.

“it’s one p.m.?!”, you choke on your coffee, “the clock– but it was eleven–”

“it’s out of battery. I got new ones though”, jungkook points at the bags sitting on your counter.

“you went grocery shopping? you spent an entire lifetime while I slept!”, jungkook chuckles at your awe, “tell me from the beginning. what did you do?”

“well, I called the repairmen as soon as I woke up and then I went to take a shower. they were here by the time I was done. I made us breakfast while they fixed your machine, went grocery shopping afterward, came back and did laundry, here I am now”, jungkook kisses your forehead, “all while someone slept like a baby.”

“oh my god. thank you so much.”

I love you.

“you’re welcome, babe”, he smiles, “I gotta leave now. but listen, I got you ice cream, popcorn and those salty chips you seem to love so much. call me if you need anything else.”

“huh? why though?”, you peer in confusion. you’re usually not very big on snacking. and jungkook knows that. unless it’s your–

“your period is supposed to start tomorrow, genius”, he rolls his eyes, “you don’t remember, do you?”

you clearly didn’t.

apparently, he did.

you tiptoe forward to hug jungkook, too stunned to form any coherent word. you hope jungkook doesn’t notice the tears filling your eyes but when he lifts your face to gently kiss your eyelids, you realize that he knew you were gonna cry.

yeah, I definitely love you.

“hello, jungkookie’s girlfriend!”

kim taehyungs’s visibly enthusiastic face beams at you through the screen of your phone. your initial reaction is to wave brightly at him, despite the slight confusion of whether you accidentally called him when you picked up the phone to facetime your boyfriend.

“hi, tae!”, you say heartily, “gosh, it’s been a while since I saw you.”

“and whose fault is that, huh?”, taehyung’s voice is a warm breeze on a spring evening, “jungkookie tells me you’ve been like… hella busy”

“I was. I mean, I am. it feels like I am always busy these days”, you sigh, “but never busy enough for you guys! how are you?”

“good. busy as well, but good.”

“kook told me last night. you guys work way too hard.”

“wait”, taehyung exploded into laughter, “jungkookie was at your place last night?”

“...yeah?”

“our manager was looking for him and jungkookie was going on and on about how he was in his room all night and manager hyung didn’t knock loudly enough!”

“oh my god, he wasn’t supposed to be at mine yesterday?”

“no, I mean, he was done working but he didn’t tell anyone before leaving the dorm!”

“that might be my fault”, guilt fills your eyes, “I was doing laundry last night and my washing machine started leaking water everywhere. I panicked and called kook. I’m sorry”

“hey, it’s okay, no harm was done”, taehyung looks amused, “so you were doing laundry at midnight? no wonder jungkookie is obsessed with you.”

“obsessed with me, huh?”, you smile playfully, concealing the tiny somersault your heart does.

“he literally never stops talking about you”, taehyung grins widely, “bro is whipped”

“hmm, I did call bro’s phone, right? or did I accidentally call you?”

“how do accidentally call taehyung instead of jungkook? one starts with t and one starts with j”, taehyung suddenly looks disgusted, “unless you saved him as something weird, in that case, I don’t wanna know–”

“kim taehyung.”

“or you can just tell me that you missed me, you know”, taehyung flips his phone camera and you spot a dancing jeon jungkook in the middle of a huge practice room, “but since the only person you care about is jungkookie–”

“kim taehyung–”

“–you called him, okay?”, you hear taehyung’s laughter, “I was playing games on his phone. he’s practicing extra today.

“practicing extra?”

“he said you guys made plans to hang out tomorrow.”

“we– we did”, you’re puzzled. jungkook continues to dance furiously, his quick and precise movements almost defying gravity, completely unaware of his surroundings, “wait, we planned to meet tomorrow because both of us had a clear schedule. why is he practicing extra today?”

“hobi hyung was asking him the same thing”, taehyung nods his head in mock disappointment, “we don’t really have a free schedule tomorrow. but he said that if you couldn’t meet tomorrow it’d be a while before you did. right?”

“y-yeah”, you blink.

“soooo, yeah. as I said, bro’s so whipped.”

oh god. be still my wild heart.

“this boy”, you finally exhale after a pause; feeling bad that he’s overworking himself to meet your needs, feeling grateful that it’s worth it to him.

“this boy, indeed. no, actually, we’re kinda proud of how amazingly we raised him.”

“you really, really did. ya’ll should give out parenting lessons.”

taehyung chuckles, “okay, I’ll give the phone to him.”

“tae, don’t”, you smile, quickly stopping him from calling jungkook, “just tell him to call me whenever he’s free, okay? I’ll be up.”

“okay, then. take rest, okay? don’t overwork yourself.”

“look who’s preaching”, you shoot him a stern look, “the kings of overworking themselves. take care, okay?”

taehyung laughs, “yeah. come over to the dorm whenever you’re free. we all miss you.”

“I will. bye!”

“kook– stop it–”, you say in between a few puffs of breath, “you’re– god– tickling me!”

“am I?”, jungkook wiggles his eyebrows, and smothers his face on the exposed skin of your tummy once again, causing you to almost choke with another round of laughter. the sensation of his lips against your tummy has the butterflies inside going frenzy, but a part of you is scared shitless that it has nothing to do with him and everything to do with yourself.

you want to laugh; you want to cry. you wanna twirl into a knot and fly up in the sky. jungkook has no idea of the power he has over you– his body molds into yours, one his hands have shaped, a design he has drawn, kissed it into a sculpture.

you love him, you love this human being staring at you from between your legs with all the love in this whole fucking universe, kind and whole and happy and real, jeon jungkook, you love him so fucking say it.

I love you. I love you so much that I can’t deny it any longer, the promise stays silent on your tongue.

you wanna cry.

at least, you think you do.

“your heartbeat is going crazy”, jungkook calms down once he’s done tickling you out of your wits. he moves between your thighs and presses his ear against your heart space while gently laying his head on your chest.

yeah, do you know that is because I love you and not because you tickled the living lights outta me?

“princess?”, he asks quietly.

say it.

“princess?”, jungkook raises his head and looks at you, mildly concerned “are you okay?”

say something.

instead, you stare at him. you stare at his eyes. if eyes are actually a mirror of people’s souls, jungkook’s eyes perfectly represent his– filled to the brim with tenderness, tranquility, and mirth. a few years ago, you had read somewhere that humans were created from the burned-out embers of stars. you never believed it. the same folks who start wars, spill blood, stealing lying deceiving and doing everything evil, cannot be created from something so divine.

however, jungkook, over and over again, contradicts that belief. you have no doubt he’s born out of stardust. and fiery comets, northern lights, solar eclipses, everything magic.

“why are you crying?!”, jungkook’s anxious voice snaps you out of your reverie. without realizing you find yourself getting pulled up to sit on his lap, straddling his thighs. “is it me? did I do something?”

“itsh nn-not”, you utter weakly but the words come out as a stifled sob. when jungkook doesn’t understand what you’re saying, he completely loses his composure. he lets go of you and attempts to pry himself away, fairly convinced that he must’ve done something stupid. but you dig your fingers in his arms, trying to communicate with your firm grip that he did nothing wrong. it’s you, you’re the stupid one.

it takes him a few more seconds to realize that you’re crying for something else altogether, and only then does he relax. he wraps his arms around you, letting you break down in his little protective bubble.

what is wrong with me? why does every feeling of mine come out as tears?

“it’s okay, it’s okay”, jungkook coos, “breathe. breathe with me.”

“inhale with me”, he holds eye contact and carefully guides your breath, “good. now exhale. in. and out. it’s okay. I love you. you’re okay, princess.”

and

everything

just

freezes

for a moment.

for a moment?

seems like a lifetime.

you never realize how many types of ‘I love you’s there are until they’re spoken out aloud. most ‘I love you’s are expressed as a confession, while there are some which are born out of panic. I love you. do you love me back? these ‘I love you’s are full of anxiety, and a desperate longing for reassurance, for arms that’ll keep them safe. some are born out of anger and frustration. I’m doing this for you, because I love you, why don’t you understand? then there are those which are born out of pure terror because I love you but I’m afraid that all I’ll ever do is hurt you.

jungkook’s ‘I love you’ sounded like it was nurtured, a flower that bloomed inside a long time ago. like a blanket woven from your favorite human on the entire planet and falling asleep with someone inside your heart no matter how alone you feel outside; a promise.

not that any of you were in the right state of mind to realize that.

you and jungkook realize at the same time. the words that have been spoken out to existence.

he stares at you; you stare at him. devastated, mouth hanging, eyes bulging. none of you breathing.

jungkook closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and opens them again.

“that was not a mistake”, his voice is deep and low. you hold your breath, afraid to miss a single sound that comes out of his mouth, “I do. I will if you allow me to. not that I can help it– I mean, even if you don’t allow it I can’t help myself. I love you. it’s not like I can just un-love you! wait, why do I need your permission anyway? it’s my feelings we’re talking about! okay, but it does concern you”, jungkook looks mortified, “but still, you don’t have to say it back. it’s great if you do but like, there’s no pressure. just don’t tell me to un-love you because that one is none of your business, oka–”

you kiss him. you kiss the living lights out of him. jungkook doesn’t even register what’s happening, he just accepts everything– the way your lips smashes against his, the way your tongue envelops his, finding you in every corner of his mouth, feeling you in every inch of his skin; a drunkard clinging onto every last drop of alcohol yet never having enough.

jungkook is literally panting when you let go of him.

 “I was crying because I am in love with you. I have been in love with you for a while now and I didn’t know how to say so”, you confess. only a few words are enough to make realization flash in his eyes. after all, he knows you. he knows you well enough to know everything, even the things he doesn’t.

“I must’ve been a saint in my past life to deserve this”, jungkook closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours.

“I think this is your first life. you’re like the sugar in a cookie.”

“what? I thought I was the cookie!”, jungkook furrows his eyebrows, offended, “also, sugar isn’t good for you. what are you talking about?!”

you giggle in response.

“hey! take it back”, he overpowers you in a swift motion. he reels your bodies backward to hover over you, pinning your hands down on the mattress, smirking. “otherwise you’re gonna regret it.”

“regret? nah, I think I will enjoy it”, your smirk wipes off the one on his face.

“oh boy”, he sighs.

“jungkook?”

“yeah?”

“say it again”, you whisper.

“I love you.”

“again.”

“I love you.”

[a2l1y1]

Clingy Ellie.

sub!ellie x fem!reader

No NFSW, mostly fluff.

Summary ➜ she thought you had left her.

Extremely clingy and annoying Ellie.

Ellie was obsessed with you. You were both really close friends—but it was fucking obvious she was crushing on you. You suspected this for a while now, and the more you thought deeply about it, the more confident you were about being right.

That’s when you started noticing Ellie being clingier than usual, asking you to hangout, wanting to hold your hand, getting you both matching things and generally wanting to be closer to you. You weren’t bothered, but you simply didn’t want to ruin the friendship that you both had—especially since Ellie is the type of person to be extremely confused whether she likes someone romantically or platonically. She’s just the curious and unsure person. But you had to admit that her behavior towards you was starting to make a difference. But after a while, you got used it.

After being your best friend for so long—eight years—Ellie was used to everything with you. Especially sleeping in the same bed as you; it just felt normal for her —she loved it—So when you decided to stay the night at her apartment, she just smiled at you.

Though, when she woke up and saw the empty space next to her, her heart clenched. She immediately thought you had left her without saying anything, and it weirdly made her feel lonely. She stood up, scratching her head and walked to the kitchen.

There, she saw you, actually making breakfast with the Alexa on, with some calm, soft music; just murmuring the songs and moving to it. She smiled to herself and walked closer before wrapping her tatted arms around your waist; something else she was used to do. “I assumed you had left.” She told you in the most gentlest whisper while she softly smells your scent from your neck.

You couldn’t help but to roll your eyes, it was too early for this type of affection, but you still let Ellie in. Denying her clinginess felt odd—knowing Ellie loved being all around you. “I guess someone woke up like a baby today huh?” You chuckled as you proceeded to hug her.

Ellie chuckled at your eye-rolling and your teasing remarks. She was used to your playful banter and appreciated the way you accepted her affection, even if it was a bit much for you in the morning. She leaned into your hug, feeling comfort in your presence. Shrugging playfully, she replied, “Hey, can’t help it if I like being close to you. You’re the one who stayed the night, after all.” Ellie gave you a playful wink before turning back to the breakfast you were preparing, taking a quick look at the scrambled eggs, and a huge smile formed on her face. feeling grateful for your company.

You sigh, avoiding Ellie completely before she gets any dumb ideas so early.

After breakfast, you just laid in the couch, reading a novel you recently got a little hype on. You tried your best to avoid it, but it was fucking difficult when you could feel Ellie staring at your back.

“What do you want els, I don’t have all day and I can feel you staring at me.” You spat rapidly as you shut your book down and stared at her with a raised eyebrow. Ellie walks up to you, flustered and nervous—the look as if she was hiding something. Or wanting to tell you something.

“I just uhh.. thought that maybe while you read I could snuggle up…with you.” Those words stroked you up. Ellie Williams being soft on you now? Wanting to snuggle? Is she high? And next thing you knew, her face was all up on your neck. Her hands roaming all over your stomach, innocently, playing with your little rolls. You couldn’t help but to sigh, she’s being too clingy.

Ellie felt a mix of emotions as you pushed her away a little. She could sense your discomfort and tried to give you space, but the tension in the air was palpable. More when she needed to be close to you at all costs. Ellie couldn't help but feel a rush of vulnerability. She leaned into your touch tentatively, enjoying the warmth of your body against hers. Despite your initial resistance, Ellie found comfort in the intimacy between the two of you, cherishing these moments of closeness, or as she thought they were. Ellie enjoyed every inch of you, the way her oversized T-shirt looked on you, the boxers you stole from her, your glasses, your messy bun. She tried her best to hide herself on the crook of your neck—she was too flustered just by looking at you.

But you knew this—you knew her. And even if she’s a little mess for you, deep down you were enjoying every bit of this. Maybe falling for Ellie Williams isn’t that bad.

[22ayla21]

AHHHHHHHH YOUR FICS ARE HEAVEN (≧∇≦), anyway can we get a scenario were Emphoreus husbands and reader are catch in a romantic moment by the kids (like kissing or more) (･´з`･)

Caught red-handed

Parents caught their children kissing their partner. And if in the case of sons, the father is happy, then in the case of daughters, not so much.

A mother smiles when she sees her children find love. For her, this is a natural stage of growing up, and she is proud that her children have grown up happy and capable of sincere feelings. She may even make a quiet joke, but most likely she will leave them alone.

If it is his son, he looks at him with pride, as if to say, "Well done, boy, you did everything skillfully." He may even pat him on the shoulder and say something like, "Keep it up" or "I was good at your age too." But in the case of a daughter, it is a completely different story. He instantly switches to the protector mode and measures the guy with a cold look, which reads: "You are still alive only because I am giving you a chance to explain yourself."

The future son-in-law immediately feels a threat to his own life. He either smiles nervously, hoping that everything will work out, or thinks whether he should run away right now or try to explain that he loves her and will never harm her. The daughter is angry with her father, she rolls her eyes and tries to explain that her boyfriend is not a monster, but a normal person. But Mydei is already in his “nobody deserves my girl” mode.

The mother puts her hand on his shoulder, raises her eyebrows, hinting: “Don’t you dare scare the poor guy, you were like that once.”

If the guy decides to be bold and not get scared, Mydei will perceive this as a challenge. There are two options: either he will see him as a worthy opponent (which is unlikely), or he will get even more angry. If he starts stuttering, apologizing, or even running away, Mydei will just smirk and say something like: “See? He is not worthy of you.”

The son will most likely feel awkward, but he will quickly forget. The daughter may grumble for a few days that her father is too strict, but deep down she knows that he is simply worried about her. Mydei is proud of his son and is ready to support him, but if someone touches his daughters, the poor guy will have to go through hell to prove his devotion.

The mother immediately smiles contentedly, slightly covering her mouth with her hand so as not to give away her amusement. She is pleased to see that their children have grown up and found worthy partners for themselves.

The father... Well, in the case of the son, he nods calmly and even proudly pats him on the shoulder later, as if to say, "Keep up the good work!" He is glad that his son respects his girlfriend and treats her with the same care as he treats his wife.

But if it is a daughter... The poor future son-in-law can only pray that his father-in-law will allow him to survive.

Anaxa's face hardens, and her gaze becomes so cold that the temperature in the room seems to drop. He slowly crosses his arms over his chest, looking expectantly at the young man who is still holding his daughter by the waist.

The future son-in-law feels a cold sweat run down his back and immediately lets go of the girl, trying not to make any sudden movements.

"I wonder... Are you tenacious?" the father asks calmly, but with a clear hint. The daughter immediately steps between them, throwing a warning glance at her father, as if to say, "Don't you dare!"

Then she takes the boy's hand with a smile and says, "Dad, we're leaving!" - leading him away from his parents' wrath. Anaxa watches them with a heavy look, and his wife playfully touches his hand: "You were young too, honey."

"Yes, but I wasn't that guy."

Anaxa is secretly proud that his son has inherited his attitude towards women - caring, attentive, strong.

When the boy effortlessly picks up his beloved in his arms, the father nods contentedly: "I see that you raised her well."

The mother, watching their interaction, whispers to her husband with a smile: "Remember, you also carried me in your arms?"

"I can still do it now."

While the mother supports the children and their relationship with a soft smile, the father, in the case of his daughters, is initially skeptical about their partners. Only after some time can he admit that his daughter's chosen one is truly worthy of her. But even then, he periodically arranges "tests", checking how brave, resilient the guy is and how much he loves his daughter.

When Phainon and his wife enter the room, they see their daughter with her partner. The moment is stunning: the daughter kissing someone who clearly does not expect her father to walk in. The mother, as always, accepts everything with a smile and tolerance. She just looks at them with a slight smile, as if understanding that this is part of growing up and relationships that they will all face one day.

Phainon remains standing in the doorway with a serious face. Of course, he realizes that his daughter is an adult, but... she is still his girl. She is his little princess, and now that she is growing up, he suddenly realizes that someone will protect her and take care of her. So, looking at the guy, he does not hide his gaze, full of determination: "This guy must survive." He will raise an eyebrow, and his look will be eloquent - not in the sense of not trusting, but rather so that the guy understands that he should not hurt her.

The young man, noticing Phainon's stern look, will immediately feel that he will have to go through a couple of serious conversations with his future father-in-law. The feeling of "being on trial" is quite appropriate, because Phainon will not let him relax until he is convinced that he is truly worthy of his daughter. Of course, this meeting will have long-term consequences, but the guy will know that he will not be able to leave his daughter alone.

The mother, smiling, seeing this awkwardness, cannot help but laugh. She gives her son a sign that everything will be fine, and then calmly continues: "Don't worry, she is already an adult. Just make sure that he will treat her well." Her soft and kind approach helps to smooth over the situation, while Phainon still remains wary and serious.

When Phainon notices his son in this position with his partner, his reaction is completely different. He realizes that his son has already become a man, and his upbringing has yielded results.

He stands calmly, not expressing surprise, but on the contrary, feels pride that his son has grown up worthy. Phainon understands that his son will not have problems with relationships, and he is able to choose a partner worthy of him.

[zzprompto]

☆ our teachers are gay?!

gojo satoru x male reader [he / him]

sypnosis: you and gojo are both teachers at tokyo jujutsu high. your students start catching up on little things about the two of you, coming to a conclusion that their teachers are gay, but is that the truth? (meant to be viewed as romantic, hints at an established relationship.)

the lowercase is intentional !

satoru and [name] had been teaching at tokyo jujutsu high for a few years now. the two have made memories, had laughs and even arguments during the time. the students loved their teachers, always finding them amusing.

this years first years were a first, though.

"he's definitely gay!" a student yells. "no, he's not! he definitely has a wife and two kids!" another student yells. the person that they were talking about? [name]. itadori and nobara were arguing about whether or not they thought their teacher was gay for their other teacher or not, whilst megumi just sat there listening to their bickering. nobara thought [name] was gay, whereas itadori thought he wasn't.

megumi just sat there, listening to his friends arguing. it was constant, but he knew it was just banter after all. megumi had a small smirk on his face as he listened.

megumi knew the truth, well, half of the truth. he knew of gojo's feelings towards [name], but he never knew of [name]'s feelings towards gojo. megumi and gojo were practically father and son, not that megumi would admit that, so he could tell how gojo felt. megumi was the only reserved first year, so he learnt to pick up on people's emotions and feelings quickly, which included gojo's.

it was clear, by megumi's perception of the world, that gojo was definitely into [name]. gojo always tried to, and not so subtly in fact, flirt with [name]. yet, it always ended up in [name] saying a bunch of curses with a red face. maybe [name] did like gojo back? but, how was megumi going to know? he's not [name] and maybe the red face megumi always saw was just his teacher embarrassed, not flustered.

megumi also noticed how close the two teachers were. there were always together eating lunch or talking or supervising training sessions where they also talked more. perhaps it was because they could only talk to eachother, they were the only teachers there excluding the principal. or.. maybe it was something else? it did seem like there was more of a rivalry going on between the two men in megumi's eyes, but who knew. only gojo and [name] did.

a certain someone clears their throat after hearing all the bickering down the corridor. "and what are you three talking about?" the voice asks, and it just so happens to be gojo. itadori and nobara are in big trouble now.

itadori looks at gojo in horror, already accepting that he's been caught. nobara just looks at gojo with a small, innocent smile, hoping itadori won't mess up and say something wrong.

"uhm.. we were just talking about [name]'s love life-" itadori starts before nobara jabs him in the stomach to get him to shut up. "we were discussing what places we can visit in tokyo during our days off!" nobara cut in. gojo had a smirk plastered on his face. it was so obvious that he knew the truth about what they were talking about.

megumi sighed and he rolled his eyes at his two friends. "you idiots.. look at his face. he knows what you two were talking about." megumi muttered under his breath, shaking his head at how stupid his friends were. "plus.. his six eyes probably sensed you guys were talking about [name] anyway." megumi decides to add his own snarky comment.

"ah, so my suspicions were true." gojo chuckled. "if you really want to find out more about [name], why don't you ask him yourselves? although, he'd probably want to punch me if you told him i suggested the idea.." gojo spoke his thoughts aloud.

as if on queue, [name] steps into the room with a confused look on his face. "what are you all standing around here for? i thought training was meant to start ten minutes ago.." he sighed, a hand resting on his hip. the three first years all look at eachother before rushing out of the room to go to the field.

[name] just shook his head as he watched his students leave. "what were you doing in here with them, satoru? because it definitely wasn't reminding them that training was about to start." [name] said, looking at gojo as he spoke. gojo just shrugged at [name]'s question, starting to follow the first years out to the field.

the first years quickly got to training. they were practicing their cursed technique skills and hand to hand combat whilst [name] and gojo kept a close eye. the two teachers were standing close together, smiling as they occasionally made small talk.

"so, what about that date i was talking about earlier?" gojo pipes up, smiling at [name]. [name] just scoffed in response, punching gojo in the shoulder. "don't ask me about dates whilst we're infront of our students, satoru." [name] chuckled and gojo joined in.

gojo then snaked an arm around [name]'s waist, pulling him in closer and giving him a small kiss on the forehead. "okay, okay. but we're still going on that date after work, right?" gojo asks. "you're not helping yourself!" [name] replies, pushing gojo away with a huge smile on his face.

of course, the three first years saw this play out. when gojo and [name] thought they were being so subtle, they were caught in the act. the three first years stopped what they were doing and stared at their teachers in shock.

gojo and [name] just watched their students with smiles on their faces. gojo still had his arm wrapped around [name]'s waist as he pulled his lover in for a kiss, not caring about their students. they had already been caught, so what was the harm in sharing a kiss in the end?

"see! i told you he's gay! you owe me big time, itadori!" nobara yells out, starting to chase itadori around the field.

☆ author's note: ill try get requests done soon, sorry if you're waiting on one. do request some more, i have barely any ideas of my own.

☆ request ▪︎ masterlist

[octaneink]

Could you do some dating willne headcannons or some willne smut but like in an established relationship? I’m obsessed with your fics, I swear I’ve read them so much I could recite them from memory 😭😭

Ahhh thank you so much for the kind words! I'm really happy that you like what I've written. I've never done headcannons or write smut lol so bear with me. I don't really know how to write smut ngl so I hope you like the spice (I think thats spicy? I don't know) at the end, I've never really written anything lke that before so I hope its...realistic?

Warning for some steamy stuff at the end!

Dating Will Lenney Headcanons

Playful Banter

In your relationship with Will, playful banter is the base of your dynamic, and he uses it to keep things light, fun, and endlessly entertaining. Whether you’re curled up on the couch, out for a walk, or in the middle of a mundane task, Will’s teasing is a constant—a reminder of how much he adores you.

He’s the kind of person who can’t resist poking fun at your quirks, but it’s always done with so much affection that it never feels mean-spirited. For example, if you’re watching one of your favourite romantic series for the hundredth time, he’ll lean over with a smirk and say, “Oh, this again? Let me guess—they’ll hate each other, then fall in love, and you’ll cry even though you know exactly how it ends.” But then he’ll stay right there beside you, secretly enjoying how much you love it—and secretly enjoying the series himself. He’d never admit it out loud, but he’s grown fond of the predictable charm of your go-to media.

Will’s teasing isn’t just one-sided, though. I think he’d love it if you gave as good as you get. If you catch him singing off-key in the shower, you’ll absolutely call him out on it. “Wow, I didn’t know cats could sing opera,” or something, and he’ll laugh so hard he almost slips. Or if he’s trying to fix something around the house, and it goes wrong, you’ll be there with a camera and a sarcastic comment like, “Handyman of the year, everyone.” He’ll pretend to be offended, but the twinkle in his eyes gives him away.

The best part is how his teasing always comes with an undercurrent of love. He’ll joke about your “weirdly specific and unnecessarily complex” coffee order, but he’ll still remember it perfectly and surprise you with it on a rough day. And if anyone else dares to tease you, he’s quick to jump to your defence, proving that his playful jabs are reserved for him alone.

Your banter becomes a language of its own—a way to say “I love you” without actually saying it. It’s in the way he grins when you roll your eyes at his jokes, the way he nudges you gently when you’re being stubborn. The way he always knows exactly how to make you laugh, even on your worst days. With Will, every day feels like a game, and you’re both winning.

Supportive Partner

In your relationship with Will, his unwavering support is one of the things you cherish most. He’s not just your partner—he’s your biggest cheerleader, your hype man, and your safe haven all rolled into one. No matter what you’re going through, whether it’s chasing a dream, tackling a new challenge, or just having a rough day, Will is always there to lift you up and remind you of your worth.

When you decide to try something new—whether it’s skating, learning an instrument, or even something as simple as baking a complicated recipe—Will will be the first to encourage you. He’ll sit with you while you practice, offering gentle advice when you ask for it and cheering you on even when you feel like giving up. “You’re a natural,” he’ll say, even if your first attempt at playing the guitar sounds more like a cat in distress. “Seriously, I’ve never heard anyone make that chord sound so… unique.” His teasing is always light-hearted, but it’s paired with genuine admiration for your willingness to try. And when you finally nail it? He’s beaming with pride, as if you’ve just won a Grammy. “Told you! I knew you could do it. Now play it again—I need this on video for when you’re famous.”

On tough days, Will’s support is a quiet, steady force. He has an uncanny ability to sense when you’re feeling down, even if you try to hide it. Without a word, he’ll wrap you in a hug, press a kiss to your forehead, and say, “Talk to me.” And when you do, he listens—actually listens. He doesn’t try to fix everything (unless you ask him to), but he’ll remind you of your strength and resilience. “You’ve got this,” he’ll say, his voice firm but gentle. “And even if you don’t feel like you do, I’ve got you. Always.”

Will’s encouragement isn’t just reserved for big moments, either. He celebrates the small victories with just as much enthusiasm. Did you survive a particularly gruelling day at work? He’ll show up with your favourite takeout and a movie, ready to pamper you. “You’re a rock star, and rock stars deserve the VIP treatment.”

But what makes Will’s support so special is how deeply personal it is. He pays attention to the little things—your favourite comfort foods, the way you light up when you talk about your passions. He knows when you need a pep talk, when you need a distraction, and when you just need someone to sit with you in silence. And he’s always there, without fail.

His belief in you is unshakeable. Even when you doubt yourself, he’s there to remind you of all the reasons you shouldn’t. “You’re brilliant, you’re kind, and you’re capable of anything you set your mind to,” he’ll say, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And if anyone says otherwise, they’ll have to deal with me.”

With Will by your side, you feel invincible. His support isn’t just words—it’s in the way he shows up for you, day after day, in big ways and small. He’s your partner, your teammate, and your biggest fan. And no matter what life throws your way, you know you’ll always have him in your corner, cheering you on every step of the way.

Car Rides

Car rides with Will are an experience in themselves. He’s always the one behind the wheel, and you’re perfectly content being his passenger princess. With you who's in control of the music, and you take full advantage of it. Whether you’re in the mood for girly pop, rock and roll, Afrobeats, jungle, reggae, or even a random playlist of your favourite guilty pleasures, Will never complains. He embraces it, turning every drive into a mini concert filled with laughter and the occasional side-eye from strangers at traffic lights.

You love how he lets you take charge of the aux, trusting your musical instincts even when your choices are… questionable. One day, you might blast upbeat pop anthems, singing at the top of your lungs as he chuckles beside you. “Okay, but why do I lowkey know all the words to this?” he’ll say, pretending to be embarrassed before joining in on the chorus. Another day, you might switch it up with some smooth reggae or high-energy Afrobeats, and he’ll bob his head along, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm. “You’ve got good taste, I’ll give you that,” he’ll tease, even if he’s secretly adding some of your songs to his own playlist.

The best moments are when you both get so into the music that you forget the world around you. You’ll be belting out a duet to some cheesy love song, completely off-key but having the time of your lives, when you catch people in the next car staring at you. Will, never one to back down from a bit of fun, will roll down the window and shout, “What? Never seen a Grammy-winning performance before?” before bursting into laughter and speeding off when the light turns green.

Long drives are your favourite. Whether it’s a road trip to somewhere new or just a leisurely cruise around town, the car becomes your little bubble of happiness. You’ll pack snacks, throw a blanket in the backseat just in case, and let the music set the mood. Will’s driving is smooth and confident, and you love how he occasionally reaches over to hold your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles as he focuses on the road. “You good over there, princess?” he’ll ask, glancing at you with a smile. And you’ll nod, feeling completely at ease because, with him, even the simplest moments feel special.

Sometimes, the drives are quiet, the music playing softly in the background as you both enjoy the comfortable silence. Other times, they’re filled with lively conversations, random debates, or Will’s hilarious commentary on whatever’s happening outside. “Did that guy just try to parallel park in one go? Bold move,” he’ll say, shaking his head in mock disbelief. Or, “That billboard says ‘World’s Best Coffee.’ Challenge accepted.” And just like that, you’re pulling into a random café to test their claim, laughing the entire time.

But no matter where you’re going or what you’re listening to, the car rides always feel like yours. It’s your space to be silly, to be serious, to be yourselves. And Will wouldn’t have it any other way.

Protective Side

Beneath Will’s laid-back, easygoing exterior I see lies a fiercely protective streak, especially when it comes to you. While he’s usually the type to brush things off with a joke or a sarcastic remark, the moment someone disrespects you or crosses a line, his playful demeanour is gone.

Will’s protectiveness isn’t the loud, over-the-top kind. It’s subtle but firm. He’s the type to notice things others might miss—a snide comment, a dismissive tone, or even a lingering look that makes you uncomfortable. And while he might not always call it out immediately (he prefers to gauge how you feel about it first), he’s always ready to step in at the moment you need him.

Like if someone makes a backhanded comment about you in a social setting, Will’s response is sharp but calculated. He’ll tilt his head, feigning confusion, and say something like, “Oh, I’m sorry—did you mean to say that out loud? Because it sounded like utter bullshit.” His tone is light, almost playful, but there’s an edge to it that makes it clear he’s not joking. And if the person tries to laugh it off or double down, he’ll hit them with a perfectly timed quip that leaves them speechless.

But it’s not just about witty comebacks. If someone genuinely hurts you—whether it’s a friend, a coworker, or even a stranger—he’s quick to reassure you that their behaviour says more about them than it does about you. “Anyone who can’t see how amazing you are doesn’t deserve a second of your time,” he’ll say, his voice soft but firm.

What makes Will’s protectiveness so endearing is how he balances it with respect for your independence. He never tries to fight your battles for you unless you ask him to. Instead, he understands that you can stand up for yourself and is often there offering quiet support and encouragement. “You don’t need me to defend you,” he’ll say with a grin. “You’re perfectly capable of putting people in their place. But just in case, I’ll be right here, ready to back you up.” (definitely would hold your earrings and purse if you were to scrap with someone)

And when it comes to physical safety, Will’s protective instincts kick into overdrive. If you’re walking home late at night, he’ll insist on accompanying you, even if it’s out of his way. If you’re feeling uneasy in a crowded place, he’ll subtly position himself between you and whatever—or whoever—is making you uncomfortable. And if anyone dares to threaten you, his calm, sarcastic facade drops entirely. He becomes a force to be reckoned with, his voice low and steady as he says, “You have one more chance to apologise and walk away before this gets ugly.”

With him by your side, you feel safe, cherished, and fiercely defended. And while you might not always need his protection, it’s comforting to know that, no matter what, Will will always have your back.

Surprise Dates

Between his busy schedule and the demands of everyday life, you make it a point to plan dates that are thoughtful, fun, and meaningful. You’ve made it a tradition to try something new at least once a month, while the other dates revolve around activities you both love. Whether it’s a spontaneous road trip, a nostalgic arcade night, or a fancy dinner at a place he’s been wanting to try, you always find ways to make him feel special—and he absolutely adores it.

You know how much Will appreciates surprises, so you’ve become a master at planning ahead. You keep a mental (or physical) list of things he mentions in passing—like a new restaurant he wants to check out, a movie he’s excited to see, or a place he’s always wanted to visit. Then, when the time is right, you spring the surprise on him. His face lights up every time, and the way he grins when he realises what you’ve planned is worth every bit of effort.

Another month, you might plan a random road trip to a nearby town neither of you has explored. You’ll pack a picnic, create a playlist of his favourite songs, and let him take the wheel. The excitement in his eyes when he realises where you’re headed is priceless. “You’re seriously the best,” he’ll say, squeezing your hand as he starts the car. Along the way, he’ll take detours to roadside attractions, insisting on stopping for silly photo ops and spontaneous adventures. “Look at this place!” he’ll exclaim, pulling over at a giant dinosaur statue or a retro diner. “We have to take a picture. This is peak road trip material.” And of course, you’ll oblige, laughing as he strikes ridiculous poses and insists on making the memories as over-the-top as possible (though he takes cute couple pictures as well).

And then there are the fancy dates—the ones where you pull out all the stops. You’ll book a table at that upscale restaurant he’s been talking about for weeks, or you’ll surprise him with tickets to a show or event he’s been dying to see. On those nights, you love seeing him dressed up, his usual casual vibe swapped for something more polished. “Look at you, all fancy,” you’ll tease, and he’ll shoot back with a smirk, “What can I say? I clean up nice. But not as nice as you.”

What makes these dates so special is how much thought you put into them. You know how busy Will’s schedule can be, so you always plan ahead to make sure the timing works. You’ll coordinate with his friends or coworkers if needed, and you’re not above bribing them with coffee or baked goods to keep the surprise under wraps. And when the day finally arrives, you love seeing the look on his face. “You planned all this for me?” he’ll ask, his voice soft with disbelief. “Of course I did,” you’ll reply, smiling. “You deserve it.”

But it’s not just about the big surprises. You also make time for the little things—like cosy movie nights at home, complete with his favourite snacks and a blanket fort, or lazy Sunday mornings where you cook breakfast together and spend hours talking and laughing. Those moments are just as important, and they remind you both why you fell in love in the first place.

With every date, whether big or small, you show Will how much he means to you. And in return, he makes sure you know how much he appreciates it. “You’re incredible, you know that?” he’ll say, pulling you close after a particularly memorable outing. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m not letting you go.” And as you smile up at him, you know that these moments—these carefully planned, perfectly executed surprises—are what make your relationship so special.

Social Media PDA

I think Will is the kind of guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, and that extends to his social media presence. While he respects your desire to keep a low profile due to your job, he’s not shy about showing the world how much he adores you. His Instagram is a mix of his work, his hobbies, and, of course, glimpses of your relationship. He’s the type to post pictures of the two of you without a second thought, whether it’s a candid shot of you laughing at something he said or a cosy selfie from a date night. Or a goofy photo of you both making faces at the camera.

His captions are always playful and affectionate. “Caught this one mid-laugh. Guess I’m funnier than I thought” or “Date night with my favourite person. Don’t worry, I’ll bring her back in one piece.”. The comments are always flooded with fans gushing over how cute you two are together, and Will loves reading them, often showing you the funniest or sweetest ones with a proud grin. “Look, they’re saying we’re goals. Can’t argue with that.”

But it’s not just the photos. You occasionally pop up in the background of his videos, whether it’s a behind-the-scenes clip from one of his projects or a casual vlog. Sometimes it’s just your hand in the frame as you pass him a coffee, or your voice chiming in with a sarcastic comment that makes him burst out laughing. Fans have come to love these little moments, dubbing them “crumbs��� and saying that they’re being “fed” whenever you make an appearance. “We see you back there!” they’ll comment, or “The way he looks at her when she talks… I can’t. 😭”

Will finds the whole thing hilarious and endearing. He loves how much his fans adore you, even though you’re not in the spotlight yourself. “They’re obsessed with you,” he’ll say, scrolling through the comments. “Can’t blame them, though. I’m obsessed with you too.” And while you prefer to stay out of the public eye, you can’t help but smile at the way he proudly includes you in his world, even if it’s just in small, subtle ways.

There are times when he’ll sneak in a little more PDA than usual, just to mess with you. Like the time he posted a video of the two of you cooking together, and he casually dropped a kiss on your forehead mid-sentence. The internet went wild, and you playfully scolded him for it later. “You’re such a show-off,” you said, and he just shrugged, grinning. “What can I say? I like showing the world how lucky I am.”

Despite his public displays of affection, Will is careful to respect your boundaries. He never shares anything too personal or invasive, and he always checks with you before posting something that features you prominently. “You good with this?” he’ll ask, showing you a photo or video before hitting post. And if you ever say no, he doesn’t hesitate to scrap it, no questions asked. “Your comfort comes first,” he’ll say, and it’s one of the many reasons you love him.

For Will, it’s simple: he’s proud of you, proud of your relationship, and he wants the world to know it. And even though you prefer to stay behind the scenes, you can’t help but feel a little flutter of happiness every time you see one of his posts and realise, all over again, just how much he loves you.

Spicy Headcanons

Rough or soft?

Will is the kind of partner who knows exactly what you need, even before you do. Whether it’s a night of tender affection or one where he pushes you to the edge, he always makes sure you feel safe, cherished, and utterly consumed by him.

Soft Moments

When the mood calls for softness, Will is all about making you feel adored. He’ll take his time, his touches gentle and deliberate, as if he’s memorising every inch of you. His kisses are slow and sweet, starting at your lips and trailing down your neck, your collarbone, and everywhere else he knows you love to be touched.

“You’re so beautiful,” he’ll murmur against your skin, his voice a low, soothing rumble that makes your heart swell. “I could spend forever like this, just you and me.” His hands will roam your body with reverence, tracing patterns that leave you shivering. He’ll whisper praise in your ear, telling you how perfect you are, how much he loves the way you respond to him, and how lucky he feels to have you in his arms.

These are the moments where he’s all about you—your pleasure, your comfort, your happiness. He’ll hold you close afterward, his fingers brushing through your hair as he presses soft kisses to your forehead. “You’re my everything,” he’ll say, and you’ll believe him, because in those moments, nothing else exists but the two of you.

Rough Moments

But then there are the nights when Will’s more dominant side takes over. It’s not about anger or frustration—it’s about trust, about pushing boundaries, and exploring the raw connection between you. On these nights, he’s in complete control, and he knows exactly how to make you unravel.

He’ll start slow, his touch firm but teasing, building you up until you’re trembling with need. But just when you’re about to tip over the edge, he’ll pull back, his grip tightening in your hair as he forces you to meet his gaze. “Not yet,” he’ll say, his commanding voice sending a thrill down your spine. “You don’t get to cum until I say so.”

He’ll edge you relentlessly, his hands and mouth working you to the brink over and over again until you’re a writhing, desperate mess. Tears might prick at the corners of your eyes, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you beg him for release. But he won’t give in—not until he’s sure you’ve reached your limit. “You can take it,” he’ll say, his tone equal parts challenge and reassurance. “I know you can.” Of course, you can; you haven’t said the safe word yet.

Foreplay

Will is the kind of man who takes his time, savouring every moment of intimacy with you. He’s not just interested in the end goal—he’s obsessed with the journey, with the way he can make you unravel under his touch. For Will, foreplay is an art form, and you are his masterpiece. He loves watching you moan, squirm, and barely hold onto yourself, knowing he’s the one driving you to the edge.

It starts with his hands, always so deliberate and sure. He’ll trace patterns along your skin, his fingertips leaving trails of fire in their wake. He loves the way you shiver under his touch, the way your breath hitches when he finds that one spot that makes you gasp. “You’re so sensitive,” he’ll murmur, the tone of his voice sends shivers down your spine. “I love how you react to me.”

His mouth. Damn his mouth. He’ll press kisses along your neck, your collarbone, your stomach—everywhere but where you want him most, just to tease you. “Will,” you’ll whine, your hands tangling in his hair, and he’ll chuckle against your skin, the vibration making you squirm. “Patience, love,” he’ll say, his lips curving into a smirk. “I’m not done with you yet.”

When he finally does give you what you want, it’s with a slow, deliberate intensity that leaves you breathless. He’ll watch you as he works, his eyes dark with desire, drinking in every moan, every whimper, every desperate plea for more. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he’ll say, his voice rough with need. “I could watch you fall apart all day.”

But Will isn’t just about physical touch—he’s a master of words, too. He’ll whisper filthily sweet nothings in your ear, his voice a mix of praise and promise. “You take me so well,” he’ll say, his breath hot against your skin. “I love how you sound, how you feel, how you’re all mine.” His words are like a drug, intoxicating and addictive, and they only make you want him more.

By the time he’s done with you, you’re a trembling, incoherent mess, barely able to form a sentence. But Will isn’t satisfied until he’s sure you’re completely undone. “Not yet,” he’ll say, his hands and mouth working in tandem to push you even further. “I want to hear you beg.”

I hope people don't mind that I only wrote two spicy scenes. Sorry, I kinda ran out of ideas lol. Anyways… how did people like the headcannons? These are headcannons right?

[igotanidea]

I am Robin : Damian Wayne x reader (pt 1)

Summary: Damian x fem!s/o, who has no idea he's Robin. And who is scared of Robin. And who one day happens to meet Robin...

***

They weren’t living together, and definitely not in a leaving toothbrushes at each other’s place way. But their relationship wasn't casual either. After almost a year together, given Damian’s character traits, it could never be casual.

But Y/N wasn’t the type to rush him into anything and definitely not nagging to start sharing space. It was all right if he didn’t want to stay the night too. He was committed to his family and that was okay. Considering the fact that his father was Bruce Wayne himself, the Gotham’s persona, who tended to act a little eccentric, it was completely understandable that Damian wanted to check on him more often than not.

Who knew what kind of crazy idea could possibly enter the bored mind of a rich man.

It truly was no one’s wish to find some scandalous news from the first pages of the magazines.

So yes, she was full aboard on the idea of Damian’s checking on his father and his family.

Who seemed a little weird from the very beginning either way. The first time she met them all his siblings were nice, even awfully so, but she had this crazy feeling of being watched like a prey.

If only she knew why.

But yes, it was okay, because at least she wasn’t in a relationship with Mollycoddle, who demanded care and wanted to be treated with kids’ gloves.

But sometimes, only sometimes, she was wondering if it would be like that forever.

That she would have to sleep in the bed alone, wishing for him next to her.

That she would be forced to deal with her nightmares and loneliness and after work tiredness alone.

That almost every time she asked him to stay over he would prevaricate, giving more or less vague answers.

If only she knew why.

***

He was in the middle of patrolling with Batman and the rest of the family when Barbara’s voice came through the comms.

“Robin.”

“Yes? What is it, Oracle?”

“Y/N keeps blowing off your phone.”

Oh.

Obviously Damian did not take his device with him and definitely could not check whether his girlfriend was trying to contact him.

Barbara, on the other hand, was in charge of everyone’s notifications while they were busy during night hours, just to keep up the pretences of the batfam being completely normal citizens.

“Shall I respond?” Babs muttered to the comm, mentally rolling her eyes at the fact Damian was still keeping Y/N in the dark about his other identity. He was treating this girl seriously, it was obvious and even Batman would see reason in ensuring his blood son didn’t blow up a chance at happiness. Even with a civilian. And if not, Barbara would be more than happy to throw Bruce’s own mistakes in the area right at his face. And most likely the other batkids would gladly join her in this quest. Just for funsies. And for Damian obviously.

“Don’t you dare touching my phone, Oracle!” The last thing he needed was his more or less romantic and more or less spicy conversations with Y/N to come into the light!

“Do you want me to read the text to you?”

“Don’t you dare touching-“

“Robin, why can’t you just come forward and tell her?”

“Cause that would be putting a target on her back!”

“You are putting a target on her back by keeping her in the dark!”

“This is not—” Damian tried to argue, but never finished the sentence, realising, somewhere in the half of it, that Babs was actually true. “I don’t know what to do.” He finally settled on a deep sigh.

However, before Oracle could give him any relationship advice, Batman’s voice echoed from another line, calling his accomplices to order and stopping any personal discussions.

***

Meanwhile, Y/N was standing in front of the club, unsuccessfully attempting to reach Damian.

The party she was dragged to was a surprise to one of her work friends, who broke the news about getting married. Some of the girls decided it was a perfect opportunity for unofficial celebration and the party moved from club to club in the entire Gotham district.

It was impossible to not go. Y/N would be called antisocial, unfriendly and stiff the very same night.

But then it was late and cold and dark and she found herself far from her apartment, not sure how to proceed. Obviously, walking alone was a huge mistake, considering the location, but standing like a salt pillar was starting to turn even more stupid, as the lonely and bewildered woman unmoving on an empty street was the easy target for any thug.  

And Damian was not picking up his phone or responding to texts, that started to become more and more desperate as Y/n lowered herself to almost begging for help.

When nothing came in return, with a heavy and a little broken heart she decided to try and get home by herself.

It was better than being a sitting duck and freezing to death.

***

“Robin.” The voice came through the comms again

“What do you want, Nightwing?”

“I got eyes on Y/N.”

“And why do you bore me with such unimportant details?” Damian muttered, not really paying attention to what his brother was saying. The youngest Wayne was simply too focused on his target for the night.

“Um… Robin?”

“I am busy, Nightwing.”

“Damian-“ Dick dared to say Robin’s real name, getting  a bit desperate to get his attention.

“What now?!”

“I got eyes on Y/N!”

“Wh-what? What do you mean you got eyes on Y/N? She’s supposed to be home, safe and tucked under the cover, turning over on the other side while sleeping!”

“Well, she is not. She’s walking the street with someone on her tail, clearly chasing her.”

“What street?!”

“I’m going to take action now-“

“Don’t you dare, Nightwing.” Damian’s cold voice almost bore a hole in Dick’s head through the comms. “Oracle, give me Y/N location. I’ll be the only one taking the action when it comes to her.”

***

She knew she was being followed.

The man wasn’t exactly subtle when it came to it after all.

The heavy clatter of his boots echoed through the entire empty street, in perfect sync with the accelerated beat of her heart.

Headlines from the newspapers from the entire previous year flashed through her mind.

Rape.

Murder.

Assault.

Unexplained disappearance.

Y/n started to curse herself, instinctively reaching for the pepper spray, greedily clutching her fingers on the tiny, yet effective, bottle.

Though before she could actually use it, there was a loud thump behind her and she stopped with shaking hands and eyes closing, already saying goodbye to her life.

The man sure had a gun and that was the sound she heard. She was already dead. And no one will even know. She will bleed on the street, dying alone and in pain in the dark Gotham street, no news about her till the early morning and-

“Y/N.”

She spun around immediately. Whoever was talking, be it the man who was chasing her or someone else, he knew her name.

Robin. Batman’s sidekick.

The street light colours palette Robin.

Robin, the Gotham’s vigilante.

And one of her worst fears.

***

The thug was lying on the ground, blood was everywhere, including Robin’s uniform and she couldn’t make a single movement.

The most natural thing would be to thank him for the rescue and run away before he got too focused on her, reading right through her, seeing everything she did wrong in her entire life and bringing her to justice.

But she could hardly breathe let alone form one coherent sentence.

When he took a step towards her, she took a step back, almost tripping over her own feet, but miraculously finding balance.

He stopped, looking at her with a predatory smile, tilting head, waiting for a moment to strike.

His teeth shone in the dim light of a street lamp, growing, becoming sharper and she could almost imagine them tearing at her throat like a werewolf or some other supernatural creature, causing her pain for all the bad things she did and—

“You’re safe now.”

She blinked a few times, brought back to reality by his voice that was surprisingly soft. Calm, a little cold perhaps, but gentle regardless.

There was no blood, he was not a werewolf, and she was not in danger of being torn to pieces and having her insides dragged through the entire street.

But she was still scared, and not because of the thug, but because of the vigilante himself.

***

“You’re safe now.” Robin said calmly, keeping his distance. From Damian’s perspective under the mask, it was the worst thing he ever had to do in his life. Instead of rushing to her side, taking her in his arms, and giving her comfort and reassurance he had to keep hiding his face in the shadows. Unbeknown to him, Y/N was more than grateful about this fact.

“Uh-huh…” she stuttered, making Damian want to hug her even more. She was so shaken after being chased like this. After being put in danger.

It didn’t cross his mind, that she could be scared of him.

“Do you want me to walk you home?” This was not really a question in his head, but it was important to slowly assure her she was now protected.

“Uh-huh…” she stuttered again, with wide eyes and pale face, that Damian blamed on the aftermath of terrifying events.

“Okay.”

It was hard to not reach for her hand, envelop her in warmth and walk with her to her apartment. Making her her favourite tea and cuddling on the couch (a weakness he would never admit to his family). But he had to keep his mask, literally and figuratively. Therefore, having escorted her to her building and spinning on his heel, he left her alone.

Not for long though.

***

It took him fifteen minutes to change from Robin costume into regular, civilian clothes, almost searching for a phone booth like a freaking Superman, knowing that if Jon knew it, he would never let him live through it.

Meanwhile, he finally got hold of his phone and read through the desperate messages she’s been sending him for the last hour.

“Dami, please come pick me up. I’m at the XX”

“Dami, please…”

“I don’t know why you are not responding, but if I did something to make you mad, I am sorry…”

“Dami, I need you…”

“Please, it’s cold and I’m scared…”

“Dami… 🥺”

Oh no.

As if seeing her scared after dealing with the threat was not enough, now he also got the insight of what she was feeling and thinking while walking home alone.

That he left her.

That he didn’t care.

That she was alone.

And it made him speed the pace of the changing even more.

And causing Robin to make one, teeny-tiny mistake.

***

A knock on the door made her almost jump, settling on pretending she was not at her apartment. Or that she was sleeping – whichever seemed more plausible at 3 am.

“Y/n!”

The voice seemed familiar, but it could have been just the whispers of her stressed mind, combined with a desire for the presence of that one person she so desperately needed.

“Y/N! Open up, it’s me! Damian!”

She whimpered and moved deeper into the corner of the sofa, covering her ears.

He had to change tactics.

“I know where you keep the spare key. But if you don’t open in five, I’ll kick the door without the need to get it!”

An empty threat that could have only been made by him.

Four seconds later the bolt on the door rattled and Y/N stood face to face with Damian, who had absolutely no intention to put his words into action, just getting her to open.

“Y/N.” He sent her the most comforting and reassuring smile he could muster.

“Dami…” she sobbed, diving into his arms. “why weren’t you picking up your phone? I was scared and – and this guy-”

“Hush, dear.” His hands wrapped around her, taking a few steps forward so they were now inside her apartment and not in the hallway. “You’re safe now. I’m here and no one will hurt you.”

“But why weren’t you picking up?” she repeated nuzzling into him, the mix of emotions finally finding a way out in the form of uncontrolled sobs.

“My apologies, beloved. It was never my intention to make you feel abandoned. But I’m here now.”

“Mhm…”

“You’re okay. Shall I make you your tea? It will ease your nerves after being chased on the streets like that.”

“Yes, please…” she whispered and then a thought hit her. “Dami? I- I never told you I was being chased…”

“You know, it was quite evident. It’s Gotham. It’s late and your text was pretty clear-“ His green eyes met hers in a poor attempt to cover up for the obvious fail, trying to fill in the holes in the facts and silence her questions before they even arise.

But it was too late and she was too smart for being played like that.

There was no way Damian could have simply figured out what happened solely from her messages and ragged pieces of information.

His first question, right after comforting her, should have been what happened?

And how the hell did he get into her apartment almost right after she got in?

Right after Robin escorted her here?

“Dami--?” she stuttered with wide eyes, pulling slightly back, causing a little struggle when he tried to keep her in his arms.

Causing a little too much movement.

“Y/N, listen to me, I can—hey, are you all right?”

She was not.

She was not okay, seeing the familiar and well-known domino mask that fell from Damian’s pocket onto the floor in her apartment.

“You- you are—” her stuttering mixed with paleness and terror reflected in her eyes made him travel back to the conversation they had a few months earlier. 

Oh, no…

How could he forget…?

to be continued...

Part 2

[kneelingshadowsalome]

FATUM NOS IUNGEBIT 2/4

König x F!Reader

Summary: You have seen him in your dreams. The seer has divined his coming. But nothing has prepared you for witnessing him in the flesh. (Historical AU where König fights for the Roman Empire in an auxiliary unit, finds a cute barbarian woman and decides to keep her as his own.) Part 1 here. Word count: 5.1 k Tags/warnings: 18+ ONLY. Spoils of war/enemies to lovers trope, graphic depictions of violence, historical gruesomeness, pining, odd banter, mixed feelings, romantic fluff, dubcon cuddling, eventual smut. Captor/captive dynamic. König is a brutal warrior... and a gentle giant. A/N: Part two! I don't usually rec music for my fics but if this fic was a song, it would be Dead can Dance’s In Power we Entrust the Love Advocated.

You wake up with a giant plastered on your back.

His bed is far more comfortable than your own, soft and cushy, and there must be flowers somewhere in the hay because there is a surprisingly pleasant odour lingering in the air as you come to. The mattress overall doesn’t reek of too much sweat: some poor slave must change the fillings often enough for König’s stench not to settle on the bed. Actually, you’ve slept quite nicely, despite being embraced by an ogre the whole night.

König has slept like a stone, too, but stirs when you start to shift. You turn on your back and find his drowsy stare on you: it’s generous and warm as he pulls you closer to him. You could roll your eyes when you notice he’s hard down there again – he’s probably hard all the time, whether in bed with a woman or raging on the battlefield, sticking his swords into some poor man’s gut.

“Gut geschlafen?” He asks, and you reckon he’s trying to ask if you’ve slept well – in his domain, in his embrace, after he just slaughtered half of your village.

You give him another pout, which is starting to become your signature expression now. He replies to your grumpiness with a smile, his own trademark move, the one that threatens to strip you from all your arms. He squeezes you fondly against his chest, and then his hand starts to wander: he plays with your tits again, then slinks further down to brush your navel. When he crosses the border and heads straight toward your womanhood, you seize his arm.

He whines softly at your refusal, but to your surprise, he actually stops. You let him go as he moves back up and stay immobile under his touch, amidst the flowery scent and the faint stench of dirt and man sweat, sighing as he cups your breast again. He doesn’t seem to get enough of them, and they’re beginning to feel sore: he gave them so much attention last night already and is now at them again.

You pull his hand away, but this time, he doesn’t respect your wishes but resists you. Trying to hinder a man who’s as strong as a bull is futile, but you have an attempt at it anyway. It turns into a play fight: you wrench his hand down, he drags it back up. Up and down and up and down, as if your breast is a hill he needs to conquer at all costs. But he’s the only one who finds any amusement in your silly game: eyes narrowing again with a smile, a few soft chuckles under that hood telling you he enjoys it when you fight him a little.

It all ends when you finally slap him.

It’s neither a good nor a hard slap, and his mask muffles whatever sound was supposed to give you at least some measure of satisfaction. 

But he stops... And laughs.

“Ja, ich weiß. Ich habe deine Leute getötet. Ich verdiene eine Ohrfeige.”

His language is harsh and throaty, abrupt, and you tell him that, safe with the knowledge that he can’t understand a word you say either.

“You talk ugly,” you complain and watch him up and down, searching for a clue that would tell you that he somehow understands your insult. König simply thunders with another mirthful laugh at your morning crank.

“Es ist schön, mit dir zu reden. Aber jetzt muss ich weg.”

He looks down at you like he’s the Sun God now, thoroughly life-giving and kind. Then he dares to bend forward and press a kiss on your forehead.

“Go away,” you try to push him back with your hands - the hood prevents you from feeling his skin and breath and lips, but the… intimacy is still too much.

“Brute,” you want to spit the word out but end up sounding like a child attempting to quarrel instead. And he’s laughing at you again, both with his eyes and his mouth, covered by that darned hood. You don’t know why on earth you would think that such a charming laugh must come from an equally charming mouth.

He finally retreats and rises from the bed, stretching out his arms. The broad muscles on his back are exposed to the frigid air and his cock is jutting out, long and veined, completely unaffected by the cold. This beast is ripe and ready for another day, and you swallow when you see him in his full glory again, tall and wide and strong, looking like he’s about to eat an entire boar and fuck ten women in the process.

“Schön,” he comments as he turns to look down at you, lying naked and sweet there in his bed. He looks at you like you are the most lovely, adorable, difficult little thing. He even gives his horse cock a few good strokes while taking your sleepy little pouts in.

“Ugly,” you slur back, and he winks at you. 

Gods… You’re too hot and riled to even speak.

You choose to vehemently stay in bed as König starts his day: eats some fruit from the table - still naked - pours himself some wine and washes his mouth with it, tears a handful of bread from a loaf and starts to eat with his mouth open, munching loudly under that hood, walking around without bothering to cover himself and that ungodly erection that is bouncing in the air without a care in the world.

You, on the other hand, escape back under the warm covers of the furs, but your eyes never leave König. He draws the draping flap of his tent aside - still naked - giving his soldiers a good view of his morning wood, a lovely chance to get a look at their champion. Perhaps it’s his way of saying good morning, you think bitterly. Then he leaves, probably to take a piss, and you’re more and more convinced that this man is the worst beast that has ever walked this earth.

You’re still under the furs when he returns and finally gives you the grace of clothing himself. It’s stupid that you mourn losing the sight of those shoulders and feel a bit disappointed when his cock disappears under the red tunic. His manhood doesn’t look any less intimidating even when growing soft; it’s still long and veiny and thick, and you find yourself… curious. Just curious.

He doesn’t put his armour on this time, chooses to wear only his tunic and sandals and a pair of hard-boiled leather cuffs to protect the vital veins on the wrists. He does take one Gladius with him, though - a sign of distrust in his own men or a Roman custom, you can’t tell.

He’s already at the mouth of the tent when he turns and points at you, now with a good amount of sternness in his voice.

“Du. Bleibst.”

…

He’s away the whole day. Probably drawing plans at some field war council, eating and drinking and bouncing some poor girl on his knee. 

Even the thought makes your nose wrinkle and your stomach churn. Of course there are other trophies, and of course men want to show them off, pass them around, give their commanders a chance to give each woman a good squeeze. König has probably stuck that cock into a few women by now. Moaning, screaming women. 

Or then he just settles for annoying their poor senses out of them…

You can’t deny that you’re relieved he hasn’t thrown you to the wolves yet, not even after you denied him. Wondering why on earth he would even want to listen to your wishes gives you an awful headache, and the image of him laughing at - or with - some other shy captive girl is making you uncomfortable. So uncomfortable that you throw the skins away after noon, and decide you’re not going to just succumb to your fate, least of all give in to sadness and apathy. 

You eat this and that from his table like you’re not a slave girl but an honoured guest, a queen. You eat his figs and his bread and some smoked meat; you even drink some of his wine, as sour as it is. You’re a bit tipsy when you go through all his belongings, which are not as abundant or exciting as you thought they would be. 

You thought you’d find tiny chests filled with gold coins and rings. You thought you’d come by dried body parts taken as trophies, perhaps the crown of some long-forgotten Hibernian king. But there are only a few trinkets under his bed, a huge bow and some arrows, his armour and the second Gladius, perfectly stored above the ground so that rust and mould wouldn’t bite them. There are jugs of wine and some firewood and oil for the braziers, there’s water and benches and the table and lots and lots of candles in different shapes and sizes… But that’s it. There’s no hoard, no treasure, nothing to prove to you that this brute is just another Roman soldier trying to gather a fortune by raping and pillaging so that he can go and retire early from all the bloodshed.

And it makes you shiver. Does he do this just for the sake of it, only because he enjoys killing so much? What is his reason to fight?

The only item that sends an odd sting in your heart is a small wooden statue. You feel like a thief when you rummage through a small satchel you find next to his breastplate, the only place you didn’t feel like peeking into because it looked so… personal. 

Proving to yourself that you don’t care about his privacy or feelings, you end up pushing your fingers inside it anyway, meeting this peculiar carved piece of wood. There is nothing else there in the satchel, just the statue, and you feel yourself swallow a lump in your throat as you see it depicts a lush, buxom woman. Her breasts are nearly the size of her belly, larger than her head, and you realize that it is clearly the statue of the Great Mother this brute carries with him.

You put it back quickly, feeling a tingling in your fingers and a rapid flutter in your heart, as if you had just poked into something quite sacred. And it is sacred, the Mother. You wonder why, for the love of all the gods, this man would keep such a divine and fertile amulet near him. The statue is supposed to be a vessel for wishes and fortune; it is an idol of worship. König seems like the last man on earth to take up worshipping women.

You just want to get out of this place but can’t. There’s no one to go back to: your chief is dead, the people have fled, the rest of the warriors are scattered across the land. You have no idea where your brother might even be. 

You have no wish to escape this tent; you have no desire whatsoever to step a foot outside and show yourself to his hungry men. 

König comes back after nightfall and is not surprised at all to find you haven’t escaped. He’s not surprised that you have eaten some of his food either; he doesn’t even scold you. But then the eternal groping starts again as he gets undressed and lays himself down next to you.

You don’t even know why you allow him to touch you. Perhaps it’s because you know it’s better to just let him caress you if he wants; it’s better to suffer the weight of his hands on you if it means he won’t rape you with that cock. If you don’t complain, perhaps he will settle for squeezing and petting and stroking you.

But your body is a traitor: it’s hungry for him, for some ungodly reason, and always craves for more. You say to yourself that you only allow this to happen because it’s a condition, a compromise, a meeting in the middle. You never acknowledge the way your nether lips puff up like a fat flower every time he fondles your breasts. You pay no attention to how wet you get when he caresses your face, your waist, even your thighs, every part of you except the place between your legs, the place you kind of want him to touch... If only he would be gentle and didn’t get too excited, you’d let him touch you there, too, as sick and accursed as it is.

And it’s all good until he starts to hum. 

It may be some song from his homeland, the land of ugly brutes, but it’s not a crude giant song… In fact, it’s a rather beautiful, melancholy tune. Your body is relaxed and your pussy is wet; your nipples are tight and pleased as he pets you slowly, lovingly - but that song is too much. You don’t want him to see you cry, not even a single tear, and now there’s an entire flood about to occur.

“Don’t touch me,” you whisper, trying not to choke on your sorrow. He doesn’t stop - of course he doesn’t. He gets bolder by the day, and he can see that you’re enjoying yourself. In a way.

"Magst du es gestreichelt zu werden?" He asks, soft and tender, so incredibly gentle that the tears are about to burst forth at any given moment now.

“Ich glaube das tust du,” he rumbles when you don’t answer him. His hand is heavy and broad on your hip as he finally stops caressing you. You squeeze your eyes shut, and it causes the glimmer in your eyes to fall. Tears roll down your cheeks and into your hair, as you lie there next to a titan, about to shatter into a million pieces.

“Wurdest du schon einmal berührt…?”

You want to shout at him to shut up already, to stop talking so gently, asking you questions you don’t understand, to stop trying to find a way to communicate with you through song and hum and touch. The hand on your hip moves, slowly, with devastating cunning towards your core. He’s about to touch you there, to try and feel if you’re wet... If you’d like it that he pounded you a little. You wonder if he would do that gently too, and almost laugh through your tears. It will be your undoing if he finds out that you’re soaked all the way to your thighs, aching to feel him inside you, even a finger, just something…

“No… Nein,” you rule out sternly, opening a new way of communication. You don’t know if the word is correct, but he catches it immediately and stops. 

“Nein?”

He sounds both happy and sad; happy that you try to use his language, sad that you use it to give him such a disappointing command.

“No touching,” you repeat and open your eyes, finding his hazy figure hovering above you. You barely discern the gulf of sadness in his eyes, but it is there: undisguised, trying to reach out and join with yours. Gods… How strangely appropriate it is that you are both so very alive, wanting to be devoured by each other’s hunger and lust, only to find yourselves on the brink of tears and hollow loss.

“No... No touching…”

“Verstanden.” 

He takes his hand away from you and turns, not even joining you under the fur tonight.

…

The next morning, you wake up attached to him.

Somehow you’ve managed to wriggle under his furs and, on top of that, crawled to hug his side like this. You blame the spring cold for it, of course. Your heart bangs against your ribs as you notice how tightly you’re squeezing him, breasts pressed flush against his hard middle, belly fluttering against his hip. You’ve even draped your leg across his so that your poor, lonely cunt is resting right there over his thigh. 

You swear in your mind with all the words and terms you know and can think of.

How the hell are you supposed to detach from a giant without waking him up? His arm is around you, holding you loosely in a warm, pleasing shackle. He feels so, so good - blazing, big and safe, so incredibly nice. You never knew sleeping next to a man could feel so nice. You’re half asleep still, mainly because his body and scent make you feel like you’ve had too much wine again.

You allow yourself a few more moments before you rip yourself off him. Or at least, try to: the arm snares you the instant you attempt to move. It prevents you from leaving him, and you end up hovering awkwardly there, almost on top of him, tits pointing straight at his face, panicked, doe-eyed stare guided to his unwavering blue eyes, open, and regarding you with warm love.

And the damned man smirks again.

“No touching?” He inquires with silly, completely feigned shyness.

“Shut up,” you breathe and try to get off of him, but his other hand comes to brush your cheek next, and you freeze.

“Schön… Pretty,” he tries, and you nearly whimper at the sound of your native tongue in his mouth. 

Pretty… Is that what the word means, the odd ugly word he has repeated ever since he stole you?

His eyes are warm and his hand is gentle as he caresses your cheek, and the snare around your waist tightens. Softly… Invitingly.

“Stop it,” you whisper, on the brink of tears again, because this time, your shields and armour and weapons are gone. You just woke up to a feeling of odd contentment, fulfilment, even joy. 

And it’s not right. 

He has no right to be this gentle with you.

You sniffle and sigh, and cast your eyes down to the chest that belongs to a giant. But you can’t deny that there must be a heart under there. A human heart under your palm. Your hand is right there over the strong beat because you’ve tried to push yourself away, and he won’t let you go. Another tear falls somewhere in the hair of his chest, and he rumbles with such compassion that you want to slap him again, hit his chest with your tiny little fists and bawl.

What you do instead is break down and let the ocean take you. You cry and sob and wail, right there in front of him, until he turns you on your stomach and comes to rest halfway on top of you. Through your tears, you understand that he’s trying to soothe you with his weight. It’s pure insanity how well it works. It releases a whole well of grief, and you start to shake with the cries; your whole body shudders with the sorrow as you retch it all out while König continues to caress you like a pet. He strokes your hair, pets your back, he even pats your ass as if you’re just a baby.

You cry long and hard, so long that he eventually lets out a long, deep sigh. When you’ve calmed down a bit and remain still, sniffling occasionally while squeezing the furs in your fist, trying to remember what it is to be an animal with feelings other than just sorrow, he leaves you.

He simply rises, and gets dressed, and leaves.

That is very much what you don’t need right now, much to your surprise. He was good at consoling you, as odd as it sounds.

Cold starts to creep in when there is no warm body next to you, and your skin misses the calloused gentleness of his palms. You wouldn’t mind if he wanted to hum that song to you now. But the darned bastard had to leave just when you were about to turn and cup his hooded face in return...

König comes back after a short while, but he’s not alone. You gather the furs against your chest, horrified and angry when you notice he returns to the tent with a short old man, vigorous and busy, but so tiny in stature that you doubt he was ever a warrior. You wonder if this is another foreigner or if you have the dubious pleasure of meeting your first genuine Roman.

They both stare at you, quite nonchalantly, while you sit there on the bed and try to cover your nakedness with animal skins while having red eyes and a pair of uninviting, quivering, puffed-up lips. 

The short fellow looks you up and down, then turns to talk to König in what appears to be this giant’s mother tongue. It’s a curt suggestion, muttered under his breath, and you realize König must’ve fetched a translator for you.

Oh, good Mother... Great Mother.

You watch these two men before you in a state of stunned shock, as König looks at you, then back at the old man, and nods. The Roman looks slightly vexed as if he just got up too. Then he starts to speak.

“Excuse our manners... We are men at war. If you wish to get dressed, we will wait outside.”

You blink at your own language being spoken to you, perfectly discernable but accompanied by a thick accent. You nod, and the men leave, returning only after you’ve dressed and cleared your throat in the tent.

“He asks if he killed your husband,” the translator starts immediately while König goes to sit on his favourite Roman bench. You’re wide awake now, and the nauseating feeling of being suddenly in the middle of an interrogation rises to your throat with a clot.

“He… What? No,” your eyes dart to König, who is looking at you with his undying ardour. For a man with so much sadness in his soul, he’s surprisingly carefree when he wants to.

“Do you have a husband?”

You gulp at the questions levelled at you. König keeps watching you intently, and you choose to look at the old translator instead, shaking your head slowly. The men exchange a few words, and the Roman turns to scold you with his stare.

“Master reminds you that it is wrong to lie,” he says, putting a lot more weight on his words this time. Roman or not, he calls this giant master, which means that he is just another slave in this camp. You swallow again and try to think, think, think; all the while König’s stare strips you of all your pretences, garments and words.

He thinks you’re trying to hide some imaginary husband, you understand and consider whether you should say that you have a husband: if there is any benefit you could gain from such a lie. König would only probably try to hunt him down… But what if he found out you were telling him tales? Would he feed you to his horny war dogs then?

“I’m not lying,” you say through slightly gritted teeth.

There is another exchange of words before the translator turns to you again.

“Are you untouched?”

“What…?”

“Master asks if you are a virgin.”

The translator is utterly unfazed, and mainly looks like he has better things to do than get to the bottom of whether there has been a cock inside you yet.

“That’s none of his business,” you hiss. The old man turns and starts to translate your words with a dull look.

“Wait—don’t tell him that,” you take a panicked step forward. 

Oh good Father in the Sky… Strike these men down so that I may be freed from them.

They pay you no attention; a few sentences pass from mouth to mouth, and the old man nods.

“Master says you are clearly a maiden,” he declares. You peek a glance at König, who is looking at you with hunger, and not the kind of hunger people look at their breakfasts with. Your breathing is getting out of hand, and when he opens his legs wider, clearly making more room for a rising cock, you decide to throw caution in the wind.

“You know what? Your master can go fuck himself with a stick for all I care…!”

The old man turns. He doesn’t even care to sigh; he merely opens his mouth to give your words to König.

“Don’t you dare translate that!” 

Finally, the old man sighs. He looks at the ceiling as if begging his gods to take him away from this tent. König’s stare flashes between you two, and he is evidently curious. Clearly, this is the most exciting conversation he’s ever had.

“Was sagt sie?”

“Tell him that I want to be freed,” you hurry to say before the translator can tell your insults to König. After a brief conversation, König leans forward in his chair to see the effect his words have on you.

“He says he can’t do that,” the Roman informs. “His soldiers will find you and take you.”

You close your mouth and try to even your breaths. No one says, You don’t want that. Everybody in this tent knows you don’t want that.

“He asks if he killed your brother or your father.”

You sniffle, quite involuntarily.

“No. He didn’t.”

“Then why are you angry and sad?”

There is a hint of genuine interest in the man’s voice. Both of these men are confused as to why you would bawl your eyes out after the massacre of your people.

"Because… Because he…"

“He says it is a man’s duty to die in battle. You should be proud of your fallen ones, not cry and feel sorry for them.”

“Tell him that he can go fuck himself,” you shout, not giving a single shit anymore about whether he translates the words or not. 

To no one’s surprise, he does.

“He says he’d rather fuck you,” he returns to you with König’s message.

You can’t bear to look your captor’s way, and still, that’s exactly what you do. You look at the giant as he stares at you, keen and hard and patient. But you know his patience has its limits. It’s almost like a promise, the way he leans forward in that chair and looks at you from under the hood, shameless and challenging.

“Never,” you guide your words to König now. It’s a brave little whisper, but you know that it’s a lie. Even the Great Mother knows you’re lying. You almost hear the cackle of the old woman rising from the earthen ground, from the chthonic depths, to mock you and your vows.

You hear the old man’s words from somewhere far away, from underwater, as König’s stare wrestles you down and takes away your little knife. He subdues you even when he’s sitting, and shares a string of words: a harsh promise. You hold your breath as his cock gives a pulse under that tunic, and your eyes fall, fall, fall onto it, because there’s no escape…

“He says he can make you feel good,” the voice says, and you can’t even hear who speaks. Your mouth is full of water, but you swallow it down, then shoot your way up to the surface, up, up, up into the sunlight, until you can breathe again.

You rip your eyes from König and look at the Roman translator with loathing and contempt.

“You can leave now. This conversation is over.”

Then you turn, trying not to pay any attention to the hushed conversation that proceeds behind your back. The man leaves the tent: you can hear it, and you can also hear how König rises from the chair and walks right behind you.

“No… afraid,” his hands come to rest on your shoulders, but you don’t even flinch. You knew he was going to touch you again. Perhaps you were even looking forward to it.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you start to argue, but he doesn’t take the bait.

“You like trees?”

He speaks your words, not good, but he speaks them. You wonder if he has known parts of your tongue all along and has simply concealed it. Has he understood what you’ve said to him…? All the slurs and stupid things? Mother, grant mercy…

“Why would I like—What kind of question is that?”

“Climbed a tree,” he explains cheerfully behind you. You turn and look up, yet again rendered weak. Giants are supposed to be stupid. They’re not supposed to know the language of faeries…

“Nosy,” he brushes your cheek with a smile in his eyes.

“Nosy?” 

You huff - as if you wanted to be there and witness him.

As if you had a choice after the seer pushed you on this insane, cruel path.

“Wanted to see me so bad?” König tilts his head playfully.

Gods… You can only look at him with brows curling with helpless frustration, lip trembling from how he seems to know your every little secret. He nods when you don’t say yes or no. He’s perfectly happy to read all the answers from your eyes.

“Ich wusste, dass es so war,” he changes into his own language, and you don’t need to understand the words he says.

You know he knows. He knows you, he knows you to your core, and it doesn’t really matter in which circumstances you two met. He knows far more than you, something about souls and how they’re supposed to meet, how little squirrels and giants belong together, as crazy as it is. That there is no chance in life: no, it was meant that you two meet. To him, it was no coincidence that you practically dropped into his lap from that tree.

“Did you like what you see?”

He holds your shoulders gently as you quiver and shake inside.

“No,” you peep.

“I like what I see,” he declares; a benevolent god.

…

A/N:. Thank you so much for your love and interest in this fic! As you may have noticed the fic now has 4 parts, which is because the 3rd chapter got too chunky and I had to split it 😇 Next part might take a while because I'm moving soon, but let me tell you... These guys will be put into *situations*. Oh, and a reminder that I don't have a taglist for this so please check any future updates from my pinned masterlist post 🩷

Translations:

Gut geschlafen? - Sleep well?

Ja, ich weiß. Ich habe deine Leute getötet. Ich verdiene eine Ohrfeige. - Yes, I know. I killed your people. I deserve a slap.

Es ist schön, mit dir zu reden. Aber jetzt muss ich weg. - It is lovely to talk to you. But now I have to go.

Du. Bleibst. - You. Stay.

Magst du es gestreichelt zu werden? - Do you like being petted?

Ich glaube das tust du. - I think you do.

Wurdest du schon einmal berührt…? - Have you ever been touched…?

Verstanden. - Understood. 

Was sagt sie? - What does she say?

Ich wusste dass es so war - I knew it was so.

[vonlycaonwife]

Wise, Ben, Lycaon, and Harumasa w/tomboy/Masculine dressing reader

Note: So there was an anon that gave a request for something similar to this, but I didn’t know how to go about it because the wording was throwing me off (not anyone's fault, I'm assuming it was a language barrier issue) and had some details I couldn't work with. So I'm making this it's own post and if the anon reads this and is happy then I'm glad! If this wasn't what you were trying to ask for please clarify in my inbox!

Warnings: none

Wise isn't really one to care about how you dress and such. So he won't really make any comments or say anything when you happen to dress more masculine.

Honestly if I was allowed to sneak in my own headcanon agenda, I would say he's more attracted to you because in my eyes Wise is definitely a bi guy who happens to particularly love those that play with their gender expression. So he's not making any complaints.

But that's not to say he doesn't find you attractive if you did decide to wear something more feminist for an occasion, he's still going to be just as gobsmacked as him seeing you in a suit for the first time!

Plus I would think that the fact you act more masculine too probably helps him with talking to you more. And what led to you both getting together!

This lovable bear man is also someone who wouldn't really care how you dress. Honestly I would say he actually enjoys going shopping with you no matter the style.

Though let's say you typically wear more masculine because they can be cheaper and have better pockets, he's especially in agreement with that. 

I can see him making calculations on the difference between masculine and feminine clothing prices. I feel like that's just a habit he has since I can imagine him being a big thiren could lead to him seeing possible price jumps for his specific body type.

Though if that's not a reason, and you do it just because. He's still happy to accompany you on any shopping you do for new outfits, and if need be he can be scary backup if someone stupidly decides to bother you.

Can I say you're gonna end up gifted a ton of fancy masculine clothing? Because you definitely are.

Lycaon isn't one to judge and honestly a part of me can see him be slightly excited if your style was similar to that of Victoria Housekeeping. Honestly you might even get a honorary uniform if you that matches Lycaon's if you didn't have one already.

Though that is not to say he is upset if one day you decide to wear something more feminine for something special, if anything he probably already had bought something for you just in case you needed to change that was like you typical clothes.

Also the compliments, this may seem out of character but I just know this man will give compliment after compliment. They can be more subtle or straight up calling you handsome or beautiful (depending on what you prefer) at every given chance. 

Personally I think it's just his thiren instincts going mad when seeing you in clothes that match him, so enjoy seeing his tail wagging.

Ah, this guy. Your resident clothes stealer.

Because trust me, if you happen to be the same size, he will accidentally wear a lot of your clothes in the morning rush to work. Neither of you know how it happens, but just be expected to buy extra shirts and pants. Though even then you never know if you'll find a new hole in them or not.

He lets you steal his clothes in return! And honestly with how enthusiastic he is you almost have to question whether his accidental clothes stealing is less accidental and more so a scheme for him to share clothes with you like some cheesy romantic.

Though if you aren't the exact same size, he still does it. But it's more obvious when his shirt is a bit more undone because it's too small or if he has to roll his pants up for being too long.

To be fully honest, I feel like out of everyone in this list he probably would want to see you dress more feminine. Not in a forceful way! But more so he's just curious how it would look on you, since he's so used to seeing you being masculine. It's not the end of the world if he never sees you dress feminine, but if you did it once for him as a treat…yeah he can die happy.

[r0-boat]

Can I get a mcfuckin uuuhhhhh yandere Elliott from sdv getting pussy drunk? Whether that's just eating reader out or can't stop fucking them is up to you, I just have a need 🥺👉👈

-🍜

Yeeeeeeee

My God Elliot my first husband my love.

There is a yandere Elliott mod that I love with all my heart I will be using this as a basis!

(if you don't know there's a part in the mod where he kidnaps you and keeps you how arrested in your own farm if you try to leave the farm you'll get a cutscene where he pretty much tells you that you're 'very sick' and you need to come back)

Okay without further ado

Yandere Elliott x AFAB gn!reader

Drunk off your pussy

Nsfw

He insisted on carrying you back to the cottage in his arms. Elliot had been so busy with his next book that he had not noticed that you snuck out of the house on your own. He'll have to watch you more closely from now on.

Looking at you now, even with your heaving breaths, your chest rising and falling, your eyes red and wet with tears as you cling to him. It was hard to stay mad at you as much as he wanted to bend you over his knee and make your ass red for disobeying. He spent so many nights without you and his arms and underneath you; seeing you like this just made it harder even to consider punishing you for your actions.

To your surprise, instead of being over his lap, you lay gently on the bed. Elliot, instead of a look of disapproval, it was a look of hunger.

"You disobeyed me, my dear, normally I would punish you like I always do...but I've decided that perhaps I should... Change my methods of punishment." He purrs, licking his lips as he begins to roll down your pants, taking your underwear with it.

Not wanting to make your husband angry or change his mind, you submissively obey. Spreading your legs sweetly for Elliot.

He hums at the sight of your pussy; It had been so long since he had you like this. Maybe that's why you ran. Was it was all just for his attention? "Don't worry, my sweet, I'm here now." Elliot murmurs, his smile morphing into a crazed one. He spreads your lips apart. You felt a hot breath against your cunt before his wet tongue slid inside you.

Tasting your sweet wetness for the first time in a while He shutters.

"mmh, fuck! I've miss this."

Normally your husband would make moments like these more romantic whether it be candles around the cabin too rose petals in the bed, but. You did not deserve these pleasantries.

"No! Spread wider. Don't make me get the spread bar again. If you won't part these legs, then I will make you."He smiles.

If you were going to run away and flirt with some other man like a whore then you were going to be treated like one. Right now you are not his perfect beautiful spouse. You were his play toy pet, writhing and moaning underneath him your hand gripping his hair Your body fighting on whether you should push him away or bug against him. You had your answer You want pleasure struck like lightning feeling his fingers slip inside you in his mouth curl around your clit. Elliot knew all the best ways to pleasure you.w hat kind of husband would he be if he didn't know how to make his precious spouse cum? With him suckling your clit and his fingers working your sensitive spot inside. You tried to stifle your noises. Which made your husband frown.

"come on, my sweet, let me hear you."He begs, his eyebrows furrowing as he kisses your inner thighs.

He plays with your clit in a way you cannot resist and his fingers pick up their pace slamming knuckles deep inside you every tense of his arm.

You tried to close your quivering legs, only for Elliot to remove his hand and mouth only too strike your cunt with his hand after prying you open. Youre loving husband striking you in any way stunned you. He was sorry to hurt you like this, but if you do not listen, there'll be more where that came from.

As he feels you get close, he removes his fingers, replacing them with his eager tongue, not before licking them clean, not wanting to waste a single drop of your delicious cunt

his thumb pressing against your swollen throbbing clit.

"I miss the taste of your cum on my tongue. Are you going to be good and give it to me? Do I have to ring you out for every last drop you have? Hm?" Elliott purrs, dragging his tongue across your wet lips.

To wasted no time diving his tongue inside, brushing his nose against your clit as he licks and sucks you out like a starving man. Feverishly trying to spread you even wider, pressing your hips, making you grind your cunt against his face. You arch your back cumming on his tongue, and he rides out your orgasm moaning and bucking his own hips as he drinks every last drop of your cum.

His mouth glistens with your juices as he parts from you. His tongue lulled out, and his eyes glazed over with lust and bliss. He thought he had his fell as you tried to squirm away. He holds you down, nuzzling against your inner thigh.

"Where do you think you're going, beloved? We're not done. This is a punishment, remember?"

"I will eat your pussy; I'll make you flood my mouth over and over till You're too tired to even move from your bed tomorrow. Maybe then you'll finally stay put."