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ylangelegy · 3 days ago

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Can I request idol!jeonghan ANY PLOT CAUSE I MISS HIM BADLY, THIS URGE TO GO TO KOREA AND FIND HIM AND HUG HIM 💔💔💔💔

🐈‍⬛ keeping company (jeonghan x reader)

or: the one where jeonghan leaves you with some 'company' so you're not lonely while he's on tour.

★ includes: established relationship, pet names, mildly irresponsible pet ownership c/o jeonghan, fluff. inspired by the recent rumor [?] that jeonghan and seungkwan have adopted a cat. ★ footnotes: the timing of this is impeccable. i've also been missing jeonghan like crazyyy and so here's a quick drabble! (°◡°♡) not proofread lol ★ word count: >1,850

"This is a decision that's usually made as a pair."

If Jeonghan is bothered by the annoyance edging your tone, he's good at not letting it show. He remains perfectly calm as he cradles the orange-and-white shorthair kitten in the crook of his elbow.

"You said you wanted a cat," he points out. His voice is modulated just a little bit lower, and you realize it's because the kitten is snoozing against his chest.

"I do," you respond, matching his tone. It would be comical, how the two of you are arguing like a married couple trying not to wake their child. "But not right now!"

Jeonghan has always been just a little bit on the impulsive side, especially when it came to giving you gifts. Sure, he got you absurd presents for shits and giggles— but this? A live animal, an actual pet?

"This is irresponsible, Jeonghan," you insist.

A pout overtakes his features. "Excuse me?"

You could almost laugh. Jeonghan's not affronted that you've called him out for being irresponsible. No, his gripe is with the fact that you've foregone his pet name. "Baby," you amend.

His pout pulls into a thin-lipped smile. He's still cradling the kitten, rocking it back and forth with surprising gentleness. "It's not ours," he notes, finally answering the question you'd posed since he first walked through the front door of your shared apartment. "It's a foster."

"A foster."

"For only about four months or so."

Four months would seem like an oddly specific timeline for anybody else, but the sudden information drop has everything clicking into place in your brain. "You did not," you say exasperatedly.

A proper grin breaks out on to Jeonghan's expression. "I did," he sing-songs.

His steps are careful, measured as he crosses the room over to you. The two of you share a brief look, and you almost protest at his silent request. But then he shakes his head and you're helpless to comply— gingerly extending your arms until Jeonghan has deposited the drowsy kitten into your arms.

It curls right into you despite your initial stiffness. Try as you might, you can't help the way your expression melts at the sight of the cat cozying up to you. Jeonghan doesn't miss it; he plants his hands on his hips and smirks ever so slightly.

"He'll keep you company while I'm gone," he says, all but divulging his ulterior motive in fostering.

You shoot your boyfriend a half-hearted glare. It's difficult to look stern when you're holding a kitten that's dozing off. With a resigned sigh, you prompt, "Does he have a name, at least?"

"I thought you'd never ask." Bright-eyed, Jeonghan leans over to press a kiss to your cheek. He's still got that boyish grin on full display as he carefully moves so as to not hurt the temporary addition to your home.

"His name's Hannie, of course."

Your shoulders shake with quiet laughter. "Of course," you echo.

You have to give Jeonghan some credit: He prepared virtually everything to ensure that Hannie would be comfortable. Your boyfriend cat-proofed the apartment in between preparations for his impending world tour, and he left you with more than enough food and toys to last Hannie more than four months.

A part of you wonders if it's intentional— Jeonghan's choice of a foster that was essentially just him in animal form.

"I swear," you whine over video call. "It's as if you were reincarnated as a cat."

Jeonghan is at their twelfth or so stop, roughly two months into the tour. There's a twelve-hour time difference between the two of you. It's morning on your end; evening on his. He's only stealing away a quick moment to call with you before going out to dinner with the boys, and so you make your complaints and gripes quick.

"You know, his favorite thing is the mirror," you say. "He bumps his little head into the glass, like, three times a day. He likes how he looks just a little too much."

Jeonghan, on the other end of the call, pulls an expression of mock offense. "And you said he's just like me," he snipes from his perch on his hotel room bed. "Are you calling me vain?"

You pause, feigning thoughtfulness.

"Yah!" Jeonghan whines, and you break character to laugh.

"He's a cutie, though," you concede. "He can get clingy, and he's the absolute sweetest."

"Now that's a comparison I don't mind."

You shake your head at Jeonghan's jab. Your eyes flit over to where Hannie is— busying himself with the cat tree in the corner of the room.

Jeonghan's tone takes on a more delicate lilt. "Is he giving you a hard time?"

"No," you answer instantly. It's not the full truth. It is a bit difficult, having to adjust to the fact that you have an entirely new presence to consider outside of your own. But—

"No, he's good company," you say, your gaze moving back to the pixelated version of your boyfriend on your phone.

He's smiling into his camera, looking at you in that soft way that he often does. It's not the same as the real thing, as being able to see it in person, but it will do for now.

"I'm glad," he says, and you know by the glint in his eye that he means it.

On some of the particularly lonely days, you find yourself confiding in Hannie.

At first, you feel foolish to be talking to this six-month old shorthair. He's an obliging audience, though. His boba-shaped eyes only stare up at you as you rant about how much you miss Jeonghan, how you wish he could just be home at this very instant.

That's why— on the night he comes home— Jeonghan finds Hannie asleep at your side, the two of you curled around each other like parentheses. Jeonghan snaps about a dozen photos from five different angles before placing a hand on your shoulder.

"Baby," he murmurs. "Hey, baby."

He'd been hoping to catch you awake, to greet you a lot more properly with his surprise homecoming. Instead, he finds his amusement growing as you only snore into your pillow, a protective arm placed around the equally knocked out kitten.

"Baby," Jeonghan calls again, giving your shoulder a light shake.

In your sleep, you grumble and shift closer to Hannie. Jeonghan can only marvel at how your body seems so attune to Hannie that you avoid all the ways you might crush him.

All Jeonghan can do at this point is shake his head with slight helplessness. "Damn," he grumbles, though— for what it matters— the word is said with blinding adoration. I've been replaced, Jeonghan thinks to himself as he makes his way out of your bedroom.

Couch it is, then.

You drop Hannie when you find Jeonghan on the couch the next morning.

Thankfully, Hannie lands on his feet. He lets out curious, high-pitched mewls at the sight of the new presence in the household, bounding over to the couch.

For a moment, you think you're hallucinating. But then Jeonghan rouses at the sound of Hannie's mewing, and his hand reaches out to give the cat a half-hearted stroke on its chin.

"Hey, bud," Jeonghan grumbles Hannie, his voice a bit rough from sleep. "Are you done stealing my girl away?"

If the words had been any less ludicrous, you might've faulted Jeonghan for addressing the foster before you. But, as it stands, you can only bark out a disbelieving laugh at the sight of your half-awake boyfriend trying to pick a fight with a kitten.

Hannie, none the wiser, merely tries to swat its little paws up at Jeonghan.

"Oh, it's like that? Let's square up, then—"

"Jeonghan."

Jeonghan glances up at you. He seems hardwired to resist any time you refer to him with his given name, and it shows in the way he practically side-eyes you despite his haze of sleepiness.

"Baby," you correct. "When did you get in?"

"Last night." Jeonghan is sitting up, now, stretching his arms over his head in a bid to wake himself up a bit more. Hannie— seeming no longer interested in the new character— wanders off to go play with one of his toys.

"I tried to wake you up," Jeonghan says. "But you were preoccupied with Jeonghan two-point-oh over there."

It's not quite the post-tour reunion that either of you imagined. Still, it encapsulates your relationship perfectly. Jeonghan's teasing, your fond exasperation.

Your boyfriend beckons at you with one hand. You pad over to him with a slight shake of your head, though you're also quick to sink into his side. Jeonghan doesn't miss a beat; his arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you close to him.

The two of you let out twin sighs of contentment.

Jeonghan beats you to the words. "Missed this," he says, tilting forward to press a kiss to the top of your head. "Missed you."

"I missed you, too," you respond easily, your hand resting on his thigh.

As you trace nonsensical shapes over his skin, Jeonghan hums absentmindedly. "I doubt that," he goads. "You had me in cat form the entire time."

"Are you really jealous over a pet that you got me?"

Jeonghan's eyes narrow slightly at your question, because he can hear the way you're trying to conceal your laughter. "Of course not," he answers haughtily, giving your shoulders a slight squeeze.

A beat. And then—

"Maybe a little," he grumbles, because he's never lied to you.

When the laugh breaks free from you, it's not anything cruel or judgmental. It's a tender thing, almost overwhelming in its affection. The sound of it soothes any and all of Jeonghan's petty concerns that you might've learned to love the little menace more than you loved him.

"No one can beat the original," you say.

"Damn right."

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The two of you sit in comfortable silence, basking in each other's presence. You've had dozens of reunions throughout the course of your relationship— heated exchanges, passionate kisses— but this is something new entirely. It feels a lot like a fulfilled promise, like the soft starting notes of a song.

Jeonghan thinks he could get used to this.

You watch Hannie tussle with a rubber mouse, and Jeonghan watches you.

You break the silence with a terse question of "We have to give him back soon, don't we?"

Jeonghan huffs out a mindless 'mhm'. His thumb traces letters over your clothed shoulder, almost in a soothing motion. I-L-O-V-E-Y-O-U.

"Or," he drawls. "We could fill out the adoption papers on my desk."

When you glance up at him, your eyes wide with disbelief and poorly concealed elation, Jeonghan is suddenly so grateful for his foresight. He cackles at your expression before leaning down to press a kiss right between your furrowed brows.

"What do you say, baby?" he prompts, even though he already knows the answer. "Think you have some room in your heart for another Jeonghan?"

#jeonghan x reader #jeonghan fluff #jeonghan imagines #jeonghan fic #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #svt fluff #seventeen fluff #svt imagines #seventeen imagines #୨ৎ muse .ᐟ svt #୨ৎ penned by ylangelegy #( god i miss you jeonghan . falls to my Knees )

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blindmagdalena · 2 days ago

Text

Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter eight)

18+ 5.5k. homelander x f!reader. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, abuse, forced relationship, slow burn, suicidal ideation/close call, dubcon, oral sex, penetrative sex. fic directory | AO3

It isn’t love like they tell it in fairy tales. It’s love the way the poets write it. It’s blood and tears, a gnawing hunger that eats you from the inside out, leaves you empty and clawing to cram something into yourself as replacement. It’s love like an infection, a fever that never fades. It’s devotion and yearning that runs so deep it turns into violence.

For the next several mornings, you make breakfast as usual.

The heat of the gas range and the hissing sizzle of the eggs are always slightly muffled. Time itself moves strangely around you, like you’re standing under a waterfall flowing in reverse. Minutes tick on like hours, but the hours go by without you noticing them at all.

As the days–they could be weeks, you’ve stopped keeping track–pass, that night of intimacy with Homelander feels more and more like a fever dream than a memory. If you really try, however, the details of it are simple enough to recall, if not a touch hazy.

The part of it that’s a struggle is believing any of it actually happened. When you do put your mind to remembering it, it’s as though it happened to someone else. You were an outsider to your body, and now that you’re yourself again, you’re left to ponder the actions of that stranger.

It’s your body that holds onto the reality of it for you. Your stomach still feels faintly tender from the nausea and vertigo of flying. The penthouse air feels stale in your lungs compared to the winds whipping above the city. Your heart pounds whenever your jaw feels tight with the memory of his hand clamped over your mouth, but perhaps the most vexing aspect of it all is the way the throb of your pulse now echoes loudest between your legs.

How your fear now comes laced with an unwanted tinge of arousal.

You’d been left alone that night while Homelander attended a Vought function. He hadn’t been gone long; just long enough for you to bathe. You hadn’t felt up to eating, but he didn’t notice. He’d only cared about coming home, about taking you back into his arms, about breathing in the shower fresh smell of you and exhaling mine into the crook of your neck.

Never before have you felt more like a toy, a possession, a belonging than you did in that moment.

He hasn't touched you like that again since, though you think he aches to. You feel it in the way he squeezes your thigh when you watch movies together, how his hand drifts gradually higher, but it never progresses further than that. Sometimes he’ll press against you in bed, but so long as you lay very still, he eventually drifts to sleep.

When he’s gone, you touch yourself. The ache is there, the pleasure faint, but it’s never quite enough to put you over the edge. It’s never enough to give you the kind of relief–the kind of escape–you felt with him. Your body feels like kindling without a spark, the sensations empty.

You wonder what it would take to prompt him back into that kind of frenzy, that single-minded drive to pleasure you. Would he do it again if he saw you crying?

I’m doing this for you. For us. I’m doing this because you don’t know how to let yourself be happy.

Could he have been right? Have you ever really known how to make yourself happy?

A touch to your waist snaps you from your introspection, startles you into jerking. The pan in your grip would have gone flying if not for Homelander’s hand on your elbow, steadying you.

You completely forgot you were cooking breakfast.

“Eggs are burning,” he tells you, reducing the gas to nothing. They’re far from black, but it doesn’t take much to turn eggs from edible to rancid, the sulphuric smell burning your nose. You can only imagine the havoc it’s wreaking on him.

It isn’t the first time you’ve burned a meal since that night. His tone indicates he’s come to expect it.

“Oh,” you say noncommittally, staring at the curled dark edges, the solid yellow yolk.

His hand slides absently from your hip to your waist. He’s become so familiar in these casual touches, they don’t even make your heart lurch in your chest anymore.

“It’s fine,” he says, clearly reading disappointment in your indifference. The timbre of his voice is ambiguous, but somehow you don’t really think it’s fine. He must be losing his patience with you. His arms slip around your waist like two coiling serpents. “Plenty of time for you to start over.”

Still, he wants you to fix it. Burned eggs don’t suit this idyllic fantasy.

Why bother? you wonder. He peppers light kisses on your neck, lips brushing over a kiss-bruised patch of skin. The heat of his mouth makes you shiver, makes your belly feel tight and hot. You can’t tell anymore whether the heat is anger or arousal. You’re not even going to eat it.

Nevertheless, you scrape out the botched eggs and start over, keenly aware of your pulse echoing faintly between your thighs, and the weight of Homelander’s gaze on you.

Predictably, you eat, and he toys with his food like it’s all a silly game of make-believe. Plastic eggs, foam toast, pretend girlfriend. Homelander’s obsession exists not in what’s real, but in the performance of domesticity. Every day, the idea of what’s real becomes a little more subjective. A little more abstract.

When he goes to leave, he kisses your cheek.

“Thank god it’s Friday,” he says, your chin pinched between his bare thumb and middle forefinger knuckle. He’s taken to touching you more and more without his gloves on. “I made sure I don’t have any weekend obligations, which means you–lucky lady–finally get me all to yourself.”

That’s new. Normally his weekends are even busier than his week.

Sensing his anticipation for your positive reaction, you smile faintly. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

His eyes widen just a fraction, as does his smile. It’s something of an experiment, a deviation from your automatic daily “Have a good day,” and you see the excitement of it written plainly in his expression.

“I won’t,” he says, softer, grip flexing minutely on your chin. He tarries just long enough that you begin to think he may not leave after all. Instead, he takes in a breath and drops his hand to the door panel, using his print to disengage the lock.

“This will be good for us,” he says quietly, lingering in the doorway for just a moment longer than usual.

The door closes behind him. The green circle turns blue, and the locking mechanism re-engaging is the last bit of noise you hear. The door is thick enough that you don’t even hear his steps echo down the hallway.

Crossing your arms, you stand there for a while, staring at the door. The number pad is shiny from disuse, the buttons a gleaming silver. You’ve never seen him bother to input the code. Testing them without pressing, they’re cool to the touch under your finger, and after a beat, you input a code.

0476. America’s birthday.

The blue circle flashes red, and you sigh. You would have been angry with yourself if it’d been that easy anyways.

For another day, you whittle your hours away on nothing, distant from yourself and your feelings. Music drones in your ears like static. Television feels alien and incomprehensible. The whole world is upside down, but it’s as though you’re the only one who’s noticed, who’s being forced to adapt.

Terrible as it is to think, the days are better when Homelander’s here.

You walk the penthouse in familiar patterns like a zoo animal in a too-small enclosure, bereft of enrichment. Knowing what you know about him, it feels like giving him too much credit to think the deprivation is intentional, that he’s putting in an effort to make you miss him in the time he’s gone. It seems more likely that he really is just incredibly ignorant of the basic needs a person has.

You’re not an animal. You’re more like a doll that he puts on the shelf until he’s ready to play with you again.

Coming to the balcony, you pull open the door and step outside, hand tight on the door frame. The wind lashes at you, stealing your breath for a split second in the way it always does before you adjust. It’s bright out today, the sky a crisp blue. It’s the kind of rich blue you’d never normally see through the smog on ground level, which always leaves it desaturated.

The clouds look near enough to touch, were you brave enough. Even standing just outside the doorway, your bare feet against the ice cold cement, is enough to make you weak in the knees. Your heart knocks against your ribs like it means to escape, but the feeling has grown so familiar, you don’t back away.

The fear, you realize, is the only thing that makes you feel present in your own body.

Living with Homelander has forced you to swallow back your instincts so frequently, it comes more naturally now to take a step forward than to run away, your hand slipping from the doorway.

Your heart is in your throat as you near the middle point of the balcony, more and more of the city below coming into view. Your breaths grow shallow, and despite how calm you think you are, your stomach launches into a series of violent somersaults, your eyes glued to the thinning edge of the balcony.

No matter how tattered your thoughts and feelings are, your body reacts. It knows how to keep you safe. It screams and screams and screams as you press on.

There’s nothing around you to steady or brace yourself on. You feel imbalanced, top-heavy in a way that makes you sway, your poor heart lurching with it. You’re too scared to blink, unwilling to risk even a split second of darkness for the fear you might pitch forward.

Closing your eyes only makes it worse, reminds Homelander, his voice unbidden in your mind.

It’ll pass.

It’s worth it.

Trust me.

“Why?” you snap aloud, startling yourself. Why, even now, is he with you?

What’s your alternative?

The air is thin out here. Your eyes water, buffeted by the winds. Your chest feels tighter now, and every breath you take is more hard fought than the last, your lungs constricted. Tears start to roll down your cheeks, though the wind is quick to wick them away.

Your whole body sings with your fear. The adrenaline feels like an extra layer of skin beneath yours, filling your veins with tension and strength. The longer you endure it, the more aware of yourself and that change you become. You take another step towards the edge. Your mouth is sandpaper dry, pins and needles prickling your skin all over.

Don’t look down. Look out.

You lift your gaze to the horizon, exhaling a shaky breath. You take another tentative step forward, relieved when your foot hits solid ground. You can’t see exactly where the ledge ends anymore. Another step, and then another. There’s nothing to hold you back. Nothing to keep you from walking.

Finally, you close your eyes, and move to step forward.

You’ll take care of yourself, won’t you?

You gasp, eyes snapping open. Your balance waivers, and as your gaze drops, you see the empty space where your foot was about to fall.

If not for yourself, you’ll do that for me, yeah?

You pitch yourself backwards so hard that you fall, landing on your ass with a pained noise. You choke on the tension in your throat, your whole body shaking as you haul yourself backwards, bare feet scratching against the pavement. You flip onto your hands and knees and clamber back inside, hastily slamming the door shut behind you before you let go a gut wrenching sob, the sound of it strained, agonized, barely enough breath in your lungs to birth it.

You put your back to the door and you cry until your voice runs hoarse, until all the muscles in your stomach hurt and your tears run dry. It’s an ugly, visceral cry that leaves you dizzy and weak-limbed, the space behind your eyes throbbing in a dull headache.

There is an alternative. You’re going to find it.

Eventually you manage to drag yourself up from the floor and to the bedroom. The exhaustion that hits in the wake of your–what, lapse in judgment? Temporary insanity? Whatever you call it, it’s left you so worn out that all you can do is collapse on the bed, your muscles aching.

From the ceiling, your reflection stares back at you. You hardly recognize that face as yours anymore. Time and time again she makes choices that aren’t yours and experiences the world in a way you never could have imagined.

Homelander may have convinced you to look at yourself, but only now do you think you’re starting to see yourself as you are. As you must be.

You close your eyes, exhaling a slow breath. You begin to forget the balcony, the steps forward, the fall. It slots into a distant place somewhere in the back of your mind–where all things like it go–and after a time you’re left with nothing but the thrumming of your own body.

The echo of fear and thrill. The memory of adrenaline coursing through you like fuel, like poison, like divinity. Never before have you felt the kind of power you did when you took those steps. Fear has no control over you. It wasn’t even what stopped you.

You stopped yourself. You took control.

It leaves you electrified. You touch your tingling fingertips to your lips, where the numbness of them makes them feel like someone else’s. You trail them down your chin, your jaw, your throat. Instead of fighting it, you lean into the idea of this other you.

Hand drifting lower, you close your eyes. Instantly that haunting night comes back to you: Homelander’s mouth on your neck, your chest, your lips, his fingers curling inside you while you–that stranger behind your eyes–gasped in pleasure and kissed him back.

You try to replicate his touch. Slow, firm, full of desire and intent. Your stomach flips at the memory of it. How he kissed you like he meant to devour you, how enraptured he became with your pleasure.

I’ll make you happy if you’d just let me.

Swallowing, you skirt your fingers along the waistband of your pants, teasing the exposed skin there. He had taken your fear, your anguish, and twisted it into something with teeth.

Something inside you that hungered.

You have no idea how fucking good I can make you feel.

Slipping under the fabric, you push your fingers into your underwear and touch yourself in every way you remember him touching you.

The chill of your fingers–still cold from the balcony–is stark against the heat between your legs. Your pussy feels velvety under your fingers, soft and slick with arousal.

Look who’s all wet.

You let out a shuddering breath. Trying to replicate his touch only drives home how wholly inhuman he really felt. The unyielding strength in him, how his fingers felt like anchors inside you, grounding you, keeping you so entirely at his mercy that you had no choice but to let go, to give in.

There’s no such plausible deniability here. He’s gone, and yet here you are envisioning him, imitating him, allowing the version of him in your mind to have what you’d been sure he would always have to take. You screw your eyes shut tighter, exhaling a throaty noise as you push your fingers sharply in.

Your hips rock steadily. The harder you try, the less right it feels. You attempt to relax, to let yourself focus on what it feels like now instead of what it felt like then, what it felt like with him. How relentless he was, peppering insistent kisses everywhere he could reach. You touch your neck, press into the tender mark he sucked there. Your pussy clenches at the sensation, and finally you feel as though you’re on the right track.

Something electric begins to crackle inside you. A low, dull pressure that builds gradually. You deepen your breaths, finding a rhythm, losing yourself piece by piece to the dozens of hands pulling at you in your mind. Tearing your clothes, sinking into you, holding you pinned, all of it impossibly happening at once while you’re simultaneously ravaged by lips, tongue and teeth.

Your eyes snap open when a grip like steel snatches your wrist, shocking you out of your fantasy.

Homelander stands over you.

His vibrant blue eyes are dark and glazed over, his lips parted. He’s not looking at you, but instead at your glistening fingers. He tilts your hand, enraptured by how the wetness of them catches the light.

A visceral rush moves through you, heat and shame and excitement and outrage all in dizzying measure. You move to yank your hand back, but despite the looseness of his grip, the curl of his fingers is unyielding. He doesn’t even seem to notice.

With his other hand braced on the headboard, he leans in at the same time he pulls you closer, his eyes falling shut as he sucks two of your fingers into his mouth.

The heat of it shocks you all over, makes your stomach drop in a hot and sudden broil. His tongue slides up the seam between your fingers, pushing between them, licking away every single trace of slickness from them.

“Homelander,” you rasp, tone ambiguous in the flux of your inner turmoil.

His eyes open part way, landing on you heavy and hungry. He pulls your fingers from his mouth with an obscene, wet noise. His tongue moves over his top lip in a slow slide, dipping around his sharp canines. His breaths are shallow, nostrils flaring on every heavy inhale. He’s barely tasted you and yet he looks drunk on it, cheeks flushed red.

“What were you thinking about?” he asks, his voice guttural, raw with open and eager desire.

For once, the truth and what you know he wants to hear are one in the same. It sits on your tongue with the weight of an anchor, his expectant gaze a bottomless ocean.

If you give it to him, are you prepared to sink?

What’s your alternative?

“You.”

Homelander groans.

He releases your hand and takes hold of your hips instead, yanking you to the edge of the bed with such ease of force it makes you gasp. He yanks your pants off with a sharp pull, though he manages not to tear them this time.

The feverishness that he touches you with makes your whole body sing, instantly sparking the ember you’d been tending into a blazing fire. Your blood races with adrenaline, desire surging alongside instinctual fear, the two intermingling to the point where you can no longer discern one from the other.

“I was thinking about yesterday,” you say, breath hitching for the way he kisses his way down your stomach, fingers biting into your hips. “The way you touched me.”

Like gasoline splashed over a flame, your words intensify the ravenous fire of him. He sinks to his knees, your legs hitched over his shoulders, peppering kisses along your inner thigh, hands cupped under your ass, which he’s pulled completely off the bed.

Your heart thunders in your chest while his hot huffs of breath so close to where you’re wet and wanting make you shiver. His fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, the thrum of his restraint an effortless reminder of all that he is, all that he’s capable of. The awareness of how easily he could tear you apart is no longer frightening. Instead, it’s the understanding that he won’t that thrills you.

In the same way you couldn’t stop him when he wanted to please you, if Homelander wanted to hurt you, you couldn’t stop him. There is a surreal freedom in that, a permission to let go of the weight of fear and responsibility for yourself, for your actions.

Reap the reward.

He kisses all the way to the core of you, where his mouth closes over your clit, hot and wet and devouring. His tongue slides around and over, the rolling pull of his lips coaxing a deeper pleasure.

All the while he holds you firmly in place, trapping you in relentless euphoria. His mouth is just as merciless as the rest of him, never needing to pause or take a breath. He’s machine-like in his rigor, but the fervor of his consumption is decidedly animalistic.

You can hardly catch your breath in the onslaught. Reaching down, you thread your fingers into his hair–it’s softer than it has any right to be–and pull hard. That earns you a throaty moan from him, the vibrations of it adding an entirely new element of sensation.

Your grip on his hair tightens sporadically, sharp little tugs that match the staccato cadence of your breaths. His tongue moves down, focusing instead on fucking you in shallow but powerful thrusts. The strength of it, the underlying hum of barely contained power that courses through him, and the sheer relentlessness of his stamina drives you wild against his mouth.

Between plunging his tongue into you and sucking on your clit, he drinks you down noisily, a parched man gulping from an oasis. You use what little leeway his grip allows to grind against his tongue, riding the tidal wave of your building release all the way to the top.

His hand slides inward, fingers splayed to support your weight while his thumb dips deep enough to slip into you, finally giving your pussy something solid to squeeze. It’s enough to tip you over the edge. You push your other hand into his hair and hold on for dear life, arching your back with a cry that fills the entire penthouse as pleasure overtakes you, crashing down on you like a tsunami.

Like before, Homelander doesn’t take your climax alone as an invitation to stop. A man possessed, he licks, sucks and kisses your throbbing clit through every single aftershock of your orgasm. Pleasure eventually trails into discomfort, a slight tingling burn that finally gives you the strength to push him away.

He doesn’t relent right away, too lost in you to feel the meager protest. You push harder, making a noise somewhere between a moan and a whimper, overstimulated, and he finally withdraws, giving one last noisy slurp before setting you back on the bed and rising. He’s painting, face is shiny and wet with your slick, his pupils blown completely black.

In your euphoria addled delirium, the look of him makes you want to run far away as much as it makes you want to kiss him.

Licking his lips, he crawls up your body, his gaze still predator hungry. You catch his face between your palms, your breaths still shallow, and marvel at how raw he looks.

For all your fears about what he could be hiding from you, Homelander has never been anything but brutishly upfront. He told you who and what he was the moment you woke up in his bed. You can understand his logic now–why bother muddying the waters with needless lies? He never deceived you because he wanted you to know who he was, and who he expected you to be.

Even now, he is an open book to you. Your pleasure is mine, his expression declares. The claim is in his eyes, shining on his lips, in the heady scent of it on his breath. You are mine.

And he is, without a shadow of a doubt, yours.

You trace his bottom lip with your thumb, transfixed by the way he followed it, pressing wet kisses to the pad. You tilt your thumb forward, grazing his teeth. His bottom canines are sharp, and when you press your thumb down on one of them, he closes his lips around it, sucking on it with a needy little noise that lances heat straight through you.

Despite the immensity of his power, he’s malleable in your hands. You pull, he follows, huffing out shallow little breaths. You pull your thumb away and he looks at you with cloudy eyes, brows tightly pinched. Between your bodies, he fusses with his belt until it clicks loose.

“Stop,” you breathe, pressing a hand to his chest.

His expression twists, damn near wounded. “Wha–why? I thought–”

You kiss him before he can put himself in another rejection induced spiral, licking the words right out of his mouth before you say, “Take the suit off.”

Another soft groan from him before he’s lifting off of you, unfastening his suit. You take the opportunity to shed the last of your layers, your heart racing. You half expected him to rush, to fumble in his hurriedness, but despite his obvious excitement, he’s methodical in removing his suit, placing it on the rack in the way he always does.

It’s almost long enough to give you time to think about what you’re doing, about whether the pounding in your chest is thrill or not. That same primal part of you is shouting to run, and you are running, just not away. You’re tired of running away. This time, you’re running headlong into Homelander.

And he catches you.

He’s upon you before you can examine it any further, bare skin hot against yours. He kisses the column of your throat, breathing you in.

At the first nudge of his cock, a breathy little noise escapes you. He savors grinding the head of it tantalizingly against your clit, moving through the mess he’s made of you. You’re soaking wet, thighs coated in saliva and slick. He presses his chest down against yours and the heat of him makes you shiver.

He isn’t putting his full weight down on you, but the sheer force of him over you is suffocating. Breathing makes you feel as though you’re pressed against a brick wall, stifling you. Trapping you. You start to shake your head.

“Wait, wait, hold on,” you say, fighting the welling panic in your throat. “Roll over. On your back.”

Confused but not opposed, he does as he’s told, moving off of you and onto his back. You swing your leg over him, and he instantly understands, grasping your hips to help gather you into position over him. His lips split into a wide grin, dark eyes glinting wickedly.

“Fuck yes,” he breathes, squeezing your hips. There’s a giddiness to him, like part of him didn’t believe that this would happen, much less that you would ever be the one leading it.

Straddling his thighs, sitting just behind his cock, you can feel the tension of his excitement thrumming throughout his body. With control on your side, you move forward, reaching between your legs to angle him into the right position.

His grip on you flexes as he fights with himself to stay still while you descend slowly, the swell of him splitting you open in one slow, hot slide.

Gravity brings you down most of the way, but a jerk of his hips that he pulls you into bottoms him out, and you both gasp with the suddenness of it, your body locking up around his throbbing cock.

“Sorry, sorry,” he pants, but his grip doesn’t ease. Like he’s lost control of himself, he holds you firmly in place while he fucks you, watching you through heavily lidded eyes, lips parted. “S’good, s’fuckin’–so fucking good,” he moans, expression twisting in pleasure.

It’s too much all at once–Homelander always is–but you take it, gripping his wrists. He fucks like a machine, each thrust a shock to your system, momentum building into quicker, harder thrusts.

“S-slow down,” you half moan, practically choking on the overwhelming fullness of him inside you. He isn’t thrusting in and out so much as he’s grinding into you in shallow bursts, carving out the shape of himself within you like he intends never to leave.

“Take me so good,” he murmurs, and if not for the slight slow down of his thrusts, you’d think he didn’t hear you. He sits up, the ease with which he moves even with you on top of him still throwing you for a loop. “Knew you would, knew you’d be mine, all mine. Made just for me.”

His hands slide up your body, one arm moving around your waist while his hand slides up to cup the back of your head. He kisses you, pins your chest to his, ensures you feel every ounce of his desperation to be with you, near you, inside you.

It’s more than being fucked–it’s like being taken apart so that you can be put back together around him. A permanent emptiness in his perfect image.

You were not made for him. You have been remade.

The next thing you know, Homelander is standing up, your legs hitched around his waist, ankles locked behind him. You wrap your arms around his neck and gasp for the way the position brings him in deeper yet, every bounce on his cock heavier now.

“Look at me,” he rasps. You don’t remember closing your eyes, but you open them at his prompt, looking at him through the delirium of heat and pleasure. His dark eyes are glassy, and he’s looking at you with such raw, vulnerable love that it makes your heart twist in agony. “I love you.”

You take a breath, your own eyes welling with tears, and you kiss him.

I believe you, you think, tears rolling down your cheeks while the pressure of climax builds steadily back up.

It’s love like an infection, a fever that never fades. It’s devotion and yearning that runs so deep it turns into violence. It’s desperation and the all consuming desire to be accepted for what you are, no matter the ugliness of it. It’s the most raw form of need a person is capable of.

It’s survival.

The kiss breaks and he presses his forehead to yours, your shallow breaths mingling hot and wet in the narrow space between your mouths.

The rest of the world falls away in jagged pieces–circumstance, fear, pity, hatred, pain–and narrows only to the two of you; your bodies joined, your gazes fixed on one another, and the electric pleasure of the friction between you.

“I–” you gasp, choking on your own words as he fucks you to the razors edge of release. “I love you, too.”

Maybe he’s broken you, or maybe it’s impossible to live in madness without going a little mad yourself.

He makes a noise like you’ve gutted him, eyes screwed shut. He slams in once, twice, thrice more and you lose yourself to the heat of it all, breath stolen from your lungs by the crash of release that overwhelms your every sense.

You lose track of time, of the hammer of his body against yours. He comes shortly after, stilling deep inside you with a rush so hot that it makes you gasp into the crook of his neck, where you let yourself collapse. You’re dead weight in his arms, but you may as well weigh nothing at all for the toll it takes on him.

Sinking down to sit on the edge of the bed, he embraces you like that for a long while. Your euphoria keeps you on a cloud somewhere high above, serving as cushioning between how you feel and what you know. Just like yesterday, mindless pleasure is an intoxicating reprieve from reality, and you’re thoroughly drunk on it.

He rubs your back in slow familiar patterns. You idly toy with the hair at the nape of his neck, which prompts him to pepper you in languid kisses. Touching you like this comes to him as naturally as breathing. Your bodies slot together like two pieces of a puzzle that were long lost from each other.

“See?” he whispers, easing your bodies down onto the bed, under the covers. “I didn’t break you.”

You offer a dazed smile, not quite as certain that he didn’t. Your pelvis aches slightly, an overall tenderness to you akin to the pain you’d feel the day after a particularly hard fall.

That isn’t the ache you’re concerned about, though. It’s the one in your chest that gives you pause.

“There’s still time.”

His brows furrow while he processes the words, but after a beat, he smiles, taking it as a playful challenge.

“Aren’t you just full of surprises?”

Yes, you think, settling your head on his chest, listening to the steady pound of his heart. I certainly am.

Exhaling a deep breath, you close your eyes, content to allow yourself this respite, however brief.

In hindsight, you will always remember this moment as the quiet just before the storm.

#homelander x reader #homelander #homelander x you #x reader #homelander fanfiction #my writing #center stage in a gilded cage

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simpjaes · 2 days ago

Note

does rodeo by wayv give you best friend's husband jay vibes? like you moved away and started growing apart from your best friend but then run into her husband at a club when he's on a "business trip"?

also this is not me trying to bait you into a hard thot. just a random thot I wanted to share

this....is splendid. i personally can't write any form of sexual thoughts to rodeo tho ;-; i can, however, claim that the song red moon by kim wooseok also fits this prompt. so..... warnings: infidelity, not proof read and probably not that great to read bc im genuinely struggling to stay awake rn. wc: 687 You knew he looked familiar, but you couldn't quite put your finger on it until his fingers were in you.

~ Your eyes go wide mid-moan, noting those eyebrows that you suddenly remember so vividly. On his wedding day with your best friend, you recall the photo they sent to you after. His eyebrows were strong, almost angry looking despite the smile on his face in that photo. And no matter how close you and her were back then, you never really saw much of Jay to begin with. You never really saw much of her anymore either. Then again, you guess moving away plays a large part in that. "Jay?!" You suddenly yelp, trying to close your legs around his hand. He doesn't react though. As if you thought maybe he didn't recognize you either. He hadn't said your name at all tonight, and you can blame the drinks all you want. Both of you are well aware that neither of you are any more than tipsy. You rode in that car with him, straight to a nice hotel room. You walked right in, laid down on this bed, spread your legs, let him take your panties off, and now his fingers are splitting you open as if to prepare for for something bigger...and he hadn't said a damn thing? No, "Hey, how have you been?" Not a single "Oh! It's been a while!" And all you can do after saying his name in shock is lay here and feel the way he only moves his fingers faster. The way he hides his face from you by way of trailing his tongue down your stomach, straight to where his fingers are. All you can do is grab his hair, and grind against that same tongue that shouldn't be on you...or in you. You see his wedding ring. Fuck, you feel it when he grabs at your thighs and you just...let it happen. Thoughts of, fuck... is this why she married him? Is this why she never let you actually hang out when he was around? Is this how good he treats her? "Jay..." You trail off this time in something that sounds like a moan, rubbing your clit up and against his nose as you feel the bubbles in your gut. "Does she know?" He lends you a few more licks, a few more fucks of his fingers, and then pulls out. He looks at you for a long moment, then trails his eyes down to himself. He doesn't intend to answer your question. Instead, he reaches down and pulls his cock out, flashing it at you as if it'll keep you from asking more questions. It works, for the most part. You were going to stop him. You were going to ask why he's fucking around on your best friend. Instead, you find yourself gripping his torso much like she probably does. He plays with you longer, sliding his tip through your folds with a small smile forming on his face. "Hm?" He tilts his head in a hum, as if daring you to try asking that question again. Knowing he can easily shut you up if you do. "Does who know?" You squeeze your eyes shut at the feeling of him pressing in. A thick head pulsing pre-cum against your walls every inch of the way, up until you're clinging to him so desperately that you're sure he's bleeding. "We've never met." He says playfully through a breath. God, you know you're leaving marks on him. "We were never here." You're sure he can't hide it from her now. Good. He deserves to be caught. Despite everything with your best friend, the distance, the lack of talking....she doesn't deserve this. And you'll back her up if she finds out. She doesn't have to know it's you who left those marks. She doesn't have to know you liked it either. And you do like it. Far, far too much. To the point that each thrust has you questioning why you'd care at all if she found out it was you who let her husband get his dick wet. It was you who left these marks. You who got to cum all over him. You. And what about him? Eating you out? That's intimate. Fingering you. Fucking you. Even kissing you. Surely, she's done something to have him seeking out other women, right? Surely, he wouldn't be fucking you this good if she mattered at all.

#enhypen smut #jay smut #park jongseong smut #enhypen hard hours

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rootedinrevisions · 2 days ago

Text

Let's Find Out Together

SUMMARY: After a painful breakup, you turn to Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw, your longtime friend, for support. But as he steps in to help you heal, he reveals that he’s been harboring feelings for you all along. What starts as a comforting distraction quickly turns into an intense, unexpected connection that blurs the line between friendship and something more. Now, as the sparks fly, you're left questioning everything you thought you knew about love, friendship, and passion.

A/N: Thank you to the Anon who sent this request in! this was a fun one to write! I hope you enjoy it!

PROMPT: "What do you like?" "I don't know." "Well, then how about we find out together?"

WARNINGS/TAGS: 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. (Biting, Marking, Oral Female Receiving)

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

TAG LIST: IN COMMENTS

If you would like to be added to any of my Tag Lists please feel free to comment, send an ask, or send a DM and I'll be happy to get you added! Below are the fandoms I currently write for.

Glen Powell: Himself (RPF), Characters He's Played

Twisters: Tyler Owens, Boone, Scott, Javi

Top Gun: Maverick: Rooster, Hangman, Bob

Marvel/MCU: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers

WWE/Wrestling: Cody Rhodes, Corey Graves, Damian Priest, Drew McIntyre, Finn Balor, Jimmy Uso, Jey Uso, Kevin Owens, L.A. Knight, Pat McAfee, Roman Reigns, Seth Rollins (if there is someone you're thinking of from WWE and they aren't on the list feel free to ask! There are so many guys on the roster that these were the ones that came to mind.)

The Hard Deck was alive with its usual buzz—boots scuffed against the wooden floors, laughter echoed from the pool table, and the jukebox played a classic rock song that you barely registered. You sat at the bar, staring down into the bottom of your glass like it might hold the answers to every question rattling around in your head.

“Hey,” came a familiar voice from behind you.

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw slid onto the stool beside you, his presence like a balm for your frayed nerves. His aviators hung from the neckline of his shirt, and his easy smile faded the moment he got a good look at your face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone softer now, concerned.

You tried to muster a reassuring smile but knew it fell flat. “Nothing. Just… a long day.”

He wasn’t buying it. Bradley had known you long enough to spot when something was bothering you. His brow furrowed as he leaned in closer, his voice low. “Come on. It’s me. What’s going on?”

You hesitated, your fingers tracing the rim of your glass. Then, with a quiet sigh, you admitted, “I broke up with Derek.”

Bradley’s expression flickered—something unreadable passed over his face, a mix of surprise and something else you couldn’t quite place. He took a moment, then asked, “What happened?”

You swallowed, the words feeling heavier than they should. “I caught him cheating on me.”

Bradley’s hand clenched around his beer bottle, his jaw tightening. “That asshole,” he muttered under his breath, then louder, “He can go screw himself.”

You snorted at his bluntness, a small laugh escaping despite yourself. Bradley’s intensity softened as he looked back at you.

“I’m serious,” he said, his tone gentler now. “You deserve better than that. Better than him.”

“Yeah, right,” you replied with a hollow laugh. “Good guys aren’t as common as they used to be.”

Bradley shrugged casually, but his lips twitched into a small smile. “I think I’m a pretty good guy.”

You blinked, caught off guard, then smiled at him. “Yeah, you are. One of the best, actually.”

He leaned forward, his forearms resting on the bar. “Then let me take you on a date.”

You stared at him, momentarily stunned. “Bradley…”

His brown eyes held yours, steady and earnest. “I mean it. Let me take you out.”

“You don’t mean it,” you said, shaking your head, though your pulse quickened at the thought.

“I do,” he countered, his voice unwavering. “I’ve liked you for a while. But you were with Derek, and I wasn’t going to get in the way of that. Now that you’re not…” He trailed off, his gaze softening. “I just want to show you how you should’ve been treated all along.”

Your heart twisted at the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, you couldn’t speak, couldn’t process how Bradley—your steady, dependable Bradley—was suddenly baring his feelings to you like this.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admitted quietly.

“Say yes,” he said simply.

Your lips curved into a small, hesitant smile.

“Okay,” you said, the word slipping out before you could second-guess yourself.

His face lit up, and he reached out, brushing his fingers lightly against yours where they rested on the bar. The touch was tentative, warm, and for the first time that night, you felt the weight on your chest ease just a little.

“Let me take you home,” he said. “You’ve had enough of this place for one night.”

You nodded, letting him help you off the stool. As he led you toward the door, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was the start of something you’d been too blind to see before.

The drive back to your place was quiet at first, the soft hum of the engine filling the space as you leaned back in your seat, watching the lights of the town blur past. Bradley’s hand rested casually on the gearshift, his fingers drumming lightly against it in time with the song playing low on the radio.

“So,” you said, breaking the silence, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips, “is this you taking me home and tucking me in? Or is this you taking me home?”

Beside you, Bradley’s lips twitched into a grin, though he kept his eyes on the road. “Depends,” he said smoothly, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “What do you want it to be?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, you’re the one who asked.” His tone was light, teasing, but there was an undercurrent of something more—something that made your stomach flip.

“Just so you know,” you said, folding your arms across your chest in mock indignation, “you’re terrible at tucking people in. I seem to remember you leaving me to sleep on a couch last New Year’s while you stole my blanket.”

Bradley laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “First of all, that blanket was fair game. Second, you’re the one who insisted on watching that terrible rom-com marathon. I was being a good friend by suffering through it.”

You shot him a playful glare. “Suffering? You cried during The Notebook.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

He sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Fine. Maybe I got something in my eye. A guy can be moved by powerful cinema without crying, you know.”

“Sure, Brad,” you said, unable to keep the smile off your face.

The banter continued, easy and familiar, until he pulled up outside your place. He shifted the car into park but didn’t immediately move to unbuckle his seatbelt. Instead, he turned to you, his expression softening as his eyes searched yours.

“Seriously, though,” he said, his voice low, “it’s up to you. I meant what I said back there. I’m not in a rush. I just want to be here for you.”

Your smile faded into something gentler as the weight of his words settled over you. “I know, Bradley. And… I appreciate it.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air in the car thick with something unspoken. Then you reached for the door handle, breaking the spell.

“You coming in, or are you going to sleep in the car?” you asked, your tone teasing but your heart pounding.

Bradley grinned, unbuckling his seatbelt. “You know I’m not letting you go in there without company.”

You reached your front door, fishing your keys out of your bag, the cool night air brushing against your skin. Bradley trailed behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence. As you tried to slot the key into the lock, your hands trembled—whether from the chill or the way your heart was racing, you weren’t sure.

Before you could get the door open, you felt him. Bradley’s hands slid gently around your waist, his touch tentative at first, as though giving you the chance to pull away. When you didn’t, he pulled you closer, his chest pressing against your back.

“Bradley…” you started, your voice barely above a whisper.

His only response was to lean down, his lips brushing softly against the curve of your neck. The first kiss was light, testing, a feather-soft touch that sent a shiver down your spine. The second lingered longer, his warm breath fanning over your skin as he pressed his mouth to the sensitive spot just below your ear.

“Is this okay?” he murmured, his voice low and husky against your neck.

You closed your eyes, tilting your head slightly to give him better access. “Yeah,” you hummed, the word barely audible.

You swore you felt him smile against your skin before he continued, his kisses growing bolder, more insistent. His lips trailed down the side of your neck, tracing a path toward your shoulder. His hands splayed across your stomach, anchoring you to him as his mouth moved lower.

Every kiss sent a wave of warmth through you, the world outside your little bubble fading away.

“Bradley…” His name slipped from your lips, half a sigh, half a plea, though you weren’t even sure what you were asking for.

He hummed in response, his lips still trailing over your skin. His touch wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was deliberate, reverent, as though he’d been waiting for this moment for longer than he cared to admit.

You turned your head slightly, trying to catch his gaze, but he paused, his lips brushing against your shoulder as he spoke. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said softly.

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you turned fully in his arms, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest. His brown eyes searched yours, and whatever he saw there must have been enough, because his lips were on yours a moment later, warm and sure, pulling you even closer.

Bradley’s lips never left yours as his hands moved down your back, his fingers grazing over the curve of your hips before gripping your thighs. With an effortless motion, he lifted you, and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms looping around his neck for support.

Your breath hitched as he adjusted his hold, steady and sure, like he’d done this a hundred times in his mind. The strength in his arms sent a shiver through you, and for a fleeting moment, you wondered how he managed to make it all look so seamless.

Still cradling you securely, Bradley leaned back just enough to reach behind you, pushing your door open with one hand. The kiss never faltered, his lips still moving against yours in a way that made your head spin. The door swung open, and he stepped inside, his boots echoing softly against the hardwood.

With a swift motion, he kicked the door shut behind him, the solid thunk of it closing grounding you in the moment. Then he turned, pressing your back gently against the wall, his body pinning yours in place.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging lightly as his lips traveled down, brushing over your jawline and back to your mouth. The intensity of his kiss deepened as his tongue slipped past your lips, teasing, exploring, drawing a soft moan from your throat that you couldn’t hold back.

Bradley’s hands slid down your sides, his touch leaving trails of heat in its wake. When they settled on your waist, his thumbs stroked slow, deliberate circles against your skin through the thin fabric of your shirt. The way he held you—firm but gentle, steady but utterly consuming—made your pulse race.

Every movement, every touch, felt purposeful, like he was trying to show you with his hands and mouth everything he hadn’t yet said out loud.

“Bradley,” you murmured against his lips, your voice breathless and shaky.

“Hmm?” he hummed, his lips brushing yours as he paused just long enough to look at you, his brown eyes dark and full of something that made your stomach flutter.

You couldn’t form the words, but he didn’t seem to need them. Instead, he dipped his head again, capturing your lips in another searing kiss that left no room for doubt about how he felt—or how much he wanted you.

Bradley pulled back just enough to break the kiss, his lips hovering near yours as his warm breath brushed your skin. His hands still rested on your waist, his fingers pressing lightly into your sides as his eyes searched yours with a mixture of mischief and heat.

“So,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “do you still want me to just tuck you in?”

The question made your pulse quicken, but instead of faltering, a surge of boldness rose within you. Your fingers tightened in his hair, tugging his head back gently but firmly, exposing the strong line of his throat. His lips parted slightly, and a low groan rumbled in his chest, the sound sending a shiver through you.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing the edge of his jaw as you whispered, “I want you, Bradley.”

His reaction was immediate. His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer against him as his eyes darkened with an intensity that made your breath catch. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear that,” he muttered, his voice rough and full of unspoken desire.

Without another word, he shifted you in his arms with ease, his hold on you unwavering as he stepped back from the wall. Your legs tightened instinctively around his waist, your fingers still tangled in his hair as he turned and started down the hallway.

The journey to your bedroom felt electric, every step punctuated by the tension between you. Bradley’s grip on you was sure and steady, his strength making you feel both weightless and completely grounded.

As he reached the door to your room, he paused, glancing at you with a small, almost cocky smirk. “Last chance to back out,” he teased, though his voice held a note of seriousness beneath the playfulness.

Your response was simple: you leaned forward and kissed him, pouring every ounce of your pent-up feelings into it. That was all the answer he needed.

With a quiet chuckle, he carried you over the threshold, his lips finding yours again as he stepped inside and nudged the door closed behind him with his foot.

Bradley walked you over to the bed, his movements careful and deliberate, as though he wanted to savor every second. Gently, he lowered you onto the soft mattress, his hands lingering on your hips for a moment before he leaned over you. The room felt still, save for the quiet rustle of sheets beneath you and the sound of your own uneven breathing.

He braced himself on one arm, his other hand brushing a strand of hair from your face as his lips met yours again. The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. Then his mouth began to travel, leaving a trail of kisses along your jaw and back down to your neck.

Between kisses, his voice came out low and teasing. “What do you like?”

The question caught you off guard, and you froze for a moment, your mind blanking under the weight of it. “I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bradley stilled, his lips hovering just above your collarbone. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his brows furrowing in confusion. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly.

“You’ve... you’ve done this before, right?” he asked, his voice tinged with an awkward uncertainty.

A laugh bubbled out of you, breaking the tension. “Yes, I’ve slept with people before,” you said, your tone light and reassuring. “It’s just... all the guys I’ve been with only ever did missionary.”

His expression shifted instantly. First, his eyes widened in disbelief, and for a split second, you thought he might be about to argue. But then his lips curled into a slow, confident smirk, the kind that made your pulse race.

“Missionary,” he repeated, the word almost incredulous. “That’s it?”

You shrugged, a mix of embarrassment and amusement bubbling in your chest.

Bradley leaned in closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke, his voice a low, teasing murmur. “Well, then... how about we find out together?”

Before you could respond, his lips captured yours again, and his hands began to explore, sliding over your sides and down to your thighs.

Bradley’s fingers moved to the hem of your shirt, his dark eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Is this okay?” he asked softly, his voice steady but laced with anticipation.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

With deliberate care, he pulled your shirt over your head and tossed it aside, his hands brushing against your skin as he did. The warmth of his touch lingered, sending a shiver down your spine. His gaze didn’t waver as it roamed over you, and the look in his eyes made you feel more seen—and more desired—than you ever had before.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, his voice reverent but with an edge of heat that made your cheeks flush. His hands moved to the waistband of your jeans next, his thumbs hooking into the fabric as he paused to look at you again. “Still okay?”

You nodded again, your voice catching in your throat.

He made quick work of the button and zipper, easing the denim down your legs and leaving you in nothing but your bra and underwear. He straightened, his gaze sweeping over you as you lay back against the pillows.

“God,” he breathed, shaking his head slightly. “You’re so beautiful. No... you’re sexy.”

The compliment hit you like a spark, and for a moment, you wondered why you had never let yourself see Bradley like this before. He wasn’t just your dependable, loyal friend. He was this—sweet, confident, and undeniably attractive.

He knelt back down, his hands gently trailing up your thighs as he leaned in. “You tell me if there’s anything you don’t like,” he reminded you, his voice soft but firm.

“I will,” you whispered, your heart pounding in your chest.

His lips found your neck again, pressing gentle, lingering kisses against your skin. Then you felt his teeth graze your neck—a new sensation, one that sent a jolt through you. Before you could process it, he bit down gently, and you gasped, the sound escaping you unbidden.

You felt his lips curve into a smile against your skin. “You like that?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “Do you want me to do it again? Do you want me to mark you?”

You nodded quickly, your breath hitching. “Yes. I want to be yours.”

The words barely left your lips before he leaned in again, his teeth sinking into your neck just enough to sting, followed by the soothing press of his mouth as he sucked on the tender skin. The sensation was unlike anything you’d felt before—electric, heady, and intimate. When he pulled away, you could feel the heat of his gaze as he admired the dark mark he’d left.

Bradley smirked, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face as he leaned in to kiss you. “Can’t wait to see what you look like with those all over,” he whispered, his tone filled with a promise that made your pulse race.

You couldn’t help but smirk back at him, a boldness blooming in your chest. “Where else do you want to put one?”

His eyes darkened with a mix of mischief and intent, and his smirk widened. Without another word, he lowered his head, his lips trailing along your collarbones before dipping lower, stopping just above your breasts.

He paused for a moment, looking up at you as if to ask for permission. You gave him a small nod, and he bit down again, his mouth working to leave another mark, this time on the skin between your breasts.

The sensation sent another wave of heat coursing through you, and when he pulled back, his expression was pure satisfaction as he admired his work.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his voice rough.

Bradley's hands slid up your sides, his thumbs grazing the edge of your bra. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, silently asking for permission. When you gave him a slight nod, he reached behind you with practiced ease, unhooking the clasp and gently sliding the straps down your shoulders.

The garment fell away, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his gaze filled with reverence and hunger that made your skin flush.

One of his hands moved to cup your breast, his palm warm against your skin as his fingers squeezed gently, exploring. The sensation was new, different, and surprisingly intoxicating. You couldn’t help the soft sigh that escaped your lips as he leaned down, his breath ghosting over your skin before his lips wrapped around one of your nipples.

The feeling sent a jolt of electricity through you. No one had ever paid much attention to your chest before; past partners had always been more focused elsewhere, making offhand comments about your body that left you feeling unbalanced. But this—Bradley’s touch, his mouth—was deliberate and consuming as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

Then you felt his teeth, a brief, unexpected pressure that made you gasp, your back arching as you unconsciously pushed your chest further into his mouth.

Bradley hummed against you, his lips curving into a smirk as he flicked his tongue over the sensitive skin to soothe it.

“You like that,” he murmured, not as a question but a quiet declaration.

Your breath hitched, and you nodded, your voice too tangled in the haze of sensation to respond properly.

He didn’t wait for words. He pulled away, his lips leaving a trail of warmth as he shifted to your other breast. His hand replaced his mouth, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers while his lips found their target. This time, he didn’t hesitate, biting down gently but firmly, drawing another involuntary gasp from you.

The sound made something flicker in his eyes—satisfaction, excitement, and a hint of possessiveness. His tongue swept over the spot he’d bitten, his mouth working with a combination of suction and teasing flicks that had your fingers digging into his shoulders.

Bradley pulled back slightly, his breath warm against your skin as he looked up at you. “I love hearing those sounds you make,” he said softly, his voice a rough whisper that sent a shiver through you. His hands slid down to rest on your waist again, grounding you as his lips brushed a gentle kiss against the curve of your breast. “I’ve got so much more I want to show you.”

Bradley’s eyes never left yours as he slowly made his way down your body, his lips brushing over your skin with a slow, deliberate pace. His hands were gentle but firm, guiding you closer to the edge of something new and thrilling. When he finally positioned himself between your legs, his gaze flickered up to meet yours once more.

He smiled, a look of both excitement and admiration in his eyes. “I can’t wait to hear the sounds you make when I do thi,” he said, his voice low and husky. The weight of his words settled heavily between you, making your heart race.

You swallowed, your breath hitching slightly as he traced his fingers along your thighs, his touch light and teasing. His lips followed, pressing a soft kiss to one thigh before moving to the other, a trail of warmth in his wake. Then, with a careful touch, he slid your panties down your legs and tossed them aside, leaving you feeling exposed, but strangely safe in his hands.

He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, before lowering himself further. The air between you two was thick with anticipation. His hands gently caressed your hips, grounding you as his lips finally reached your center.

The moment his mouth made contact, your body jolted with the sensation, a sharp intake of breath escaping you as you arched into him, your hands gripping the sheets beneath you.

Bradley was slow, methodical, taking his time to explore and bring you closer to the edge. Every touch, every movement was carefully tuned to your reactions. He wasn’t just trying to make you feel good—he wanted to know what made you tick, to learn the rhythm of your body in a way no one else had before.

Bradley’s focus never wavered as he continued his work, taking his time to explore, making sure every movement was deliberate and sure. Each kiss, each touch, each gentle caress sent shivers through your body, and you couldn’t stop the quiet gasps that escaped your lips as you reacted to him.

He shifted slightly, and his movements grew more confident. His lips found that sweet spot, the one that made your breath catch, and when he applied a little more pressure, a moan slipped from you—louder than you’d intended, and unmistakably full of need.

You felt your cheeks flush with embarrassment, but then Bradley’s voice, low and full of approval, reached your ears.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his lips curling into a satisfied smile against your skin. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” He repeated the motion, coaxing another breathy moan from you. The sound was so raw, so genuine, it made him groan in return.

You couldn’t hold back anymore, your body arching further into him as the sensations built. “Bradley…” you moaned, almost too loudly, your eyes squeezing shut as a wave of heat coursed through you.

He growled in approval, the sound so deep that it sent a rush of excitement through your veins. “You sound so good, baby. Keep letting me know how you’re feeling.”

Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers threading through it, gripping him closer. The intensity in his gaze grew, and the way he praised you made you feel both empowered and desired in a way you’d never experienced before. You felt your body reacting to him, to his touch, to the way he made you feel so seen, so good.

Every movement he made, every sound you gave him, only fueled the connection between you two. This wasn’t just physical—it was raw, emotional, a dance of vulnerability and trust. And Bradley loved hearing you like this, loved knowing he was the one who could make you feel this way.

Every touch, every flick of his tongue, every deliberate movement made your entire body hum with need. You felt yourself coming undone, the sensations overwhelming as your breath hitched and your body responded to him.

Then, with one final, deliberate motion, Bradley pushed you over the edge. Your back arched as the release washed over you, your body trembling in waves of pleasure. A gasp escaped your lips, followed by a low moan, as the intensity of the moment left you breathless, unable to form words. It was the first time a guy had made you finish just with his mouth and hands, and it left you gasping, completely undone.

Bradley’s lips curled into a satisfied smile as he crawled back up the bed, his hands gently brushing the hair away from your face. His eyes were soft with affection, his gaze intense as he looked down at you, making sure you were okay.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice hushed, a mix of concern and pride.

You nodded, still panting slightly, the aftermath of the orgasm leaving you weak but content.

“Yeah,” you breathed, your voice unsteady. “I’m… I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

Bradley chuckled softly, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he leaned down to kiss you gently, a tender contrast to the intensity of the moments before. “I’m glad I could give that to you,” he said, his voice warm and full of sincerity.

You smiled up at him, feeling a mix of vulnerability and comfort, knowing that this moment was something you’d never forget. His presence, the way he made you feel, was unlike anything you’d ever experienced before.

Bradley settled beside you, keeping you close, his hand resting on your waist as he held you. Bradley’s hand gently traced patterns on your skin as he settled next to you, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

“So, what do you want to try next?” he asked, his voice low, a mix of curiosity and amusement.

You blinked up at him, feeling a newfound boldness. Without missing a beat, you shot him a playful smirk. “I want to ride you.”

The words hung in the air for a moment before Bradley’s eyes darkened, his breath hitching at the unexpectedness of your response. A grin spread across his face, his hands moving quickly as he pulled you on top of him, your bodies aligning with a hunger that was only growing.

“Damn, baby,” he groaned, the thought of you in control sending heat shooting through his veins.

You both shared a laugh, the playful tension still crackling in the air, before the moment turned more serious again. But this time, there was no question—the night was only just beginning.

#Bradley Bradshaw #Bradley Bradshaw Fic #Bradley Bradshaw Fanfic #Bradley Bradshaw Fanfiction #Bradley Bradshaw Fluff #Bradley Bradshaw x reader #Bradley Bradshaw x you #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw Fic #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw Fanfic #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw Fanfiction #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw x reader #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw x you #Bradley Bradshaw Smut #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw Smut

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luveline · 9 hours ago

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hi again!! i saw you mention wanting to write for prince!steve, and i also saw that you write with dialogue prompts so i present to you:

A: “I’ll take care of you.”

B: “It’s rotten work.”

A: “Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

maybe the reader gets injured doing something for training, but it’s all up to you!! i’m sure we’ll love it regardless. kisses!!

thank you for requesting! —prince steve au. fem, 1.5k

Pain was familiar before you came to the palace. Small pains and big, all kinds of hurting, poverty-driven neglect leading to toothaches and back pain, twisted ankles walked on without choice, sore skin otherwise ignored. It didn’t matter if you got hurt as long as you lived.

Not in a dramatic sense. It didn’t feel dramatic at the time, only miserable. You go to work with a migraine because you can’t afford not to. You walk home in the dark because the mag-trams are getting too expensive. You break your holo, so you make do without one. You pick your head up to keep looking both ways and you get everywhere you need to go because you need to work, to get paid, to eat, to work.

That’s how it always was. So getting sick didn’t matter. An injury was temporary pain that your body would fix eventually, and if it didn’t, well, it’s cheaper to pull a tooth than pay to have it filled.

You were used to your sorry life, and then you met Steve. Tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed Steve. Looking at him sometimes is enough to make your whole body a void for things you used to complain about; you wake up across from him in the big bed and forget you can feel pain at all, if only because he’s already awake, waiting for you to open your eyes before he rests his hand on your cheek. You met him and your soul-mark glowed with a lacy, almost feathered light, your wrist braceleted with white colour that soon faded to mellow blue.

When you first meet your soulmate, the colours you make tend to shift. It takes time for your heart to decide if love is pink or orange or blue. It seems to have settled now —when Steve kisses you, your mark turns a Gaussian amber. When you kiss back, his mark turns light pink, like the lotus flowers he keeps in his private gardens.

Right now, your mark hums an angry red. It’s typical in its colour, and it’s common. Most people’s marks turn red when they’re hurting. Yours is a crimson so dark it looks black in the dim lighting, and it throbs in time with your pain like a vexing metronome. You’ll never be able to put it from your mind if the mark continues to remind you.

Steve is uncharacteristically quiet at your side. His own mark is lit in sympathy, mostly pink with his affection, but threaded in red like spider lily flowers blooming against his forearm.

He shifts beside you. It’s been more than a month since your wedding, and yet he’s careful with you. Almost shy, though he can be brash and cocky. You know intimately how sweet Steve can be when he’s in love.

It doesn’t make any sense.

“How’s the pain now?” he asks, his eyebrows pulled together at their starts.

“Not so bad.”

“Could you rate it on a scale? If zero was no pain at all, and ten were enough to warrant another dose of white willow bark?”

“What if I were at a five?” you ask.

“A half dose and a good kiss?”

You turn his way but flinch when it puts undue pressure on your leg, a stab of hot pain jumping from your fractured tibia to deep inside of your hips. Steve sees your wincing and presses your shoulder into the bed, leaning over you, a scolding he doesn’t give in the pinch of his eyebrows as he leans down to kiss you. It’s more caress than kiss, his hand cupping your cheek, his lips barely touching yours before he rests his nose at your brow. “Can you stay still?” he asks.

“Sorry.”

“Just don’t want you to hurt yourself again.”

He lifts his head. Holds your cheek for longer than you can work out why, dotting another soft kiss to your nose before slinking out of bed to find you some white willow bark tincture. It’s a potent pain reliever. You shouldn’t have too much of it. If you were still living your past life, you’d be chewing on ginger skins trying to limp your way back into work. There’d be no time to stop.

“Steve,” you say, watching him a small ways away at the table of your quarters. He turns to you. “I don’t really need anything else.”

“You said it’s hurting?” Steve pipettes the tincture into a cup of water. “You said a five, and you lie. Knowing you, it’s closer to an eight, you just don’t want to tell me.”

It might not be as extreme as an eight now, laying down and bandaged, but it hurts badly and a tincture would solve this. Still, you say, “It’s fine, I don’t need it.”

He brings the glass regardless and puts it on the nightstand. Your bed is yards too big for one person, even two, but when Steve sits next to you he leaves no room between you. He looks down at you fondly. Brown hair like down feather falls against his forehead.

“You’re going to be in pain for a long time.” He brings a hand to your cheek again. “It might sound tame, a plateau fracture, but that’s still a fracture. You know doctors say fracture when they mean broken, right? You broke your leg. It’s okay to want pain relief.”

“I knew that. I didn’t know you knew it.”

“Impolite.” He ducks down to look you in the eyes. You’re a little skewiff, straight to his sideways, but it gets a point across. He wants to kiss you while you’ve said something maddening. “I don’t see why you’re so insistent on pretending it hasn’t happened and that you’re fine. You got hurt, and you’ll stay hurt for a while. It might be weeks of bed and– and you need to be looked after. I don’t know why you’re so guilty about it.”

“I’m not guilty,” you deny guilty, turning your face to lean into his hand, rather than continue to face his imploring gaze. “I just… I’m not used to this. Before, if something went wrong, I couldn’t just lay down and wait to get better, and I surely wouldn’t be laying here with doctors and servants and the ladies in waiting all trying to make sure– It’s like it’s not my fault, and that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t want to be a burden on everyone. More than I already am,” you add, a bitter mumble nearly lost to his palm.

He makes a promise, then, turning your face to the light. “I’ll take care of you,” he says.

“It’s rotten work.”

Steve shakes his head gently. “Not to me. Not if it’s you.”

You press your tongue to your teeth, worried you’ll say something you’ll regret. You don’t want him to go. You want him to mean exactly what he says, to stay here and take care of you, and to enjoy doing it. Wouldn’t it be nice to be loved for love's sake?

Steve shuffles inward and encourages your head into his lap, thrusting pillows aside to take up station against your headboard. He frames your face, upside down, before both hands begin to run down your arms. A hug, in a way, as he twists his face to kiss the skin beside your eye. You squint at the proximity.

“You’re not a burden,” he says, hands climbing upwards now, warm and steady where they travel, “you’re my wife. My cherished wife, remember?”

His tone is silk.

“You… haven’t proved to be a wretched husband,” you confess.

“I did try. But loving you has been easy. It makes husbandry a gift.” He laughs at his grandiose and gives you a kiss that’s more familiar by your ear, his pleading, searching kisses, the kind he likes to press to all your softest junctures. “I wish you could understand that we’re marked for a reason. We were always meant to be together, and I couldn’t have asked for a better person to stand with me. I’m happy you’re here. I want to take care of you.”

Not if it’s you, he’d said.

You wonder if it might be okay to cry. He’s massaging your arms, still bent in half over you trying to kiss some belief in him into your forehead.

“It’ll be okay,” he murmurs between chaste, silent kisses, “really. You don’t have to pretend things don’t hurt you anymore.”

You feel strange, then, shivery and weak as you turn your face into his thigh. His hand slips behind your back to hold you.

“Can I convince you to drink this tincture now?” he asks, just above your ear.

“I love you,” you mumble.

He pauses his trailing hands. You squeeze your eyes closed, but he doesn’t pause for long enough to scare you. “I love you,” he says. “Since the day we met, I’ve loved you. I’ll take care of you.”

He is easy to believe.

#prince!steve au #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington drabble #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things

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grandline-fics · 2 days ago

Text

Immune To Your Charms

DESCRIPTION: Soulmates are incapable of harming the other in any way. Normally that would be a good thing but not when you're meant to be enemies.

WARNINGS: It's Doflamingo, he's his own warning. Descriptions of illness and slight angst. Enemies to Lovers!, Soulmate!AU

CHARACTERS: Doflamingo

WORDS: 2, 903

A/N: I'm still not feeling great and managing to get requests written that I'm happy with has been a struggle but I was able to keep up the momentum from the last chapter to get this done. Hope you all enjoy and thank you all for your positive response to this series.

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST

——————

Your fall from such a height would have meant almost certain death had it been anyone else. Luckily and unknowingly for you, Doflamingo had issued an order to one of his elite officers after your less than pleasant encounter with the three pirates in your bathroom. ‘From now on you stay with them when they’re on their own.’ It was a simple order and one Pica took with absolute severity even though there was no danger to you from the Doflamingo pirates. He was going to obey his orders loyally, never leaving anything to chance. Even when you slept he remained close by in the Palace stonework, close enough to protect you and sense your movements but also giving you the privacy you needed.

When you stumbled out onto the balcony Pica was alerted and knew something was wrong. Through the day he’d been checking on you, noticing a difference in your behaviour. Thinking it was a small cold or flu he didn’t think to alert Doffy while he was away, besides he never stayed away for long when called away by the Marines. But then you fell over the railing and Pica acted immediately. His body pushed out from the stone and his large hands held out to catch you but then your limp body disappeared when it was a hair’s breadth from his reach and a familiar flash of pink registered in his sight. Blinking, Pica looked up and felt a wash of relief overcome him to see Doflamingo had returned and you were safely in his arms as he sat on the balcony you’d fallen over. He met the gaze of his leader and when Doffy nodded, Pica retreated back into the stone.

Doflamingo watched you carefully as he controlled his breathing to its usual calm; dismissing the adrenaline rush, shake in his limbs and quickened breath to just pushing himself a little harder than usual. Travelling vast distances wasn’t anything new to him but this was the first time in a long while he ensured he broke his personal best to return home. He hadn’t known what he was expecting to find when he was nearing the Palace but seeing you fall hadn’t been on his list. Blearily your eyes opened, your usual bright and sharp gaze was hazy and dulled with pain and confusion as you managed to focus on his face. “Back early…” Your voice was so weak and exhausted that even speaking those two words left your breathing tight and rapid. “M-miss me?”

Wordlessly Doflamingo rose from the balcony and carried you back to your bed. In the short distance you were incapable of keeping your focus on anything. Your vision blurred and although your eyes stung and felt so heavy you couldn’t keep them closed for long before they were slowly opening again. You barely registered Doflamingo had you back in your bed and settled against your pillows until the intense wave of pain slammed against your skull. It was so sudden and caught you off guard that you curled in on your side, hand pressed against your head. The shock had also forced you to take a sharper breath than your distressed lungs were capable of and brought on a coughing fit, sending more and more pain through your body as you struggled to calm yourself and find your breath again. When it finally subsided your body slumped against the bed. Distantly you heard the muffled sound of your door opening and a yelp of surprise coming from outside.

“Yo-young master!” the servant squeaked as they recovered from their initial shock at the abrupt opening of the door and seeing their King appear. While his return hadn’t been anticipated until the next day it was even more shocking that he appeared from his soulmate’s bedroom. “Welcome back!”

“Shut up.” Doflamingo snapped sharply, the cold intensity rolling from his body enough to make the servant fear for their life and scramble to bow lowly. “Get the palace doctors here now.”

“A-all the-”

“Did I stutter?” The low eerie calm of Doflamingo’s deep voice caused the servant’s blood to drain from their face as pure fear caused their body to grow rigid. They didn’t want to disobey his order when he was in a good mood and they certainly didn’t want to go against him now when he was like this but they just couldn’t force their body to move. The servant flinched when Doflamingo’s hand flexed, knuckles cracking in agitation. “Maybe I need to give you the right incentive since my orders aren’t enough. Are you wanting to go to them in one piece or bloodied and broken?”

“Behave…Doffy.” At the sound of your trembling, feeble voice from the doorway, Doflamingo’s hand twisted and ready to attack dropped to his side and his head snapped to look at you leaning weakly against the doorway. You already looked worse than you had in the short amount of time since he’d caught you. Your skin looked waxy and held the sickly sheen from the effort and strain coughing and struggling out of bed had caused. Swallowing harshly you looked to the servant, managing to pant out a quick. “Go.”

Your appearance snapping Doflamingo’s overbearing aura away from the servant was enough to make the poor soul snap back to reality. Rambling out apologies, the servant turned on their heel and hurried through the corridors to the doctor’s quarters. Not caring about the time or if they were sleeping they were going to frantically bang on their doors, reporting to them all that Doflamingo needed them immediately. While the servant was gone Doflamingo strode to your side as you gripped the doorframe tightly to remain standing. He saw how much you were struggling, your fingers trembled as they bit into the wood and your legs looked like they could give out at any moment. A sour taste filled Doflamingo’s mouth as he took in the sight and considered what he was to do. Instead he focused only on his anger, that he was able to handle. “Why did you get out of bed and interfere with how I deal with my servants?”

“Like being…difficult.” You managed out before tensing as another harsh cough rose in your agonised lungs and forced itself from your lips even though the pain was so great you wished to give your lungs a break. Your breath hitched in the final harsh cough and Doflamingo tensed when blood splattered agains the white marble floor. Shakily you released the doorframe to wipe your mouth but even that was too much and your legs buckled only to stop when Doflamingo’s arm caught your waist. Weakly your hand dropped to his wrist and your head fell against his chest. Immediately Doflamingo’s body tensed, feeling how high your temperature was. “Don’t you want a better look?”

“Look at what?” Doflamingo asked tightly, his frustration mounting as the seconds went by with still no sign of his doctors.

“Me.” You sighed, lifting your head to look at Doflamingo. Everything had ebbed back enough and you felt slightly more aware but the exhaustion was getting worse. “Does it match…your dreams? Me in pain.” Doflamingo ground his teeth together, refusing to answer. Not knowing how to answer, not even sure he knew the answer. Thankfully you were too ill to notice as your eyes had already slid closed just as he heard the sound of hurried footsteps drawing closer.

The doctors appeared, fighting off their sleep and disorientation with the sharp clarity of fear of failing Doflamingo. They slid to a stop in front of him and took in the sight of your weakened form and the blood on the floor. You winced at the throbbing pain the sound of their approach brought and cracked your eyes open enough to see you were in bed again, not even aware or having felt being moved. You managed to make out the outline of Doflamingo talking to the newcomers to your room but everything was muffled. Unable to stay awake any longer you finally fell unconscious.

Even sleeping it was evident to everyone you were suffering. Your chest rose and fell rapidly and with a struggling, weak rattle. Your body trembled with the shakes and tremors of chills and a fever fluctuating through you, your eyebrows knit together and expression twisted into distress. Doflamingo sat in his usual seat by the window usually reserved for when the two of you shared meals together as he let the doctors conduct their examinations over you. He’d relayed to them what he’d heard at the Marine base of the illness hitting the island. The doctors under his command had already heard of the mass infection from the papers and knew what symptoms to look for with you.

A low broken whimper sounded from you and Doflamingo’s strings unleashed instantly, connecting to the doctor who held a needle against your arm and kept him firmly in place before it could break your skin. At that the other doctors froze, out of fear of making the wrong move. “Explain yourself.” Doflamingo ordered, fingers arching to tighten the strings just enough for emphasis. “Now.”

“Their body is in pain… my King.” The doctor explained. “We can’t examine them without causing some form of discomfort no matter how gently we act. It’s part of what makes this illness difficult to treat. We need to take some blood to test how far it's progressed.”

“Can’t it be treated without the test or any needles?” Doflamingo asked sparing a glance at your pained features briefly.

“It’ll make an already difficult illness more complicated to treat.” Another doctor spoke carefully. “But between us all we could manage without needles.”

“So do it.” Saying nothing more on the subject, Doflamingo dropped the strings and let the Doctors finish their examination of you while being even more conscientious of how lightly they touched you. The last thing they wanted to risk was another close call with their King’s temper and fearsome ability. Finishing quickly the group managed to work together to quickly administer something to help your pain without waking you or bringing Doflamingo’s wrath on them. Knowing time wasn’t on their side, most of the doctors hurried to begin working on your treatment in their offices while one remained behind, hovering by the door. “What do you want?”

“Do you wish to retire to your own room?” The doctor asked unable to keep the nervousness from their voice. “Myself and the others can rotate and care as needed. You don’t need to be here.” Doflamingo remained in his seat and looked towards your sleeping form. Whatever you’d been given had helped slightly. While you still looked pained and distressed but not to the extent you had been. A rattling wheeze slipped from your mouth and the vein in his head throbbed. He recalled your weak question, asking if seeing you in pain matched his dreams, what he’d hoped for. The answer was no, nothing matched the real thing. Seeing you like this was more visceral now that he’d gotten to feel the tremor in your body and hear the struggle in your breath and see your usually strong and calm features crumpled into this kind of distress. Doflamingo turned his head away and waved at the doctor. “Just get to work.”

At the sound of the door shutting, Doflamingo rolled his neck to let it crack audibly and release the built tension before lightly knocking the wall. “Pica.” The elite officer’s form appeared slowly from the floor until he stood loyally in front of his commander. His steely gaze remained on Doflamingo who continued to look out the window, his gaze on the balcony. “Good work earlier.” He eventually spoke his praise for the usually silent officer.

While Doflamingo didn’t specify, it was clear that had Doflamingo not been there and had Pica not been there, you wouldn’t be lying safely in your bed and the need for doctors wouldn’t have been necessary. He was reluctant to feel relief and look deeper into the feeling it brought that you still lived but still he had to commend his officer for their obedience. “Tell the others that if they need me I’ll be here for the time being.”

Left alone once more, Doflamingo reluctantly looked towards you before dropping his gaze again. Slowly he worked through the information he’d already gathered. His own doctors had told him the illness was difficult to treat. From what he gathered due to the physical pain you were in that even a needle grazing your skin caused you to react, getting treatment would be just as arduous as going through the symptoms and ailments harming you. The conversation he’d overheard with the Marines confirmed many had already died regardless. Which meant even with his doctors there was a chance you would die.

Now begged the question why was he even bothering with letting them treat you? Wasn’t you dying what he wanted? Yes it had to be by his hand but wouldn’t it still count if he ordered those duty bound to help the sick and dying to stop? Wouldn’t that count as your death on his hands? Possibly. Immediately and unwillingly the image of his mother on her deathbed flashed into his mind. She’d suffered for so long, getting weaker and weaker until she had no energy left in her to recover and all because his father was powerless. Doflamingo gnashed his teeth together, refusing to be anything like the man. He wasn’t powerless, he refused to be and you at least deserved a better end than this.

———

“Our main focus is the heart and lungs at present.” You slowly drifted from unconsciousness to the sound of a trembling voice. Whatever you’d been given had dulled the pain slightly but you could feel it already wearing off. “They’re taking the most strain from the illness at the moment but trying to keep things from escalating is difficult. Finding a balance is-”

“Just spit it out already.” Doflamingo’s voice was cold and sharp, his impatience palpable.

“We can’t just force medicine down their throat and expect it to take. In order to get to our main concern there’s other steps we have to take first to ensure the treatment isn’t rejected immediately and worsen their condition while risking further deterioration. This illness makes the body fight against itself. They need to sleep and eat to keep their body strong enough to stomach the medication we need to give them but between the intense physical pain, fever, and inability to swallow it’s difficult and puts them in a vicious cycle that leads to our main concern; the heart and lungs. The stress will mount and increase the pressure and strain.”

“Is there a way to keep them asleep and give them the nutrients from food without forcing them to eat?”

“S-sir…you um instructed us to avoid needles.” The doctor’s voice grew even more frightened and meek. You couldn’t see Doflamingo’s expression but could only imagine what the doctor was facing. “Th-that limits our options considerably.”

“Doc you’re really not helping yourself here. Maybe your negative attitude is having a poor effect on your peers, hm?” Doflamingo mused. “Perhaps I should-”

Doflamingo’s threat was cut off at the sound of your pained groan. Turning sharply he saw you struggling to push yourself up with what looked like the intention of getting out of the bed, your breathing laboured and arms shaking. You blinked when you were being pulled upwards and settled against the pillows propped up behind you. You scowled at Doflamingo as he now sat on your bed, a hand firmly on your shoulder to keep you lying back. “Do I have to tie you to the bed?”

“Not tonight dear, I have a headache.” You quipped back, your voice thick with exhaustion. You took a long breath, pushed his hand away before pressing your fingers against your temple trying to relieve the blinding pain that was rushing back and through your body as the painkillers in your system finally left but it only made it worse. Groaning you dropped your hand and tried to move again, everything was just too much that you felt the desperate urge to try and get away from your own body even though you knew it was impossible. You just wanted to stop feeling so pained and ill and weak. It was just a survival instinct to protect yourself despite your own body being the issue.

Doflamingo saw the distress overcome you and when he saw you try to get out of the bed again he acted without thinking. He pulled you close and moved so your body was against him while settling his hand against your head, moving his fingers against the spot you’d been trying to relieve. Instantly a sigh broke from you and your eyes slid closed. Stronger than the painkillers you’d been given, this removed the agony assaulting you and you fell straight to sleep, your features relaxing. Doflamingo watched the change in you with silent surprise, and released the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Finally aware he was being watched his head snapped up to see the dumbstruck doctor standing there and staring with widened eyes. “My King, I think I can confidently say we’ve found our balance.”

———————————————-

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accio-sriracha · 2 days ago

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The Monster

Wolfstar ~ Prompt: The Shrieking Shack ~ Word Count: 419 ~ @wolfstarmicrofic

(Oops, my que was turned off)

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

"I love you." Sirius whispered.

Remus shook his head, his hands cradled against his chest.

He couldn't speak, couldn't think, all of his mind was full of one thought alone.

I did this.

He stared at the wound on Sirius' side, at the bandages under his shirt.

Remus did that.

Remus hurt Sirius.

"I'm a monster." Remus' voice was filled with disgust, "You shouldn't love me."

"You're not a monster." Sirius stepped forward. Remus scrambled backwards,

"Please! Don't come any closer!" He tucked his hands tighter against his chest, keeping them away from Sirius, keeping them where they couldn't do any more harm, "I don't want to hurt you."

"You can't hurt me like this, Remus." He whispered, "It's okay. Just take a deep breath, look at your hands. Those are gentle hands, they turn pages in books and write with quills and spread jam on toast. Those hands won't hurt me."

Remus let Sirius' words wash over him.

These weren't claws. These weren't the hands of a monster.

These hands wouldn't hurt Sirius.

His expression must have prompted Sirius to come closer,

"I love you. And if the man I fell in love with is a monster-" He smiled, shrugging, "So be it."

"How can you love me like this? After I caused you pain..."

Sirius laughed. A soft, sweet sound that healed something inside of Remus he hadn't known was broken,

"I was born into pain, my love. I never knew what it felt like to be cared for until these hands showed me. They may have claws when the moon is full, but they have shown me more kindness than any others." He kissed each of his knuckles, "I will more than willingly take that risk to be loved by you forever."

"I love you, Sirius." Remus squeezed his hands, gently, the type of thing his claws couldn't do.

He wasn't a monster.

"I want to love you for the rest of my life." Remus continued, staring into that brilliant silver. He'd always known it would be his weakness. But not like this... Not in the way that he would give the world to keep it in his life forever.

Sirius chuckled softly, "Then stop trying to convince me that you're not good for me, and start accepting that I will love you for the rest of mine."

He pulled Remus into a hug.

And Remus didn't hurt him. He couldn't. He loved Sirius too much to ever hurt him like this.

Remus wasn't a monster.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

#marauders #marauders era #harry potter #marauders hc #sirius black #remus lupin #wolfstar #remus x sirius #wolfstar headcanon #wolfstar angst #marauders angst #remus lupin angst #wolfstar microfic #wolfstar oneshot #remus' furry little problem #awoooo

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tune-on-in-folks · 1 day ago

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Day 20! We're ignoring that this is being posted a month later. I am working through the prompts, I swear, and I will get them all out! There's just been a lot of stuff going on in my life. I got promoted to a leadership position at my job for example! :D

Anyway here's day 20, Restraints with our boy Al!

Warnings/Tags: Possessive Alastor, Jealous Alastor, Restraints, blood drinking, biting, marking, creampie. Word Count: 2,002

(Tell me if there's any tags that need adding!)

Alastor watches you from across the room, his hand tightening around the glass of whiskey he was holding. His smile strains at the edges, revealing his discontent as you talk and laugh with a new patron. Husk stood by, idly cleaning a glass.

“You know, Boss.” Husk says, his voice almost thoughtful, “You could just tell them how you feel.”

Alastor laughs at that, glancing away from you long enough to send a scathing glare Husk’s way. “I don’t know what you are implying, Husker.”

There’s a warning in his voice, one that Husk knows all too well. But the bartender just shrugs, refiling Alastor’s glass before going back to cleaning the bar. Alastor lets out a small huff of air, his annoyance and anger spiking. Why should he let Husk know that you’re spoken for? That he's the one to have claimed your heart? He turns back to you, only to see the sinner you’re talking to lean closer. Their hand rests on your shoulder, tightening there. Alastor was certain he saw red, his jealousy spiking. Downing the rest of his liquor, he slinks into the shadows. Husk watches, amused. He knew about you both because he was observant, but it was fun to fuck with Alastor.

Your smile strains as you try to make polite conversation with the sinner in front of you. Their advances didn’t go unnoticed and your attempts to reject them gently were moot. They were simply not the type to take ‘no’ for an answer. When they lean in to whisper in your ear, their mouth brushing against the shell of your ear, you nearly shrink back. You would have taken a step back if their hand wasn’t tightening on your shoulder in an almost painful way. A rush of energy passes beneath your feet before Alastor emerges from the shadows, about a foot away from you both. Relief floods you at Alastor's arrival. The sinner immediately drops their hand from your shoulder, their expression betraying their annoyance at being interrupted.

“My dear,” Alastor’s voice is clipped as he takes a step closer to you. “May I have a word with you?”

“Certainly, Alastor!” You reply, taking a step towards him, anything to create distance between you and the sinner.

“Lovely!” His voice is filled with mock joy.

You meet his gaze and see two emotions you hadn’t expected to see: anger and jealousy. You swallow nervously, taking a step around Alastor. His volatile mood generally meant you'd be ending up in his bed, not that you minded, that is.

Alastor turns his glare towards the sinner one last time, feeling a smug satisfaction at the fear in their eyes. He follows closely after you, barely a breath behind, as he ushers you out of the lobby. As soon as you both turn the corner, he rests his hand on your shoulder, dragging you with him as he slinks into the shadows. You gasp, the sensation of your physical body falling away, foreign. You stumble back into form a moment later, catching yourself from falling completely on a bed. His bed, you realise. You take a few deep breaths, calming your beating heart as you turn around to face a seething Radio Demon.

“Alastor-” His mouth is on yours in an instant, silencing anything you had hoped to say.

He pushes you down onto the bed, the room darkening with shadows, extinguishing most of the lights in the room. His anger and jealousy bleed away into desire effortlessly. His claws glide up your sides, pulling your shirt up. He breaks the kiss only to slip it over your head. He palms your breasts through your bra, pinching and rolling a nipple between his fingers. You moan softly, arching into his touch. You shift back as he climbs onto the bed, following you until your back hits the headboard. His shadows shoot forward, wrapping around your wrists as you reach for him. You whine as your hands are forced above your head. The shadows twirl around your wrists, forming solid links that keep them bound. Alastor trails kisses down your neck, nipping at your skin as he slides lower and lower. He wraps his hands around your hips, yanking you forward, your back pressing against the mattress. His fingers hook in the waistband of your pants, pulling them down as he presses kisses, almost reverently, down your body. His lips trail down your neck and chest, between the valley of your breasts, and down to your navel. Your breath hitches as his fingers hook beneath the waistband of your panties, his mouth hovering over your core. He pulls them down your legs excruciatingly slowly, sitting back on his haunches. He looks down at you, his gaze intense, making you want to melt into the mattress below you.

“Alastor..” You whisper, “Is this talking?”

He leans forward, his claws slicing through your bra with practised ease, pulling a gasp from you.

His mouth brushes against your ear, his erection pressing against your core. “You could call it that.” His voice is husky, almost sultry.

You can’t help but ask, “Jealous much, my love?”

His eyes flash with that same jealousy and anger you had spotted earlier. “What do you think, my dear?”

You wrap your legs around his waist, grinding against him. “I think I’m grateful you showed up when you did. They simply weren't getting the hint that I wasn’t interested.”

He hums, his anger palpable as he slides his hands down your legs, curling his fingers beneath your knees. Alastor shifts forward, pressing your legs against your chest while spreading them. More shadows wrap around your legs, growing taught to keep you in place. You were bound and helpless for him. He shifts back, reaching for the clasps of his pants to free his cock. He strokes his length, his eyes dark with arousal as he takes you in.

“Well perhaps I should make it abundantly clear that you are spoken for.” He says cooly, shifting forward to swipe the head of his cock through your slick entrance, nudging your clit.

You bite back a moan at the contact, your walls fluttering in anticipation. He repeats the motion a few times, your anticipation growing with every teasing touch. He positions his cock at your entrance, rocking his hips forward.

“So wet for me already.” He sounds almost amused as he presses the head of his cock into you.

“Alastor!” You whine loudly as he begins to sink into you, his cock stretching you open.

“That’s it, my little doe.” He coaxes, “I want you to be loud. Let everyone in this establishment know who owns you.”

You blush furiously at the thought of everyone hearing you, but as he sinks into you further, you realise you don’t care. Just as long as he was inside you and he was fucking you, you couldn’t care less who heard you. He chuckles, watching the compliancy flood through you. He sinks the rest of the way into you with a sharp thrust. Your walls flutter around his cock, a moan escaping you both as he bottoms out. Alastor rests against you, burying his face against your neck. His lips press against your skin as he grinds into you. Every roll of his hips is punctuated by a kiss, nip, or a hickey being sucked into your neck. He withdraws his cock further, almost slipping from your entrance before he sinks back into you with a harsh thrust. His change of pace makes you cry out in pleasure, your arms straining against the shadows.

“Fuck! Alastor…” You moan, whimpering when he repeats his movement, thrusting into you harshly again. And again.

With each thrust he picks up his momentum until he’s pounding into you. His groans fill the air, mixing into a cacophony with your moans and the creaking of his bed as it strains underneath you both. Each stroke brushes against your g-spot before sinking deeper and kissing against your cervix. Your pleasure was steadily climbing higher and higher. The coil in your gut taught with tension, bound to snap at any moment.

“Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” You cry out, so close to that edge, but unable to go over just yet.

Alastor chuckles, brushing another kiss against your neck. His hand slips between your bodies, his fingers honing in on your clit with precision.

He rubs tight circles into the nub, his mouth brushing against your ear. “Cum for me, little one.”

The tension in your stomach snaps, sending you off that edge. You moan out his name loudly, your legs shaking against the hold of his shadows. He fucks you through your release, his pace never faltering for one moment.

A few thrusts later, Alastor's pace falters, a low groan escaping his lips. He slams into you deeply, his cock twitching as his mouth finds the conjunction of your neck and shoulder. His teeth sink into your flesh. You cry out, a mixture of a yelp and a moan, as he paints your walls white with his seed. He stills, seated right against your cervix as he slowly pulls his mouth from your neck. Blood spills from where his teeth punctured your skin. He runs his tongue over the wound, lapping up your blood eagerly. You shudder at the feeling, a small whimper leaving you as he soothes the wound.

His cock softens, slipping from your cunt. Begrudgingly, Alastor withdraws from you fully, sitting back on his haunches. His eyes trail over your body, taking in your flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest, the hickeys decorating your neck, alongside his mark bleeding slowly. His eyes slide lower, taking in the way you're bound for him, the way his cum leaks from your used cunt. You almost feel like he's admiring his work, and when he swipes his fingers up your labia to push his leaking seed back into you, you're sure of it.

“Alastor.” You say his name softly, slightly amused as you watch him.

“Hmm?” He responds, more focused on fingering you than what you were saying.

You squeeze your muscles around his fingers, moaning softly. “Don't you think you've made your claim?”

He pulls his fingers from your heat, meeting your eyes. “Hm, well I suppose. You are covered with my marks and my scent.”

He brings his fingers to your lips and obediently you take his fingers into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around his digits, a soft moan escaping you at the taste of you both. He pulls his fingers away, satisfied, before snapping to banish the shadows keeping you bound. Exhaustion floods through you, your body falling limply to his bed. With another snap you find yourself cleaned up, dressed in pyjamas, with your wound bandaged.

Alastor lays beside you, drawing you into his arms. “After tonight everyone will know you're mine.” He sounds so pleased, so proud of himself.

It makes you laugh softly, resting your head against his chest. You listen to his heartbeat for a moment, finding comfort in being in his arms.

You break the silence, “Husk can't make anymore comments about me now.”

Alastor rolls his eyes, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “oh no, whatever will I do without Husker’s input?”

You snort, placing a kiss against his chest. “You're a dick. But I love you anyway.”

His gaze softens as he looks down at you, all feelings of anger and jealousy completely forgotten. With you in his arms, murmuring words of love, Alastor knows without a doubt that you're his. He places a kiss against the top of your head, drawing blankets over the both of you as he holds you.

“I love you too, my doe. Now get some rest. I'll see you in a bit, hm?” His voice is soft, loving.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself to fall asleep in his arms. You might have been in Hell, but being in Alastor's arms was your form of Heaven.

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itwdoris · 1 day ago

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HI WAWA! 👋Hope you are doing well! Which character/s do you think would start checking reader’s panties every time after discovering they wears cutesy panties with ribbons🎀

Would they be the type to guess the color LMAO!!!! would be hot if he also likes the idea of us just pissing on it after all the effort of us picking what to wear for the day :(

Have a nice day! Always love interacting with you!❤️

oh, gojo. because you can see his nostrils flaring over and over again because he can almost feel it, taking a deep breath every time you pass him, imagining how cute the little ribbons are on your ass, with agitated eyes capturing your every move intently just to see if he can get any clues.

but if he gets bored of just watching, he'll certainly come up to you, kick some color and make you bend over just to check it out, raising or lowering your clothes until he's satisfied his curiosity. running his hand, his long fingers against the fabric to feel it, with his own cock semi-hard in his pants if he got it right.

cuz he may or may not have checked all the items in your panty drawer, so pff, he's almost never wrong.

then in addition to having all his cum on your cute panties, satoru loves to make you hold in your pee until you can't hold it in any longer, he loves to see how it gets even cuter with a wet spot getting bigger with every leak, he loves to circle his finger there.

seeing you red-faced with shame after having pissed yourself in front of him, with your soaked panties dripping, cute ribbons all wet, his cock gets so hard.

"s-satoru- " you whimpered, so messy against the table that clearly didn't look like it was made to withstand that kind of activity, as it creaked and swayed with every hard thrust. "ngh-nh, gojo-"

"y-you just pissed yourself in front of me, wet my hand, with these ribbons all cute, and expect me to go gently? " he buried himself as deep as he could, getting to the base, holding the wet fabric to the side so that he had space to sink into your hole, grinning. "fucking no."

nah, now he would fuck you until you cream his cock the way he likes and knows how, and then you'll get his cum all over your cute ribbons.

he can be gently later, when he goes to choose the panties you'll wear for him to get dirty again.

well, what about a blue one?

OH HI!! hope i did well, cuz i loved the prompt! ( there were so many characters, i didn't know which one to choose, my lord- also, he'll go crazy if you wear a blue one and say its for him, bc reminds you of his eyes. poor dick gonna cum untouched.

anyway, love interacting with u too! i know its just a thirst, but hope you like it! <3

#thirst #gojo satoru #satoru gojo x reader #gojo x reader #tw piss

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spatialwave · 2 days ago

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Kiss prompts with two dialogue prompts!! For Reader x Jayce, please! 🩷 Thank youuu!

"i think this is the part where you're supposed to kiss me"

"shut up" (affectionately)

ask and ye shall receive!!! tysm for sending!!!

pairing: jayce talis x fem!reader word count: 1.1k tags: mdni! fluff, kissing, alcohol use, jayce gets flustered, notes: ok this was so fun omgggg hehehe. my asks are open for more with any char (i'll do my best to stretch my range, but of course i love jayce, hehe). i only have a few more to write which i will be doing tonight & tomorrow!!

“You’re a lightweight,” A smiled pulled across Jayce’s lips, his tanned cheeks were coated by a rosy colour as his hand wrapped around the half-full glass of beer. Honey eyes flickered over your face, noting the way your lips parted as you laughed, the smile reaching your eyes as you waved a hand in front of your face.

“Hardly,” you breathed out as your laugh settled, wobbly on the stool you sat on, “I can handle my liquor just as well as you can.”

“Wow,” he commented with a lift of his brows, “that is a very incorrect statement,” he guzzled the remainder of the dark beer that filled his stomach with heat and left his mind the perfect amount of fuzzy. Enough to make him relax and forget all about the stress of the research that weighed down his shoulders.

As if it were a competition, you finished the rest of yours, the taste bitter on your tongue as you forced it down and ignored the teasing remarks he threw your way.

“Enough,” he laughed, pulling the glass from your lips as some of the liquid dribbled down your chin, “I’m not carrying you home.”

The sound of his laughter caused your heart to ache, a devastating feeling you’d been trying to avoid for weeks. It was disrupting your day-to-day, stupid Jayce Talis and his stupidly beautiful smile and even stupider laugh gave you goosebumps.

“I’m fine!” You swatted at him, your hand smacking his chest playfully as you nearly toppled forward against him.

Jayce was quick to grab you steady at your shoulders, supporting you back to your seat as he dropped his head low enough to get to your level, “Fine? Okay, get up and stand without making a fool of yourself.”

“What?” You scoffed, furrowing your brows together.

“You heard me, get up and prove you’re fine,” he smirked, letting go of you and resting an elbow on the bar top as his eyes analyzed your movements. His cheek pressed against his knuckles, relaxed, as he waited for you to topple so he could come to your rescue like the knight in shining armour he wanted so desperately to be for you.

You tilted your chin up, huffing as you slid off the stool with calculated ease. Your hand stayed against the stool for support, and it was immediate how the alcohol affected you. The world wasn’t spinning, but you were certainly unable to stand still.

“This is bullshit” you argued when you removed your hand from the stool and stumbled forward, catching yourself before Jayce had the chance to step in. You flashed your eyes at Jayce, “Bet you can’t either.”

He rose to his feet, several inches taller than you, as he crossed his arms over his chest. He quirked an eyebrow, staring down at you, and you rolled your eyes once again.

“You’re so annoying,” you murmured, shifting forward so you could lean against him. You were silent as you felt him drape your coat over your shoulders, knowing what was coming next, “take me home.”

This had become a common occurrence, two young scholars at the academy looking for ways to blow off steam on the weekends. Alcohol was your poison of choice for the past few weekends, indulging in any and all forms of liquor to forget about the upcoming academic week that would certainly leave you exhausted.

“You know,” you murmured, “this is the third weekend in a row we’ve found ourselves in this situation,” you said, arms wrapped around one of Jayce’s so you could steady yourself as you ventured through the quiet late-night streets of Piltover, “are we alcoholics?”

Jayce snorted, “You are.”

“Shut up,” you giggled affectionately, arms gripping tighter around his, and he was forced to clear his throat as he kept his eyes away, redness burning at his cheeks from your closeness, “I like it. I mean, uh, it’s been fun,” your voice was soft as to not echo too loudly off the surrounding buildings, the only other sounds being two pairs of shoes clacking against the pavement, “I don’t know… Sorry, I’m rambling. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

His eyes flickered to you, slowly blinking as he watched the way your eyes focused ahead and unaware of the way he admired you. To him, you were everything. An unrequited love.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” You mumbled, looking up to catch his gaze before he was able to look away.

“I recall you being the one who told me to shut up,” he answered, lips pulled into a smile.

“You’re awfully annoying, has anyone told you that?” You rolled your eyes, tearing your gaze away as you approached the building of your apartment.

Jayce watched as you pulled away from him, taking the first step up the brick staircase and turning around to face him. You were eye-to-eye now, rather close in proximity, but you hadn’t cared so much. You had enough liquid courage settled in your stomach to clear your mind and lose most of your inhibitions.

“Well,” he sighed after a few moments of awkward silence, eyes flickering away for a moment, “goodnight.”

You hadn’t returned farewell, your feet planted firmly where you stood. With a curiously raised eyebrow, you noted the way his eyes had flickered to your lips a few times, jaw clenching. He was horrible at being sly.

You smiled.

“You’re forgetting something,” you chimed, head tilting playfully as you bit onto your bottom lip.

“No, I’m not,” he returned the raised eyebrow, oblivious to your flirty tone.

“I think this is the part where you’re supposed to kiss me,” you said, a sickly sweet smile playing along your lips. You watched in delight as Jayce became frazzled, cheeks burning a deep red as his lips parted, struggling to say anything.

“Uh, well–” he stuttered, swallowing a lump down his throat. A much different demeanour than the cocky attitude he had back at the bar.

“I’m kidding,” you laughed, patting his chest a few times, “goodnight, dork,” you hummed fondly, turning to take an unbalanced step toward your apartment.

You hardly moved away when you felt your body being tugged back, turning around just in time to feel Jayce’s lips press against yours. Your eyes widened, shocked that he’d actually done it, your stomach exploding into a mix of butterflies and fireworks.

He pulled away, but you chased, closing the distance once more as your hands lifted to the back of his head, brushing through the short strands of his hair. His hands wrapped around your waist, pulling your body close as your lips moved together in an electric kiss.

One that had been avoided for so long, desperate and sweet. Needy.

“Shit,” Jayce whispered through an anxious chuckle when you both pulled back for air, foreheads pressed together and noses bumping. Your breath mingled, the smell of alcohol tickling your nose. You stayed there for a few beats, quietly holding each other and watching the way his eyes dilated as he stared into yours.

“Took you long enough,” you teased, out of breath.

“Shut up,” he whispered, crashing his lips to yours.

#jayce talis #jayce talis x reader #jayce talis x you #arcane fic #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane #jayce talis fic #wordsbyspatial #spatialanswers

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biting-miguel-ohara · 1 day ago

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omgie congrats on 300 followers!!!! could i perhaps get prompt #14 with miguel o'hara-? something fluffy please (ﾐ´ω`ﾐ)

- 🎀 anon

14. "You look cute wearing my clothes."

CW: fluff, clothes sharing, very mild miscommunication (?), kissing, gn!Reader

“Hey, Miguel.” You stroll into his laboratory, making yourself comfortable in a chair. You’re only here for a moment, on your way back home after a difficult mission.

He’d let you crash in his suite for a night, given how utterly exhausted you’d been. And given you a change of clothes after your spider-suit had been destroyed.

He was so nice. So perfect. It wasn’t any surprise you had a massive crush on him. There was no way it’d be reciprocated though. You were sure of it.

Miguel glances up. For a heart-stopping moment, his gaze wanders over your body. Then he smirks. “You look cute wearing my clothes.”

Your brain does an emergency reboot, leaving you staring at Miguel in bafflement. “What?”

He chuckles, low and smooth, leaving his workstation to move towards you. Even in his lab coat, he looks huge.

He reaches out with a clawed hand, gently titling up your head. Brushing his fingers along your cheek and smoothing his thumb over your bottom lip!

“I said,” he murmurs, “You look cute wearing my clothes.”

You just stare up at him, heart racing in your chest. He was— He just— Your poor crush has no chance against him.

You duck your head a little, suddenly bashful under his gaze. “Maybe… you should let me wear them more often, then…?”

You’re flirting with Miguel O’Hara! Well, technically, you’re flirting back, but you’re flirting with Miguel O’Hara. Only the handsomest, strongest, most deadly spider in the whole Spider Society.

He chuckles again and leans a little closer. “I’ll let you wear them as often as you like.” His thumb rubs along your lower lip again. “But I want something in return.”

Your heart sinks for a moment. Of course he wants something in return. You nod slowly, still gazing up at him. At his mesmerizing brown eyes. And gorgeous lips. “What… do you want?”

He quirks a brow in amusement, gently tugging on your lower lip. It takes you a moment to get it and your eyes widen when you do. “Oh! Oh! Yes! I accept! Or agree! Or whatever—“

He cuts you off with a soft press of his lips to yours. You melt into the kiss, lost in the plush feeling. It’s sending tingles down your spine, your heart pounding in your ears.

He pulls back and you chase after him. Catching him in another kiss. You can’t help it. Who would, really?

He’s smirking when he finally does pull away. “Took you long enough, little Spider.”

Your cheeks heat, but you ignore the bait. Instead, half breathless, you murmur, “Talk less, kiss more.”

He’s more than happy to oblige.

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olderthannetfic · 2 days ago

Note

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/766688842914938880/wait-soif-the-only-things-making-companies-censor?source=share

So I've been keeping half an eye on the NSFW AI chatbot and image generation scene (because it's funny watching how fast they flare up and burn out), and the app store and payment processor thing is really evident here

Horny AI image generators can't go in app stores. Full stop. It generates pornography, there's no really getting around the artistic merit stuff, and anything that generates believable photographic styles can actually spit out literally illegal images (digital content which is indistinguishable from a real life photograph recording of a living child) if it's good enough. Users only have minimal control over if what they generate will comply with the ToS; if you ask a bot to give you an image of a "cute boy" it might give you a heartthrob pop star, a generic smiling toddler, or a shota with a huge dick. If the shota is against the ToS, you are now breaking a rule that you have no control over.

And becaues it's AI, it can't actually be filtered. The robot doesn't know what it's looking at, it can't generate an image and then make a judgement call about how that image applies with the ToS because it doesn't know what a ToS is and all it knows is that the image it generated from the "cute boy" prompt is the kind of image that is associated with the caption "cute boy".

App stores and the big payment processors don't want to deal with that mess, so these platforms will have apps that can be downloaded from their website or from discord, and weird sketchy ways to pay, like crypto or some small payment processor that you've never heard of and that sounds like a phishing scam.

Horny image gen platforms tend to be very short lived, and either rebrand as SFW platforms or completely shutter after only a few months. It's funny, but the tragedy is that this happens because of poorly moderated NSFW images, not because the images it generates suck.

****

Text does a little better, since it's copyright laws, not "we can't let people pass off recordings of child abuse as digitally generated art" laws that AI text tends to violate, and "horny is bad" as a social more is applied more strongly to visual material than to plaintext.

The bigger text platforms, like Google's Bard, have filters in place that will refuse to show NSFW text, and they're more or less accurate. The smaller platforms, which most of the "talk with your anime waifu" chat platforms are, have stupid insane garbage filters on what text users can enter, but not on what the chatbot generates. So you can prompt "describe her sexy vagina" and get "I'm sorry, I want to keep people safe so I can't talk about that", but if you type "describe her petals" you get a graphic description of a vagina from a bot that obviously has a mountain of het erotica in its database.

There are some text-only NSFW chatbot platforms that seem to be chugging along just fine with paypal, but they have strict rules about what images can be uploaded as avatars. Some will allow users to make sexually explicit loli bots, but won't allow any images of young characters, sexual or otherwise, anywhere on the site. Many text-only platforms don't seem to be in app stores, though. Paypal is fine with them but Apple isn't.

It's a weird, weird, little microcosm of the internet, and an interesting insight into what's going on with payment processors and app stores in re the pressures placed on websites.

****

The takeaway from all this (aside from the fact AI is amusingly ridiculous) is that text-only sites like AO3 and or Literotica are probably just fine, while sites that host images, like Tumblr, are under more scrutiny.

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steviestits · 2 days ago

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In The Family Way - Part 3.2

Written for an anon prompt, which can be read in its entirety on this fic's masterpost.

Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Background Argyle/Jonathan Rating: T Summary: The Munson family has never had the typical values that most modern Americans have as they find thrill in all that's mysterious and spooky. Steve Harrington, a black widow omega, hadn't known this when he mated with the family's eldest alpha, Eddie, and thought that he'd be another easy mark that he could kill to inherit the millions that Eddie owned. However, not only do all his murder attempts fail, but Eddie actually enjoys them! And to make matters worse, the alpha wants to try for a pup! Steve has to find a way to off Eddie for good, before he gets pregnant and maybe actually falls for the death-crazed alpha. (Addams Family Values au set in the Omegaverse after the events of the movie with Steve as Debbie and Eddie as Fester) Trigger Warning: Attempted Murder as a love language, Mpreg

(Link to previous part)

As time went on, however, Eddie noticed that Steve’s heats never came, and Eddie never felt even remotely close to going into a rut. If they were unmated, there wouldn’t be any correlation, allowing Eddie to go into one as his primal instincts searched for an omega to breed. Since they were mated, the alpha in him would only allow his omega to bear his pups, so him not feeling an oncoming rut, meant that his omega wasn’t getting close to his heat.

Worry slowly set into Eddie that something was wrong. The reason Steve’s absent heat could’ve been because he was already pregnant, except all the tests Steve took came back negative. Eddie kept reminding himself that all omegas were different, but the alpha in him couldn’t help fretting over his omega. What if he was sick and needed medical attention? Wouldn’t he be a bad alpha if he didn’t get the utmost care for his omega, and get that care promptly?

The war between giving Steve his privacy and checking on the omega waged inside Eddie’s mind until he reached his breaking point. They weren’t doing anything out of the ordinary as it had become their routine to wake up in the morning then grab a pregnancy test to see if one of their previous attempts had taken. It had become something didn’t even have to discuss anymore, with this simply becoming a part of their routine.

There was one difference today, though. Steve typically waited in the bathroom, but now he sat with Eddie in the living room. He nervously tapped a lighter against his forearm. Neither of them smoked, at least not cigarettes, and Steve’s lighter had been used more often to help light Eddie himself aflame than anything else. In fact, Eddie could see a glint in Steve’s eyes that he was planning to torch the alpha at any second now.

“Maybe we should stop,” Steve said suddenly. “Stop taking these tests. They’re never positive, so this is just a waste of fifteen minutes of our time. We could get to fucking a lot sooner if we stopped checking for something that wasn’t going to happen.”

Eddie’s brow furrowed in concern. “Why isn’t it going to happen? You never know, my pet. We could get lucky.”

“Because I know,” the omega snapped.

Hearing the absolute certainty in Steve’s voice made Eddie feel more concerned for the omega instead of backing off as the threat clearly stated. The alpha inside him stirred with restless energy, knowing something was wrong with his omega. It was then that Eddie couldn’t hold back his curiosity any longer. He needed to know what was the matter with Steve.

“I’ve noticed you haven’t had your heat yet,” Eddie said, biting his lip as he cautiously brought up the sensitive topic. “You should’ve gotten it by now.”

The omega bared his teeth. “Have you been tracking it? How do you know that I should’ve had it by now? I told you it was sporadic. Don’t you believe me?”

“I do. Well, I want to, but...” Taking a deep breath, he continued. “But I can’t help but feel concern for you. I’m worried that something is wrong. While I love pain, I never wish to see you in any that hasn’t been caused in the throes of passion.”

Steve started, and the lighter slipped then fell to the floor. Sparking, the lighter set the rug beneath the omega’s feet alight. Eddie’s body moved on its own, and he smothered the flames with his hands, not caring that his hands were burned. He actually liked it, especially because it was done in the name to save his omega.

“Eddie...” Steve sighed, and he took the alpha’s hands into his own, inspecting the burns. “Why do you care so much about me?”

“Because you chose me to be your mate,” the alpha answered easily. “You’re as beautiful as deadly nightshade. You could’ve had any alpha you wanted, but instead, you chose me. I, of course, am obligated, to worship the ground you walk on.”

The omega’s gaze remained steadily focused on Eddie’s hands as he all but whispered, “But what if I was defective? Broken? What then?”

“Never, my pet. I would never think that you were broken or defective. You’re the most perfect creature that I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“But what if I am? You know that I’ve been mated two times previously-”

“And both of those alphas were weak and undeserving. What alpha is killed in a simple car accident? Why, me and Argyle used to play in traffic all the time when we were children. They were the broken ones, not you. Never you.”

Lip quivering, and eyes watering, Steve glanced up at Eddie finally. Eddie could see the disbelief in his gaze, but also the hope. He remembered the slide show presentation that Steve had put on for them as he prepared to kill them. The omega had been tossed aside by all the alphas in his life, which was what lead to each of their untimely demises. Maybe Steve hadn’t realized that Eddie remembered that day, and that he truly didn’t care that he was a murderess.

“I can’t have pups,” Steve confessed suddenly with tears streaming down his cheeks. “At least, I don’t think I can. I’ve been on suppressants since I first presented. My parents didn’t like that I presented as an omega. But even after I killed them, I continued to take them.”

Eddie wrapped his burnt hands around Steve’s, ignoring the exciting sting of pain he felt from the touch in order to comfort his omega. Steve sniffled, so Eddie used his thumb to help him wipe away the tears that were falling. The sweet, murderous omega was much more than Eddie deserved in a mate, yet he couldn’t help want to hold onto Steve more, wrap his being around the omega until he had him completely to himself.

“It’s alright, my pet. Hopes not lost. Even if it’s true that you can’t bear pups, which I don’t think it is, here’s an old family recipe that Grandmama Joyce knows. It could help.”

“And if it doesn’t? What if it doesn’t work?”

“Then I’ll keep loving you and looking forward to your every vile attempt at my life for as long as you let me live.”

“You swear it?”

“I give you the word of a Munson that nothing in this world or the next could stop me from loving you as my mate.”

The omega looked away then nodded stiffly, showing that he understood. More tears were streaming down Steve’s face, so Eddie did the only thing he could do. He sat next to Steve on the couch and pulled him into a tight embrace, stroking Steve’s hair while whispering soothing words to him. For once, Steve didn’t resist and allowed Eddie to hold him as an alpha would hold their mate, with as much love and care that the alpha could give.

Part 3.1 ~ Masterpost ~ Part 3.3 (Coming Soon-ish)

A/N: Going to let them have sex on last time after this then end the chapter, so stay tuned for sweet, fluffy sex in the next part.

#show: stranger things #steddie #my fics #inthefamilyway #anon prompt

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waaayoutofline · 2 days ago

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Murder On The Dancefloor (part 3)

(from the When the Cat and the Mouse Go For a Midnight Dance series) | Part 1 | Part 2| Part 3 | Marvel Masterlist

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Prompt: Vigilante!Reader x Agent!Natasha

Summary: Natasha isn’t having the best of luck in trying to bring one of the ex Hydras general down. You however may be able to assist her. Will you two be able to cooperate? Or is it your fate to always stand on opposite teams?

Warnings: Nothing too explicit. Just angst-

WORD COUNT: 3849

A / N: Helloo! So, this is a lengthy one. Remember when I said that this was a trilogy? Well, clearly not-There will be at least one more xd Thank you all for reading and interacting <3

***

When it came to Agent Natasha Romanoff, the word easy was never in your vocabulary. If anything, your dynamic was the opposite. Between the two — both so different, so stubborn and set in your own ways—peace never had a chance to take root.

But as you two glided onto the dance floor with a scary synchronization, an old ‘70s song playing softly, that elusive word was the only one that came close to describing the moment.

It was staggeringly, painfully easy.

The redhead took the lead almost instantly, with a grace and serenity that seemed worlds away from her usual strict persona. The lights cast errant glimmers of gold and silver over her, making her pale skin seem to glow. The faint scent of her perfume left a trace in the air that you couldn’t help to notice.

In these fleeting instances, the woman you’d been at odds with for years seemed subtly, strangely changed.

As if swaying to the beat, guiding you effortlessly through each step, was something she was born to do—like reuniting with an old friend from the past.

You might’ve been confident in your own skill, but you were briefly relieved that Natasha clearly knew what she was doing. If you hadn’t known her better, you might have mistaken her for any of the prestigious dancers here.

Struck by the unfamiliarity of the moment, you were startled back by the countdown of Ethan Cole.

“One, two, three, one!” With that, the music changed to a more upbeat song, and everyone sprung into action.

With a firm grip on your waist, Natasha pulled you closer to her, her lips lightly gracing your ear. You could feel the warmth of her body contrasting against your usually chilled skin.

”So, what now?” She blurts out, straight to the point. You create some just enough distance to blink up at her innocently.

“Oh, whatever do you mean?” You asked sweetly. The redhead didn’t even blink as she stared you down with an unimpressed look.

”Please, we both know you're not planning on winning this with the honour of sportsmanship, so let's cut down the chase.” You couldn’t help but laugh at that. Oh, perhaps she did know you.

“But that’s my favourite part!” You practically whined.

She was right, of course. You weren’t stupid enough to let season veterans surpass you so easily. “You wound me, Natasha. I can play nice, y’know.” You defy, but she merely looks at you.

“Perhaps. But you don't really want to, do you?” She mutters, lowly enough to almost get engulfed by the base notes of the song. But you hear it loud and clear, the words sending a pang of excitement which further increases as you see the tiniest of smiles graze her lips. “So, who is it going to be first? The Barbie and Ken you have been eying up since we first arrived? Or perhaps that one couple who just came out from a 70s disco ball special magazine?

Your smirk went into a full-blown grin. ”Ah, perhaps some of my mischievousness has rubbed off on you.” You taunted defiantly.

“You wish” She scoffed, now with a small smirk of her own. This was no different from your usual banter, but instead of the underlying aggressiveness, there was just harmless playfulness. It felt familiar but strange all the same.

“Just…-“

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you interrupted, rolling your eyes with a playful huff. “Don’t worry. It’ll be a… bloodless murder on the dance floor. Just try not to kill the groove, and we’ll get that pass.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow at your quip, a glint of challenge in her eye. Before you could process it, she pulled you in close, spinning you around with a swift, practised move. In an instant, you found yourself pressed against her, her hand settling confidently on your hips.

Heat flushed your cheeks as her face leaned in close to your ear, her breath warm against your skin. You could practically feel the overconfidence radiate off of her when she whispered, “Oh you got it twisted Raven. You will be the one trying to keep up with me.”

You gulped, not really knowing how to react to this sudden shift in her attitude. No, you were the one who usually teased her, not the other way around. It was throwing you slightly off balance.

After another beat, she spun you around again, bringing you face to face. You pray to the high heavens that she doesn’t notice the slight pink on your cheeks.

As if on cue, a call of ‘The all together’ rang out. In the blink of an eye, the dancers fell into a line formation, their bodies synchronized, down to the stomps on the ground. Arms raised in a clap, performing a series of dramatic moves in perfect unison.

You seized the brief moment of distance from your peers to gather your thoughts. This wasn’t the time to lose focus. No, you were here for a reason. This time there was something higher at stake.

Natasha distracting you shouldn’t even be a factor! But ever since stepping onto the floor, it was as though she had done a complete 180 on you.

The intensity rose, some couples are already being disqualified, but there were still too many people left, you realized. Shaking your head, you took a deep breath. Concentrate, Raven.

Graciously, Natasha seemed to float above the air as she reached for you again. Once you two were together again, you scanned the other participants' positions, trying to find an opening.

A sigh escapes you, thinking how easy it could have all this been if Natasha didn’t force you to play nice.

As the two of you engaged in some movements, you eyes landed on the various couples. Some were already moving with impressive confidence, reaching cockiness.

You cursed softly under your breath. This just barely started and you already have seen someone being spun through the air like a helicopter.

But if they think they are going to get away with victory, you are going to prove them wrong.

”Move us to the right.” You mutter in her ear as she pulls you in close after yet another crossed movement. Surprisingly enough, the redhead complies, easily moving you around to where you desired.

Rolling away, you “accidentally” flex your leg, just in the nick of time to make a woman trip and fall on her backside.

There was a commotion as the girl’s partner stumbled, desperately trying to catch her up, but it was too late. One of the judges noticed the mistake and promptly disqualified the two.

The girl, red-faced with fury and indignation, started throwing accusations in your direction, her words growing more frantic as she was pulled away by her partner—and eventually by Cole himself, who seemed to have none of it. Her protests were muffled by the booming call of the “All Together.”

Natasha stepped up beside you, gawking.

“What?” you said, shrugging and refusing to look her way. “It got the job done, didn’t it?

Her lack of answer was enough for you.

Your attention shifted to an obnoxiously coordinated trio of men directly in front of you. You rolled your eyes, already setting your sights on them. Before you could make your move, Natasha’s hands found their way to your hips, effortlessly guiding your body to the rhythm.

Her movements were fluid, her touch steady, and your coordination fell perfectly in line as though you two have been practising this for weeks. Was there anything she wasn’t good at? You asked yourself in a mix of confusion and subtle admiration. Not that you would ever confess the last one of course.

As she extended both your arms outward, her free hand brushed over your shoulder in a deliberate motion. Your breath hitched, your eyes fluttering slightly at the unexpected gentleness. You weren’t used to this—weren’t used to her like this.

“I know that glint,” she muttered near your ear, her voice knowing. “Got another victim in your sights, don’t you?”

You hummed in confirmation as you guided her with your eyes to the next person to sabotage, not trusting your voice to sound steady. Natasha caught on to your plan as you slipped from her grasp, gracefully executing a cross-body turn.

She was quick to guide you back into rhythm as you swooped in, swiftly grabbing the thin strap of one of the competitors’ dresses. With a tug, the whole dress fell, pooling at the woman’s feet.

A gasp escaped the blonde as she scrambled to cover herself, fleeing in panic with her partner chasing after her.

“That was mean,” Natasha admonished, though the laugh she barely stifled betrayed her. The corners of her lips twitched upward, and for a moment, the guarded edge that so often was present in your exchanges softened under the shimmering light of the mirror ball.

“Oh? Is Agent Romanoff actually having fun?” you teased, unable to hide your delight at the rare shift in her demeanour.

Natasha huffed, but the faintest trace of a smile lingered on her lips, betraying her amusement.

It caught you off guard. The usual tension and harshness that defined your… relationship, seemed to dissolve in the glimmering light. For once, there was no mission, no stakes—just the two of you, sharing a laugh in a moment that felt painfully human. Having a nice, casual moment

A voice laughed mockingly in your head at that.

This went on for a while to the point where even less people remained. The only issue was that the quality of them was also notoriously good.

Through the speakers, one judge announce a small break time. The competitors were expected to keep a bit of a groove going, but it was also a chance to grab some refreshments. It did give you an idea.

“If you’ll excuse me,” you said softly, stepping away from Natasha. Before she could ask what you were about to do, you managed to slip through the crowd, your movements fluid enough to blend in with the rhythm of the room.

Spotting the drinks table ahead, you made your way toward it, gliding with purpose. You glanced around, making sure the coast was clear, then discreetly twisted the hidden compartment on your ring, revealing a small amount of white powder. Just as you were about to mix it into the lemonade, a familiar presence stopped you.

Natasha.

This time, she succeeded in intercepting you, catching your wrist. Her grip was firm but not rough.

“Raven—” She started, with doubt. It wasnt as accusatory as usual, but it had enough distrust.

“Natasha,” you interrupted, mimicking her tone, though the seriousness on her face made you falter slightly.

The playfulness from earlier was briefly diminished, replaced with a slightly sharper gaze that meant business.

Of course. You were briefly enchanted by your timed truce. Natasha’s trust in you still remained as fragile as always.

You sighed, deciding to drop the act. “Geez relax, I’m not poisoning anyone. It’s just laxatives,” you admitted with a chuckle. “Lame, I know, but effective.”

Her eyes narrowed as she studied you, searching for any sign of deceit. But you held her gaze steadily, unflinching. After a tense moment, she finally released your arm. “Thank you,” you said while forcing a grin, stepping past her toward the table.

You didn’t know why her distrust stung, it wasn’t like the two of you were friends.

“Now shoo—you’ll scare off the boys.” You winked with an overexaggerated enthusiastic expression before turning back to your task, feeling her eyes linger on you for a moment longer before she moved away. Quickly putting in the powder, you stirred the drinks, stood pretty and waited.

Quickly enough, the trio of men from before approached you, each one wearing what they likely thought were “million-dollar” smiles. You greeted them warmly enough, keeping your expression as unassuming as possible.

“Hey there. Saved some drinks for us?” one asked cockily.

Feigning shyness, you nodded and held out the drinks.

“I’ve been watching you,” another added, his voice dripping with confidence. “Quite the pretty thing with some decent moves, aren’t ya?” His eyes gave you a once-over, and you fought the urge to roll your own. Oh, you’d been watching them too, alright.

You accepted the compliment with a small, bashful smile as they eagerly grabbed their drinks, clearly parched.

They didn’t hesitate, drinking quickly. It didn’t take long for discomfort to show on their faces. Their grins faltered, replaced by pained grimaces, and just as quickly as they had arrived, they were stumbling away, clutching their stomachs.

You finished your own drink with a satisfied grin, which you quickly replaced with one of feigned confusion.

However, your moment of triumph didn’t last long. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Montgomery’s sharp gaze locked onto you.

You froze briefly, then scanned the dance floor for Natasha, only to realize that she had noticed too. When her eyes met yours across the room, an unspoken understanding seemed to pass between you.

Before you could process what was happening, Natasha moved swiftly. Taking advantage of the distraction caused by the participants crowding the drink table, she slipped out of sight, disappearing behind the curtains. A moment later, you caught a glimpse of her grabbing Montgomery—the older woman’s face twisting in surprise—before they both vanished from the floor entirely.

You blinked, momentarily stunned.

Huh. You didn’t think she had it in her to play along with your games.

She soon enough came out of the shadows, moving towards you as if nothing happened, just in time for the dance to resume. Guiding you yet again to the dance floor, you couldn’t help but so sneaker. She huffs while moving to position.

“That was reckless.” She comments. You shrug, hands returning to your rightful place.

“What’s life without a little risk? Besides, now we only have two judges to care for.” She doesn’t look necessarily pleased with your justification, but relentless nonetheless.

“Spin me around.” You muttered, subtly patting your chest with your free hand. Always observant, Natasha caught the motion, her curiosity piqued as her eyes followed the movement. When she didn’t respond, you felt slightly put off.

“Natasha?” you called again, your tone playfully insistent.

When her gaze finally locked with yours, you seized the moment, winking with a knowing smirk and raising your eyebrow, questioning.

It could have been the rising temperature or the suffocating heat of the lights, but you were certain the blush that crept up to her ears was very real. Ah, got caught.

She was embarrassed, you realized. It felt a bit nice, seeing for once the imperfect and human person under the secretive superspy. Not that she would ever really show you willingly, you thought.

Finally, she lifted both your arms with deliberate ease, guiding you into a smooth spin. With flawless timing, you used the momentum to grab the butter packet you snatched from the snack table, flicking it right under the heel of a currently spinning dancer.

Grinning with satisfaction, you watched as the pair stumbled when she slipped and lost their footing, resulting in yet another immediate disqualification.

This pattern continued throughout the night. Your personal favourite moment came when you managed to slip one of your lacy thongs into the pocket of an unsuspecting male dancer. The garment was just visible enough for his partner to spot it, her face twisting in fury before she slapped him hard across the cheek.

Hiding in Natasha’s arms, you parted away from her chest as if startled by the scene, gasping dramatically.

“Wasn’t that one too far?” Natasha murmured, her tone low, brushing past playful. “I think you just broke a relationship.”

You shrugged, your smirk teasing as you feigned innocence. “Hey, I paid the price,” you said with a light-hearted tone, but then your grin turned sharper, your eyes glinting with mischief. You leaned in as if to share a secret. “I looked really, really good in those.”

Your voice dipped just enough to charge the air, and as you pulled back, you met Natasha��s gaze through your lashes, your head tilted ever so slightly in a challenge.

You didn’t miss the way her breath hitched. The mask of her usual composure faltered, her eyes darkening ever so slightly as her grip on your waist tightened. For a fraction of a second, you felt her fingers curl against you, her control slipping.

“Careful,” she said finally, her voice low and rough, almost a warning.

She knew what you were doing. You were using the same techniques that seemed to be engraved in you. The seductiveness, the calculated teasing. A mechanism.

It was one thing that set her off, not knowing when the real you started or ended.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m just practising.” This made Natasha’s eyebrows furrow, a characteristic wrinkle appearing right above her nose bridge when she was confused. You always noticed it because, well, it was probably the expression you made her feel the most.

“The slick brunette seems to hold Harper’s attention. I’m going to redirect it to me,” you said with confidence. But before you could head to the judge’s table, something tugged at you.

Ugh, Natasha couldn’t seem to let you go. If it were any other circumstance, you’d be flattered, really.

You turned around again, fully expecting a judging look and a disapproving frown. Or even something you were all too familiar with in your life—people who looked at you as if you were a nuisance, always glancing down at you from above their shoulders.

But no, what you encountered was… worry. A strange, almost foreign expression in Natasha’s repertoire that she had reserved for you, and one you’d never seen directed at you.

But there was no mistaking it. Her eyes seemed to glimmer, her lips tugging downward in clear displeasure. Her mouth opened slightly, but only a shaky breath escaped for a few seconds before she seemed to regain her composure.

You had never seen this kind of worry on her face, not when it came to you.

Finally, Natasha straightened, her body language shifting into something calmer, almost careful, as she stepped toward you.

“There’s no need for that.” she said, her voice soft, as if she were trying not to scare you away.

Still confused by the sudden change, you tilted your head up to meet her gaze. “It’s nothing I haven’t done before,” you replied, trying to sound casual.

Her expression, however, didn’t relent. The weight of her concern hung heavy in the air, and you hated it. You hated the shift in the atmosphere, the way her focus seemed entirely locked on you, unyielding. It was making you restless.

This just didn’t happen between you two. It couldn’t.

Your dynamic was never like this, and for a fleeting moment, you felt a spark of resentment at her sudden change.

You’d bantered, teased, and danced around each other almost two years now. You couldn’t allow her to start caring—not like this.

“But you don’t have to.” she shot back firmly, as if sensing your inner turmoil. “I just…we have an actual shot at winning now. Let’s just keep doing what we’ve been doing until now.”

You huffed, glancing around as if to find some excuse to shake this off. “Natasha, look around. We’re down to the final six. Any trick we pull won’t go unnoticed now.” You tried to sound exasperated, but there was a small tremor in your voice. “C’mon, it’s not like I’m going to sleep with him,” you added, trying to inject your usual teasing tone, but it came out with a shaken breath of desperation.

Desperate for her to return to normal. Desperate for her to stop caring so suddenly and openly. Desperate for things to go back to the way they were. You couldn’t stand this.

Your banter with Agent Romanoff was one of the few steady things in your life. It was entertaining yet distant, predictable yet invigorating—like a perfectly choreographed dance. It was something you relied on, something easy and familiar. Something you desperately needed.

“Don't say that just— I know that you can, but why do it just now? I…we—are going to find another way that doesn’t involve you seducing the pig.” She insisted. As if also, somehow, begging. You didn’t need to hear the words between the lines to understand. You could see it in her.

You both knew it. Not only that, but you were both trained for it—trained to wield your bodies like mere tools for any ends, stripped of your identities for however long it was necessary to get the job done. But the weight of that knowledge, the sheer detachment it demanded, always gnawed at your soul, voracious and unrelenting.

You two fought. She clearly disliked you. So why was she acting like she worried?

It wasn’t meant to be like this. You both weren’t meant to be like this. Frustration starts to build at her sudden change. How dare she take this away from the briefest of moments?

But this wasn’t Natasha, you realized as you dared to meet her gaze again. Her stormy sea-green eyes had shifted into something softer, something more vibrant—a glimmering jade.

No, this wasn’t Natasha Romanoff.

This was a rough sketch of Natalia Alianova Romanova.

A mystery you hadn’t unravelled.

For the first time since meeting her, you felt your blood drum faster, your chest tightening with a nervousness you hadn’t experienced in years. You had always known how to handle the ruthless, unflinching Agent Romanoff. But standing before Natalia?

You were at a loss.

And you were too weak to handle it.

Releasing an exasperated breath, you broke the now unbearable eye contact and drew in a steadying breath. This was going too far—you wouldn’t, couldn’t, let it. So, when you opened your eyes again, any trace of Y/N Y/L/N faded into the recesses of your mind, locked away and chained.

When you spoke to her again, it wasn’t you any more, not quite—it was Raven. Every grin, every flicker of movement, every perfectly placed mannerism was calculated, deliberate, practised.

You saw the realization hit her, the weight of it sinking like an anchor in the sea-green depths of Natasha’s irises. Her expression barely shifted, but you could feel it. The tension, the shift, the subtle acknowledgment that you had drawn a line between you both, a barrier she wasn’t meant to cross. But she did.

”Don’t worry, Agent. I’ll get us those passes.” You smirk, overconfident, but even you could feel the detachment in your own voice.

Slipping away, you managed to avoid her brief disappointment. Finally being able to just breathe normally, you shook your head.

Something between you and Natasha had shifted. You felt it in the erratic thrumming of your heart, like a bird desperate to escape its cage, and the faint tremble in your knees that betrayed your composure. You didn’t know how to handle it—weren’t even sure if you could.

At the table, your hands quivered, a crack in the carefully constructed mask you wore. With a subtle clench of your fists and a steadying breath, you forced the tremor away, slipping into the practised ease of a smile. Whatever had just passed between you and Natasha—it couldn’t matter.

Not now. Maybe not ever.

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