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She Was My Mother - Poe Dameron

Summary: After the war, you discover a hard copy recording in an old ship. You take it to Yavin 4, to put directly into the hands of General Dameron.

wc: ~2k, gn! reader content: angsty with a happy ending, fluff adjacent, friends/comrades to lovers, discussion of mothers who've passed

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮

Your boots hit the jungle floor as soon as you land on Yavin 4. You haven’t bothered with a space port, instead acquiring permission to approach the edge of General Dameron’s property. He’s expecting your urgent communique.

Your team has traveled all over the Outer Rim territories since the war ended, gathering intel and supplies, discarded items, anything at abandoned posts, and any weapons locals haven’t taken for themselves. The purpose is twofold. War has ravaged the galaxy for the past few generations and supplies are controlled or limited. Every piece of scrap metal could mean survival if this were to happen again. The second reason is to gather intel. Hopefully, history’s mistakes might not be repeated if everyone understands a clear picture of what has gone wrong.

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮

You joined the Resistance late in the game, so although you knew General Dameron personally, you weren’t always a part of his inner circle. It was probably for the best because you felt an instant, flaring and almost consuming attraction to him, and not only that - a bond. Both of you lost your mothers at a young age. Both of them were pilots, which inspired both of you to become pilots.

Probably not an entirely uncommon occurrence, but once, when you noticed a ring hanging from a chain around his neck, your hand clutched your mother’s own necklace. You showed your trinket to him, saying, “This was my mother’s. Yours is beautiful.”

After he shared the story of his mother’s ring with you, the bond was set.

Still, you kept a respectable distance, since you were married. You certainly weren’t the only Resistance member who felt attraction to the General. And you were determined to remain loyal to your husband, despite the struggles between you.

But none of that matters now.

You’ve found something that Poe needs to see and hear for himself.

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮

Humidity kisses your skin, making it slightly more difficult to breathe. Or maybe that's the anticipation of seeing General Dameron, who doesn't keep you waiting.

He steps out of his front door - you see his thick thigh before anything else. Then climbs down a ladder/stair contraption, giving you a nice view before pushing aside some gigantic leaves to reveal his face.

His smile brightens his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners as he grants you a wave.

You pick up the pace, almost feeling the urge to rush into his arms for a hug, but knowing it's not quite appropriate.

"General Dameron," you breathe as the two of you almost collide but restrain yourselves.

He greets you by name, suspended in brief indecision before he steps forward and pulls you into a quick hug.

That, along with the humidity, almost knocks the breath right out of you. Or maybe it's the way he looks. His hair is longer than usual, curls unruly in the tepid climate. The stubble on his chin is lazily kept. The linen of his shirt clings to his skin, the open V in the front almost scandalous, as is the nearly pointless thin material.

You wet your lips a few times, steadying yourself. Likely mistaking your response as thirst, he ushers you inside, acknowledging you must be tired and in need of refreshment.

You climb up into what might have been considered a gigantic play tree house on your world, but it's neatly furnished and miraculously seems to keep out most of the humidity and insects.

You deposit your gear beside a small, wicker looking table that seats four.

"All right if I shed this flight suit and freshen up?" You ask him and he directs you to the fresher.

When you emerge, he's serving something hot, which surprises you. He also sets out a pitcher of water and some sweet cakes.

"The tea is hot but, believe it or not, it helps repel insects," he tells you.

"Thank you so much, General."

"Poe, please," he corrects, smiling at you. "We know each other well enough, right? Besides," he waves his hand dismissively, "war's over. It's just me, so...Poe."

"Poe," you repeat, trying to forget how many times you thought about being on a first name basis with him.

Your eyes linger on his before flickering away, your cheeks heating like a teenager's. Hopefully you can get out of this without making a fool of yourself.

"How's your dad?" You begin, hoping small talk might clear the path to deliver the news you've brought, even though you and Poe have discussed how much you don't like small talk.

Poe smirks playfully, pouring the cups of tea. "He's great. We're actually at the edge of his property. I think he's happy to have me back."

"And how does it feel to be back?" You ask him, with a brief 'thank you' for the tea.

He nods slowly, contemplating his response. "I love being home, but...it's different. It's quiet."

"I figured you might be antsy," you laugh.

"Guilty," he chuckles, taking a sip of his own beverage.

"What about you? You've been busy, scavenging all around the galaxy."

"We are not scavengers," you defend, swatting him on the arm, which feels oddly comfortable for your superior officer. But you know he's joking. "It's tiring, but the work is fulfilling. We've found some amazing things."

"One of which you brought with you," he prompts, dark eyebrows lifted curiously.

"Yes," you quietly confirm.

"How's your husband?" He adds, realizing he's rushed you to your reason for being here and by doing so, likely hastened an end to a visit he's looked so forward to.

Your gaze drops to your tea, fingers fidgeting as you twist it around a few times. "He...he left me." You clear your throat awkwardly before sighing. "He was already gone right after Exegol."

"I'm...so sorry," Poe utters sincerely. Watching not only the hurt but the shame etched into your beautiful features sends a protective flare through his heart.

"It's okay," you weakly smile. "I think he was halfway out the door when I joined the Resistance. He just used my service as a way to blame me for abandoning him."

Poe's jaw clenches as judgment burns in his gaze. "You were doing something honorable. Something important. If he couldn't see that then..."

Your eyes met his questioningly.

"Sorry, I shouldn't judge. I know it won't make you feel any better to hear my opinion, it's just..." He sighs heavily, hoping to change the subject soon. Anything to see you smile again.

"No...tell me," you say quietly, setting your tea down and giving him your full attention. "Because I can't, for the life of me, figure out what I did wrong."

Your eyes, so wide and pleading, coax him to continue. "Look, I don't know him. It's not my place, but you were so loyal to him. Do you know how many people wanted to... you know, but everyone wanted to respect that you were married. And then he just..." Threw you away. But Poe wouldn't say that part out loud.

He stops himself again scrubbing a hand over his stubble with a heavy sigh. "Shit...I'm just - I'm sorry. If he couldn't see who was right in front of him, then I don't know what's wrong with him."

You swallow thickly, your heart racing. "Thank you for saying that. I'm sure I played a part in it. But thank you anyway."

After a comfortable beat of silence, you reach for your bag to produce the item you came to bring Poe in the first place.

"Sorry for making this little visit about me," You sheepishly say, "when it's definitely about you."

"You didn't do that," Poe argues, reaching for your forearm. His fingers wrap around your bare skin and he gently squeezes. "We're friends. I wanted to know if you're okay. I missed you."

Your lip trembles, but you chomp down on it. "Me too. I missed you too." Clearing your throat, you thrust the item outward, asking him if he has the right equipment that you sent ahead in your communique, to play back a message on this old tech you found.

"We found this data recorder in an old ship - bucket of rust, really. All the metal was stripped and sold by locals," you explain. "This was a second, secret data recorder. The old one was long gone - officially logged. Whoever installed this one was either running spice or weapons, or top secret Rebel missions."

Poe's eyes snap up to yours. "Rebels? Really old then. Surprised they didn't find it sooner."

"Ship was an absolute piece of junk. Nothing of value left. But my team looks at everything that ever was anything. Found this, encrypted, and couldn't believe it when we got a voice match."

"A voice match from the Rebel Alliance?" Poe queries, completing the connection so you can listen to the message.

"Yeah," you confirm. "I didn't want to upset you or excite you before I could bring it to you personally, but the voice match is for Shara Bey."

Poe's lip trembles as he inhales sharply. "She was my mother."

"Yeah," you smile gently, reaching to squeeze his shoulder. "Play it."

Stretching out his fingers, Poe activates the device, almost wilting at the sound of his mother's voice.

"My love. We've landed in a trap. Our intel was wrong and the Imperial presence here has tripled since our last communication. As far as I know, we haven't been discovered, but we might be stuck here a while before we can find a way to safely blend in and start to plot our way off world. In the meantime, we'll try to undermine them however we can."

The voice on the recording sighs.

"You'll probably never hear this. If we make it out of here, you won't need to, and if we don't, it'll probably never fall into hands that will know to get it back to you. But hopefully, if this mission takes me away from you, you'll hear it someday and know how, right now, the only thing I want is to be home with you."

She sniffles before continuing.

"My love...I had to leave this message for you, praying it will find its way back to you if I do not. I have to tell someone. You're going to be a father. And I'm going to be a mother. I'm pregnant! Can you believe it? Can you actually believe it finally happened? Our miracle baby. Do you think it will be a boy or girl? I think it's a boy. I'm so scared. Can you believe I'm saying those words? Nothing has ever scared me so much. I already love it so much. And I love you. I love you."

By the time the message concludes, Poe's hand covers his mouth as tears roll down his cheeks.

You debate whether to give him his space or comfort him, but he turns a watery gaze to you. "I haven't heard her voice in so long."

His arms open and he pulls you in, tucking you gently against his body and burying his face in your hair. You squeeze his torso, rubbing your hands up and down his back soothingly.

His hold on you tightens, and he presses you closer into him as he feels you responding. He rubs his cheek against yours.

"Thank you for bringing her back to me," he breathes on your ear.

And even though he's having a moment, a shiver zings down your spine to your toes. "You're so welcome."

Easing back, he keeps hold of your arms, squeezing gently as he gazes into your eyes. "You didn't have to do this. But it means so much that you did."

"Of course I did, Poe. It's your mother." Your fingers reach for the chain around his neck, tracing the shape of it. "I think I understand at least a little of what she meant to you."

Swallowing thickly, he nods, reaching for your necklace in return. His fingertips brush along your collarbone before his hand slips up to cup your cheek tenderly.

"Do you have to return the recording right away?"

"Not right away," you tell him softly. "We made several copies before I brought you the original," you explain. "I have to return it to archives, but I wanted you to actually see it."

He nods understandingly. "Can you stay, at least for tonight? I want you to meet my dad. He would love to finally meet you and to thank you for bringing this here to us." His eyebrows shoot up hopefully.

Poe wants you to stay? Poe told his dad about you?

"Yes," you quickly nod, beaming. "Definitely, I would love to, Poe."

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮

Years later, with Shara's ring on your finger and your mother's necklace around your daughter's neck, you play your children the recording of their grandmother's voice, in a galaxy still at peace.

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮

Poe Masterlist | Main Masterlist | holiday fics masterlist

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Sounds good

Prompts With Pride 2025

Hello everyone!!! We’re excited to share our pride event this year!! We are so excited to bring this amazing community together for pride month to share some wonderful artworks and written pieces!

Details below:

Thank you to @boredzillenial , @casuallycorvid and @melodygatesauthor for moderating this event!

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I swear it felt like I blinked and the year just ended.

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Moon Knight Headcannons/Imagines

WARNINGS: smut. mentions of oral sex, fingering, hickeys, masochism, etc, etc. ((lots of fluff too, though!)) - [🔞]

CHARACTER(S): Marc Spector/Steven Grant/Jake Lockley (MARVEL/Moon Knight)

STEVEN GRANT:

- Obviously, he’s a nerd. That’s a given.

- You probably meet him by the fountains, wanting to sit and enjoy a meal, only to overhear him blabbering to some poor statue-actor.

- You’d approach him, and he’d immediately stand and offer you his seat, offering to take your photo.

- But you’d smile, shake your head, and laugh, rather sitting and patting the concrete fountain’s ledge with a welcoming aura about you.

- “actually, i was wondering if i could join you. i may be a bit more talkative than this chap.”

- and in what world would he to say ‘no’ to some pretty lady who wanted to listen to him talk about his shitty day at work?

- you two hit it off pretty quickly- and exchanged numbers after the first few times you’d ’accidentally’ bump into him with a meal in hand at the fountain late at night.

- when you two start dating, you naturally spend a lot of your time at his place, as it’s a homey, (messy), but homey atmosphere you grew to love.

- your first date is some overpriced vegan diner, before you both realize you’d much rather spend your time together in some thrift store, buying an unhealthy amount of overused books and jackets you’ll only wear once.

- always has messy hair. loves, loves, loves when you play with it or swipe it off of his forehead for him.

- constantly has chapped lips. he can rely on you to dig through your purse and press some chapstick to his lips whenever you notice him picking at the dry skin, grateful for your preference of cucumber-pear flavored beeswax.

- probably smells like old paper and some cheap pine and timber wood cologne- whatever Marc buys, he uses.

- he’s a touchy lover, you’d quickly learn, when you’d first kissed his cheek during a movie night- wanting to test the boundaries a bit; get a sense for what he was okay with.

- weather it be his fingers brushing against your hip when you’d read at the library with him, letting his fingerprints warm themselves under the fabric of your sweater,

- or if you two decide to go for a walk, his pinky laced with yours, or his thumb around the loophole of your jeans, keeping you near him in the overwhelming crowds of London.

- his confidence grows enormously when you’d mutter “how handsome (he) looks in that button up”, and he’d purposely wear it more often around you.

- he’s an insomniac. he hates that you refuse to fall asleep until he does, but it motivates him to try and fall asleep. you being there with him makes it a little less scary to give into slumber.

- (but if he refuses to sleep, which happens occasionally after a week of bad ‘nightmares’, you’ll spend as long as you can awake with him, either reading to him, or letting him read to you- helping him solve his stupid word puzzles or letting him teach you how to solve a Rubix cube).

- kisses. tickles. anything to have an excuse to touch you.

- he likes to press his chapped lips against your collarbone, particularly the spot just below your throat, where his lips fit perfectly against the prominent bone.

- he’s a gentle lover- but once you get him riled up, it’s hard to get him to slow his eagerness.

- he needs guidance. he’s only ever been with one or two girls- but never to this stage in the relationship. the only experience he really has is his own hand, and the laptop he has stored away for his…’quiet time’ at night.

- he wants to taste you. to have his tongue lap up at your aching core, his eyes never leaving your own as his fingers splay out over your lower stomach, rubbing circles into the dip of your belly button, mimicking his tongue on your swollen clit.

- your fingers in his curls? jesus, he’s a mumbling mess.

- he’s so talkative- constantly praising you as he helps you strip down the last of your clothes, just looking at you. drinking your dimpled skin in under the shitty lights of his studio flat.

- “gods above, you’re so beautiful, love. so, so pretty. all for me. my pretty girl.” he’d mumble over and over again, tugging at his slacks to free himself, practically bursting in his briefs just at the sight of you.

- he’d constantly make sure you’re okay with this- with him. any hesitancy in your gaze and immediately he’s splaying fingers through your scalp, muttering apologies and quick kisses to your temple.

- no matter how desperate he is to take you, to make your his, he’d wait a million years and survive the field of reeds all over again if you weren’t ready. he’d wait for you. no matter how long it takes.

MARC SPECTOR:

- you guys met through the café you work at, as he had stoped in regularly for straight black coffee every morning, usually right when you would start the first batch of coffee beans for the day.

- he’d find little notes written on the mugs you’d hand him- something like a small smiley face next to his misspelled name (which he had corrected the next time, and you’d never spelled it wrong again), which would quickly evolve into hearts or stars the longer he became a ‘regular’.

- he’d finally asked you out once Jake had convinced him enough, and was pleased when you had eagerly said yes.

- the first date happened out of town, where he had eagerly picked you up early Saturday morning, and drove almost two hours out to a ‘nearby’ baseball game.

- pretty sure he cherished the time with you in the car ride there and back rather than at the actual game, though.

- you joyously sang along to half of the songs that came up on the radio, him beaming with pride at your knowledge to almost every one of his favorite artists (probably country/hard rock music who are we kidding)

- he kissed you on your doorstep that night, and immediately he knew he was smitten with you.

- He’s absolutely hates the idea of being seen out and about without something that symbolizes he’s yours, and your his.

- a necklace, a ring, a hickey- just something, anything to remind him of you throughout the day.

- i read a fanfic a few months ago about how he would have a thing for lipstick- about how he sees it smeared across his lips after a heavy make out session in one of the many mirrors around the apartment, and absolutely loses it- like- goes feral, and i agree wholeheartedly.

- any compliment you give him goes straight to his head; a retort, some snarky comment, anything- (he immediately follows his teasing with a small, grateful smile, or a pinch to your ass, though).

- oh yeah- loves your ass. he’s definitely an ass to tits or thighs guy- loves the way it looks in his sweatpants- how you fill them so much better than he does. (nah on a serious note though- Oscar is packing cake)

- if you two ever have to go on long car trips, he’ll gladly allow you to drive rather than him. he likes the soothing sound of the car and sleeping with his legs splayed up on the dash (Jake scolds him for it later, dw).

- you call him your “passenger princess” though? immediately he’s never riding shotgun with you again.

- he smells like Steven (obviously, they share the same body), but with more evident notes of sweat and his preferred shampoo.

- NEAT FREAK ALERT!! he constantly is cleaning up after Steven, mumbling out curses as he finds yet another misplaced book or pen.

- okay- unpopular opinion, but does anyone else think he might be a little autistic? he has an extremely hard time verbally showing his emotions, and is very physically responsive to everyone around him- would much rather text you than call you… (am i over reading him orrr??)

- he’s an ‘actions speak louder than words’ kinda lover. he shows his love through his displays and simple favors rather than through his words, and he receives love best that same way. he wants to see you show him how much you love him.

- contrary to popular belief, i think he’s actually pretty gentle in bed.

- don’t get me wrong, he’s not Steven gentle, but he’s not rough.

- massive stamina. like- you have to work for him to fully come undone.

- yeah, he likes teasing. you wanna cum? you better fucking ask him first, or you’re both gonna be at this all night.

- probably likes it in his car the best- likes the small, cramped space where he is easily able to grab you.

- …and because he likes the thrill of possibly getting caught.

- similar to Steven, he’s pretty mouthy in the moment-not talkative, but loud.

- lots of under-the-breath comments, curses, and groans.

- “fuck, baby- you look so good- you take me so good, yeah? fuck, fu-fuck- you love it, huh? tell me you love it. take it all- doing so good, so fucking good for me.”

- his aftercare is pretty shitty, but at least he tries- he’ll hold you there for a beat, panting into the back of your neck, his fingers still gripping roughly at your hip, before he’ll pull out gingerly and pad to his bathroom, bringing you a slightly damp towel and a bottle of lukewarm water, helping you sit up and drink, and clean yourself off.

- he loves you, though. just doesn’t say it as much as he shows it.

JAKE LOCKLEY:

- i know it’s stereotypical, but you both meet in a bar.

- you’re immediately intriguing to him- the way you carry yourself, the way you gingerly sip on some strong drink you had ordered,

- the way you shamelessly stare at him across the bar’s counter.

- immediately he approaches you, ordering you another one of whatever disgustingly girly drinks you seemed to like so much, and couldn’t help but charm you.

- just a little.

- you were quite pretty, anyway.

- he offered you a ride home, and in your drunken state, you agreed, so much so that you linked your arm with his joyously as he took you to his cab, and held his hand the entire way back to your apartment, where you were seemingly sober enough to direct him (in the general direction) of its location.

- he left you with his number in your phone, labeled ‘J.L.’, letting you back inside your apartment safely for the night, before he drove back to the shared flat with you in mind.

- the next day, he received a call from an unknown number, only to hear your frantic voice on the other end, talking about “how sorry you are for bothering him last night after one too many drinks”, claiming you were “a lightweight” and “weren’t keeping track”.

- and to your surprise, he responded with a simple “you can make it up to me by saying yes to a date, quierido.”

- and after the first three dates, he had welcomed you into his (Steven’s) apartment.

- he trusted you more than he would admit to himself- scolding himself for falling so quickly for you.

- the second you tore off your baggy jacket, revealing that cute little white blouse though? he couldn’t help himself.

- his kisses are more eager than the other two- more teeth than tongue, wanting to draw blood- wanting to taste how sweet you really are.

- he’s even more eager when he realized you seem into it; when you admit you’re a masochist, too.

- he takes this fully to his advantage, stripping you quickly and efficiently, wasting no time in slipping his fingers past your underwear he was too excited to tear off of you, and into your cunt, relishing in the texture of your gummy walls.

- he wants to hear you. he’s not nearly as verbal as the other two, but he definitely wants to to hear you.

- “let me hear you, chica- Estás muy linda, taking my fingers, pretty girl. so pretty, so perfect.”

- lots of praises and affirmations- he’s more focused on making you feel good, so don’t be disappointed if you’re the only one getting naked every once in a while.

- but oh, how desperate he gets for you after being gone for long periods of time.

- he’ll get home after a long night and just want to hold you. nothing sexual, not immediately anyway- he just craves the overall sense of peace from being near you.

- his head in your lap as you comb through his hair, listening to the TV play some old chicago baseball game, or just sit in the ‘silence’ of you humming softly to him.

- he likes seeing you happy, so if that means staying in bed with you just a couple minutes longer, he doesn’t mind skipping ‘work’ that night.

- he smells musky. usually of leather and cigars, as he constantly (to your dismay and heavy scolding) is smoking.

- he’s the best of the three at aftercare, surprisingly.

- blueberry pancakes afterwards, and he’ll bring you a hot cup of tea or coffee (depending on your mood) after a particularly ‘rough night’, followed by a soothing massage in bed, or him cleaning you up in a hot bath to some romantic, Spanish-jazz record.

- he likes being taken care of too, though.

- he’s more of a physical-lover, preferring to be near you and touching you rather than gift giving and words of affirmation.

- he likes those too though, don’t get me wrong.

- as long as you love him for who he is; accept that there’s no changing him, in what world is he to not fall for you?

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Oscar Isaac at the Moon Knight (2022) - Q&A (x)

Taglist: @oscarseyebrow @the-little-ewok @mypedrom @prettylilhalforc @princessxkenobi @mariesackler @dailyreverie @nowritingonthewall @mandelirious @zinzinina

Moon Knight taglist (adding this tag because it’s from a Moon Knight interview!): @ahookedheroespureheart @discontinuedly  

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No restraint

Yandere!Steven Grant x fem!reader

Cw/triggers: Nsfw, smut, darkfic, delusional Steven, dub-con, non-con, implied kidnapping, implied captivity, obsessive and possessive behavior, mention of stalking.

Steven knew next to everything about you. And all it took for his obsession with you to start was a simple, normal talk.

He knew the way to your place almost like the back of his hand, how easily he could march in with the right tools.

Of course he knew nobody would even consider someone like himself capable of such cruel things, but his determination for you made him do nearly anything.

Tonight's the night.

Where Steven is going to finally see you up close, to finally show you what you, even if, by accident, made him do for you.

Steven was tired of watching you, he was so tired of jerking off to the thought of you. He wants the real deal.

While you slept peacefully in your bed, Steven managed to break into your home, creeping through the place until he slowly opened the door into your room, revealing you, and stalking carefully towards you.

His breathing almost hitched from all the excitement he felt, you were so close.

It wasn't hard for him to get you immobile in your own bed. Tape around your wrists and mouth did the trick.

He could watch you for hours. You, trapped in your own home with him. Even tied up you looked so stunningly beautiful.

The feeling of a hand on your cheek caused you to wake up, instinctively trying to move when you felt your wrists being tied and tape covering your mouth.

Steven smiled. "Heyia sleeping beauty."

You looked up at him, trying to push yourself away from him, but he held you in place with his hand on your shoulder.

"Nope, not doin' that, love." He scolds gently.

With a soft sigh, Steven straightened up. "Excuse me if I'm a little excited," he slowly started pulling your covers down "but," he stopped once the covers were at your waist "I'm just so happy to finally have you."

He resumed pulling the covers down, admiring every inch he revealed.

After he removed them fully he threw them carelessly to the side and stepped closer.

"You're so bloody beautiful."

Steven grabbed both your ankles, pulling you closer to him.

"I just couldn't satisfy myself with only looking at you from afar. I need you with me."

His fingers slowly trailed up your leg, he catched your gaze with a sharp look.

"You know what I have to do now, yeah?"

Your brows furrowed in confusion.

Steven leaned a bit close, his hands now moving to undress you.

"Nod if you know now." He demanded lowly, his eyes flicking down between your legs before up to your face again.

You nodded, your breathing intensified as you realized what he is going to do to you.

Steven smiled softly. "Don't you worry, luv." he reassured, climbing on the bed between your legs.

You immediately started shaking your head, trying desperately to get him off the bed, but Steven restrained you quickly with his hands on your hips.

"No no, don't make a ruckus now."

Steven moved a hand to your between your legs, running his fingers through your lips.

"But let's get you nicely wet first."

You tried squeezing your thighs shut but Steven kneeled right between knees and held your thighs open.

"Don't fight it, luv."

His fingers gently pushed against your cunt, dipping two inside, scissoring them to stretch you out.

"Can you already imagine your wet cunt wrapped around my cock?"

You tried to fight it by arching your back and push your hips away, but each time, he simply pulled you back.

"Stubborn little thing, are you?" Steven smirked.

Despite yourself, your hole slowly started getting wet, and even more wet the longer Steven thrusts his fingers in and out.

His fingers were soon coated in your wetness, and he removed them, moving to undo his pants and pulling his cock out, giving himself a few strokes, then leaned over you, supporting himself with one hand at your side.

"You'll enjoy it like I will." He chuckled, positioning himself and pressing his tip against your wet hole and slowly pushing inside.

"Oh fuck.." He groaned, his hips stuttering as he enjoyed feeling your warm, tight cunt wrap around his cock.

Steven bit his lower lip, "God, you feel amazing." he sighed, his eyes fluttering close, "Mmh, 'm so happy you're finally mine.."

You tried struggling again. Steven opened his eyes, his other hand came up to your cheek to cup it.

"Already starting to love it, hm?" He chuckled sarcastically.

A moan escaped you as Steven hit a spot inside you, making you forget about fighting and your eyes almost rolled back, your hips bucking up.

"Now you like it, yeah?"

Another moan came out of you, Steven decided to fasten his thrusts.

Steven admired your pleasure contorted face, "Fuck, look at you... you love gettin' fucked by me, hm?"

He hit your spot again, earning a needy moan from you.

"Better get used to it, love. I'll be the only one fucking you from now on. You're mine."

Your moans grew desperate, your orgasm was fast approaching, and so was Steven's.

His thrusts became sloppy, his breathing heavy, and with a final thrust, your cunt exploded around his dick, covering him in your juices.

Steven cursed under his breath, loving the feeling of your perfect pussy squeezing his cock. He came just seconds after, filling you up with his hot cum.

He held himself inside you for a moment before pulling out, letting your combined fluids ooze out onto the bed.

Steven tucked his softened cock back in, then stood up and straightened his clothes.

He looked at your exhausted form, loving how fucked out because of him you looked. Steven liked it.

Steven cupped both your cheeks.

"You're coming with me now. If you fight me, I'll have no other choice but to sedate you."

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"You're perfect, love. And I will take such good care of you."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tags:

@nekoyin @steven-grants-world @iolaussharpe-24 @buckyssugarchick @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction

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[minigirl87]

check out my oscar tarot 🔮💫

im really hyped for this project ive planned (i just hope i dont give up before i finish it like i usually do)

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[minigirl87]

OH?? 📻🍎

❌Do not repost/reupload my art pieces!❌ ♻️Shares, Comments, and Likes are appreciated!♻️

[minigirl87]

Happy holidays! This was drawn for the Spicy Advent calendar hosted by the Hazbin Art Initiative on bsky/twitter! I had day 8 - candy canes! 🍬

Had so much fun with this one, I was inspired by old timey vintage Christmas cards!

[minigirl87]

Oscar Isaac - Star Wars Sequel Trilogy (2015, 2017, 2019)

[minigirl87]

Richard Muñoz- This Time

Summary: Your ex, Richard, wants another chance. (~1.2k)

Contents: a little bit of angst, but mostly fluff

-----

“Richard, you can’t keep coming by here. No more excuses.”

He’d knocked on your door last week too, your ex, Richard Muñoz.

The pretense of a book that he was sure you had. Did you remember to change the oil in your car? Returning plastic leftover containers you didn’t even want anymore. Little things that weren’t even worth a text. Especially not between exes.

“I know,” he says quietly, “but I have so much I still want to say. And things are different now.”

You lean against your open front door, trying not to invite him in.

Remembering why you’d broken up.

But he looks at you with those big, brown eyes and you can only sigh and head inside without a word. Richard follows, closing the door behind him.

You hear him take off his shoes. It’s his first time at your apartment, even though you’d dated for a month.

Although, in hindsight, you weren’t sure what to call it.

Richard, a shy prison guard with an adorable dog, and a soul as old and as warm as a perfect summer day.

You, an administrative assistant at the courthouse, with a weakness for polite men and big, bushy mustaches streaked with gray.

It hadn’t been a whirlwind romance. Or a romance at all, really.

You’d been helping out at the warden’s office for a few days and seen Richard, immediately felt something. So, you’d started dropping by the break room when you knew he was having lunch. You’d invited him to the movies, to dinner.

You hoped it was more than habit that kept Richard coming to your twice a week dates, but after a solid month without more than a goodnight kiss, without him taking you up on the not-subtle hints to go home with you, you’d realized that Richard just didn’t see you in the way you hoped.

He was so good-hearted and kind, but he wasn’t really satisfied with anything in his life, you included.

When you’d broken up you told him, “you don’t even see me.”

Richard replied, “I’m very sorry. I don’t think I was looking.”

You realized you’d never be on the same page.

He’d asked right away to start over, to try to do things the right way. It was too late. You’d spent most of your adult life wasting your love on people who didn’t deserve it. Richard was supposed to be different.

You’d stopped giving people a second chance to hurt you a long time ago.

Richard runs a hand over the part in his hair. You hate that you’ll be able to picture him in your apartment now. And you hate that part of you is happy you can.

“There’s a cafe down the street,” Richard says.

You shake your head. “I don’t think so.”

Richard nods. “Yeah, maybe another time. Anyway, I got a promotion at work.” His eyes scrunch up, like he’s trying to think about his words carefully. “It made me think about you and me.”

“I don’t follow,” you say. “Unless you’re trying to compare prison to being with me.”

“I’m not explaining it very well. I felt like I had to apologize to you again. To tell you that I regret very much what happened. How I treated you.”

“It wasn’t how you treated me, Richard. It was how you didn’t treat me.” You push down whatever stupid feelings threatened to come back up. “You know what? You apologized. You can go.”

“Escúchame, please listen.” He walks forward, his big hands on your arms. His face finds yours, forces you to look at him. “I didn’t know how not to be alone.”

You can tell that was difficult for him to say out loud. It softens your heart.

You pull him over to the couch to sit down. He looks relieved.

“I’ve missed you,” he says.

“I missed you when we were still together,” you say, looking down at your hands.

You hear Richard scratch his mustache. “There’s this quote about how the loneliest we ever are is when our lives are falling apart and we can’t do anything but watch. That’s how I felt when you broke up with me. Like I was waking up just in time to see the door shut on a whole life I could’ve had. One I want very badly. I want you very badly, I mean.”

You fold your arms around your stomach.

Richard speaks quietly. “Some people make promises to one another that they can’t keep. I see that every day at work.”

“You never promised me anything.”

“I should have, though. You had every right to expect things from me. I was just slow. I kept thinking I’d wake up one day and know how to move forward with you, how to do better. Instead, you did all of the work. You did everything. You’re a beautiful woman. You have such a beautiful way of doing things.”

You sigh, his words almost painful to you.

Even when he’d given only half of himself to your relationship, he’d always been so gentle, so kind.

How could you trust that it wasn’t just his good heart that compelled him to apologize? How could you really believe that this time would be different?

“I remember you saying how disappointed you’ve been in the past,” Richard says. “To me, that means you’ve at least taken chances, though. Tried. I haven’t really. I got used to not trying.”

He smiles, or tries to at least. The corners of his mustache lift and his big, brown eyes look hopeful.

“I stopped at the market on my way here. Let me make you dinner. It’s not much, but it’s a start, right?” He takes your hands in his.

His eyes crinkle at you in that way you love. He’s wearing the blue shirt you’d bought him before you'd broken up. You start to laugh, taking one of your hands back to cover your mouth.

Richard looks heartbroken. You’re sure he thinks you’re laughing at him.

“No,” you reassure him, “I’m not saying no. It’s just that, well…”

You dig your hand down into the space between his shirt and neck, pulling out the paper tag, still attached by a safety pin.

“The tag’s still on it.” You smile at him, reaching back to carefully remove it. You smooth down the collar neatly.

Richard’s hand is on your knee. He’s looking at you with the biggest puppy dog eyes he can muster, and he knows it’s working.

“Mi amor,” he says.

You have to look away from the intensity in his gaze.

Richard’s worth giving another chance. You don’t blame him for not going all in like you did. Maybe this time, you can be on the same page from the very start.

“I can help you bring the groceries in,” you say.

“No, no no no,” Richard says resolutely. “Absolutely not. You’re going to sit your perfect behind here on your couch. I’m going to do everything. For the rest of your life, you’re not going to lift a finger.”

You laugh, this time with him.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. “I won’t mess up a second time, I promise. You deserve the world.”

“I don’t want the world. I like this neighborhood, and I like you.”

Richard leans in, his mustache touching your face before his lips do. You smile as it tickles you, as he presses his lips against yours. You can feel that this time, he really means it.

“I more than like you,” he says. “I see you now. And I’ll never let you go again.”

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Since Anselm is so sex positive and experienced, I think he would be distressed at how much misinformation people have about sex, periods, etc. What if he started answering questions/correcting myths "Dear Abby" style?

Dear Anselm,

I love my boyfriend, and I want to show him I love him, no matter where we are. The problem is, he doesn't do "pda." He says we should save it for when we're alone and it makes him uncomfortable. :(

-Lonely in Public

Dear Lonely,

i had to ask my Birdie what P.D.A. is and she informed me it's a Public Display of Affection. I personally am a firm believer in such things.

I assume you don't mean public fellatio, but more like a holding of hands, or a kissing of lips. Something heartfelt and beautiful. If he's refusing you such a simple, warm gesture, then he is worthless. Please give him a Public Display of Ass-handing and leave him with a glass of red wine to the face in a very nice restaurant.

Good luck to you,

Anselm Vogelweide

*****

Dear Anselm,

How to spice things up in the bedroom? I want to do something special for my wife.

Sincerely,

Idea-less

Dear Idea-less,

may I put you in touch with my previous advice-seeker? They are newly single and nothing spices things up like adding a third. Embrace the unknown!

God speed,

Anselm Vogelweide

*****

Dear Anselm,

I had a really bad breakup. The guy was emotionally abusive and I'm glad to be out of it, but I don't know how to start dating again. Everyone seems like a scumbag?

Sincerely,

Scared to Love Again

My dear,

unfortunately, yes, the world is full of 'scumbags.' But please do not let your experiences with your previous, less than human, inconsequential, impotent, partner hinder you further.

May I suggest going slowly? I'm not usually a fan, but it was the tact I took with my beloved wife. We were friends first, and we are better off for it.

And please, put yourself in charge of the relationship. Introduce your next paramour to a leash and collar. Bring him to heel, literally. I think you'll find that being dominated in the bedroom can subdue the temperament of many of the world's 'scumbags'. They merely need to need told that they are not in charge. Work your way up to pegging.

Much love,

Anselm Vogelweide

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You've always been my favorite

Yandere!Jonathan Levy x f!reader

Cw/triggers: Stalking, possessive behavior, darkfic, Jonathan masturbates to porn, twisted thoughts, some dub-con/non-con thoughts on Jonathan's side, yandere themes.

A/n: I'm sorry for potentially traumatizing you.

Summary: Jonathan is your new professor. But he had his eyes on you for a long time.

After your professor has quit, a new one, Jonathan Levy was quick in replacement.

You knew Jonathan Levy. He was the one jumping in if some of your other professors were sick. Though you didn't think much of him, he on the other hand quickly began to like you a little too much, even for his own good. He became a bit attached to you to say the least.

Jonathan was the professor teaching most things, so he was the one you did see mostly during class.

"I hope you all are prepared for out big exam coming up in one hour." Jonathan said shortly after entering the room, not bothering to look if anyone is missing, placing his bag down beside his desk.

After he sat comfortable in his seat, adjusting his glasses, Jonathan looked around the class.

Two people were missing, but one of them called in sick, the other one still missing were you.

Just as Jonathan thought about the possibilities of what could be, the door opened and you stumbled in with a thermos in hand.

"You're late..." he said with a hint of annoyance in his tone.

"Sorry," you replied bluntly, "I've overslept a bit."

After you were back in your seat, Jonathan cleared his throat and leaned forward with his elbows on the desk.

"Alright everybody, get comfy, get your books out if you haven't already and get prepared. I'll give you one hour."

Jonathan watched the class, his eyes however were fixed on you as he nonchalantly opened his book then started reading himself.

Throughout the hour, Jonathan threw occasional glances towards you, he liked seeing you concentrate, but even more when you pay attention to him.

When the time finally came to hand out his exams, he made sure you were the last one to receive it only so he could say good luck while being close to you without making himself look suspicious, especially not towards you.

Jonathan wondered how you were doing but had no doubt in your knowledge. He knew you could do well, and if not, he was there to help you.

After the exam was done and everyone handed them back to Jonathan, he overheard you and a friend talking about staying late for study in the library after class, his ears perked up and he had to stop himself from smiling.

When the class ended, Jonathan packed his things. He knew the library would ultimately close in 3 hours, and you would likely stay until the end. So he made his way into his office, open his laptop and just browse around. He even stalked your social media accounts.

Jonathan took his time to start correcting some of the exams, until he finally got everything together to make a leave but not before passing the library just as you and that one friend walked out.

Lucky for him, you two parted ways. Jonathan usually isn't one for stalking, but you were an exception for him. Though he already had an excuse made up in his mind if you did actually catch him.

While you walked, you were completely oblivious on Jonathan walking behind you at a good distance. He kept his head low and his hands in his pockets. Sure he knew where you lived but he wanted to make sure you'd arrive there safely. It would be a shame if something would happen to you.

By the time you arrived home, Jonathan thought about how he could rig your exam, just so he could see you more whether it would be some actual private tutoring or maybe after class, preferably alone. Oh how he would love that.

But he was a fair man, and wouldn't normally want to... abuse his job for... personal needs. But Jonathan was ready for a few exceptions.

Jonathan was ready to leave and call it a day, but not before looking back at your house, examining it from afar.

He didn't know much about break ins, but he could watch some tutorials online on how to do it professional. With a quick go to the darknet, he would surely find something...

As Jonathan arrived back home, he decided to correct those exams first so the boring part would be out of the way. He wasn't tired, if anything, he felt kind of energized.

Jonathan reviewed your exam at last, only so he could write down where you need most help and where you'd be okay. After the correcting was done, Jonathan went to his computer, firstly visiting his go-to porn site after a long and mostly boring day. But you weren't part of the boring part, you were always the highlight.

After browsing though cheap scripted and bad acting ones, he finally found a good looking one for a quick stress relief.

Unzipping his pants, he pulled his semi-hard cock out, working himself up with slow strokes while watching the video.

As the pleasure built up, he couldn't help but let his mind wander off to you, how you're always pay attention to him, not questioning his authority as your professor while also being his good student.

He stroked faster, spreading the leaking precum around the tip and shaft while tightening his fist. Jonathan knew he could just easily bend you over his desk and have his way with you however he pleased.

His thoughts even went as far as bending you over his knees and spanking you then fucking you stupid on his desk as punishment.

Regardless of what his mind came up with, it always ended up fucking you. Imagining things such as having you suck him off while he's in the middle of class, or eating you out while you're reading a goddamn book.

Closing his eyes and leaning back, listening to the moans of that girl in the video, imagining how this would be you moaning when he's having you. And he will have you one day.

As badly as Jonathan wanted to hold his impending orgasm back, thinking about all the nasty things he wanted to do to you he couldn't resist chasing his peak.

"Fuck, how good it would feel to have you wrapped around me," he squeezed his cock again "whether you like it or not."

Jonathan's breathing hitched before becoming heavier.

"Mmm, but I'm certain you would love getting fucked by me, even if you wouldn't admit it, baby."

With one last stroke he came hard, spilling his cum on the ground. He threw his head back against the chair, his cock softening in the grip of his fist.

After he was done, he shut down his computer, grabbed a wet rag and cleaned his cum off the ground before he went to bed.

The next day, his day passed quickly, mainly because most of his attention was drawn to you. You looked so happy with the results of your exam. You deserved it, being the good student that you are and the cherry on top, even unknown to you, being his favorite.

Jonathan had approached you, asking if you could stay for a couple minutes after class for a quick discussion about the results of your recent exam.

After everyone was out of the room, Jonathan leaned against the desk and crossed his arms while you were still sitting at your place.

"So," he started, uncrossing his arms to walk over to you, leaning down with his hands on the edges of your desk. "You did good mostly. But in order to pass this good, you have to be good in any of these, not just one. They all count."

You nodded. "I understand."

"And I'm not doing this to torture you, I hope you know that. I just want what's best for you." Jonathan said in a lower and slightly huskier tone, looking into your eyes with a serious expression.

He pushed himself off of your table, moving back to lean against his with his arms crossed again. "What I'm trying to say here is that I'm willing to help you."

"I know. But I hate asking people to throw their time away because of me. I will study more from now on, I promise." you replied.

Jonathan smiled. "That's good to hear." he knew you would try giving your best, but what kind of professor would he be if he wouldn't offer his help to his student?

"Well, you can go now, I'd hate to take your precious freetime away."

You gave a gentle smile, grabbing your bag and stood up. "Thanks Mr. Levy, have a good day." you said before making your leave.

After you've left, Jonathan let out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding.

Back at his home, Jonathan had atleast half his mind being busy on you. He couldn't help it, why was he even acting like that? He didn't know either, but does he want to stop? Absolutely not.

Jonathan was even at the point where he didn't care about good senses anymore, that's how far he'd go for you.

What he did next was wait for nighttime to come, then he went out going to your house. Breaking into your home was relatively easy, but he still hoped you would be in deep slumber already.

It didn't take him long to find your bedroom, he sneaked into your room like a cat, already loving how he could just sneak in without you noticing anything.

He had to stop himself from wanting to search through some of your belongings, feeling way more bold now that he was in your house.

Of course his eyes were trained on you, he didn't want you to wake up and alert the whole neighborhood with your screaming.

Jonathan crouched down at your bedside, simply admiring your peaceful, unaware and beautiful sleeping face.

He reached out, pulling your covers off just a tiny bit, revealing more of you. Leaning in, he closed his eyes, enjoying the smell of everything you had on you. His fingertips glid carefully along the curve of your neck.

Jonathan felt so at peace with finally being so close to you, albeit if you're sleeping.

"It won't take long until you're mine, sweetheart."

-----------------------------

Tags:

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I can’t bear the fact he’s always so alone…But Niffty always saves the day 🥹🥰

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A Case of the Slumps | Alastor x Depressed!GN!Reader

Summary: It seems you've brought your brain chemistry down to Hell with you. Figures.

Warnings/Tags: Hurt/Comfort, depression and related symptoms/thoughts (obvi), cinnamon roll Charlie, Angel gives you a Xanax but you don't take it, platonic Alastor with a hint of possible unspoken romantic feelings, unexplained cause of death, present tense for some reason, reader is gender neutral

A/N: Crosspost of a recent oneshot from my AO3 because I figured if I'm in a slump, someone else probably is too. x

Sometimes it was a thought. Sometimes it was the time of year or the weather, when Hell's crimson sky was kept dark for long periods of time by an uptick of brimstone in the atmosphere or the lingering storm clouds after an acidic downpour. Sometimes it was a memory. A song. A smell.

Sometimes it was seemingly nothing at all.

Just like when you were alive, your now-dead brain hasn't lost its particular quality of liking to work against itself. It's impossible to say whether it's a continued chemical imbalance—that'd be likely right? If demons can do drugs, then clearly there's still something to brain chemistry in Hell—or if death took a snapshot of your self and your mind as they were in life.

It doesn't really matter what it is either because it still affects you just the same. And because you haven't had a depressive episode yet post-mortem, you haven't done any of the legwork you had to do in life on your own to figure out what's "wrong" with you, who might hear you and listen, and what medication(s) works.

So when it does hit, it hits like a tidal wave no one else can see. The wave itself, anyway—everyone can see you drowning.

That first slump isn't kind enough to hit in the morning when you can sleep in—or rather stare with dead eyes at the wall, bundled under your duvet and blankets as you put off the day passing by around you. No, that first slump hits in the middle of one of Charlie's exercises, one that you were enthusiastic about participating in just an hour ago. What happened?

You know. This feeling is an old friend you'd hoped to never meet again.

Charlie doesn't though, not right away. After you excuse yourself by means of referencing a stomachache you only kind of have—and only from the emptiness pooling in your gut and humming in your chest—she catches up to you in the hallway.

"Hey!" she chirps, leaning around to look at you when you stop but don't turn around. If anything, you curl further into yourself. She doesn't notice though—the only ones who would notice your change are the ones who know to look for it. Charlie, bless her heart, doesn't have that earthly world experience yet. "Do you want us to wait up for you or…?"

"Oh, uh, no," you stammer out, yearning for a big hoodie to comfortably drown in or a cup of tea, the idea of which sounds lovely but you don't even like tea. Everything that would normally feel like a treat sounds stressful or unappetizing, leaving you uncertain about what exactly you're meant to be doing. That's when the lethargy hits hardest. "I don't feel well, so I'm just gonna rest for a while."

Charlie's brow scrunches. You can tell she's about to argue that you'll never get into Heaven if you don't stick to the exercises and something akin to a sudden flash of anger roils in your chest, kicking the dead gray weight of apathy in the teeth. Because how dare she question your commitment, your hopes, your dreams, because you're walking away this one time?

But if this is like life, if this can happen again now, how many more times will it happen? Is it over for you?

Something clicks behind her eyes though as she watches your face. You don't know this, of course, but she's seen the same look on Vaggie's face before. Primarily right after they found each other—Vaggie also fell into a pit of her own pain and trauma, a victim of her new normal until the new normal became preferable.

And, on those days, Vaggie didn't always want to be with Charlie. At some point, Charlie had to learn that it often had nothing to do with her when that happened, too. It helped her understand her father better, too, in the end. She'd needed to reach out to him, but she'd had to let Vaggie come to her when she was ready. Both were valid approaches for different people.

She decides to trust that you'll make it clear to her what you need when you're ready.

"Okay," she says and her kind voice spears your anger with guilt, killing it instantly. You were always good at that, weren't you? Pushing away the people who care. "You have my number. You have everyone's number—well, everyone with a phone anyway. Just let us know if you need something. Anything. Okay?"

You clench your teeth to hold back the burn of tears working its way up your throat. "Okay. Thanks, Charlie," you say and it comes out as sincerely as you mean it, which is good. At least something's gone right today.

"Would you like a hug?" Charlie offers, starting to hold out her arms and then hesitating when she wonders if that could feel like she was pressuring you.

You think about it and decide it's worth a try. "Sure," you say and you step into her arms. She runs even hotter than the other sinners you've met, being Hellborn. It's like cozying up just a couple inches too close to a fireplace, but it doesn't burn. She just feels like the hearth in the place that's swiftly become your home.

She doesn't let go before you're ready, but the second she feels you shift to step back, she lets her arms drop. She gives you a little wave before scampering back down the hall to resume the exercise in the lobby, leaving you to resume your trek to the elevator.

Once you're in the elevator and you've tapped the button for your floor, you fall back against the wall of the lift and run your hands down your face, sighing into your palms.

What you wouldn't give for an on-paper, calculable test that you could fill out and hand to a doctor or psychologist or someone who could tell you with complete certainty what's wrong with your brain and how to fix or endure it. Not only so you could feel better, but so you wouldn't be such a burden to your new friends, your found family. What good were you like this?

(The reality is that the group downstairs is mildly concerned, but otherwise just fine. Charlie can manage the exercise through sheer optimism alone and she has enough bandwidth to do that and be available to you as your friend whenever you need something.

A couple of the others noticed your deflated exit, perhaps because they've once been through similar episodes, and are either just hoping you feel better or trying to come up with some nice gesture to make whenever they see you next. Everything you're worried about or sure you've messed up is a product of your dopamine-deficient brain.)

You pass Angel in the hall on your way to your room as he's heading out for work and he, of course, knows that look. He just hasn't seen it on you before. He offers you a many-armed hug and what he tells you is a Xanax, telling you to text him if you need anything or just want to talk and he'll check on you whenever he's freed from the studio next.

You appreciate his offers and agree to all of it, except the unwrapped, unlabeled pill, which you get rid of once you're in your room. You trust Angel, but you're too paranoid about making whatever you're feeling worse. You barely knew how to deal with it in life, what's it going to be like in Hell?

A stretched-out old hoodie is procured from your closet and you tug it on, smoothing your hair back down as you amble toward the bed. You burrow under the blankets and try to sleep, but of course it doesn't come. You're not tired, after all. You're not even sad. There's just nothing where there's meant to be something, anything in your chest.

Hours pass and, even though you're not helping yourself by lying curled on your side and staring at the wall, you're listless. You can't talk yourself into getting up or getting something to eat. It's even hard to convince yourself to look at your phone, maybe because you've heard it buzz a few times with texts likely asking how you're doing. You don't want to answer them until it's a good answer. Until you can say you're doing better. Anything else is a disappointment, surely, for all involved.

Someone's knuckles rapping against your door makes you jolt, but you sink back into that unsteady feeling of mentally treading water instead of answering. They'll go away if they think you're sleeping. It's probably Charlie anyway, maybe checking on you ahead of dinner. Was it really almost dinnertime?

That was enough to motivate you to extract one arm from beneath the duvet, extend your hand to your phone, and tap the screen to wake it up. It was after dinner. Time was a construct and someone was still at the door, knocking more sharply now.

You bundle your arm back under the bedding, keeping your back to the door. Charlie wasn't that hard of a knocker, so maybe she'd sent Vaggie up to check on you? Husk tended to pound on doors with the side of his fist (and not come near any potentially weepy situation with a ten-foot pole), so it probably wasn't him. It might be Angel, you supposed. Short studio session, if so. Perhaps Pen, but the source of the noise was too high up to be Niffty. She'd barge on in anyway…

"My dear, I can hear you moving around in there, you know," the Radio Demon's voice informs you through the door and your heart nearly stops a second time.

Not Alastor, you sigh inwardly, covering your face in your hands again and trying not to groan lest he hear that, too.

It wasn't that you disliked Alastor. In fact, that wasn't the case at all. You'd been a bit scared of him at first, sure, when you'd initially crossed the threshold of the Hazbin Hotel and who could blame you? He was an imposing figure, someone you'd heard of within days of falling into Hell despite his seven-year sabbatical from the Pentagram.

He was also a prominent public figure from his radio show. That was how you'd first tried to get to know him a little better—you'd started tuning into his broadcasts, getting better at predicting the shrill screams of the souls he tore apart just before they blared through your speakers. You still missed them on occasion and would violently jolt upward from wherever you were sitting or lying while listening, floundering for the volume dial and usually finding it well after you needed it.

Alastor had spotted you do exactly that once during a prerecorded broadcast and, after he'd run the gambit of jokes he could make at your expense, the barrier that had existed between you two since your arrival started to come down. And while the jarring screams hadn't stopped, your radio's volume would inexplicably drop on its own ahead of them from then on. You couldn't come up with any explanation for this that didn't include Alastor's influence, but what may have been a kindness on the Radio Demon's part was directly rivaled by his then-new penchant for bursting out of the speakers in a swirl of shadow to scare you, himself, and ask you for feedback on the day's stories.

Those interruptions had become short bouts of small talk in the hall, a couple of cooperative efforts to cook the crew a delicious dinner, him holding doors for you whenever you happened to be traversing the hotel in the same direction… Little things. Lots of little things that had ended up with you considering him a friend, but who knew how he felt. He probably just thought you were amusing. What made it even worse was that you were beginning to suspect the extra pitter-patter of your heart whenever he showed up was no longer adrenaline anticipating him scaring you, but butterflies.

You poor thing. You weren't sure you could've picked a more surefire way to make a fool of yourself.

"I'm not decent," you finally say in an attempt to deter him, wincing a little at the hoarse quality of your voice. You'd only cried a little during your time in your room that day, but you'd cried hard. Partially in an effort to exorcise some of the bad feelings you were harboring, but it hadn't helped much.

"Well! Under all those blankets, I wouldn't even know, now would I!"

You squeak as you startle so much from hearing his staticky voice right behind your head that you end up in a heap on the floor between the wall and your bed.

By the time you untangle yourself from the duvet and pop your head out of the heap, he's maneuvered himself to the edge of the mattress and is peering over it while lying on his barely existent stomach. A thin, but amused smile curls his lips as his legs idly kick behind him like he's a high school girl at a sleepover.

"Was that necessary?" you ask, any amount of riling up he'd done with his sudden entrance falling away from you as your slump saps it of its vigor in one go.

Alastor's brows rise into his fringe, clearly a little caught off-guard. You can understand why—you usually either laugh or, if he gets you badly enough, clutch your chest and scold him for nearly causing your second death via a heart attack.

He tilts his head at you as his eyes narrow and you can't tell if he's confused or zeroing in on his prey. Honestly, in your current condition, you can't get yourself to care. Maybe he'll put you out of your misery for your cheek.

"Mm, I deemed it so," Alastor says, his luminous red eyes blinking down at you as he leans forward ever-so slightly. He's clearly on edge and you digest this as a display of annoyance, but he's concerned (and doesn't like that he's concerned). He's never seen you like this. "Are you ill, cher? It's quite unlike you to miss dinner."

"In a matter of speaking," you allow as you stand up, brush yourself off, and gather up your duvet into a large wad in your arms. You maneuver it back onto the bed and into a sort of nest you can return to, careful not to jostle or accidentally touch Alastor as he remains partially prone across the foot of the bed and watches you work. Mindful of how little he likely knows about mental health, given his time period, you explain in a few words, "My brain is sick."

He blinks, not sure what to make of what you've said. "Your…brain?" he repeats uncertainly. "How so?" Alastor also deems himself "sick in the head," but he's fairly certain that his brand of insanity isn't what you're referring to in yourself.

You nestle into the duvet, missing how his eyes soften a touch at how small you look right now. You take a deep breath and let it huff out as you force yourself to look at him. If he just wants to torment you a bit, this will expedite him getting it out of his system so you can go back to your staring contest with the wall. If he's not just here to make fun of you…well, then that would be surprising.

"I have depression," you finally admit and you wonder when the last time was that you said those words out loud. Even in life, it was a rare moment when you'd be met with someone who was worth explaining yourself to—most people either didn't understand because they'd never been through it themselves or because they didn't want to understand. Over time, you'd just given up trying to be honest about your struggles because being demeaned or invalidated for them just made you feel worse.

"A what now?" Alastor asks, cocking one brow as he turns to lie on his side with his head propped against one hand. His fluffy ears twitch a little but stay upright, alert, and turned in your direction.

"It's a mood, uh…ailment," you explain, thinking he might not know what a "disorder" is either. You're not familiar enough with what terms people would've used to refer to mental health in his time, so you're overcareful with the words you choose. "My brain chemistry wasn't right in life—my body didn't produce enough of the chemicals that make us feel happy, so I'd get into really bad slumps. Exhausted, sad, sometimes just numb slumps. Apparently that came down here with me, too."

"So…you're in a 'slump'?" he repeats slowly, testing the word you'd used on his tongue.

In moments like this, you find him unbearably cute—from his twitchy ears made restless by the rate of his thoughts to his wide, considering eyes as he tries to absorb what you're telling him. He's a very good listener when he's not in the middle of a bit.

"Yes," you tell him and he relaxes slightly at the confirmation. "I feel dead inside, honestly. Which is funny to say now that I'm actually dead, but it's just… I just don't feel much of anything. Or I do and it just feels empty and hollow. That's kind of worse than feeling sad."

He hums and offers, "A smile is our greatest weapon, dear. We've discussed this."

"Not against this, it's not," you sigh, just waiting now for him to get frustrated or bored with you. "I'm not trying to be difficult, Al, I swear. It's just… I can't fake what I'm feeling. I've tried! I wish I could mask half as well as you can, but it's hard. It takes energy I just don't have in times like this."

Alastor evaluates you with a glance and asks, "Then what is your weapon of choice against these…slumps?"

You tug against the seam of the duvet wrapped around you, all nervous fidgeting. "I never really figured anything out," you admit and it feels like a failure. It feels like because you can't offer him a solution to your problem, your problem must not be a problem. You remember so many exasperated faces looking back at you at times you'd admit the very same. He just looks at you though, clearly thinking. "Sometimes just waiting for it to pass was the answer. I was on medication for it at one point, but it never helped very much. I know I need to eat, but I just feel a bit nauseous when I think about food."

"Then food should be on the docket, certainly, but perhaps not just yet," he muses, sitting up as he continues to regard you. "What else?"

You throw your hands up helplessly. "I'm not sure. I'm sorry," you say. "Maybe I need to go hug Charlie again or something, that didn't fix anything earlier, but it didn't hurt."

Alastor scoffs. "Is my comfort not up to your standards, dear?" he needles you, his tone confident even as his smile wavers slightly.

You blink and shake your head even as you scramble to try and understand what he's implying. "Of course not," you quickly say. "I just… You don't have to do that kind of stuff, you know? I know it's uncomfortable for you and I'd never want to make you uncomfortable."

He chuckles and a mischievous smirk overtakes his features as he leans in and pulls you toward him via the duvet, taking an indulgent look at the blush reddening your face before he tightens the blanket cocoon around you and adds his arms to the equation after. You get the hint not to take your arms out and touch him and you're not even sure you could if you wanted to. You're frozen in place, comically close to a deer in headlights, and you can feel the heat inflaming your cheeks.

It's nice to feel something for the moment.

"Um… Alastor?" you ask, stopped from looking up at him when his pointed chin settles against the crown of your head. "You… Why?"

"Why, what?" he asks, but it's just to put off answering and you have some inkling that this might be the case despite his casual tone.

"Why are you doing this?" you ask, embarrassed by how vulnerable you sound to yourself.

"I can't have you sat here in one of your 'slumps' by yourself, darling," he mused, one of his hands absently tracing over your back.

It takes a lot for you to not lean into the touch, but you're terrified of scaring him off. You're also terrified of overthinking this though, especially as he settles in around you, his larger body usually used to intimidate and tower over others making you feel oddly safe. Then again, even in his most antagonistic moments with you, have you ever felt in danger?

"Why not?" you ask softly.

"You ask a surprising number of questions over something so simple as this," Alastor notes and his words cause a puff of warm breath to stir your hair. You shiver a little and he chuckles.

"But it's not simple for you," you murmur, letting yourself relax a bit as he impatiently tugs you closer to fit you against his chest. He's certainly not as gentle as Charlie, but you imagine he's far less practiced in this sort of thing than she is. It hits you harder because you know he's trying. And perhaps because you—silly, silly you—have a tragic little crush on the Radio Demon. "And… Well, I appreciate it. That's all."

Alastor hums and admits, "It's simpler than expected. And not unwelcome." You feel his chin shift against your crown, like he might be looking down at you, as he asks, "Is it helpful? Or is dear Charlotte's attention still preferable?"

You have to bite your lips a little to keep from smirking—that sort of tone can only indicate that he's jealous. Once again, you find him unbearably cute and it'll likely one day lead to your second untimely demise once he realizes how you feel.

"Yes, it's helpful. And preferable," you confess and you can almost feel his chest puff with pride. "This is really nice. Thank you."

"You're most welcome, dear," he says, glancing down and watching you cave to fatigue and fall asleep as he feels your weight settle further into his chest.

Alastor chuckles and gives you time to fully settle into a more restful state before he shifts your body around and situates you on your bed. He'd first considered staying, but figures having something for you to eat at the ready when you wake is a better use of his time. At least that's the reason he gives himself to go.

The truth is he can't remember the last time he honest to goodness comforted someone. There's a tickle in the back of his brain, a voice asking if he's losing his edge. Asking if you'll see him now as less than he is, which (in his mind) is a sadistic, cannibalistic overlord and nothing more.

He can't deny though that he's savoring the lingering warmth from your body on his coat. And, as much as he doesn't understand these "slumps" or the depression you referenced, he didn't like seeing you look so sad.

And he supposes if he must occasionally soften his sharp edges a bit to help keep his favorite guest present and smiling, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.