#my fingers are twitching i need to feel normal but. but. I YEARN FOR MORE

[toiletwipes]

I can hear that audio where it's like "dude, relax. Just calm down." And the other half of it is just growling foaming at the mouth twitching ANS THATS EXACTLY WHAT IM FEELING RIGHT NOW HOLYYYYYHHH SHITTTTTTT

Yours, Anyway | Revivebur x Reader

Fun little piece I did for this event using one bed, forced proximity and a tiny bit of enemies to lovers as my trope prompts :) I don't know how good this is but I will cut myself some slack

Summary: Wilbur gets lost in a snowstorm after the destruction of the burger van. With frostbite, exhaustion, and desperation setting in, he ends up on your doorstep despite believing that you despise him. After all, what other choice does he have?

Warnings: Brief mentions of vomit, unhealthy eating habits and weight loss (Revivebur is not the healthiest guy)

Word Count: 4.6k

Minors DNI

The last thing Wilbur had wanted was to get caught in a snowstorm. After days of no sleep and hardly eating, it was the last thing he needed. Yet, there he was, knee-deep in the snow as wind whipped his face. His ears were nearly numb, (he cursed himself for not owning a hat) and his fingers were aching, the first sign of potential frostbite. 

The plan had been to make it to Phil’s house. After the…incident at the burger van—now a pile of rubble—Wilbur needed a place to stay, to lick his wounds and relax while attempting to assuage his guilt. The weather had other plans.

He braced himself against the wind, pulling his coat tighter around his shoulders. He would have buttoned it, except all the buttons were slightly loose and would probably have popped off had he tried. Considering this was his only coat, he couldn't afford to ruin it. With the combination of the wind blowing his hair into his eyes and the snow hitting the side of his face, he could hardly see ten feet in front of him.

However, he could see a light in the snowstorm, the warm glow of a fireplace through a cabin window. “Finally,” he murmured under his breath, his words immediately carried away by the harsh winds. As he approached, however, he realized this wasn’t Phil’s cabin at all. It was yours.

Wilbur’s relationship with you was…tense, to say the least. You had struck up a friendship with Phil and Technoblade after Wilbur’s death, becoming a member of the Syndicate and training under their guidance. You’d heard about Wilbur, of course, the man who betrayed his friends and reduced his own country to rubble. The man who, in your eyes, repeatedly took advantage of his father’s kindness and resources, only to squander any opportunity at bettering himself. You had become protective of Phil, viewing Wilbur as a threat to his father’s well-being. While he couldn’t always disagree, Wilbur’s bitterness toward you hadn’t faded in the slightest. After all, what did you know about his relationship with his father? Who were you to judge him? 

When he recognized that the cabin was yours, he nearly kept walking. Unfortunately, he couldn’t make heads or tails of where he was. He knew Phil and Techno’s cabin couldn’t be far, but he didn’t know which direction he was looking in. He had no compass and no map, and even if he did, it would be nearly impossible to use them in this weather.

Despite his reservations, he found himself knocking on your door. With any luck, you wouldn’t toss him out the second you saw him.

The door opened. Wilbur could feel the warmth radiating from inside, and it was tempting to shove his way in despite any protest you might have. However, he refrained, meeting your eyes instead.

“What are you doing here?” you asked. Despite the harshness of your tone, Wilbur couldn’t help but be mesmerized. You were far from being friends with him, but despite that, he found himself drawn to you. You were tough, principled, independent. Unlike him, you didn’t need to rely solely on the kindness and leniency of others to keep yourself afloat. He envied you for that. Ever since his revival, it seemed that all he did was survive off other’s pity. 

But you didn’t pity him. You treated him as a person. And even though the two of you didn’t like each other, he was drawn to you. It wasn’t surprising to Wilbur. He’d always been attracted to things that were bad for him.

“Was trying to get to Phil’s,” Wilbur said. “Got lost.”

“I can see that.” Your eyes narrowed at him. “What do you want?”

“Shelter. Obviously.” Wilbur motioned to the flurry of wind and snow behind him. “In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a storm going on. A pretty significant one. And I don’t exactly have proper winter gear.”

“And whose fault is that?” you asked sarcastically. “Maybe, instead of mooching off your father, you should’ve gotten yourself a place. Somewhere that you won’t get caught in a snowstorm by yourself.” 

“Yeah,” Wilbur replied tersely. “I get it. Look, can I please come inside? Just for a bit, to warm up until the storm is over, or at least has died down.” He shivered, a little more than he actually felt the need to, just to show you how cold he was. Wilbur had become good at evoking pity. 

There was no pity in your expression, however. “Are you armed?” you asked. Wilbur shook his head. “Good.” 

To his relief, you stepped aside, allowing him to enter the cabin. He was hit with a wave of warmth. He closed his eyes, standing just inside your cabin and soaking it in. He heard the soft click of the front door being closed, and he opened his eyes as you walked past him further into the cabin.

Once his eyes were open, he took a moment to absorb his surroundings. The cabin was simple, only two rooms. He could see the fireplace in the center of the room, made of stones cobbled neatly together. A small pile of firewood sat to the left of the fireplace, logs ready to be burned in order to keep the place blissfully warm. There was a window beside the front door, the one he’d seen while stuck out in the snow. You had a bookshelf as well, full of neatly placed books and some random objects that you’d found on your travels. A cushioned loveseat sat in front of the fireplace, and beside that sat a comfortable-looking chair. To his left was a small room—most likely a bathroom—and tucked against the wall was a bed. On the opposite end of the room was a kitchen, stocked with the bare necessities. A table sat in the corner, only big enough for three people, perhaps four if you tried hard enough.

It wasn’t a large, luxurious place, but it was comfortable. It reminded him of his childhood, spent in small homes and cabins similar to this one. “Nice place,” Wilbur said. “I’ve seen it from the outside, but I’ve never gone in.”

“You’re right,” you said. “And there’s a reason for that.” You turned your back to him, walking over to the kitchen. Wilbur watched as you filled a glass of water and handed it to him.

Wilbur took the glass, confused. “Then why let me in? Why help me?”

“As much as I dislike you,” you replied, “I think Phil would be pretty upset with me if I left his son to die in a snowstorm.”

“You dislike me? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Then you’re even dumber than I thought.” You looked Wilbur up and down. “You look like shit.”

It was true. He still had ash clinging to his coat from the burger van incident. The bags under his eyes had become more pronounced, and he hadn’t eaten in ages, which he figured must be evident based on the way you were looking at him. “Thanks,” he replied simply. He took a sip of the water you gave him. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until he took a sip, and the glass was emptied in less than thirty seconds.

“How long has it been since you’ve eaten?” you asked.

“A while. Why?”

“You’re just going to throw up all that water if you don’t eat,” you said. “Your body won’t absorb it.”

Wilbur didn’t mention that eating often went poorly for him since he came back from the dead. It was as if his body knew he wasn’t supposed to be alive, that his time was supposed to be up. If he ate too much or too quickly, he often felt nauseous. He’d thrown up more than once by not being careful and eating too fast. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. “I don’t exactly carry a meal on me at all times,” he said.

“Sit down,” you said. “I’ll make you something.” He looked at you in disbelief. “Are you going to sit, or you going to stand there and stare at me?”

“I’ll sit.” Wilbur glanced around the room. “Do you want me to take my boots off?”

“Just set them by the door,” you said. Your back was already turned to him again, gathering ingredients to make him something to eat. “You can hang your coat up as well.”

“Thanks.” He did as you said, removing his worn, leather boots as well as his coat. He cringed at the sight of it, the coat that had carried him through Pogtopia, through the afterlife, and all the way to your front door. It had seen better days. 

Actually, he supposed it hadn’t. He’d only started wearing it when he was cast into exile from his own nation. The only version of himself that wore that coat was the version that was broken, fractured into a million pieces. The coat had only ever belonged to a man who felt like the shell of his former self. The man who hurt everyone he loved. 

He shook the thoughts away and hung up the coat next to one of yours before walking into the kitchen area, trying not to let the guilt consume him. He sat at the table, perching himself on one of the wooden chairs. “The chairs look handmade,” Wilbur pointed out. “Reminds me of the ones my dad made for the house I lived in as a kid.”

“He taught me how to build,” you replied. Your eyes were focused on your work. “Helped me assemble the chairs. And the table, for that matter.”

“So you’re my dear old dad’s new kid then, huh?” Wilbur asked. “His new project.”

You rolled your eyes. “Your jealousy is showing, Wilbur. It’s not a good look on you.”

“How would you know? You’re not even looking.”

You turned toward him. His breath caught in his throat. In the dim light of the kerosene lamps that lit your cozy cabin, you looked practically ethereal. At first, he thought you were going to say something, but you faltered and turned back to your work.

Moments passed in silence. Wilbur tapped his fingertips lightly on your kitchen table, a nervous habit. Before long, a bowl was placed in front of him.

It was oatmeal, sprinkled with some brown sugar. There were fresh berries in it as well, berries that he figured you’d likely picked yourself. “Thank you,” he said. He hadn’t had oatmeal since L’Manberg. The thought made his throat feel like it was closing up.

“You’re welcome.” To his surprise, you sat at the table with him. He felt unnerved by your proximity. If he scooted a few more inches to the left, his elbow would brush against yours. 

He feared that one touch from you would be his undoing.

He ate a few bites of oatmeal, resisting the urge to devour it. Instead, he ate slowly and carefully, trying to appease his sensitive, post-revival stomach. He could feel your eyes on him even when he wasn’t looking at you, and he tried to ignore it. You, unfortunately, were very hard for him to ignore.

It didn’t take long for him to finish the oatmeal, despite him trying his best to eat slowly. The second he was finished, the bowl was lifted and carried to the sink by you. His eyes followed your movements, then looked away as you turned back toward him.

“Better?” you asked.

Wilbur nodded. “Much better. Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome again.” To his surprise, you smiled at him. He’d seen you smile, but never due to something he’d said or done. The sight was a pleasant one. “I didn’t know if you were capable of being polite,” you said. Your tone was more teasing than malicious. 

“What can I say? I’m a regular gentleman.” Wilbur returned your smile with one of his own. He felt an unexpected pang of guilt. Multiple times, you had scolded him for taking advantage of Phil’s resources and generosity, and here he was, proving you right by doing the same thing to you. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked, attempting to assuage his guilt by asking if he could help you in some way to return the favor.

“Yeah, actually,” you said. “You can go take a shower. You’re stinking up my cabin.” Once again, the words were said in a way that were more indicative of banter rather than malice. Wilbur wasn’t sure what to make of your kindness.

“Can do,” Wilbur said. “A shower sounds…wonderful, actually.” He’d washed himself off recently, of course, but hadn’t had a proper shower. He didn’t have access to one. “Except I don’t have any other clothes with me.”

“Phil lent me some of your old ones once,” you said. “Mine got dirty.”

“How did you manage to get so dirty that Phil needed to lend you my clothes?” Wilbur asked, amused.

“Sparring practice,” you replied. “Technoblade kicked my ass, and I ended up in the mud.”

Wilbur snorted. “Sounds like Technoblade.”

“Don’t worry, I got him back for it later.” You walked over to your dresser and shuffled through the drawers before pulling out some clothes. Wilbur recognized them—an old, gray sweater, a pair of sweatpants. He hadn’t seen those clothes in ages. He wasn’t even aware that Phil had kept any of his old clothes. “Bring these with you into the bathroom,” you said. “There’s a blue towel hung up in there that hasn’t been used. The shower water takes a minute to warm up, and you can’t stay in there too long. Waste of water.”

“Got it.” Wilbur stood up and gently took the clothes from your hands. “Thanks.”

“Enjoy your shower,” you said.

“I will.” The notion of warm water on his skin sounded heavenly to Wilbur. He was still chilled from being outside in the storm. The second the bathroom door was closed behind him, he was stripping himself of his clothing and turning on the water. Just as you’d warned him, it took a moment for the water to warm up, but as soon as it did, he stepped into the shower.

The water felt so good that he could cry. He scrubbed every inch of his body, lathering himself in more soap than was probably necessary just because he could. He washed his hair, working his fingers through all the knots and tangles. By the time he was done, he felt brand-new. Plus, he smelled like you, now, like lavender and honey. 

He got dressed and exited the bathroom. When he stepped out, you were sitting in bed, dressed in your pajamas, flipping through a book. You looked up from your book at Wilbur, still damp from the shower. “You look better when you’re clean,” you said.

“I feel better when I’m clean.” Truthfully, Wilbur dreaded having to leave, having to carry his dirty clothes, to put on his boots that were nearly worn through and his coat with loose seams. He dreaded the walk to Phil’s house, and he dreaded the moment he would have to tell Phil that he’d ruined everything. Again. 

One day, you would hear about it, and once again, your scorn would be tossed in his direction. He shoved the thought to the back of his mind. Right now, things were peaceful. Surely, he deserved a bit of peace for a while longer. 

“I bet you do.” You watched Wilbur, who looked unsure, not quite knowing where to sit or what to do. To his surprise, you scooted over. “Sit.”

He obeyed, sitting on the bed and crossing his legs. His eyes drifted toward the window. The snow was still coming down hard, flakes of it hitting the window. “Do you think this will let up before morning?” he asked. You were so close to him that the two of you were nearly touching. He could almost feel your warmth, so close and yet so very unattainable. 

“It’s not likely. My guess is you won’t be able to leave until the sun comes up.” You sighed, leaning back against the pillows. “I would suggest that you take the couch, but it’s just a loveseat, and considering how freakishly tall you are I doubt you’d fit on it.”

Wilbur couldn't help but laugh a little. “I could take it anyway. It’s just one night.” At least he’d be warm, he figured. 

“One more problem,” you said. “I don’t have extra blankets.” 

Wilbur blinked a few times. “You live in the arctic. How do you not have extra blankets?”

You shrugged. “Never needed them. It’s not every day some guy shows up asking for a place to sleep.”

Wilbur, despite trying to shove his pride away, couldn’t help but say something. “‘Some guy’, huh?” Despite intending to joke, his tone came out sounding needlessly defensive. He cringed at his own words. 

“Ah, right,” you replied. “You’re the infamous ex-president of L’Manberg turned burger van owner. That’s quite the name you’ve built for yourself.” Your tone wasn’t teasing anymore. It was back to reprimands. 

“If you dislike me so much, why are you letting me stay here? I feel like one second, you don’t hate me, and the next, you want me gone again. Why?” Wilbur watched you intently, trying to read every shift in your expression. 

“Because one second,” you retorted, “you’re pleasant to be around, and the next, I remember what a self-important dick you are.” 

“I’m self-important?” Wilbur laughed bitterly, running a hand through his hair. He watched as you got off the bed, clearly not wanting to sit next to him any more. Even as he spoke, he could tell that he was about to take it too far. As usual, though, he just couldn’t stop himself. “Have you seen yourself? You show up out of nowhere, make friends with Technoblade and my father, and now you think you’re so special because they let you join their book club. It’s pathetic.”

“Oh, look who’s talking,” you snap. “Poor, poor Wilbur Soot, showing up on people’s doorsteps in the snow reeking of ash and body odor, relying on other people’s generosity. Do you not realize how pathetic you look to everyone else? Everyone is either scared because you’re a ticking time bomb or sad because you’re so pitiful.” You crossed your arms. “Like I said, I helped you because I can’t in good conscience turn you away after Phil has been so kind to me. That’s it. It’s not because I like you. It’s not because I care. It’s because of who you’re related to. So maybe, just maybe, you should grow the fuck up and realize that you only get so many second chances.”

Wilbur stared at you for a moment, your words slowly sinking in. He’d had the same revelation himself the moment the adrenaline from the burger van incident wore off. All he had done since he was revived was fuel a petty rivalry and get people hurt. And for what? For a desperate power grab that was doomed to fail. For a sense of control that he’d lost long before his death, a sense of control he may never have possessed in the first place.

“You’re right,” he said slowly. His eyes met yours. “You’re right, and I’m sorry.” He should have known that he wouldn’t be able to outrun the guilt forever. It always came back, like a dog on a lead that he wished he could just let go of. And there I am being selfish again he thought to himself. Wishing I didn’t feel guilty for the things I deserve to feel guilty for.

You shook your head. “It’s not me you need to apologize to. I’m not one of the people you’ve hurt.” 

Wilbur nodded and looked away. He felt the bed shift as you sat back down, arms still folded, eyes fixed on him. “Yeah, I know.” He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. “I know that I’ve been selfish. Selfish and prideful and careless. And I know that…that you have good reason to not like me. I’ve hurt and taken advantage of people that you care about. I doubt I would like me much either if I were you.”

A moment of silence passed, and Wilbur’s eyes reopened to look at you and gauge your reaction. “How do I know you’re not saying this because you know it’s what I want to hear?” you asked. 

Wilbur shook his head. “You don’t. I guess you have to trust me. And I know how stupid that sounds, but it’s the truth.” 

“…So what are you going to do?” You asked.

“I’m going to apologize,” Wilbur replied. “I’m going to try and make things right, to make amends as best I can.” He hesitated before speaking again, unsure how much he should say to you. “I apologized to a few people when I first got revived, but it wasn’t…earnest. I wanted to be forgiven. I wanted people to forgive and forget and move on.”

“And what do you want now?” Your tone became softer, quieter. You looked at him with a look of curiosity, sympathy, even. 

“Closure,” Wilbur replied. “For the people I hurt. And maybe, one day, for me.” He gazed at you, you, who was so much stronger than he had ever been or ever would be. “Are my answers to your satisfaction?” 

“Are they to yours?” Your shoulder brushed against his, and Wilbur hadn’t realized how much he craved someone’s touch—anyone’s touch—until this very moment. 

“I think so.” Wilbur went quiet, deep in thought. “For what it’s worth, I admire you. You came here, joined the Syndicate, made a name for yourself. I’ve seen you spar with Technoblade, and it’s impressive. And Phil speaks highly of you.” He paused. “You're doing well for yourself."

The silence that filled the room was long. Just as Wilbur was about to speak again, you spoke for him. “The storm stopped.” You tilted your head toward the window, motioning for Wilbur to look. Sure enough, the storm was over. Snow was no longer falling, and the world outside the cabin looked still and calm. 

“Looks like it.” Wilbur made no move to get up, not wanting to move from his spot on your warm bed. He knew he had to at some point, that you were bound to kick him out, so he soaked up every second he could get. 

“For what it’s worth,” you said suddenly, “I don’t think you’re a bad person.” He turned around to look at you. “And…and I don’t think Phil is blameless in all of this. You may have asked him to kill you, but he shouldn't have done it.” 

“I deserved it,” Wilbur said. He tried to focus on the crackle of the logs in the fireplace rather than the soft sounds of your breathing beside him. “You may not have been there, but you know all about it. You know what I did. And now Ranboo got hurt because of me, and I…” He realized that his fists were clenched, and before he could un-clench them, he felt the soft weight of a hand over his own. He looked at you in surprise.

“What happened to Ranboo?” you asked softly, your hand gently holding his.

Wilbur swallowed. It was hard enough to talk about this, but confessing this to you while you were being gentle with him felt impossible. He never wanted that touch to go away. “He, uh, lost a life,” Wilbur says quietly. “We set up this—this stupid trap for Quackity, and everything went wrong, and Tubbo was going to get hurt, so Ranboo sacrificed himself.” Wilbur squeezed his eyes closed, waiting for the reprimand. 

You sighed. “Wilbur, I don’t even know what to say to that.” 

“It’s a lot. I know.” To his surprise, your hand was still there, resting atop his. 

“Whatever else happens, you need to apologize to him for dragging him into your shit,” you said. “And you should definitely apologize to Tommy. From what I’ve heard, the kid has gone through hell for you.”

Wilbur felt his heart squeeze in his chest, felt the guilt weighing him down. “I know.” He laughed, but the sound was empty and self-pitying. “Still think I’m a good person?”

“I never said you were a good person. I just said you’re not a bad one. And I stand by that.” 

“You also said that I only get so many second chances.”

“I did.” You squeezed his hand gently, and he un-clenched it, properly taking your hand in his. He reopened his eyes, finally having the courage to look at you. “I don’t think you’re out of second chances yet. I think you have time.”

Wilbur faltered. “What if I don’t deserve that?”

You shrugged. “Whether you deserve it or not, you have it anyway.” 

Wilbur felt his throat close up, tears threatening to build up in his eyes. He was so tired, so tired and so ashamed that it felt like it could kill him. And there you were, someone who didn’t even like him, showing him kindness anyway. He wanted to say thank you, but he feared that he’d sob the minute he opened his mouth.

“Stay,” you said softly. “You’re not dressed to go back outside in this. I’ll take you to Phil’s tomorrow.”

Wilbur didn’t have it in him to fight you, nor did he want to. He managed a nod and watched as you let go of his hand and slid under the covers. The second your hand left his, he felt the absence of it. “Not tired yet?” you asked, looking up at him.

“Very tired,” he replied. 

“Under the covers, then.” Wilbur complied despite his nerves. The nerves disappeared, however, as soon as he was warm under the blankets. He sighed with relief, happy to be in a proper bed instead of a ratty mattress in the corner of the now-destroyed burger van.

Once he was comfortable, he became hyper aware of each of your movements, every small shift and breath. “You didn’t do all of this just because I’m Phil’s son, did you?” he asked quietly. 

“Unfortunately for me, I have a bit of a soft spot for you,” you confessed. “Despite you being a careless idiot.” 

“Thanks…I guess.” He stared at the ceiling for a few moments before turning on his side. You were on your side as well, facing away from him. “I’ll try to be less of a careless idiot in the future.”

“And I will believe it when I see it.” He couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh at your words.

“Fair enough.” Wilbur relaxed even more, unable to stop looking at you, even if all he could see was the back of your head. “Thank you, by the way. Genuinely. For everything.”

“You’re welcome.” Slowly, you reached a hand back, tugging gently at the front of his shirt.

Wilbur laid there, confused. “Wait, do you want me to-“

“Yeah. Get over here.” Wilbur hesitantly scooted closer, wrapping an arm around your waist. “See? Cozy.”

“Yeah.” Wilbur was grateful you couldn’t see his face. He was willing to bet that he looked just as flustered as he felt. He wanted to question you, ask why you wanted him like this, but he felt he already knew the answer.

He wasn’t sure that he deserved your affection, but he had it anyway. And that was enough.

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

PAIRING | Robert “Bob” Reynolds x f!Reader

TAGS/WARNINGS | angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, non-sexual intimacy/nudity, Bob’s sadness and self-deprecating thoughts.

SUMMARY | Four times Bob lets his true feelings for you go unaddressed, and the one time he doesn’t.

WORD COUNT | 3.3k

NOTES | You know, I was actually gonna take a break from writing (again, I know, I’m sorry) but I somehow managed to bang this out today at work so here you go, my first ever Bob fic 🫶🏻 Happy Wednesday!

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I do not do taglists. Please follow my sideblog @ficsbyjane for notifications whenever I post.

✧.* Truth Be Told

The first time he touches you, he does it almost without hesitation.

Normally, Bob makes a point to keep a respectable distance. He doesn’t touch anyone or anything without the most careful of considerations first—even though he wants it, craves it.

But when you’re this close, when you’re leaning into him instead of away, when you’re looking at him like he’s just Bob and not the same guy who almost let the Void inside him swallow New York whole, his hands can’t help but ache for you.

He’s restless with it, his palms itching as though something was missing. He wants to know what your skin would feel like under his fingertips, whether your eyelashes would flutter under his touch, and if you’d sigh just the way he would whenever he imagined closing the distance between you.

So before he knows it, Bob’s already reaching for you.

His heart leaps to his throat the moment he makes contact, turning his hand over, using the blade of his finger to brush away the crumbs at the corner of your mouth.

You look up from your plate, the box of pastries you’d bought for the entire team as an early afternoon pick-me-up still laying open on the table, your eyes widening a fraction when they meet his.

“You’ve got a little bit of…” he trails off, not really caring or even knowing what it is. Bob’s never had much of a sweet tooth, but right now, you smell like almonds and raspberry jam and a touch of something that’s uniquely you… and he suddenly wants nothing more than to taste.

“Oh,” is all you say, staying still as he lets his hand linger instead, his knuckles brushing along the curve of your jaw. You smile, your eyes softening, and for a fraction of a second Bob swears you lean into his touch. “Thanks, Bob.”

He nods, not trusting his own voice or the temptation of your name on his lips, before very reluctantly breaking the connection. His fingers are already twitching with the need to touch you again by the time he puts it back down onto the dining table.

And although you never talk about it, there is an easing of invisible barriers after that. Now that he’s had a taste, Bob can no longer resist the warmth of your skin against his—no matter how chaste or innocent the contact is.

“You’ve got an eyelash,” he’d say, pointing to his own face, his lips twitching with the fib, and you’d simply lean forward at the same time he did, allowing him to swipe the tip of his finger down your cheek. Trusting, unsuspecting, and oblivious to the yearning expanding like a balloon in his chest.

What if, one day, he could lean in just like this and let his lips find their way to yours?

Impossible, but a man could dream.

But sometimes there isn’t anything there at all, but he still dips slightly at the waist, beckoning you with his hand before removing the imaginary thing from your cheek, your nose, or the aching perfection that is your cupid’s bow.

And when you smile up at him expectantly, even when Yelena catches him in his little white lies one day, lifting a skeptical brow when she meets his eye over your head, Bob just carries on.

Truth be told, he can’t even bring himself to feel guilty about it.

—

The first time he ever holds your hand is on a Thursday.

It’s unseasonably cold for the time of year, and Bob’s shivering under his sweater. You have been sent out on an errand to restock the Tower with food and supplies, and Bucky insisted that Bob go with you.

“Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you out there,” Bucky said to you, slapping a hand down onto Bob’s shoulder before turning towards him, “Right?”

“Right,” Bob mumbled, feeling his cheeks going red because evidently his feelings were written all over his face, and now even Bucky, of all people, was taking it upon himself to nudge things along.

“Plus Bob can help carry your bags,” Yelena joined in, not looking up from the game of Scrabble she was playing with Alexei. “Dad, that is not a word!”

“Says who?” He said, gesturing to the gibberish he’d placed on the board, full of X’s, M’s, C’s, and V’s, but not a single vowel in sight.

Ava scoffed, her face scrunching up in both confusion and annoyance. “She can take care of herself. Just last week she kicked John’s ass—”

But then John nudged her, maybe a little too hard, almost sending her tumbling out of her chair. She glared up at him, before she caught the meaningful look on his face.

“Oh… yeah… erm, nighttime in New York is practically the Purge. Might as well take him with you.”

You gave them all looks of thinly veiled suspicion, but then you just shook your head and turned to Bob as you were winding a scarf around your neck. Smiling, you asked him, “Do you mind, Bob?”

As if he would.

Venturing outdoors is still rather daunting, which is probably another reason why the team’s been so eager to get him out of the Tower. The thought that someone might recognize him makes him sweat, despite the mid-morning chill.

And then the two of you approach a particularly crowded spot on the sidewalk, and Bob’s footsteps falter slightly. You stop as if you sense his hesitation, turning to him just before disappearing into the throng of New Yorkers. As naturally as breathing, you hold out a hand.

“Come on,” you prompt with a shake of your hand when he just stares for a few seconds.

Bob holds on quickly before you can change your mind. You tug him along, squeezing his hand tighter as you reach the thick of the crowd. Bob emerges on the other side of it with pink cheeks that should be almost numb from the biting wind, but instead they are warm with something else.

And even as the horde dissipates, the sidewalk opening up with more than enough space for the two of you to walk side by side, you don’t let go.

He catches your reflections in the glass windows of the nearby shops, you with your head turned away to admire the displays of a flower shop, but your hands still joined together.

Bob wonders what others think you are to him.

He wants them to know you’re special.

He hopes you know, too.

—

The first time he falls asleep next to you starts with him sitting in the dark of his room, his shoulders slumping a little further forward with each passing minute. The others have left on another mission without him, and Bob just wishes he could do something to help.

But he still can’t control his powers well enough yet; it’d be too dangerous for him to be out in the field with them. He understands this better than anyone—the last time he tried tapping into full extent of his Sentry powers, he almost murdered somebody (even if Alexei would argue that that person, Valentina, had deserved it), that god-like sense of superiority leeching ominously into his mind.

He is hopeful when Yelena says he’s improving, slowly but surely, tries to believe it when Bucky tells him that it will happen soon. He just needs a little more time.

But Bob can’t help but feel like a burden, someone they have to take care of rather than a part of the team. The voice in the back of his mind comes back, a few notes lower than his own, that slight taunting lilt of it latching onto the edges of his subconscious.

You’re worthless, Bobby.

You think they care about you?

You will always be alone.

It will always be just you and me.

He doesn’t know how long he's sat there like that, but the room remains dark now even though someone draws the curtains. Bob shrinks back, as though the beam of moonlight spreading across his lap hurts him, doesn’t even look up when someone calls his name.

“Bob?”

He sighs, closes his eyes against the habitual burn of shame, that familiar heat creeping up his neck. Because he’s never wanted you to see him like this—so sad, so pathetic, wallowing in his own self-pity.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You ask carefully, and he doesn’t know if it’s better or worse when he hears you kneeling on the carpet in front of him.

He shakes his head.

“Okay,” you tell him gently, patiently, so kindly, “do you want me to leave?”

Please don’t. Don’t ever leave me alone, he wants to say, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he just shakes his head again. Despite himself, he’s somehow relieved when he feels the mattress dip slightly next to him, the warmth of your thigh dangerously close to his.

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees in the periphery of his vision is your hand, lying face up on your lap. It’s an invitation that’s too sweet for him to deny, and he slides his hand into yours, watching with a strange mixture of disbelief and euphoria as your fingers close around him.

That you would still want to touch him after seeing him like this. That he would find such comfort in the simple meeting of your palms.

His chin lifts when you turn, your other hand coming up to tuck a curtain of his hair behind his ear.

“Is this okay?” You whisper.

Bob nods, and for one treacherous moment he lets himself believe that you unconsciously seek him out too, that your hands itch to touch him just as his own do for you. And then you’re gathering him into your arms, and he follows without hesitation, falling into your embrace and burying his face into your shoulder.

He doesn’t know when he fell asleep but when he wakes, you’re still there.

“Hi,” you breathe, as though afraid you’ll disturb this peace if you speak any louder. Bob doesn’t tell you that he thinks he’ll only find peace if you’re around.

“Hi,” he whispers back, a smile lifting his lips as though you’re breathing life back into him. “Thank you.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Anytime.”

—

The first time you undress in front of him is, well, it’s not like that.

Because the entire time, Bob is furious. He wants to break something, feels the frustration crowding his lungs and resists the urge to just scream it out.

The whole team had frozen when he appeared in the doorway when they got home, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of you. One of your arms was slung around Ava’s shoulders as she propped you up, and your other hand was pressed gingerly to your ribcage.

There was a bruise blooming along your temple. Your lip had split in two places, and there was dried blood along your hairline. He could smell fresh blood in the air, even though he couldn’t see any open wounds.

John took a step toward him, one hand up in what seemed to be a placating gesture. “She’s okay, Bobby.”

“Okay?” Bob asked shakily, “she can barely stand.”

“She made it home alive, that’s all that matters,” Yelena reminded him, and while it was somewhat reassuring, it did little to quell the fire in his throat.

“She just needs to rest now,” Bucky told him, inhaling sharply when Bob’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might crack under the pressure.

“I’ll be fine, Bob,” you said quickly, smiling at him through your pain.

That was somehow worse than your physical injuries. Bob wanted to know then and there who did this to you, because he would unleash the full and unrestrained wrath of his powers if it meant avenging you, consequences be damned.

For the first time, he wanted to see something burn.

Ava cursed under her breath when Bob’s eyes flashed gold, but then you were asking him, “Help me to my room?”

Just like that, his eyes returned to their natural blue, and the room breathed a collective sigh of relief.

And now, as he stands in your room, his hands are shaking as he pulls a clean set of clothes from your dresser. You limp toward the en-suite bathroom, leaning one hand on the counter and breathing deeply through your nose as you try to peel off your soiled tact-suit.

The second you let out a hiss of pain when the movement tugs at your stitches, Bob is at your side in an instant. He pushes down the panic clawing at his throat, the one that won’t quite settle down even though you’re right here, alive and breathing.

But he can spiral later; you need him now.

Bob gently, so gently, brushes your hand away so he can reach for your zipper. You make eye contact with him in the mirror, nodding, and he swallows the lump in his throat as he slowly helps you out of your bloody clothes.

“I’m going to be fine, okay?” You repeat and he just nods, his hands skimming over your shoulder blades, down your arms, as he helps you undress. His breath hitches as your suit falls into a heap around your feet, when he finds the square of gauze taped over your midsection with a spot of dreaded crimson seeping through. There’s a matching one on your opposite side. “It was a through and through. Missed all vital organs, the doctor said. It’s basically a flesh wound.”

“I should have been there,” Bob finally says when he finds his voice.

“Hey…” you turn to face him, “this happens. It’s part of the job.”

“I can help,” he almost pleads. He presses your hand to the side of his face, trying to hide the sting of tears. “If I’d been there, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt. None of you ever would.”

He hates it, that feeling of helplessness as he’s forced to stay behind in the Tower. But what he hates even more is the thought that one day, you or Yelena or any one of the team could die out there—and he’d be here, safe and sound even though he was the strongest out of all of you, twiddling his thumbs waiting for you to come back.

“Don’t say I’m not ready,” Bob bites back a sob as he drops his forehead to your bare shoulder, “I’m ready. I’ll always be ready to protect you.”

He’s just found you.

He can’t lose you now.

“I know,” you turn around and your eyes shining just as brightly as his are. “And we’ll protect you, too. I promise.”

Bob’s never doubted you before.

He won’t doubt you now, either.

—

The team never leaves Bob behind after that, and when he first tells you what’s in his heart, it’s a quiet, almost unassuming thing.

He hadn’t intended to, although he’s always wanted to.

He wanted to tell you when you all boarded the jet, full of nervous but cautiously optimistic energy now that Bob was with you. He found his spot next to you, ignoring John’s teasing quip and Alexei’s beaming smile, his arm pressed to yours on the armrest between your seats.

He wanted to tell you just before stepping off the plane, when you gave him a reassuring smile and a confident nod, like you were saying you’ve got this. He wanted to call it after you as you rushed into the fray, weapons raised and ready, the others following closely behind you.

He wanted to tell you when he stepped in front of you, absorbing the impact of a bullet aimed straight at your forehead. It bounced harmlessly off him with a high-pitched ping, didn’t even leave a single dent or red mark on his skin, but you still gasped behind him and cried out his name.

But he couldn’t think straight in that moment, could only think about eliminating anything and anyone who’d try to take you from him.

He wanted to tell it to you on the plane ride home, when you brushed his hair back to double and triple check the spot where he’d been hit, undeterred by the splatters of someone else’s blood on his suit.

Bob thought about the man it belonged to. He hadn’t set out to kill anybody, but if that was the price he had to pay to keep you alive… well then, he’d pay it again and again.

“It didn’t hurt at all?” You asked. “Are you sure?”

He smiled, full of affection, exhaling on something of a laugh, “I’m invincible, remember?”

“That we know of,” you didn’t return his smile, “please, don’t do that again.”

Bob didn’t answer, because he knew he couldn’t promise that. Even if he could, it’s not like he ever would.

He wants to tell it to you when you pull him into your room the second you get home, standing close enough that he can count the stars reflected in your eyes.

He wants to tell you everything right now, everything he’s held onto so tightly all this time because he didn’t think that he ever deserved this.

Bob’s been made his whole life to think that this was never in the stars for him. The Void in his chest, the one that he manages somehow to keep at bay most days, still whispers it to him. Still sneers at him for even entertaining the idea he could ever have it, let alone with someone as good as you.

Then you kiss him. Just a peck, the briefest meeting of lips at first. You look up at him searchingly, waiting for him to push you away or say this is a mistake, but he would never. So long as you want it, he’d give you anything.

He’s the one to initiate your second kiss, more firmly this time, with the reverence of a man who believes he would never get to do this again. You wrap your arm around his shoulders, pull him closer and closer until your chests are touching.

“Invincible, maybe,” you whisper once you pull away, your voice wobbly as you breathe the words into the quiet space between you, “but not replaceable. Not to me.”

Bob feels something crack open inside him then. He buries his nose in the junction of where your neck and shoulder met, hot tears dripping down the delicate curve there and soaking into your shirt.

He wants more, to let his body tell you what he can’t yet bring himself to say, but finds himself almost afraid of it. It has been a while since he’s been this close, this intimate, with someone he genuinely cares about. Maybe even longer since he’s done it with a clear head.

But you seem content to just hold him, like that first time, as though it doesn’t make him near desperate with want and weak with affection all at the same time. And later, before sleep can claim the both of you, he carries you to the bathroom to wash up. The two of you stay in the tub long after you are clean.

Steam curls into the air, hot water rippling as Bob sits behind you, caging you between his arms as you lean back comfortably against the sturdy planes of his chest.

He says it to you then, murmurs into your skin that he’s found love here.

Bob almost can’t believe it when you say it back.

That night, he falls asleep in your arms again, the side of his head pressed to your chest, listening to the steady beating of your heart against his ear.

The darkness in his own begins to recede that much further with each reassuring thump, as though chased away by the dawning of the morning sun.

And you.

Always you.

FIN.

Notes: There’s been a lot of discourse lately about how Bob’s character is or has been written since Thunderbolts* came out. I only hope I did him justice somewhat; there’s so much we still don’t know about him. Choose kindness when interacting with each other. (I will not budge on the stutter thing, though. Note that having a stutter and the occasional nervous stammer in high-tension situations are not the same thing.)

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. Do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. No part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. Minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. Blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[hanasnx]

“ PROMISE, BABY, I’LL TAKE YOU TO HEAVEN IF YOU WANT IT ” — clark kent.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ NOTES: writing a scene that was in my dream last night. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ established relationship ノ dry humping ノ how clark gets you to forgive him ノ hair pulling (m receiving) ノ dry fuck mention ノ exhibitionism/voyeurism: caught during.

getting annoyed with CLARK KENT for not spending enough time with you so you act out. it takes him a second to realize you’re mad at him so he hears you out, and then gets cheeky. puts on that kent charm, wears that famous smile, impishly draws you in into his arms. he embraces you, tucks your head under his chin. you’re so desperate for his attention you’re entranced for a moment, melting into him. you close your eyes, you feel his muscle underneath his clothes, you feel small next to his big body, he smells so good—and then you get wise. “hey.” you exclaim indignantly, pushing off him. he wears an expression that looks like he knows what he was doing manipulating you. “you can’t just act like we’re back to normal.”

“i know, i know, i’m sorry.” he replies in a drilling tone of voice. he doesn’t mean it. yet he’s pulling you in again, snaking those arms around your waist while you arch away from him. he stoops, stretching a grin onto his face as he’s now eye-level with you.

“you’re not sorry at all.” your gaze narrows as you accuse him, backing up and taking him with you. both of your feet shuffle together hazardously. he trips you, and you fall backwards onto his bed, he lands on top of you, pinning you with his weight. seizing the opportunity, his mouth latches onto your neck, toying with you while he’s sucking on your pulse point. you can’t stay mad at him and giggle at the same time, getting ticklish and trying to fend off your boyfriend while he’s overpowering you.

his hands get frisky, his hips starts to grind, his sharp canines scrape against your neck while the fight in you is dwindling. “clark—!” you keen in a scold, but it sounds more like a breathy moan, and the heel of your hand bangs against his broad shoulder. his wet lips slide along the column of your neck as he mouths it, and you claw into his sweater, lashes fluttering as pleasant tingles send a shiver down your spine. before you know it, you’ve begun to pull him closer, a hard outline becoming decipherable in his pants, rutting against the inside of your thigh. that wide body of his curls around you, blanketing you as you spread your legs so his hips can slot in more comfortably. both of his large hands slide between the mattress and you, cupping your ass to draw you into him.

that hard rod finds its place in the shallow divot of your slit, and he rubs his shaft against you with every surge. the head of him bumps your clit, and when he can gracefully grind up, the underside of his cock slides against your little bud in one steady motion. the sounds that spill out of you change, evolving into a longing plea as he asks for forgiveness through his body. a wet spot blooms in the crotch of your panties, yearning for a relief that’s not confined by his jeans. his fingers dig in, kneading the globes of your backside in his excitement. he’s set a slow and deliberate pace, but you can feel the need within him pulsing through his every movement. his cock twitches, and you’re so close you can tell it knows where it wants to go, seeking you out like the nose of a bloodhound.

his tip catches on the give of your hole, interrupting the streamlined grind, making his hips jerk back so as to protect himself. he whimpers into your neck, a pitiful little sound that conveys just how much he wanted to plow through fabric and dry fuck you. if he’d just pushed a little harder, he could’ve been that much closer to feeling your silken walls. your hand flies to the hair at the nape of his neck, tangling in the raven locks to squeeze. you can feel his grin stretch against your skin, his pearly white teeth and his moistened lips and his handsome dimples. just imagining his smile makes you weak in the knees, falling limp under him.

“you like me again?” he questions, nuzzling his face into the crook of your shoulder.

“oh, go to hell.” you shoot back, but it lacks conviction, breathy from his ministrations. for just one single second, you feel proud. here’s this hot, big, romantic oaf of a farm boy, obsessed with making you feel good, with a smile that could kill, who saves people… and he’s on top of you. you’ve known plenty of girls that would maim for this kind of opportunity, for clark kent superman or not to be at their beck and call. yet he’s here for you, wantonly pleading for you to just let him in. you have something no one else does.

“oh, my god! i’m so sorry—uh, i’ll come back later—“ the humiliated voice of chloe snaps you out of your stupor, both you and clark fixing yourselves up to see the blonde head of hair retreat out of his doorway, humiliated. it was no question what you two were doing, bodies tangled together like this, and you and him exchange a brief eye conversation after you realize what your friend just caught you doing.

[rinneganed]

HOUSE OF BALLOONS — UCHIHA VARIOUS.

ENJOY A DOSE OF . . . ⌨️ : ̗̀➛┊͙꒰ dry humping ꒱

cw ! afab!reader, virgin!sasuke, hair pulling, biting, degradation, praise, spanking, penetration, creampie, sex deprived!itachi, maybe i missed some more..?

today’s registry . . . ⌨️ : ̗̀➛ sasuke, itachi, madara.

──🪷ᩖᩙᝪ᜔⠀notes ; not revised oopsiesssss

⁀ ۫ ִ ୨💉៹ ۫ ݂ sasuke ! ੭ꠥ ۫

SASUKE truly never had time to mingle in any unimportant business that got in the way of his goals, and yes that meant he lacked any sexual experience. he had always denied and dismissed any little daydream he’d have, he couldn’t allow himself to act on his hormone’s. he always swore up and down he would never let his sexual frustration get in the way of his success, that was until he met you. since meeting you he started to pick up on new habits, he’d often lose himself at the sight of your lips and even found himself getting hard when you’d get too close to him. it was like a moth to a flame, his body yearned for sexual comfort and you were that essence his skin had been seeking to fix his drought. it got to the point where it was unbearable and any time he was alone he would find himself with his swollen cock in his hand with a cloudy head and you on his mind. he started to fantasize seeing you on top of him stuffed so full with his length, moaning his name with spit trickling down your lips as your hands grappled onto his body to find stabilization.

he was currently trapped in the heat that erupted from his body, soft moans spilling from his mouth as his hand squeezed his dick. he was so vulnerable, body drenched in sweat as he imagined vigorous things— he couldn’t catch himself in time before his mouth moved on his own. “m-mm fuck, [name] ‘m gonna—“

“sasuke..?”

his body froze as his climax deflated, “shit, [name] wait i promise this isn’t—“

you shushed him as you neared, your knees sinking into the bed that he laid upon. there was something about how helpless he currently looked, a look of fear spread on his face as his chest caved in and arose. “no need to make an excuse, sasuke. i saw it all…” you threw your leg over his body, now straddling him. your finger drew a line from his chest, up to his chin, and to his lips. “you look so cute whimpering my name… i mean seriously you should really feel how wet i am…”

sasuke winced beneath you, grunting as his cock twitched against the fabric of your shorts. “let me feel, please?” he looked up at you with such wide puppy eyes, thrusting his hips upwards in an attempt to slightly grind against your cunt.

you moaned as you felt his hard cock glide against your slit, “i‘m gonna help you cum, ‘kay?” you smiled as he shook his head violently. you wasted no time in rocking your hips against his groin, feeling your stomach tingle as a harmony of moans began to fall off his tongue. he was panting as the two of you sung sweet songs of hums and grunts, you were soaked and this only allowed his cock go slide inbetween your clothed pussy with ease.

he was full of different emotions that varied from excitement, ecstasy, lust and weakness. he was a whimpering mess and the moment he heard his name come from your mouth his hands latched onto your hips as his fingers dug into the meat of your waist. “oh f-fuck, ‘m gonna c-cum—“ he grunted and groaned when you turned nearly animalistic in the way you thrusted against him and continuously blurted out his name. it was over in seconds when the pit in his stomach unraveled and gasps emitted from within him, he was heaving as his cum spilled from his cock and all along your shorts, dribbling down your thighs and along his waist. both you and sasuke were full of cum and sweat.

⁀ ۫ ִ ୨💉៹ ۫ ݂ itachi ! ੭ꠥ ۫

ITACHI is definitely not a virgin, though because of the fact he had been away from living a normal life and rather took up the life style of a criminal; he no longer had time to slip in an occasional fuck. more recently he’s been itching to fuck you, and you’ve made it oh so difficult. you were different from any of the escorts from villages, you would egg him on and often tease him with a little nibble after kissing his lips. this is what drove him crazy and he hated when he would be left alone with his own thoughts because it is you who he would immediately focus on.

he had enough of the little game you had lead on with him, which is why as of now he had you straddling him your hair thrown over your shoulder and onto the other side of your head. he gritted his teeth, “fuck, grind harder!” his palm collided with your ass as he laid down a slap, earning a whimper from you.

you listened to his directions, your tits bouncing in his face as you rode his covered cock. you were wearing a dress— scratch that— you were told to wear a dress and now you saw why. he wanted you to have as little possible layers, when he saw you in such a short thin dress he knew exactly what he wanted to happen. now rather than him being the desperate one, he wanted to see you rub and thrust against him as you screamed his name during a weak attempt at cumming. his hand slipped under your dress, pushing your panties to the side to allow you to feel his hard cock through his loose pants. you moaned and it nearly slipped out as a scream from the friction, “i-itachi— feels so good, ‘m gonna!—“

another spank landed on your ass cheek, this time he dug his fingernails into the fat of your ass. “you’ll cum when i say so, got that?” his free hand grabbed your chin, forcing you to stare back into his sharingan eyes. he scoffed, “look like such a good little slut, i bet you wish you were bouncing and taking my cock inside.” he cocked his head to the side, smirking. “whimper my name and i’ll let you cum.”

although he spat his words like venom, you were quick to obey. “itachi, im so close im gonna cum for you!” you were trapped in a messy fit of moans, your breasts slipping out of the dress as he roughly grabbed onto your thighs to allow him better control and access to your cunt; thrusting his cock up against you in the same rhythm you were. he used both hands to slap your bum, grabbing handfuls of your ass as he slammed you down onto his hardon.

you screamed in delight, throwing your head back as strands of hair stuck onto your forehead; you grunted his name as your body began to shake. he was delighted to see you in such state, his length was twitching and he had already felt himself pre-cum; he knew exactly what was next.

⁀ ۫ ִ ୨💉៹ ۫ ݂ madara ! ੭ꠥ ۫

MADARA is a sex hungry man and his way of fucking was animalistic, he couldn’t stand being teased by you. the second he noticed how horny you were he was quick to pounce, although he did enjoy a little bit of pre gaming.

he loved teasing you, standing behind you in the kitchen with his fat cock pressed up against your bum. he would grind against you until you’d throw you head back and allow him access to your neck. his teeth gnawed at the skin, sucking, licking and kissing all along your throat. he was groaning in your ear—his favorite thing to do. “you feel how hard ya got me…?” he mumbled as his lips turned towards your ears, his canines nibbling on your ear lobes as his right hand explored your breasts and his left locked into your hip.

you allowed him easy access, pressing you ass closer to his cock as his name flowed from your mouth with ease. it was a matter of seconds before his hands were toying with your waistband, ripping your pants down and sliding his cock against your skin.

“fuck, you open up so easy to me…” he held the base of his length in his hand, sliding it against your wet slit before deciding he couldn’t take this teasing stage any longer. in seconds he had your face planted into the countertop with his left hand forcing you to arch your back and his right hand gripping your ass cheek.

his balls were heavy and full, slapping against your wet cunt; you were both sweaty and moaning. he let go of your ass, leaving his fingernails indented in your skin and the outline of his palm embedded in your ass. he targeted your hair, yanking it backwards and forcing you to look back at him. “you love taking me, don’t you?” he roared as a grunt rolled off his last words, slamming in and out of your sloppy pussy. you moaned in return as tears formed in your eyes, this caused him to pull harder. “i wanna hear you say it, be a good girl and let me know how much you love this dick!”

you screamed as his he propped his leg onto the counter, his hands grappling your hips and pounding in and out of you with hunger. “fuck fuck fuck! keep going, madara! f-feels so good, mm—“ your body quivered, your teeth cackling against eachother. “f-fuck! i’m gonna cum all on your cock!” your eyes rolled back as he dropped your head of hair, you face planted into the counter as you felt his strokes coming to an end and tuned into his grunts and groans.

“shit, you squeeze so good around me…” he grunted one last time before emptying completely inside of you, thrusting gently inside of you as he ran his course.

[kiwriteswords]

Something's Blooming [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Florist!Reader Masterlist|| Main Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 4k|| AN:  Requests are very much open for florist!reader <3 Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, pre-relationship, Sassy!Reader, Flirty!Reader, flirting, Jack Hotchner, Shy!Hotch (kinda), pining!hotch, yearning!Hotch, Hotch's POV, 5+1 Summary: 5 times Aaron Hotchner visits your flower shop and the 1 time you visit Quantico.

I.

It was almost 11 p.m. when Hotch found himself driving down that side street.

He told himself it was on the way home.

It wasn’t.

But still--

After thirty-six hours straight of blood, concrete, and case files, he needed something...different. 

Something quiet. 

Something warm. 

And as he turned the corner, eyes scanning out of habit more than purpose, he saw it.

The flower shop.

Your flower shop.

Lights still on.

Even now.

He slowed at the curb. Blinked.

No one else was on the street. The windows glowed golden from the inside, soft and warm and alive in a way the rest of the world didn’t feel right now. He could make out movement--

Just a flicker. 

You, probably. 

Maybe closing up. 

Maybe still working.

Maybe completely unaware that you were the only thing in a four-block radius keeping him from drowning in the aftermath of the case he just closed.

And then he was parking.

Just a wellness check, he told himself.

He stepped out of the car, loosened his tie slightly, and approached the door, knocking lightly against the glass.

It opened before he even pulled his hand back.

You stood there barefoot, in black leggings and a paint-stained tank top with a cardigan slipping off one shoulder, surrounded by chaos: buckets of blooms, a half-finished arrangement on the counter, shears tucked behind your ear, and glitter--glitter--on your cheekbone.

And still, somehow, you looked like a daydream.

Your eyes lit up the second you saw him.

“Well, well,” you said, arms folding playfully as you leaned against the doorframe. “Didn’t expect the FBI at my door tonight. Should I be worried?”

Hotch almost smiled. “Just a…friendly check-in.”

You looked up at the clock on the wall, “At eleven o’clock?”

“I was in the area.”

You raised a brow. “Doing what, profiling the after-hours produce aisle at Trader Joe’s?”

His lips twitched.

You stepped aside. “Come on in, Agent. If you’re going to pretend this is a normal social visit, you might as well stay long enough to commit to the bit.”

He followed you in, taking in the scent of fresh lavender and eucalyptus, the low hum of music playing from somewhere in the back.

“You always work this late?” he asked, glancing at the scattered flowers, the open order book, a cup of tea gone cold on the counter.

You twirled one of the stems between your fingers. “Weddings. Receptions. One very demanding bridezilla with opinions about peony symmetry.” You looked up at him. “But it’s good work. Soulful. Messy. Honest.”

Hotch watched the way you moved--

Fluid, easy, magnetic in a way he hadn’t realized he’d been craving until he stood in front of you again. Like you were the kind of person who knew exactly who you were, and didn’t apologize for it.

“Long case?” you asked, noticing the lines around his eyes, the fatigue in his posture.

He nodded. “Long everything.”

“Yikes,” you said softly. “Want to touch a flower? It might heal your soul.”

He raised a brow.

You grinned and held out a single bloom--

White scabiosa, delicate and strange and stunning. 

“No pressure. But I highly recommend it.”

He took it without hesitation.

You looked at him for a beat--

Really looked, like you were reading something behind his eyes.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” you said, quieter now. “Even if you’re pretending you didn’t mean to.”

Hotch met your gaze, feeling that flutter of something unfamiliar and unshakable lodge itself under his ribs.

“Yeah,” he said, fingers grazing the edge of the flower. “Me too.”

You turned away then, humming as you returned to your arrangement.

And as he stood there, still holding the soft white bloom, surrounded by half-lit petals and the faint scent of jasmine in the air…

Aaron Hotchner realized he was in very real danger of falling for a free-spirited florist who wore glitter after dark and made the whole world feel softer just by existing in it.

II.

Hotch hadn’t stopped thinking about you.

Not since that late-night “wellness check.”

 Not since the scabiosa in his cup holder.

Not since you smiled at him like he was more than a man in a suit with blood on his hands.

He thought about your shop--

Warm light spilling onto the sidewalk, jazz humming faintly from the back room, your bare feet dodging rose stems like it was just another Tuesday. He thought about your laugh. Your voice. The way you said, "pretend you're not pretending."

So when Jack looked up from his math worksheet two nights later and said, “Teacher Appreciation Day is coming up--we’re supposed to bring something nice,” Hotch paused mid-sip of his coffee and said, very casually:

“What about flowers?”

Jack perked up. “Like, real ones? Not drawings?”

“Real ones,” Hotch said, already pulling out his phone. “I know a place.”

So that’s where they went the following morning before school drop off. 

Your shop looked different in morning’s daylight.

Still charming. Still cluttered with artfully organized chaos. But now it felt more alive--

Sunlight dancing through the front windows, making the dust in the air shimmer like magic. 

The door jingled as Hotch pushed it open, his hand gently resting on Jack’s shoulder as they stepped inside.

You appeared from the back, clipboard in hand, hair piled on your head in that same effortless twist, a pencil behind your ear and--of course--a tiny smear of dirt across your cheekbone.

“Back so soon?” you asked with a grin, catching sight of him. “And this time, you brought reinforcements.”

Jack looked up at you, a little wide-eyed. “Hi.”

You crouched slightly, lowering the clipboard. “Hey there. I’m guessing you’re the brains of this operation?”

Jack blinked. Then grinned. “Probably.”

You laughed--warm and bright--and extended your hand. “I’m the flower boss. But don’t worry, I’m a fun boss.”

Jack shook your hand, completely charmed.

Hotch watched the exchange with something heavy and light all at once sitting in his chest.

“So,” you said, straightening again and turning your attention back to the pair of them, “what’s the occasion? Hot FBI dad and his small, charming accomplice?”

“Teacher Appreciation Day,” Jack said. “I want to get something for Ms. Wyatt. She likes purple.”

You nodded solemnly, tapping your chin. “Purple’s a bold move. I like it. Let me show you what we’ve got.”

You beckoned them to follow you through the shop, your voice trailing behind like music.

Hotch didn’t say much at first. He watched.

Watched as you crouched beside Jack in front of a bucket of lisianthus, letting him smell them. Watched as you explained the difference between lavender and lilac with actual enthusiasm. Watched as Jack started to talk to you--really talk--and you listened like every word he said mattered.

And then Jack asked, “Do you like working with flowers?”

You tilted your head. “I do. They’re soft, but they’re not weak. Some of them grow wild and stubborn and beautiful--just how I like ‘em.”

You looked up--just for a second--and met Hotch’s eyes.

Your smile deepened.

Jack chose a small, vibrant bouquet of lavender lisianthus, white veronica, and soft mint-scented geranium leaves. You wrapped it in craft paper with a piece of twine and a tiny card, and handed it over like it was a treasure.

Jack beamed. “Ms. Wyatt’s gonna cry.”

“She better,” you said. “Or I want it back.”

As you walked them to the door, you reached out and brushed a tiny leaf from Jack’s sleeve.

“Thanks again,” he said, pausing in the doorway. “For being so kind to him.”

You shrugged one shoulder, a little mischievous. “Well, you keep showing up at my shop like some tall, broody plot twist…figured I should be nice to the supporting cast.”

You winked at Jack. “No offense.”

Jack whispered, “What’s a plot twist?”

“Ask your dad in the car,” you grinned. “It’s probably a very long answer.”

Hotch opened the door, hand resting on the small of Jack’s back, and turned back just once to look at you.

You were already heading back to the workbench, one hand reaching for a bloom, your hair bouncing slightly as you moved--

Completely yourself.

And it hit him again:

You were a wildflower.

Unruly. Gorgeous. Rooted in chaos and beauty.

And he could not, for the life of him, get you out of his head.

III.

The meeting was already dragging.

A mid-morning bureaucratic roundtable with Erin Strauss and two other higher-ups, including the Director himself, all droning on about funding optics, interdepartmental appearances, and the upcoming annual FBI charity fundraiser.

Hotch sat with his hands folded on the table, posture perfect, expression unreadable. On the inside, he was timing how long it would take to break out a window and escape.

“…It would reflect well to have full attendance from the Behavioral Analysis Unit this year,” Strauss was saying, flipping through her folder with a sigh. “High-profile. Press-worthy. Symbolic.” She couldn’t even hide the distaste for Hotch’s team, “After the year you’ve had…”

“And tasteful,” the Director added. “No nonsense. We're still recovering from that guest speaker mishap in ‘09.”

Strauss didn’t even look up from her agenda. “And someone needs to arrange centerpieces. Something understated. Professional. Neutral. Nothing weird.” She waved her hands in the air, practically rolling her eyes as if finding a florist was below her. 

She said the word with disdain, as though a rogue sunflower arrangement had personally insulted her.

One of the admin staff in the back reached for a notepad. “We can place an order with one of the vendors we used last year--”

Hotch cleared his throat.

Everyone looked at him.

Strauss blinked, looking at him over her glasses. “Yes, Agent Hotchner?”

“I’d recommend not using the vendor from last year,” he said, calm and precise. “Half the table arrangements were wilted by dinner service.”

The room blinked again.

He looked toward the Director. “If I may--I know a florist. Small business, local. She’s talented. Professional. Excellent attention to detail.”

There was a brief silence. Strauss lifted one eyebrow in that way she did when trying to find the hidden trap.

“A florist?” she repeated.

Hotch nodded. “She owns her own shop. I’ve worked with her before.”

Technically true. 

So did stopping in three times in two weeks under vague excuses.

“She’s efficient,” he added. “Creative without overcomplicating things. And reliable.”

The Director nodded thoughtfully. “Send her business info to the event planning team.”

Strauss sighed and made a note, clearly having run out of energy for caring. “Fine. As long as no one puts glitter on the tablecloths.”

Later, when Hotch was back in his office, wading through a backlog of paperwork with the lights low and his tie already loosened his desk phone rang.

Unfamiliar number.

He answered anyway. “Hotchner.”

Silence for half a beat.

Then:

“Aaron. Hotchner.”

His brow lifted. 

Your voice. 

Dramatic. Breathless. Accusatory. Entertaining.

He leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his lips before he could stop it. “Speaking.”

“You ambushed me.”

He blinked. “Ambushed?”

“Do you know what it’s like to have two men in suits--full-on Men in Black suits--walk into your flower shop at 10:12 a.m. on a Thursday morning and ask to speak with the proprietor?”

His smirk widened. “I might have an idea.”

“They had folders,” you went on, faux-horrified. “Clipboards. Credentials. They used the words ‘logistics’ and ‘event security’ in the same sentence. Do you know what my barista neighbor across the street thinks is happening right now? He thinks I’m laundering money. Through roses.”

Hotch chuckled, low and soft. “I’d say that’s your own fault for making illegal arrangements look so good.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

He didn’t deny it.

You exhaled loudly on the other end of the line. “Tell me the truth. Did you set me up?”

“I made a professional recommendation,” he said smoothly, eyes flicking back to the invoice he’d been signing. “What happens after that is out of my hands.”

“They said the order could be significant,” you said, your voice shifting into something almost uncertain now. “Like…dozens of centerpieces. Greenery. Floral structures. Possibly multi-room staging.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the desk. “Will it be a big purchase?”

“…Yes,” you admitted. “Very. Like…I’m going to have to move things around in the walk-in cooler just to hold it all. Which, I mean, fine. I’ve been saying I’d reorganize that thing since Valentine's Day. But still.”

He could hear it--

That hint of hesitation behind your normally easy, free-spirited tone. That flicker of is this too much?

“You’ll be perfect,” he said, firm but soft.

You paused.

“Yeah?”

He nodded, voice low. Certain. “I’ve seen what you do. And I know how seriously you take it. This is a good thing. You deserve it.”

You were quiet on the other end for a second. Then:

“Damn it.”

Hotch raised a brow. “What?”

“I wanted to find a reason to be annoyed with you. You know, hold it over your head a little. But you’re being supportive and kind and--ugh--encouraging, so now I’m just grateful. And weirdly flustered.”

Hotch leaned back again, smile hidden in the way he exhaled through his nose.

“You’ll live,” he said.

“Barely.”

He picked up his pen again, still smiling. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I need a budget allowance to hide flowers with symbolic meanings that subtly insult all your supervisors.”

“You’ll have to call up the phone number they left for that one.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’m absolutely putting glitter in at least one arrangement.”

He let out a quiet, real laugh at that. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you said, your voice warm now--flirty and fond, like a grin against the receiver--“you keep coming back.”

Hotch paused.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

IV. 

The fundraiser had come and gone without him.

He’d been pulled into a case two states over--

Something fast-moving and grisly, the kind of thing that swallowed days and nights whole. Strauss hadn’t been pleased when he told her he couldn’t make the event, but he hadn’t had time to care.

The case wrapped late the night before, and by the time he made it back to D.C., there was a buzz in his inbox--

Emails floating around the Bureau, some from higher-ups, some from administrative staff, and one very surprised message from the Director himself.

“These arrangements--where did you find this florist?”

“Elegant but understated.”

Even Rossi patting him on the back, as he always heard everything through the grapevine, “Nice recommendation. Even Erin approved.” 

​​Which was a feat. A miracle, really.

Hotch hadn’t even seen them in person. But he didn’t need to. He could picture it clearly: your touch in every detail. Your precision. Your charm. Your little flourishes that somehow made even the most rigid Bureau decor look alive.

So on the drive home, exhausted and a little frayed, he found himself turning off his usual route.

And pulling up to your shop.

The bell over the door jingled softly.

It was late--not closed-late, but near it. 

Golden-hour light stretched long across the floor, casting a honeyed glow across scattered petals and buckets of green. A soft indie song played somewhere in the back, low and melodic, wrapped in the scent of eucalyptus and something faintly citrus.

You appeared from behind the workroom curtain, an empty vase in one hand and your hair pinned up messily, like you’d been too busy to care but somehow still managed to look painfully good.

The second you saw him, your lips curved up.

“Well, well. The missing man of the hour.”

Hotch stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him. “I heard you made quite the impression.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? Did your boss weep openly at the sight of hydrangeas?”

“No reports of tears,” he said. “But there was definite approval. Which, for her, is practically euphoric praise.”

You chuckled and walked toward the counter, setting the vase down and dusting off your hands. “So you came to confirm the rumors in person?”

“I came,” he said, slow and measured, “to thank you.”

Your smile softened--

Just a little. 

“Well, that’s very gentlemanly of you.”

He stepped closer to the counter.

You leaned against it.

The space between you crackled with something unsaid--

Something that had been brewing for weeks now, layered in between teasing glances and “accidental” run-ins, masked by professionalism and distance and goddamn restraint.

“I missed seeing them,” he said, voice quiet now. “The flowers. What you created.”

You tilted your head. “You came all this way after a case…to see my leftovers?”

“I came,” he said again, eyes fixed on yours, “because I wanted to see you.”

That stopped you.

For a second, your cool, breezy exterior faltered. Not in a panicked way. Not in fear. Just…surprise.

Something warm slid behind your ribs.

“You could’ve just called,” you offered, voice teasing--

But not deflecting.

“I thought about it.”

“And?”

He gave a small, amused breath. “Didn’t feel like enough.”

You leaned forward slightly on your elbows, your bracelets clinking softly against the wood. “You always this charming when you’re sleep-deprived?”

“Only when I’m talking to someone who makes Bureau directors write glowing reviews.”

You grinned. “So you’re here to woo me with flattery.”

“No,” he said simply. “I’m here because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

There. 

A card on the table.

You blinked, lips parting.

Hotch didn’t move any closer. He didn’t have to.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, his tone lower now, more deliberate. “But there’s something about you.”

You exhaled, slow. “Dangerous words from a man who deals with unsub psychology.”

“And yet,” he said, mirroring your words from before, “I keep coming back.”

You laughed softly, but your voice dropped too. “Yeah. Me too.”

And there it ws.

A beat.

A stretch of quiet.

Neither of you moved to close the gap--

But you didn’t have to.

It pulsed between you, just enough to make your fingers twitch, and you heart race and your breath catch in a way that said: not tonight…but soon.

“I should close up,” you said, voice gentle.

Hotch nodded, eyes lingering. “I should let you.”

But neither of you moved right away.

He looked at you like he was memorizing something.

And when he turned to leave, you called out behind him, light but deliberate:

“Next time, don’t wait for a Bureau-level excuse.”

He paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

“I won’t.”

V.

It wasn’t anything official.

At first.

Hotch had just…stopped by once after work. 

No excuse, no case. 

Just that same warm shop light pulling him in off the street and the way your voice lifted ever so slightly when you saw him.

Then it happened again.

And again.

Sometimes at night--

When your hair was messier, your apron slung loose, music playing faintly in the background. He'd lean against the counter, coffee in hand, and listen to you talk about blooms like they were people, alive and moody and magical. Or your customers like they were long-lost friends in the story of your life. All of these colors that made up you.

Sometimes, it was early.

Just after opening.

He’d bring coffee--

Your coffee, specifically. 

Nonfat milk, one pump of mocha, a touch of cinnamon. He’d noticed it once, scribbled on the side of a cup near your register. Ordered it without asking.

He never stayed long in the morning. Just long enough for you to tease him about his tie or the furrow in his brow or how unnaturally good he looked in a suit before 8 a.m.

And every time he left, you’d call after him, voice flirty and sing-song:

“Thanks for the caffeine, Agent. Come back when you miss me.”

He always did.

Three weeks into this…whatever it was, he thought he was subtle.

Until the evening that Rossi caught him in the Quantico parking garage.

Hotch had just slid behind the wheel, engine rumbling when he saw Rossi standing at the edge of the exit lane, arms folded across his chest.

Hotch narrowed his eyes.

Rossi raised a brow. “You do know your house is to the right, yeah?”

Hotch blinked. “What?”

“At the light,” Rossi said, stepping closer. “You keep turning left.”

Hotch stared. “You’re tracking my turns?”

“I’m a profiler,” Rossi said with a shrug. “I notice patterns. You’ve been turning left out of the Bureau at the same time nearly every night for the past couple of weeks.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, just slightly. “Maybe I’m taking a different route.”

“You’re not,” Rossi said, far too casually. “You’re making a detour.”

Hotch didn’t respond.

Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a second. Left puts you on 608. Which goes right through Old Town. Which means--”

Hotch turned away, reaching for his sunglasses.

“Oh my God,” Rossi said, the realization hitting him like a freight train. “It’s the florist.”

Hotch said nothing.

“You’ve been visiting the florist.”

Hotch sipped his coffee. Slowly. “She makes good coffee.”

“She doesn’t make the coffee, Aaron.”

Silence.

Silence.

Rossi’s grin widened, wolfish and deeply entertained.

“This whole time, I thought you were being cryptic about a new case, but no. You’ve been...what? Casually haunting her flower shop like a silent romantic ghost?”

Hotch glanced at him flatly. “Are you done?”

“Not even close. What’s her name? No--don’t tell me. Let me guess. Something stunning. Unique. One of those names that belongs in a book.”

Hotch rolled his eyes and pulled out of the parking space.

Rossi watched the car ease toward the exit, windows down.

“She’s got you bad, Hotch!” he called after him. “Next thing I know, you’ll be showing up in a boutonnière!”

Hotch didn’t even flinch.

Just turned left.

Again.

+1

Hotch didn’t expect you to stroll into Quantico like you owned the place.

But you did.

He was halfway through reviewing a case file, pen tapping absently against the margin, when a knock sounded once against his office door--

And then it opened before he could answer.

And there you were.

Waltzing in like you’d done it a hundred times, clipboard in one hand, sunglasses perched on your head, a little smudge of pollen on your forearm, and that same damn smile that always made his thoughts scatter.

You looked at him like he was exactly the person you’d come to find.

His brow lifted, slow and deliberate. “You know most people wait for permission.”

You shrugged, leaning against the inside of the door with a grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He stood, a mix of amusement and surprise tugging at his mouth. “What are you doing here?”

“Apparently,” you said, glancing around his office like you were appraising it, “I’m the Bureau’s favorite florist now.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes. I’m doing weekly arrangements for half your departments. Including your very charming, very…emotionally distant boss.”

Hotch huffed under his breath. “Strauss.”

“Mmhmm.” You wandered further in, crossing the room like you owned the air between you. “I walked past her office earlier. She nodded at me. It was almost a smile. I think that counts as federal-level affection.”

Hotch gave the faintest smile. “She is rather fond of a well-composed bouquet.”

You tilted your head. “Or maybe she’s just jealous of my access to her most brooding agent.”

That earned a pause.

Hotch stared at you for half a second too long.

And then, “You came all the way up here just to flirt?”

“Oh, Agent,” you purred, tapping your fingers on the edge of his desk. “If I made a stop every time I wanted to flirt with you, I’d need a badge.”

Hotch stepped around the desk slowly, leaning his hand on the edge near yours.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, voice low.

You smiled wider. “And yet…you’re not asking me to leave.”

He said nothing.

Didn’t move.

Just let the air thicken, let the pause stretch between you.

The tension pulsed like electricity.

“You planning on behaving today?” he asked quietly.

You leaned in just slightly. “What gave you the impression that I ever behave?”

He exhaled through his nose--

One of those barely held-in laughs.

You glanced down at the file on his desk. “Is this one of those murder-y cases, or are you free for coffee?”

“I have ten minutes,” he said, voice raspier now.

“Perfect,” you said, already spinning on your heel. “Meet me in the lobby. I’ll buy. FBI discount, you know. One wink at the front desk, and they practically roll out a red carpet.”

“Of course they do,” he murmured as you reached the door.

You paused before leaving, glancing over your shoulder.

“Oh--and Aaron?”

“Yeah?”

You let your eyes rake over him with unmistakable heat. “This whole authority figure, stern jaw, badge and brooding thing? Works waaayyy too well on me.”

You were gone before he could answer.

And when he looked down, he realized you’d left a single bloom on his desk--

A blush-pink carnation tucked beside the file.

Yearning, he remembered distantly from one of your flower lessons.

Of course.

Of course you did.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @stilestotherescue @midnghtprentiss @thebestqueenoftheworld @superlegend216

[jinxificada]

regina george is so hot.

au!powder x reader

summary: she’s tired of bottling these tormenting desires, would you give her a hand?

notes: nsfw, modern au, 5,7k wc. loosely based on “naked in manhattan” by chappel roan. initially written abt jinx, but i decided to try with powder! um, i dunno why this is so damn long.. i hope it doesn’t suck, Don’t even ask me to proofread.

🃜🃚🃖🃁🂭🂺

“regina george is so hot.” you hear her voice on your side, making you pause mid chewing.

it was one of your usual sleepovers; popcorn, movies. you also steal cans of beer from her dad’s bar right below the apartment. a routine you’ve set since you were 15.

“yeah..?” you frown in confusion, glancing at her curiously and then back at the screen of her laptop.

“I mean, don’t you agree?”

she pauses the movie to look at you and raising eyebrow expectantly. she already knew what your answer was.. the only right answer.

“obviously,” you play along, sipping on the beer as you avoid her gaze. “it’s just the way you said it… as if you’re attracted to girls.”

as far as you know, powder was straight— you both were. you’ve seen her drool over boys, the walls of her room covered with posters of male artists (and scientists), she loves to flirt around with the male population, never once casting a second glance at a girl like that. hell, you were pretty sure she currently had a thing going on with ekko.

she rolls her eyes and shoves your shoulder like you said the most ridiculous thing, “I’m just pointing out the obvious!”

it was an obvious statement that everyone can agree with. you just don’t mistakenly say it with such a yearning tone.

as you sit together, she takes another look at you with the corner of her eye, a curious thought running through her mind, her heart beating faster… she tries her best to not let it show, but she can’t help to keep drifting her eyes off the movie to you.

she has a pretty girl drinking beer and watching a movie as they laid on her bed.

and she’s yearning.

what if? she thinks to herself, before hastily trying to shut the thought down.

after a few minutes, she takes a long swig of the beer, hoping it’ll help her forget that silly idea…

she tries to focus on the movie, but her mind is a growing mess. what if?... she looks over at you, taking in the way the light from the dimmed screen flashes over your face, enhancing your beauty.

what if i try?

no, she can’t. you’re friends. just friends.. you don’t cross lines like that. you can’t cross lines like that.

but.. it would be so easy to just reach out and… no, stop that.

powder tries her best to act normal, laughing and commenting on the movie with you, but that thought just won’t leave her mind.

curiosity just builds up more and more. her eyes keep roaming back to you, taking in every curve of your face, every move of your body, as my brain is fighting a battle against this sudden.. need to test the boundaries.

she shifts in the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. her heart is skipping beats as she tries to make it casual, like it’s nothing. her fingers keep rubbing the muscle of her thigh, pretending to be massaging a cramp until she built the courage to finally speak.

“my leg is cramping,” she grumbled while rubbing and massaging her leg. “mind lending me a hand?” she says, hoping that her comment would pass out as a joke so she can forget about this.

you eye her, scoffing a quiet chuckle. “are you serious?”

there it is, she should laugh it off and focus on the movie. she should keep whatever desire she’s feeling buried deep inside and set her mind on ekko, the boy everyone knows has the hots for her—

“please?” she pleads. “it hurts so bad.”

she keeps gently rubbing her leg, and with a subtle shift in her position her oversized shirt rides up, revealing more of her thigh as she angles it slightly towards you.

her stomach flutters when your eyes travel towards her exposed skin. you hesitate, taking in the way her muscle twitches slightly, your left hand finally moves and falls on her pale thigh, starting to knead and immediately looking back at the movie.

powder almost let out a sigh of relief as your hand finally touches her. she watched intently as your hand massages her thigh, working the muscle.

you were so agreeable, too, never having trouble to convince you to do whatever she wanted.

she wondered how far she could take it. how much are you willing to please her..?

she leans back against the headboard of the bed, her mind racing as she silently enjoys the sensations of your touch.. the heat of your hand against her skin, the way your fingers gently press into her leg. her body is responding to your touch in a way it never has before, and it’s taking everything in her to stay in control.

she shifts uncomfortably on the bed, unable to focus on the movie anymore.

but you kept your hand close to her knee.

“is that good?”

she almost let out a squeak as a shudder runs through you. the innocent way in which you ask that, as if you’re genuinely just trying to be helpful, is almost too much for her to handle right now.

she nods quickly, swallowing hard. “y-yeah that’s perfect.” her voice coming out just a tad huskier than before.

you turn to look at her, smiling as you squeeze her thigh. she’s got smooth skin, the faintest freckles on them. you liked that she was a little fit.

“you know… it feels even better a bit higher up.”

the words are out of her mouth before she can stop herself.

but you comply, moving ever so slightly. “there?”

she bites her lip to hold back a soft whine.

“a little higher.. please?”

her heart is racing in her chest as she asks, knowing full well where she’s leading this.

“mmkay,” you chuckle quietly, moving even higher. was it you, or did her skin feel more heated?

she lets out a shaky exhale as your hand moves higher, almost to the top of her thigh. her muscles tense slightly as your finger brushes against the hem of her small tight shorts underneath her shirt.

“h-higher.” she breathes heavily, her body is buzzing with the heat rushing through her. she’s pushing it.

you hesitate briefly, complying anyway. your fingers slowly reaching her inner thighs…

you couldn’t be crazy. she felt so warm, a burning heat coming from between her legs. it was making you feel weird in your stomach.

her breath hitches at the feeling of your fingers on her sensitive skin, the buzzing in her body almost becoming overwhelming. her brain is foggy with this new sensation, the want and need to feel your touch all over her.

she shifts slightly, spreading her legs a bit wider. “like that…”

her hands grip the bed sheets tightly, silently praying you would keep going, to touch her more.

“don’t stop.” she pleads as she feels your fingers slowly tracing the top of her shorts.

“pow…” you mumble in a warning tone. you lick your lips, feeling your mouth dry.

but she’s got so far, you can’t deny her now. please don’t deny her now.

she leans forward, resting a hand on your knee. “please.” she practically whispers, all pretense of a thigh cramp gone. “i need it… i need you.”

an unknown sound leaves your mouth against your will, something like a whimper. you can’t meet her eyes as you move your hand higher, shyly sneaking under her shorts.

she shivers as your hand finally reaches where she wanted it, having to bite her lip again to keep any embarrassing sounds at bay.

“f-fuck.” she breathes, her body going rigid as your eyes meet again. all the tension, the desire.. you can see it all in the look she’s giving you.

it’s almost too much. why do you want to moan if it’s her the one being touched? you cover your face with your free hand, trying to hide how flustered you were.

you keep exploring between her legs. the almost all-consuming warmth, magnetically luring you.

she tries to suppress a moan at the feel of your hand, covering her mouth with her own hand as the other grips at the bed sheets tightly.

“fuck..“ she curses again, her hips rocking against the touch. she’s losing all willpower to stop this now, and she can’t bring herself to care.

you touch her a bit more, flinching when you feel her arousal, pulling your hand away. “w-wait, wait.” you whimper, breathing heavily as you keep avoiding her gaze. you felt overwhelmed, flustered and confused.

and incredibly horny.

powder whined at the loss of contact, desperate for you to put your hand back but also a bit concerned with the look on your face.

she leans into you and brushes a strand of hair out of your face. “what’s wrong?” she asked, her own voice shaky.

“i-i don’t know what i’m doing—“ your lower lip trembled, the heat on your face making you feel even more embarrassed. “sorry, i’m sorry..”

she takes your face in her hands, making you look at her.

“hey.. it’s okay.” powder murmurs softly, soothing you. “don’t worry about it, alright?”

she tries to hide the disappointment from her voice, but neither of you can deny that the feeling of your hands on her was electrifying. tantalizing the vulnerable boundaries of your friendship and sexuality.

“let’s just... let’s just watch the movie, okay?”

you lean into her, hiding in the crook of her neck as you grasp her shirt, powder has her arms wrapped around you in a heartbeat, holding you against her.

“you’re okay.“ she whispers, trying her best to soothe you and ignore the fact she’s painfully aroused right now.

“i’m sorry…” you mumble again, now conscious of her real needs. you wanted to please her, you actually did. you were just so overwhelmed in the moment, the sudden wetness that pooled in your core scared you.

she leans back against the headboard of the bed, with you in her arms. she smelled so good, you didn’t wanna leave this spot.

“…let me try again.” you whisper shyly, now your right hand teasing the edge of her shorts.

powder sucks in a sharp breath as your hand moves back to the edge of her shorts, her body going rigid.

“are you sure? “ she asks hesitantly, still wary of your reaction, and unsure if she could handle the disappointment of you stopping again.

“mmhm,” you nod into her neck, grateful that she can’t see your furious blush. your hand goes back under her clothes, letting out a shaky breath when you feel her pussy with your fingers again.

powder bites her lip to hold back a moan, her head falling back against the headboard, fighting her body to keep her hips from rocking against your palm. she grabs your shirt, fisting the fabric tightly in your hand as she concentrates on her breathing.

“w-wait..” she gasps, trying to speak coherent words as her brain is getting foggy by the pleasure building inside her.

“w-what?” you quickly slip away again, worried that you might have done something wrong, but she reached out, taking your hand in hers and bringing it back to her shorts, guiding you where she wanted you.

“no…” she says, and this time despite her own voice betraying her, she tries to sound more reassuring. “i just… i just need you to keep going.. faster.”

“like this?” you murmur, hesitantly rubbing in circles.

she lets out an unashamed moan as your finger teases her clit, her hand gripping your shoulder as if trying to ground herself.

“y-yeah.. just like that.” her praise is a faint sigh, closing her eyes as the pleasure you’re providing her is the only thing occupying her mind.

you moan too, you can’t help it, your sounds quiet and muffled. she felt so hot, she sounded so hot. you were growing agitated, relishing in the ravenous way she moved her hips into you.

she’s almost shaking now, her body desperately wanting more, wanting release. her breathing is labored as she tries to speak.

“m-more, hm..please.” she manages to gasp out, letting her hand fall from your shoulder to grip the sheets once more.

you obey, paying close attention to which movements made her twitch and moan the most.

powder’s torn between keeping her mouth shut, in a desperate attempt to hold back all the needy moans and whines that threaten to spill from her mouth, and cry out loud, to let the neighbors know how good you’re making her feel.

she struggles to keep her body under control, but your every touch feels like she’s on fire, a ticking bomb waiting to explode. and she doesn’t want anything more than to just give into the pleasure.

her body writhing from your voracious stimulation, she’s not even trying to hold back anymore. she clutches at your arm as your touch grows confident, fingers spreading her folds, reaching her tight entrance to gather her fluids and go back to furiously rub her clit, learning that it was what made her react the most.

she was so close, so close... just a little more, and she’s almost there. powder pressed her hand against her mouth again, trying to stifle a deep moan coming from the back of her throat.

“jinx…” you whine quietly, your hand getting drenched in her juices as you work on her pussy. “‘wanna hear you…”

she instantly removes her hand from her mouth, her eyes closed and her mind so overwhelmed from the pleasure and her impending orgasm that she’s not even really aware of what’s happening anymore, her whole focus fixed on you, and the pleasure you’re giving her.

“s-so close—!“ she gasps.

you can’t stop yourself from squeezing your thighs together as she’s making little whines and whimpers in the back of my throat that sound completely needy at this point, aching for release.

“please,” she begged breathlessly. “i’m almost.. i’m so close, i just need a little more…”

her fingers dig into your arm, and you’re pretty sure if she squeezes any tighter her nails would draw blood.

the whine leaving her mouth ringed in your ear, the tension starting to peak. her thighs squeezes your hand, and to your surprise, she got more wet. her creamy orgasm moistened your palm, her body shocking sharply, scaring you for a second. but she doesn’t let you pull back, so you keep touching her as she rides her high.

just after a whole minute she stops trembling that much.

she keeps her eyes closed, her body still trembling ever so slightly. she feels boneless, like all her energy just left her body.

after a few seconds, she managed to blink her eyes open and find your worried gaze.

powder lets out a shaky exhale, and her hand moves from your arm to your cheek.

“i’m okay…“ she assures you, her voice sounding hoarse. she keeps her hand against your cheek, and she’s struck by the way you’re looking at her, your face still flushed with color.

“fuck, jinx…” you mumble with a frown, leaning into her hand. you can barely meet her eyes without getting even more flustered. your hand is still inside her shorts.

she chuckled softly, still feeling the afterglow from her orgasm.

“you can take your hand away now…” she murmured, her thumb stroking your cheek.

you flush in embarrassment, quickly shifting away. you look down at your hand, completely drenched in her fluids, her eyes follow your gaze, taking a moment to collect herself and then sit up, bringing a hand to your chin to turn you face her.

“hey..” she says softly, her voice still a tad shaky. “you okay?”

“gotta clean up,” you blurted, rushing to the bathroom in an attempt to escape the awkwardness that filled your body.

what the hell just happened…?

she watches as you dart away, feeling her stomach drop nervously, she took a deep breath and tried to clear her head, suddenly realizing the mess that is still between her thighs.

powder gets up and grabs a towel from a nearby chair, using it to clean herself off before throwing it in the laundry basket.

she considers following you to the bathroom, but she’s not sure if she should. you needed a minute to yourself, and she was worried about making things awkward.

more than it already was.

she sits back down on the bed, still a little shaken from what just happened. you both knew your friendship would never be the same after tonight.

you liked to believe otherwise. desperately. it was probably the heat of the moment, she was horny and you were there, so you gave her a hand. that was it.

though the wetness between your legs said that you were indeed affected by this.

you tried to ignore it.

you get out of the bathroom and make your way back next to her in the bed, not sparing her a glance as you fix the computer where it was and go back the minutes you missed from the movie.

powder can’t help the way her heart twinges a little as you keep your distance and don’t even look at her. it hurts more than she’d like to admit. she’s starting to think that maybe, maybe she did read this whole situation wrong.

so she keeps quiet, unsure of what to say now that you’re back. she can’t even pretend to focus on the movie, her thoughts whirling in her head.

her eyes keep stealing glances at you, searching your face for any clue as to how you feel. she’s trying to find some hint of that flush on your cheeks, something to give her some hope that what you did affected you just as much as it did to her.

the only hint she gets is the way your thighs are pressed so tightly together that it's almost like you're trying to hold back any evidence of what just happened.

you sit there in the quiet of the room, the only sound being the movie playing on the computer. she’s growing antsy, desperate to know if this changed your friendship or not.

finally, her impatience wins over and she can’t sit quietly anymore. she breaks the silence, her voice uncharacteristically small.

“are we not going to talk about it?”

you frown instantly, distractedly taking some popcorn.

“if you want,” you say, trying so hard to feign nonchalance.

you hear powder sigh a bit too loudly, she’s taken back by your response. she tries not to let it bother her as she gathered her thoughts.

“i just…” she begins, hesitating a little. “i just wanted to know if…” she trails off, not sure how to ask her next question. she bites her lip, trying to summon the courage to just spit it out. “were you.. okay with.. what we did?” she finally managed to ask, her hands clenched into fists in her lap. she was trying to keep her voice even, but it was obvious she was a little nervous about your answer.

your thighs clenched again, letting out a shaky breath.

“y-yeah, sure. i just.. helped you out.” you try to dismiss again, ignoring your own blush and arousal.

“just helped out?” she echoed, a little bitterly.

she bites her lip, unable to keep the pang of disappointment from her heart.

she wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but it wasn’t this nonchalant attitude. she forced herself to continue, trying to keep the emotion from her voice.

“so you didn’t.. enjoy it at all?”

you look at her, wide eyed. “w-we’re not like that, jinx.” you reminded her, scared of your own reactions, you… feelings. “i dunno…”

she feels something inside her twist in an unpleasant way, and she fights to control her face and keep the disappointment buried deep inside her.

“you’re right.. we’re just friends...” she murmurs as realization sets in that you really didn’t see anything more about what you did.

she forces herself to look away, staring back at the movie screen so you don’t see the emotions in her face.

but she’s your friend, of course you’d notice.

you don’t like seeing her like that, instantly urging you to comfort her. you cuddle her side, pouting softly as you wrap your arms around her waist. it felt right.

her breath hitches in her throat when she feels your arms wrapping around her. she leaned into your body instinctively, her head falling on your shoulder.

It feels like you’re offering some comfort, some kindness, after the rejection she’s feeling.

“friend’s help each other out.” she murmured half jokingly under her breath, sounding a bit self-deprecating.

you repeat her words in your mind, growing more and more conscious of the burning feeling in your core.

maybe…

you nuzzle into her neck for a moment, before daring to speak. “c-could you help me?”

she’s completely caught off guard by your words, her eyes widening a little as she looks at you. your words had so much implication behind them.

“help you..?” she asks slowly, trying to get you to clarify. a part of her didn’t want to get her hopes up in case she was misinterpreting it.

you’re quick to specify, taking her left hand to press it over your pants, almost naturally rocking your hips enthusiastically. she’s sure she has never seen you so… demanding.

“it’s aching…” you whimper softly, “you made me feel like this…”

she sucks in a breath as she feels the heat coming from your core. she lets her hand linger on your shorts as her eyes roam your face.

“i did..?” she says, surprise coloring her voice. she’s surprised that this effect you were having on her was mutual. “but I thought we’re just friends?” you noticed the faintest smirk tugging at her lips, naturally teasing you.

though powder almost doesn’t believe what’s happening right now. she keeps her hand between your legs, moving a little closer to you, her eyes fixed on your face.

“so you like it when i touch you like this?” she asks in a voice laced with both surprise and just a hint of smugness.

you’re instantly crumbling, nodding fervently as you hide in her neck again, breathing heavily.

“hurry…”

powder slowly drags her hand up your shorts, her fingers playing with the elastic of your underwear, and she takes a moment to revel in the way your breath stutters out, your body shifting restlessly against her.

“hurry..?” she mocked, “are you… impatient?”

“n-no, please don’t tease me jinx.” i begged, grasping onto her shirt. “i helped you out, please.”

she chuckled softly at your adorable begging. “‘can’t help it, you’re just too cute when you’re horny.” she tells you, before giving in to your pleading.

her hand moves further into your shorts, her fingers slowly rubbing against the throbbing button in your panties and drawing out a shaky gasp from you.

“like this, is this what you need?” she murmured, her tone still just a little titillating, but her words were sincere.

“you know it is,” you pouted, buckling your hips into her touch.

“mhmm,” she hummed, pleased to know she’s teased you enough to break you. she keeps her touch light, her fingertips circling teasing you without doing enough to actually give you any real relief.

“you’re already so worked up...” she remarks, feeling the wetness that’s already leaking into your underwear. “i didn’t even do that much to you.” she teases again, enjoying the way you gasp and writhe against her.

she brushes her lips against your neck, nipping and kissing on the sensitive skin. “you’re such a mess…” she murmured against your skin.

you grunted, moving your hand to grip her hair. “please—“ you breathed out into her jaw.

she hears the pleading in your voice, mixed in with just a hint of annoyance, and she can’t help the way her stomach twists with arousal at the sound.

“alright, i won’t tease anymore” she soothes, her fingers moving a little firmer against you, searching for a way to give you what you need.

you whine softly, your back arching into her, you were a tangled mess, her laptop once again sliding to the side as you kept shifting in the bed. you felt her breath against your cheek…

you kinda wanted to kiss her.

she lets her eyes roam over your face, taking in your flushed skin and your parted lips. powder was having a hard time concentrating with you so close, just like you, your every thought circling back to the fact that you wanted to kiss her.

“you’re so pretty.” she murmured absentmindedly, her fingers rubbing a little harder, deciding that she also wanted more, she slipped her hand underneath your panties, caressing your cunt shamelessly and pushing two fingers inside you at once, bringing out a guttural moan from you.

your eyes flickering from her lips to her blue hooded gaze. your chin tilted up without you realizing, feeling dizzy.

she noticed your eyes lingering on her lips, and her breath stuttered for a moment in her chest, feeling her own desire welling up.

she knows she probably shouldn’t kiss you, that it would change everything. but you’re right there, your parted lips so close to hers, and she finds she doesn’t have the self control to stop herself any longer. if she ever had it at all.

her fingers pause agonizingly inside you, as she leaned her head in and closed the distance, pressing her lips against yours before you could let out the irritated cry of complaint.

it’s short, sweet. you kissed her back before pulling away, shyly meeting her eyes for a second.

she pulls back a moment after you, feeling dazed from the short lived kiss. she keeps her eyes trained on you as she tries to regain her bearings a little.

“you didn’t seem to mind that very much.” she commented a little breathlessly, a small smile forming on her lips as she takes in your flushed expression.

you can only frown, tugging at her hair to pull her down again, kissing her deliberately, making her gasp a little in surprise her hair getting tugged harder by your grip as your lips press against hers. she has a moment to react before her mind melts away, and she just leans into you in a more heated kiss.

with her hand still between your thighs, the rest of her body follows as she settles on top of you, her other hand keeping itself propped up in the bed.

the kiss turns just a little more desperate, her tongue seeking out your mouth as it becomes harder to concentrate, but she finds she doesn’t particularly mind.

it gets messier, your dizziness making it hard for tou to follow her pace, her tongue and yours clashing everywhere. you moaned into her lips, grinding your hips against her hand. you felt little tears pricking in the corner of your eyes from the building pleasure.

she moaned with you, her hand moving a little more urgently against you, pounding her fingers mercilessly. and if it weren’t for the way she’s propped up on top of you, she would have probably started to grind against you a little herself.

you have to pull back from the kiss, a growling sound escaping from your throat as your back arches to press into her chest. she was hitting your sweet spot with an unrelenting pace.

she watches in awe as you curled into her hand, her mouth almost going dry at the sight of your face so overcome with pleasure. her breathing is labored as she tries to keep her hand in the most steady pace, her eyes never leaving your face.

“right there?” she asks urgently, her tone almost a little desperate for you to answer.

“yes,” you sobbed, tears streaming down your reddened warm cheeks. “feels so good, hm— i can’t..” you blabbered.

her need to make you feel good, to give you the release you’ve been seeking takes over all my thoughts, powder is utterly fascinated by you, and she’s consumed in the urge to make you fall apart.

her fingers continued their assault on your abused pussy, pushing you to delirium. you never thought powder could be so talented with her hand, if your mind was clearer you would’ve questioned how did she know where and how to push the right buttons. her thumb moved to play with your unattended clit as her face leaned close to your ear.

“don’t cry.” she urged, her voice low and gravelly. “i’m going to take care of you, okay? i’m going to make you feel so good. just tell me you’re mine.”

it felt so good hearing that, just as much as it confused you. “w-what?”

in reality, her own words had surprised her, powder felt herself faltering for a moment. she didn't mean to say that, but with you so vulnerable and desperate beneath her, it just came out.

“just—“ she begins, attempting a confident voice. “just tell me you’re mine right now. that’s all i need.”

you comply without thinking much, her words making you impossibly wetter.

“m’yours.” you whimpered, “i’m yours, powder, only yours.”

powder shivers a little at your words as a possessive feeling seizes her heart, making her want to pull you even closer and never let go.

“good.” she murmurs, as she returns her body against yours, her head nuzzling into your neck. she continues her touch, fucking you at a frantic, almost animalistic pace, the wet sounds of your cunt lasciviously echoing in her room. “now be a good girl and come for me”

she doesn’t have to tell you twice, reaching your peak effortlessly under her touch. you can’t say you really tried to control your body, feeling possessed by something else, something bigger than you. powder doesn’t stop her movements until you’ve ridden out the aftershocks and your body relaxes, a sense of pride welling up in her chest at seeing you come apart so easily for her.

she buries her head into your shoulder, taking a couple more deep breaths to slow her thoughts. she’d be lying to herself if she said this didn’t mean more to her than just two friends helping each other out.

so she rather don’t say anything for a moment, just listening to the sound of your breathing as your body comes down from the high. she let some of the possessive feelings wash away, settling on just enjoying the contentment of staying so close to you.

you feel more calm, but you were craving something. tugging at her hair again gently, you pull her face close to yours.

her eyes lift her head to look at you. her heart stutters seeing you looking so flushed, your hair messy around your head.

“what is it?” she asked softly, resting her chin on your chest.

“kiss,” you mumble so quietly that you barely hear yourself.

a flicker of surprise briefly passes through her mind as she registers your words, her chest almost clenching at the soft and almost shy tone of your request.

her blue eyes search your face for a moment before her gaze lands on your lips. she moved into them without another word, pressing her lips softly against yours.

she parts her lips against yours, taking a moment to relish in the sweet feeling of your mouth against hers. she gently slides her tongue into your mouth, savoring you in a different way than she did before. her hand moving up from your shorts to caress your neck.

but you pull back reluctantly, taking her wrist in your hand.

“dirty fingers.” you point out.

she lets out a sheepish chuckle, her cheeks flushing as she realized her dirty fingers had just touched your skin. “you’re right...” she murmurs, holding up her hand a little bit to look at the evidence staining her fingers.

she brings her messy fingers to her mouth and starts to lick them clean, maintaining eye contact with you as she watches your reaction.

oh my god…

your eyes widened, your darkened gaze fixed on the way she tasted you so greedily, an intense blush creeps on your cheeks as she hollowed hers, humming in delight.

a satisfied smile appeared on her lips as she saw the color on your face and felt the way your breath stutters as you watch her suck her fingers clean.

“you taste so good.” she praised, loving the way her words make you squirm a little underneath her.

“what is it?” she asks, amused at your pouty expression. she shifts her weight a little so she’s leaning on her forearms, hovering above you. she takes a moment to admire the sight of you splayed beneath her, disheveled and breathless from her touch.

you let her now bring her hand up to caress your flushed cheek, her eyes roaming between your face and that pouty mouth of yours. “tell me what you’re thinking,” she whispered, though her voice still sounded a little rougher than usual. “you’re not… not regretting what we just did again, right?”

“n-no, no, i don’t regret it.” you rushed to say, stumbling over your words. you can’t stand the way her mouth pouted at you, anticipating the worst. “that’s.. sort of the problem, pow… i, um—”

“the problem?” she interrupted, almost scowling.

“i mean, not the problem,” you tried to correct yourself. “this is just, um, new.”

ah.

she almost sighs in relief as you explain yourself, her shoulders relaxing. powder lets her body rest more heavily on top of you, her head dipping down so she could rest her chin on your shoulder without having to prop herself up with her arms.

“new and good?” she inquires quietly against your ear, needing to hear the answer to quell her nervousness.

you slowly move your arms to embrace her as she keeps her head nestled in the crook of your neck, cuddling warmly. you’re suddenly consumed with the desire to breathe in the scent of her hair.

“you need time to process things?” she suggested in a murmur into your skin, closing her eyes and just relishing in your closeness for the moment.

“yes,” you quavered, appreciating her understanding. your grip tightened, giving in to your desires as your nose pressed into her soft blue hair. “but don’t leave.”

[moonflowergirlsworld]

Hello! Could I request some Yandere Castorice (Hsr) x Gn! Reader that is somehow immune to her touch, please? (The reader could be from amorphous or not. It's your choice). If not please feel free to ignore this request

As a yandere, Castorice would be steeped in yearning (⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠)

Castorice

She was feared by many in Amorphous. The Maiden of War. A name whispered more like a curse than a title.

Castorice never asked for admiration. She never demanded reverence. But the fear? That came naturally because her touch was a death sentence.

She had grown numb to the distance it created. Grown used to watching lovers from afar, wondering how their fingers linked so effortlessly, how their skin met without consequence.

How it must feel to be loved…

But Castorice was content with her life. She had to be... right?

Until you came along.

Introduced by the Trailblazer, she had expected nothing. Another name. Another fleeting acquaintance.

And then you shook her hand, a simple touch that marked the beginning of her descent into devotion...

Then came the obsession. It crept in quietly, slowly, not like her touch of death, but the opposite. It didn’t burn. It soaked in, tender and consuming, marinating every thought, every breath, in the scent of you.

She grew to adore your voice, how you greeted her each day as if she were just another person, not a divine anomaly.

You’d spend your day with her, rambling about the day’s events. You’d give her gifts, trinkets, handmade things, a pressed flower once.

She kept that flower in her book, right between two worn pages she never turned again.

Because it felt like the past had stopped the moment she met you.

You treated her like a normal human, not a weapon, not a warning in skin. Just a person. It was foreign… almost frightening. But then you showed her how even the smallest, most mundane things, a smile, a shared drink, a brush of hands could feel like the whole universe.

And she began to crave it.

Crave you.

Hand-holding became your ritual.

Her hands, once untouchable, now laced with yours on every walk. She clung to the act like it grounded her. She squeezed your fingers twice when she was happy. Once when she was nervous.

She always melted when you kissed her knuckles, soft and reverent, like you knew how sacred this was for her.

As You cuddled with her one night, tucked beneath a constellation-draped sky.

She whispered, “I could stay like this forever.”

You smiled. “We can Stay as long as You want.”

That was your mistake. You said it like a promise.

She heard it like a vow.

You made her feel like her hands weren’t weapons, but instruments of comfort. You smiled when she curled her fingers around yours. You rested your head on her shoulder, dozing peacefully as if she weren’t a herald of death.

It broke something inside her. Something she never knew could shatter.

Your heartbeat.

There was something sacred about the sound of your heartbeat to Castorice.

It wasn't just comfort. No, comfort was far too small a word for it.

It was proof. It reminded her that the one she is touching isn't a corpse but a breathing Human.

She’d rest her head on your chest every chance she got, eyes closed, lashes fluttering like wings brushing your skin. No matter how still she lay, her fingertips would twitch slightly against your ribs, needing the constant rise and fall, the subtle thump-thump beneath your skin.

That sound… it was heavenly.

“Do you have any idea what that does to someone like me?” she murmured once, lips brushing your collarbone. “To feel life… and know it won't vanish at my touch?”

She pressed her gloveless palm against your chest. “It makes me greedy.”

She doesn’t say it aloud, but when you leave the room, her fingers twitch with restraint. The way you walk, the way you speak to others so casually, you forget, don't you? That you belong to her now.

But gods help anyone who touches you without permission.

Sometimes, they simply vanish. Other times, you find them pale and trembling, unable to speak when you ask what's wrong. You started noticing how no one touched you anymore. Not even Trailblazer. Not even by accident.

“I asked them not to,” she said sweetly, running her fingers through your hair. “They don’t deserve you.”

You chuckled nervously, unsure if she was joking.

She wasn’t.

Her poison is not her touch, it’s her power. Her influence. She can make people disappear without a thought.

“Don’t they understand?” she says, brushing your cheek with the back of her gloveless hand. “You are the only thing I can hold without fear… I won’t allow the world to sully what fate has given me.”

Her gloves? Gone. She never wore them around you, it felt like a wall, and she didn’t want anything between her skin and yours. She craved the warmth of your hand in hers, Every brush of your fingertips across her palm left her breathless, drunk on something far more lethal than her own touch.

Only for you.

It started small. A scarf you forgot at her place. She didn’t return it. Couldn't. It smelled like you, carried the memory of your body, your presence, your absence. The comb was her favorite. You’d once used it to gently untangle her hair, murmuring soft little nothings that made her chest ache. Now it stayed tucked in her drawer, wrapped like a relic.

She didn’t think it was strange. It felt right.

She would Cup your cheeks, voice breathy, trembling with awe. “I can touch you. And you don’t die. Isn’t that love? Isn't that fate?”

Don’t even think about running.

The thought of escape should never occur to you.

This is nothing but love, poured from her tainted heart in its purest form.

And you made the mistake of showing her that she could have something more than loneliness.

"You said forever," she whispered, eyes glowing faintly in the moonlight. "So don’t be afraid… when I make sure that’s exactly what we have."

You taught her how to love.

And now she refuses to unlearn it.

[moodymisty]

DANTE GUILTILY JORKIN' IT TO THOUGHTS OF HIS NEW SERF!!!! They're so kind and sweet and seemingly untouched by the horrors of this universe and he feels terrible for thinking about bullying his cock inside them and making them scream and beg for him,,,,

Author's note: Never written Dante before!!! yay <3 Relationships: Dante/Fem!Reader Warnings: NSFW, Male masturbation, Yearning, Light self deprecation

"You should rest, My Lord, while you have the chance."

For such simple words to have such an effect on him was a curse, Dante thought. He has heard every manner of phrase directed at him over his long existence and yet the most casual show of concern- that was what made him falter.

Pathetic. He should be ashamed of himself; He's barely known you for a Terran month.

But he let these emotions overwhelm him like a sudden sandstorm, and it had already consumed him before he even had a chance to stop himself.

Scalding hot water runs down his back as his hand wraps around his cock, pooling onto the metal floor and spinning into the drain. His other hand presses hard against the wall, supporting his body and shadowing his own actions after if trying to maintain some sense of dignity.

A hiss escapes from between his teeth as his hand roughly tugs at himself, the water and his own precum serving as the only lubrication. He doesn't mind the sensation, anything but; Something about him almost prefers the roughness. Astartes generally acquiesce or are even fond of physical pain and discomfort.

But you wouldn't give him that pain and discomfort; You're so soft and kind, your voice is as gentle as your touch. The few times you've touched him, that is, without his armor in the way. But his mind has wandered to the farthest of places with what little you've given him so far.

"I will be fine. Astartes have no need of rest."

They don't, at least not the rest you were describing. Though now the idea seems so tempting to him, as he imagines you laying in his normally unused bed beside him. Your hands would lay on his skin, touch him so gently and whisper all of these words he finds pointless and needless, but he still takes so greedily. He doesn't need rest, but by the Throne does he want to indulge in it if you were with him.

Dante groans as his lower stomach tightens, the muscles of his stomach tensing and relaxing with each jolt of sensation as his palm brushes over his cockhead. His fingers tighten around him more and his pace increases, his hips unconsciously twitching forward to fuck his own hand.

"But that doesn't mean it wouldn't help you. You look so tired,"

How a baseline serf could see the aches and tiredness in his eyes but not the men he's fought beside for hundreds of years- but somehow you could see into him like he was made of glass.

Dante let out a moan far louder than he'd expected, though thankfully the showers remained completely empty at this time. Most of the astartes are getting their five hours of mandatory rest, before returning to their duties.

Instead of that rest however, Dante wallows in his shame imagining his hands are his own serf's, wrapped around his cock and gently stroking him to completion with the same soothing compassion you speak to him with.

He thought he just needed to listen to you, to speak with you, but now it goes even deeper. He wants to touch you, hold you, to do things that his astartes brain had thought severed. These emotions being uncontrollable concerns him, but then they grow stronger and those concerns simply push to the back of his mind.

Dante grinds his teeth hard enough to flex the muscles of his neck as he cums, coating the wall of the shower right in front of him before it's washed away by scalding hot water. There's no evidence of this shame here other than his own memories then, as his hearts race and he stands in the afterglow.

He doesn't know anything about this, how to speak to you, how to touch you. Not even to mention that you've only been his serf for a terran month, Dante would fear you'd only accept him out of fear of his punishment.

He resigns himself to wait and simply be silent. Much like many of the things he feels, he will burden no other with them.

The air is still heavy with steam when he leaves, grabbing a towel. His short hair doesn't need much more than a rustle to dry it off, but his body still drips water down his skin past raised and discolored scars. he wicks it away with the towel before throwing it aside, pulling on his robe as the hot steam in the room begins to fade. Even more so when he opens the door and begins to return to his quarters. He can't help but think he looks guilty the entire way; That anyone he passes is judging him for his sin.

They can't know; But it doesn't stop him from feeling the guilt anyways. Not until he returns to his quarters and hides away inside with only his thoughts, until someone inevitably has need of him.

[linlinmoon]

hi bub! i'm not sure if you're taking requests rn, but if you are, i'd like to request a fluffy leona kingscholar x reader fic where reader can't stop playing with leona's tail 🤭🦁

Soft Spot

🖋️: thank u for this request! reading and writing leona fics are my guilty pleasure, fun fact! riddle, leona, and malleus caught my eye the first ever time i got into twst yrs ago hihi :)) i hope u enjoy this one! i really enjoyed writing it within the day 🤍

🍰: word count: 994 words. gn! reader, fluff! leona kingscholar x reader (likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated !!)

Leona wouldn't have ever put his guard down around anyone, it's the one other important thing he learned being in the savannah. That you are vulnerable when you turn your back on someone, it's always been that way, survival of the fittest they say.

 So when you came into his life, well, it was a big change to say the least. Whenever you were around, he always had unexplainable emotions that was bubbling up inside of him. Urges that he wouldn't usually have, he knew it wasn't normal.

The feeling of wanting to know how you're hand felt in his, the way he yearned for the sensation of your hands going over his calloused ones, wanting to entangle his fingers into yours. How you would glance at him every now and then while you braid his hair for him on a lazy morning, the way your eyes moved when your gaze shifted elsewhere or how they would turn into crescents when you smiled. 

This was far from normal. Though he couldn't help but enjoy it and want more. He was wrapped around your finger. 

Lounging in the dimly lit space of his dorm where the sunlight would only seep through his room's opened blinds, he had you over to "keep him company" and didn't elaborate further. Not like he wanted or needed to anyway, unless it's just the fact that he didn't want to admit that he feels safer and comfortable when you're around. Or that he does like being around you, it wasn't lonely like it always was. You were "tolerated by him" (but of course, it's not just that.) 

You had lounged on a different seat near his bed while you spoke to him about the upcoming spelldrive tournament, asking him about how it was for the team when in preparation. 

“Just don't pull a stunt like the one you did last time. Competitiveness has it's limits too.”

“Not for me there isn't, it's just a matter of not wanting to lose, beasty. And our dorm is set on winning whether they like it or not.” He spoke, his lazy tone lingering in the air before it comes to a comfortable silence. 

Minutes would pass, the housewarden's eyes would droop a little to rest them. Ears twitching and his tail swishing around, it was a sign that he was still up and hadn't already fallen asleep on you.

Naturally due to you and Leona's difference in species, you had noticed the way his tail would swish around as he kept himself awake while doing so. It was the only other time you would see it up close, knowing him, he didn't let anyone touch or even come close to his tail. But supposedly, it was yet again different with you.

Unable to help yourself, you reach out to tamper with his tail a little. Feeling the hairs of the ends of his tail as you did so, causing him to open his eyes in curiosity of what you were doing. Your laughter rung in his ears, making his ears twitch and an amused smile tugging on the corners of his lips. As he watched you aimlessly play around, the same unexplainable feeling warms his heart again whenever he's around you. 

Following the movement of his tail aimlessly, you hadn't noticed him watching in amusement. He had kept quiet as he moved his tail around for you to follow it like you were some type of cat he was trying to lure in with a toy. It was amusing in his eyes, a soft snort escaped him as he tried to contain his laughter.

The housewarden begun to intentionally move his tail around in directions to watch your hands follow it suit. After a little while, he deliberately stops and lets you finally take his tail into your gentle grasp, not wanting to hurt him or anything. Leona's tail begins to wrap around your wrist and the entire length of your forearm before finally letting out a chuckle.

“Enjoyed yourself?”

“Well, it was fun while it lasted.”

“You're rather easy to please. You know, not everyone gets to do that with my tail.”

“Exactly, that's what makes it even more enjoyable.”

Leona glances up at you and barks out a gentle laugh before shaking his head, his eyes lingering again on your figure. Whatever this feeling was, and whatever it does to him, he does not want it to stop. He gestures a little as his grip on you by his tail ushers you forwards.

“Come here, lay with me, beasty.”

As you do so, his tail uncoils itself from your arms. His head had readjusted so it would lay on your chest with your body underneath him. 

You began to scratch his ears and card your fingers through his smooth thick locks of hair. Leona almost purred due to the sensation if he let himself give into it, maybe he would if it was any other day.

“I didn't think you were the type to like this. Though again, maybe I don't know you well enough then.”

“Maybe so.. You know, this is all new to me.. but I don't hate it.”

Sure, maybe it was because it was something other than the usual feelings of annoyance, bitterness, and hatred when it came to different aspects of his life as the second born prince or being the current housewarden of savanaclaw. But maybe, just maybe, it was simply because it was you. You and your whole being. The way you see him as not only a prince but just him, as a beastman and like any other his kind, just Leona. 

 “So.. you do like it?”

“Don't push your luck, beasty.”

His gaze adores you in so many absolute ways as he spoke. Resting his head on your chest, leaning into your touch with a hidden smile on his lips as he buries his face into you. Maybe just maybe, he'll let you make him vulnerable, just this once. 

“.. I just like having you around. i like it way more than I should.”

[nlleri]

warnings: established relationship, rough sex, praising, make-up sex, names — doll, sweet doll, baby, dirty talking.

[ 💌 ] — english is not my first language, so please excuse my poor grammar. enjoy!

The moment 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞 lost his grasp with you, he began to hallucinate; as if you were there. But you weren't. You're probably in the club with your friends, accompanying you after the bullshit he did to you; giving you a silent treatment. Blade was so starved with your touch, the feeling of your warm lips marking his skin, your skin that he longed for long every morning, wanting you so badly.

He yearned for you until he couldn't handle without you in his arms; grabbing his car keys as he drove to your complex. Rushing himself inside of your apartment, but what are his rights to barge into someone who despise him? So he waited.

Blade rang your doorbell, awaiting for the door to open and see you again.

"𝐘𝐞𝐬?" A voice rang in his ears, snapping back to normal as he saw you, your body covered with bath towel. His eyes widened, needing to wrap his arms around your waist and smash his lips into you already.

"Oh, Blade. What made you come here?"

"I want you."

"Couldn't survive a day without me, no?"

"I want you, right now."

"And is that my concern?" You teased, about to close the door, but Blade barged in, grabbing your waist as he leaned in closer to whisper. "𝐘𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬, 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐨 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐟'𝐦𝐞.. 𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐧���� 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥."

You couldn't answer, too shocked to respond as he closed the door.. well maybe 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐨𝐫. As Blade pushed you on your couch, his fingers made its way to uncover your glory body. His mouth watering from how beautiful you are. His eyes darted lower until he saw your heating and dripping region, his pant grew a tent immediately as he unbuckled his belt and kicked off his pants, leaving him on his hardened shaft. Your glinting hole watered even more, aching for it to be full of his cock. Your legs kicked, needy to be touched and be full of his brim. "Sweet doll, do you even need preparation? You're already dripping so prettily like that." Blade groaned, his aching shaft longed for your sweet velvety walls to squeeze around him; never letting go.

You let out a whimper as he inserted his tip in your hole, slowly, yet eagerly to thrust it in one go. But he had to be patient, he wouldn't want to hurt your pretty little hole and see your tears cripple down. His shaft slowly disappearing into you as he thrusted in slowly, finding the rhythm. Blade missed this, and so did you. You cried out his name as he mercilessly pounded into your dripping cunt, already so full of him you think you can't even take his load. But you have to. Blade lets out a grunt and continued to pound your pussy, his orgasm ready to snap as he threw you some praises. "𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥, 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥." , "𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐩 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐤, 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐡𝐦𝐦?" , "𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐈 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫, 𝐬𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐭 𝐟'𝐦𝐞.. 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤! 𝐈'𝐦 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞!"

His cock twitched inside of you, moans and whimpers only formed in your mouth, you barely can speak a word from how hazy and dizzy you are from this overwhelming pleasure you feel. You're close too, your walls clenched around him the last time as his seed painted your walls white. Your cum mixing with his in your overflowing cunt. You panted, arching your back for the last time as you collapsed in your messy couch.

"𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥."

[daenysthedreamersblog]

NOTHING MATTERS

And you can hold me like he held her

And I will fuck you like nothing matters

little AU!!! of my strangers fic inspired by link & link

summary: president snow takes reproductive matters into his own hands

pairings: president!snow x district6! reader

warnings: MDNI!! BLOOD!, smut, p in v sex, infertility, lil period sex (saltburn possessed me for a sec), breeding kink, lil breastfeeding kink (who made me do that??), pregnancy kink, murder

notes: WHO MADE ME WRITE THIS!! i hate pregnancy tropes 🫢 ... anywho enjoy tho. 'nothing matters' - the last dinner party

President Snow had your cycles down to a tee. With whatever birth control he shoved in your arm it had somewhere along the way regulated them to be able to track, to predict, to control.

You didn't mind; you enjoyed the formalization he had established for your life. You stopped worrying about them coming sporadically and without warning because he always knew. He would have supplies dropped off with a vase of white roses and it would come soon after like the floral scent triggered it to start.

It didn't stop him from fucking you.

No, of course not.

He would feast on you, blood coating his chin and chest before sliding inside of you savoring the extra lubrication. You yearned for it.

Time had gone by and your life was easy. He took care of everything, you, your body, sucked the rot right out of you, as long as you were good, you were safe.

Livia was still there, somewhere deep in the house, sometimes listening. She stopped having dinner with the two of you and you chalked it up to maybe he had finally gotten her pregnant; her purpose served.

But you never heard a baby cry.

You would wait and listen to hear something of that sort, but the house was still so quiet. He must have moved her, moved them away, somewhere else where they couldn't find you. He could keep up his public image and you would live out your days here in a routine.

Then one day, while pruning roses in his garden, you heard the door open. You heart skidded, wetness seeped out of you, so you knew it was him. He was home earlier than usual. You waited, waited for him to come for you and soon enough his hands trailed down your arms. He brushed your hair to the side kissing up your neck, "My good little bluebell," He murmured into your skin. "I need you to do something for me." You blinked upward staring at the rows of pretty white flowers some rock forming in your chest. "You can do that can't you?" You found yourself nodding, not even knowing what you were agreeing to, but that's how things were between the two of you; blind obedience. "That's my good girl." He reached down, pulled something from his pocket. "Open." You obeyed feeling him pour a liquid into your mouth. Before you could even turn blackness engulfed you.

It was blurry, and painful as someone scratched at your skin. There was blood and voices, and he was there staring down at you, you felt yourself reaching for him. Then you felt him between your legs that blissful pleasure ricocheting through you. It was all that mattered.

You woke up next to him naked and sore.

You curled into his warm skin feeling his fingers twitch against you and you closed your eyes, safe and normal once more. Life was easy, he made sure of that, as long as nothing changed.

Months went by and he seemed more aggressive than ever fucking into you wildly. He even began to come home mid day to fuck you and then go back to work. You didn't mind as his tongue lapped you up, as he pushed into you, cumming hard and deep never letting a single drop spill out of you. He would sit there for a while between your legs staring at his cum oozing from you and then he would shove it all back in and leave.

You didn't think anything of it until one day supplies showed up for your impending cycle, the sweet scent of roses filled your nose, but blood never leaked out of you.

Maybe it was the wrong day, he seemed distracted, frustrated with work no doubt. You did often hear him yelling at someone far off in the house some days. You ran your fingers across the soft petals and took the supplies in the bathroom to leave there.

But another week had passed and nothing came.

Unopened boxes sat in your hands as panic erupted in your chest. The implant must be malfunctioning or expired to cause the tardiness of your cycle, but the feeling dragged in your bones. You glanced up in the mirror, blurry eyes going to your stomach. It wasn't possible, it wasn't right. Your body had betrayed you again. He would be so angry with you, this wasn't supposed to happen, you had done something wrong. You fought the urge to dig your claws into yourself to tear it out, rip it from your stomach. It was an abomination, an antichrist that would butcher you.

Instead you stood there and cried.

You flinched when he opened the door, "You're late."

Your eyes quivered as you looked at him through the mirror, "I'm sorry." Don't stutter. "Mr. President, sir."

He shook his head a satisfied smile in his face where you expected cold rage, "Such a good girl." He walked forward, "I knew you could do it." You watched him, his eyes trained on your womb and you wanted to ask him to get rid of it so you could return to your never changing routine, but that thought nagged at you, clamping your lips shut. Your mind had betrayed you as well. His hand was pulling up the dress you wore slowly turning your body as his hand laid across your stomach.

He kissed your shoulder before bending you over the bathroom sink to plunge his cock into you. Your unused supplies got knocked to the floor with each brutal thrust of him and you gripped the cold counter moaning his name like you always would. You watched him in the mirror, watched that little stray curl fall into his face as his hands reached around to cup your sore breast. And even knowing the consequences it had caused you, you still loved his cum inside you.

"This shouldn't..." You chewed on your tongue as he walked you to bed. "I did something wrong. Won't people be mad at me?"

He stroked a hand down your head, "Nobody will know."

"Are you mad at me?"

"No." He shook his head tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, "You've been so good to me."

You blinked up at him. "Your wife..."

His eyes narrowed in anger and you looked down. "No longer a concern."

But wasn't she? This wasn't supposed to happen with you. Livia was his wife, Livia had to give him children, Livia...

Livia was infertile.

You learned that when he brought the doctor to confirm what beast was growing inside you. They had tried for two years, and never were able to conceive. So, he drugged you, ripped the implant out of your arm, and now you sat staring at the small gestational sac flickering on the screen. You had agreed to let him do this, remembered nodding your head without question because that was what was expected of you. You belonged to him, your mind and body, it wouldn't have matter if you had willingly agreed or not, the choice was an illusion. Tears welled in your eyes, bile rising in your throat and you flew forward reaching for the trash can to throw up into.

A hand rubbed your back. You threw up again.

"Are you happy?" He asked while the two of you sat in that empty room the sound of its vicious strong heart beat echoing in your head.

You didn't know what to feel. You felt ashamed, you felt wrong. You had been content fucking him, hating him, being fed and watered like a pretty flower in his greenhouse. You wanted to beg him to take it out, it made your insides roil and burn, it changed what you had been comfortable knowing. But you had always wanted Coriolanus Snow to live inside you, and now it always would be, growing within you, altering your DNA.

"Yes Mr. President, sir." Was the only answer you knew he would take.

He kissed your shoulder, "I knew you would be." A hand splayed on your belly, "My darling bluebell."

So, a few months later you found yourself once again pruning the roses half-way through an uneventful pregnancy. President Snow doted on you more than usual, bringing you flowers everyday, supplying you with more food once you were able to keep it down. He changed your wardrobe to accommodate your growing womb, he loved seeing how big you were getting each passing week, loved fucking you even more. Sometimes he would make you stand there naked just so he could look at you and you round stomach.

It would be over soon, you looked forward to that day, when they would take the baby from you and you would never have to see what tore its way out of you. You could return to normalcy, relishing in the predictably of your life with him.

The greenhouse door opened, shut and locked. Something was off, you knew by the way your body failed to react. "He finally did it." Her cold voice stilled your corrupted heart.

You turned slowly to see her, her red eyes going to your bump. She looked unwell, gaunt, exhausted and sad. "Mrs. Snow." You responded. You thought she was dead, maybe she was.

"I kept telling him if we could just try I would be able to give him children." She took a step closer and the hair stood up on your arm. "But he insisted on artificial insemination." Livia sneered, "Because of you. He wouldn't fuck me because of you." Your eyes darted around the room looking for an escape. "He married me, he chose me."

"Mrs. Snow..."

She slapped you across the face, "Don't even dare. You think you're so special, winning the games, letting him fuck you like the whore you are. You disgust me." She was seething your eyes finally catching on the long steak knife in her pale hands. "That's my baby." She pushed you back, your back hitting the table holding your tender flowers.

You braced for the pain, braced for the sharp edge cutting through you.

But all you felt was a kick.

Time stilled, your mind narrowing in on the feeling of it rolling and twisting inside of you, clawing at your organs, punching your ribs. It's small little foot kicked you again, your heart stuttered with the abuse adoration refilling disgust. It wasn't an abomination at all, it was everything you had ever idolized, once hated, once loved. It was just like it's father, stealing your body, blood, and bone; your heart beat for it.

You were a victor, you were his victor.

Warmth spilled down your hand and you met Livia's wide eyes. You both looked down at the shears you buried deep in her stomach.

Then you were running for the door yanking at the locked handle as her hand wrapped into your hair pulling you back. Your back slammed into the table once more glass shattering around you as red oozed out of her.

"If I can't have it neither can you."

Another reassuring kick in tandem with your heart beat and you were moving as you picked up the nearest potted plant to throw at her watching her stumble forward, a rage driving her movements.

She tackled you to the ground hands ripping out the shears to hold over your head.

"You're nothing but a savage." She was crying her tears and blood dripping onto you.

The greenhouse door flew open. "Livia." He was coming to save you once more and the little thing inside you somersaulted.

She looked back at him, "Coryo! This isn't fair! If we could just try! I can give you children please! We can be happy...I know it."

"Get off of her. Now." He gritted out.

She shook her head, "We can grow to love each other too...if you just try...with me, not her."

You wanted to tell her, explain, there was no love between the two of you. It was raw possession and starvation and hatred that kept you glued beside him. It was insanity and corruption that burned through your souls intwining them together in a pretty blood stained ribbon.

He glared, "Enough."

"No! No!" She screamed as you lie stagnant under her. "I'll tell everyone! Leak it to the news what you keep here, who your children really belong to. You'll be ruined." Her rage melted into sadness. "It's supposed to be me." She looked back down at you, "Why would he want you."

You heard the click of guns, but your hand had wrapped around the knife's handle your lips pulling back to bare your teeth, a snake poised to strike.

"Because I'm his good girl."

You slashed the knife across her throat a warm red river spurting over you from the open wound. Her body collapsing on top of you instantly, blood soaking into you, and this time you didn't wait for him to move it, you shoved her to the side hands going to caress your stomach as that little life rolled within you.

He came forward staring down at you covered in his dead wife's blood. He bent down holding your chin with two fingers, "You are." A stroke of his thumb, "My darling girl."

You surged forward to kiss him feeling him pull your drenched body to him, wrapping your legs around him as he went to the nearest table. In one swift swipe of his hand plants clattered to the floor as he laid your body down in a bed of ruined white roses. He was ripping down the middle of your dress to tear the fabric off your body as you did the same to his feeling him climb onto the table above you.

His hand went between your thighs, fingers shoving into you, stretching you open, palm pressed against your clit, hips bucking to meet his thrust. You stare at him as he watches his hand disappear inside your needy cunt. His mouth goes to your breast, sucking and nipping at the swollen flesh watching as milk slowly starts to leak from the tips.

He stares down at it for a moment, blood and milk covering your chest, before running his tongue along it again. His mouth wraps around it sucking harshly and you moan fingers running through his hair. His hand moves faster pressing down on your clit more and soon enough your clenching down around his fingers as he throws you over your peak.

You tilt your hips up to let him slide in deeper whining out when he's fully seated inside you clawing at him as he thrust in and out of you viciously. His teeth graze against your jaw as he rolls his body along you, hands sliding down to rest against his side. You nip at his ear feeling his pants growing louder near your face. You feel conjoined, connected between bodies and soul and you find yourself running a soft hand down the back of his head.

"Do you still hate me?" He breaths out grinding his body hard into yours.

You can't answer.

He smirks, "I want you to give me more," He hooks an arm under you thrusting into you faster. "I want a little litter, breed that good little obedience into them hmm?" Your toes curl against him, "You want to give me that right? Give me however many I want?"

"Please," You whine against his throat.

He slides his hand between your bodies, skin slick with drying blood, running circles around your clit as his dick hits every good spot within you. Your body alights with pleasure as he brings your closer to the edge. "That's my good girl."

You squeeze your eyes and cum, pussy clamping down around him. His fingers grip your scalp as his thrust quicken, his grunts getting faster until he finally spills inside of you.

He stays within you as you whisper into his skin, "Coriolanus." He goes stiller above you, "It's a boy."

"A boy." His lips twitched against you, it almost feels involuntary.

He glances down at you a certain lightness to his blue eyes. He's everything. Him. This consumption, this primal need and obsession, this hatred and worship. He's everything. He's given you everything, even a darling baby boy.

He's got your eyes and Coriolanus's curly blond hair. He's precious and all you ever needed, but you still wanted more, craved more. You watched him play with a toy train set as you bobbed your daughter against your knee.

"Dada," She cooed watching as he stepped into the room two white roses in his hand.

He bent down to hand one to her the small little smile on his face as the sweet scent filled the room. Then he tucks the other behind your ear, "One for each of my favorite girls." He asked a hand reaching out to splay against your ever-growing womb. "How are you?"

"Hungry." Your eyes darkened as you meet his.

You set your daughter down sending the nanny in to watch over them as Coriolanus pressed a hand to your back leading you back to your room.

You can barely keep your clothes on before the door closes, greedily pressing your self against him, mouths heavy and hot with teeth and tongues.

This is everything. He's everything. He's all consuming. Nothing else matters.

Even when the cold comes crashing through

I'm putting all my bets on you

I hope they never understand us

I put my heart inside your palms

My home in your arms

Now we know nothing matters

notes: hope you enjoyed! im not super thrilled with this snow ended up being WAY too nice lmaoo but i remembered him being rly sweet (well his version of it) to his granddaughter in THG and i was like ya know what hes a psycho but he would adore his kids lmao

but yea this is such an AU snow and reader would never have children in my OG story :)

[ysaefinn]

okay one last thing, but i feel like suguru would absolutely thrive with a reader who’s mute (whether its selective or stems from something else)! it gives him the excuse to be extra doting!

it allows him to be more thorough in how he cares for you; trying to figure out your needs throughout the day just results in him studying your every move for awhile until he has your routine down to a science.

he knows a twitch of your brow means you’re probably irritated and he’s leading you to his study so you can decompress. the little pout you wear indicates that you’re under-stimulated and in need of something to occupy your boredom, and next thing you know, he’s whipping out a puzzle for the two of you to do. you’re climbing in his lap a little bit after noon? he knows you’re starting to yearn for a nap.

or maybe you’re just frustrated with yourself for not being able to communicate with suguru in what society deems a ‘normal way’. but don’t you worry, sugu is kneeling in front of you to wipe away those pesky tears, to graze his fingers against your cheek, and to whisper sweet nothings, reassuring you that “mommy knows his baby” and that he’ll “figure it out for the both of you.”

— 🍎

Cw: Infantilization, mommy!suguru

Applenon..hold me..i fear no one will ever outfreak you when it comes to mommy!suguru..god you get him SO well...

WHAT IS GRACING MY INBOX??????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You cooked ONCE MORE, YET another reader who would feed more into his mother complex, you're playing a dangerous game making him feel THAT special, holding him THAT close to you. And yet how could you not? With the way he has you all figured out, he's just so attentive, he knows exactly what you need even if you disagree with him, he's still going to proceed with what HE feels is right, you're just a baby to him!!! You didn't know any better!!!! Just let mommy take care of everything!!!! Suguru really hypnotizes you into an irreversible state of dependence, he makes you feel so soft and warm and safe, you'll just never stop sinking deeper huh?

The last part applenon T^T GOD your tears would hurt him so good UGH, look he hates seeing you sad but just absolutely lives to chase the sadness away, actually fucking banging my head on every solid surface in my vicinity rn "mommy knows his baby" ANON ARE YOU TRYING TO SEND ME TO THE ER!?!??!!?!!?? Oh my god you get me so well..you understand...you understand, "he'll figure it out for both of you" THE WYA HE WOULD WKWVKWGSKVSKSVSKDHDKBD HE HANDLES EVERYTHING HE TAKES CARE OF EVERYTHING HE DOESN'T EVEN WANT YOU TO THINK JUST LEAVE THAT TO HIM TOO

[songbirdsanctuary]

Gentle Preenings

So I think I've been on a wing preening roll lately?? Oh well, I find it cute. 🤷‍♀️

Also I think I gave Scar leaf-speak like the LeafWings, also Butterscotch-cinnamon pie, Iykyk.

Warnings: None unless you consider fluff a warning.

Word count: 2,838

Scar was in his cozy snail starter base, carefully moving around some chests and clutter. The place was a proper mess, with items scattered across the floor in haphazard piles, but the sweet scent of freshly baked butterscotch-cinnamon pie filled the air, making the chaos feel a little more bearable. The pie was cooling on the counter, and its warmth seemed to blend perfectly with the earthy, woodsy smell that always lingered in his base.

He took a deep breath, stretching his arms high above his head, feeling the familiar pull of tension in his muscles after all the rearranging. As he lowered his hands, his eyes landed on a spot in the corner of his room that he felt could use more greenery. It was a bit bare, and Scar, always a lover of nature, couldn't help but feel that some extra leaves would brighten the place up. His base was made out of a tree, he helped it grow and never chopped it down.

As a tree elf and cat hybrid, Scar had a special connection to plants. He could communicate with them in ways others couldn't—his elf nature allowed him to speak to the roots and leaves, understanding their needs, their wants. So, with gentle fingers, he placed his hand on the wall where the roots of a plant were growing. He closed his eyes, focusing on the whispering connection he shared with the greenery.

"Hey there," he murmured softly, his voice barely more than a breath. "Think you can grow few more leaves here? I help you, grow strong." He had to speak in the simple way the trees spoke.

He could feel the plant respond, a gentle tug of life in its roots. ‘Sunlight?’ the plant whispered back through their connection, a soft, yearning voice.

Scar smiled, his heart warming at the familiar interaction. "Yes, plenty of sunlight. I make sure you get water too," he promised. He could feel the plant's excitement, its energy buzzing through him as small buds began to form along the bare stem.

‘Yes... grow... water now?’ the plant asked, eager for nourishment.

With a chuckle, Scar grabbed a nearby cup of water and carefully poured it over the roots. The leaves seemed to stretch out, unfurling with joy as the water soaked into the soil. They shifted and shimmered in the light, radiating a sense of happiness that only Scar could feel.

"That's it," Scar said softly, patting the stem. "Grow strong, grow tall." He watched as the plant flourished before his eyes, filling the once empty space with fresh, vibrant leaves.

Scar’s ear flicked at the sound of a gentle knock on his newly replaced door. It was still a bit strange to hear it, considering how often it had gone missing thanks to some playful or mischievous thieves. He smiled to himself, grateful this time it seemed like a guest and not someone trying to make off with his door again.

"Come in!" Scar called, his voice bright and welcoming. He always enjoyed having company. The door creaked open, and Grian's head poked in. Scar’s smile faltered for a brief moment when he noticed the uncomfortable look on his friend’s face.

“Scar…” Grian started, hesitating at the doorway. He shuffled his feet awkwardly, his usual confident demeanor replaced with something more anxious. “Can you help me with something?”

“Of course! What do you need help with?” Scar’s response was immediate, his eyes following Grian as he stepped fully into the room. As he came closer, Scar noticed something off about Grian’s wings. Normally, they were impeccably maintained, each red, blue, and gold feather shining with care. But today, they looked a little unkempt—dirtied in places, and they twitched every few seconds as though Grian was trying to get comfortable but couldn’t.

Grian stopped just in front of Scar, looking down at the floor. "Can you help me preen my wings?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. His wings fluttered slightly at his sides as he fidgeted. "I… I can’t reach the feathers on the back." He still wouldn’t look Scar in the eyes, his expression embarrassed, like asking for help with something so personal was a struggle.

Scar’s heart melted at the sight of his friend like this. Grian looked so small, so vulnerable. Scar gently placed a hand on Grian’s cheek, lifting his face so their eyes could meet. “Hey, it’s okay,” Scar murmured reassuringly. “I’d be glad to help you.”

Grian’s cheeks flushed a deep red at Scar’s touch, and he quickly stepped away, clearly embarrassed by his own vulnerability. He nodded shyly and made his way over to Scar’s bed, sitting down on the edge and hesitantly opening his wings. His feathers unfurled in a broad, colorful display, and Scar could see more clearly now the little bits of dirt and debris trapped within them.

Scar followed, sitting down behind Grian and taking in the sight of the wings spread out before him. They were magnificent—bold, crimson feathers with hints of gold, the colors so rich they seemed to glow even in the dim light of the room. For a moment, Scar was a little awestruck.

But then reality hit him. “Soo… I’ve never preened wings before,” Scar admitted with a sheepish laugh. “I mean, I’ve seen False and Wels clean theirs, but I’ve never actually done it myself. I’m not really sure how to start.”

Grian sighed, his wings drooping slightly. “It’s not that complicated. Just… remove any broken or bent feathers, and clean out any dirt or debris that’s stuck in there. It’ll be fine.” He shifted his wings again, clearly trying to relax, but Scar could sense the tension in his body.

“Remove the feathers?” Scar asked, his brow furrowing in concern. “But won’t that hurt? I don’t want to hurt you.” The thought of causing Grian pain made his stomach twist a little.

“It’ll hurt more if they don’t get removed,” Grian said softly, though his voice held a note of reassurance. “It’s part of the process.”

Scar nodded, swallowing his hesitation as he placed a hand on one of Grian’s wings. He gently ran his fingers through the feathers, feeling for any that were bent or broken. After a moment, he found a feather that felt out of place—its shaft cracked and fragile beneath his fingers. Scar took a deep breath and, doing his best to be gentle, carefully tugged the feather free.

Grian let out a soft chirp, but didn’t flinch away. Encouraged, Scar continued, slowly working through the feathers, removing anything broken or bent while picking out dirt, leaves, and small bits of debris that had gotten caught in the plumage. As he worked, Grian kept making soft chirping and trilling noises, sounds that Scar found both soothing and oddly cute.

Despite the gentleness of his movements, Scar noticed how tense Grian remained, his shoulders tight and his wings stiff. Wanting to help his friend relax, Scar moved his hands to the soft down at the base of Grian’s wings, near his neck. With practiced ease, he began to massage the delicate feathers, his fingers working through the soft, plush down.

Grian’s trills grew louder, and Scar could feel the tension start to melt away beneath his hands. Grian’s shoulders slumped, his body finally relaxing into the soothing touch. His wings began to unfurl further, spreading wide as Scar continued his careful ministrations.

“There we go,” Scar murmured, smiling to himself as Grian relaxed completely into his care. The trust Grian was placing in him, letting him preen and massage his wings, filled Scar with warmth. Grian may have been embarrassed at first, but now, he looked peaceful. Scar took his time, ensuring every feather was as perfect as possible, feeling a deep connection to his friend as they shared this quiet, intimate moment.

Though Grian was somewhat relaxed, Scar had a playful idea. With a mischievous grin, he placed one free hand against the smooth wooden wall of his base, connecting to the tree that had grown to become his home. It wasn’t just any tree—it was a passion fruit tree, and Scar knew just how to coax it into doing something special.

“Hey there,” Scar whispered through their shared connection. “You grow a single fruit? In front the scarlet macaw?”

The tree hummed back at him, its roots vibrating faintly beneath his palm. ‘Just one? You promise water so I do?’ it asked, its voice soft and patient like the rustle of leaves in the wind.

Scar smiled warmly at the familiar negotiation. “Promise. I get you water later if you do this.”

Satisfied with the deal, the tree responded with a gentle creaking sound, and Scar watched in awe as a branch slowly extended from the roof above them. Leaves rustled quietly as the branch reached down, and soon, a single golden-orange passion fruit began to grow. It ripened before Scar’s eyes, plumping up until it gleamed like a jewel hanging from the ceiling. It looked exstra juciy.

Grian’s eyes widened in amazement when he saw the fruit appear, his wings giving a soft twitch of excitement. He glanced over at Scar with a look of surprise and wonder, as if he wasn’t sure if it was meant for him. Scar nodded in encouragement, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

With a little more confidence now, Grian looked back at the fruit and carefully reached up to pluck it from the branch. His fingers brushed against the smooth skin of the fruit, and for a moment, he simply held it in his hands, as though savoring the beauty of the moment.

“Thank you,” Grian said softly, his voice filled with appreciation. Scar just smiled, content to see Grian’s tension finally melting away as the vibrant colors of the passion fruit mirrored the bright red hues of his feathers.

The tree, satisfied with its work, gave one last content hum, and Scar could feel the warmth of its life spreading through the walls of the base. He patted the wood affectionately. "I'll get you that water soon," he whispered quietly, happy to see that Grian was feeling just a bit better.

Grian bit into the passion fruit, savoring the sweet, tangy juice that burst across his tongue. As a macaw avian, fruit was his favorite thing in the world, and Scar knew it. He closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the taste. There was something calming about it—each bite made him feel a little more at peace, the stress of the day gradually melting away.

While Grian was distracted by the fruit, Scar finished removing the last few bits of dirt from his wings, setting them down carefully on the small pile of feathers and debris that had accumulated on the floor. "All done!" Scar announced cheerfully, his voice breaking the quiet of the room.

Grian jumped slightly, startled by the sudden sound. He had been so absorbed in eating the passion fruit that he hadn’t noticed Scar finishing. He chuckled softly at himself as he continued to pick at the fruit, methodically splitting it open to reach the seeds inside. Scar watched with a fond smile; this was a side of Grian he always found endearing. Grian had a habit of carefully inspecting each fruit he ate, and now, as Scar often saw him do, he began to pick out and eat the seeds one at a time, making sure they were safe before he dug into the rest of the fruit.

Scar leaned back, watching Grian with a warm, contented expression. As Grian finally finished picking through the seeds and took the last bite of the juicy flesh, he turned to check his wings. A small smile of satisfaction crossed his face as he noticed how much cleaner and neater they looked now that Scar had helped him preen.

Before Grian could say anything, Scar shifted behind him, sliding his hands up to gently massage his shoulders and neck. His thumbs pressed softly into the tense muscles, working out the knots with care. Grian sighed deeply, his whole body relaxing under Scar's touch. Slowly, Grian leaned back against Scar, letting himself sink into the warmth and comfort of his friend’s presence as he continued to enjoy the lingering sweetness of the fruit on his tongue.

When Grian finally finished the last of his passion fruit, he turned around to face Scar, a look of gratitude and something softer in his eyes. Without saying a word, he shifted forward, sitting down in Scar’s lap. It was a quiet, tender gesture—something they didn’t do often, but in moments like this, it felt right. Grian pressed his face against Scar’s chest, nestling into him like a bird seeking shelter. Scar instinctively wrapped his arms around Grian, holding him close.

They sat like that for a long moment, the silence between them filled with warmth and the steady rhythm of their breathing. Scar gently stroked Grian’s back, the tips of his fingers brushing against the soft down that covered the base of his wings. Grian’s eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a contented hum, feeling completely safe in Scar’s embrace.

Scar couldn’t help but smile. These quiet moments of connection, when the rest of the world seemed to fade away, were the ones he cherished most. And as he held Grian close, he felt an overwhelming sense of peace wash over him, knowing that his friend was here, safe, and happy in his arms.

.

.

.

After a little while, Scar spoke up, his voice breaking the comfortable silence. “Hey, Grian, how do you normally preen the back of your wings if you can’t reach? Don’t avians need to preen every two to three weeks?”

Grian, still resting in Scar’s embrace, hummed softly, considering his answer. “When I first joined,” he began quietly, “I would ask Xisuma for help. I didn’t trust anyone with my wings at the time. They’re... delicate, and letting someone that close, well, it’s personal. X understood that. He was always careful, always patient with me.” Grian paused for a moment, his voice carrying the weight of those early days when trust wasn’t so easily given.

“There was one day, though,” Grian continued, “when X was too busy, and my wings were in desperate need of preening. I’d been becoming really good friends with Mumbo by then, so I trusted him to help. It wasn’t easy at first. Letting someone else handle your wings—it’s kind of like letting them hold a piece of you, something vulnerable. But Mumbo was careful too. He took his time, and eventually, I relaxed. Since then, I’ve asked him or X when I need help.”

Grian shifted slightly in Scar’s arms, his wings twitching a bit as he spoke. “But today... they were both busy, and I really, really needed it done. My wings were driving me crazy. So, I thought I’d ask you.” He yawned softly, exhaustion catching up to him after the long day.

“Thanks for doing that for me,” Grian murmured, his voice warm and sincere.

Scar beamed, his fingers absentmindedly tracing soothing circles on Grian’s back. “Anytime! I’m happy to help you, G.”

There was a brief pause before Scar added, “Oh, and I know you just ate, but I made a pie earlier. Do you want some?”

Grian let out a sleepy trill in response, his eyelids already drooping as he looked up at Scar. The sound was soft, content—like a bird settling down after a long flight. Scar chuckled at the sound, his heart melting at the sight of Grian’s tired but happy expression.

“Okay, okay,” Scar said with a quiet laugh, brushing a strand of hair away from Grian’s face. “We’ll nap first, but after that, I’ll get you some pie.”

Before Grian could respond, Scar leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, a tender and lingering moment that made Grian’s heart flutter. Grian responded with a gentle sigh, sinking even further into Scar’s embrace, his head resting against Scar’s chest once more. The warmth of the moment, combined with the gentle rise and fall of Scar’s breathing, lulled Grian into a peaceful state of relaxation.

Scar smiled as he looked down at him, his own eyes feeling heavy now. The sound of Grian’s soft breathing and the comfort of their closeness made everything else feel distant, unimportant. For now, there was only this—this quiet, shared space where they could both just be.

As Scar held Grian close, he closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of peace that came with having his friend so near. “Nap now, pie later,” he whispered in the simple way the spoke to trees, though he wasn’t sure if Grian had already drifted off to sleep.

And for a while, they simply rested together, wrapped up in the warmth of each other's company, knowing that when they woke, there would be more moments like this—simple, soft, and full of quiet affection.

[gaydr0id]

Refreeze

Getting caught on a kiss cam with your gay situationship is complicated, especially if you are a professional hockey player and the other guy is your coach.

(written in collaboration with @brokskar as a sequel to his human hockey au. reading that is not required to understand this, but you should anyway.)

Ship: Simon/Markus

Words: 1,382

Rating: T (vague mentions of sex)

Markus's gaze follows the puck as it speeds across the rink, darting between his teammates while they expertly dodge the opposing team. His limbs twitch as he watches the game, reacting to the play. His body is too light sitting on the bench without his pads, helmet, and skates, his skin too exposed to the chill arena air.

"What do you think?" asks Simon after the team breaks for the second intermission.

"I think I really miss the game," Markus replies.

"The game misses you too. We've only won half our games since your injury."

Markus fights the smile pulling at his lips. "Blaming that on me, huh?"

"Don't act humble now. I know you know you're my best shooter."

Markus can't keep holding back the smile when he hears that phrasing. Not the team's best shooter, his. "Maybe I just wanted to hear you say it."

Simon is leaning in close enough for Markus to smell the wintergreen gum he's chewing. His coach bending down to speak directly in his ear never felt this flirtatious before. The proximity is necessary to be heard in the crowded stadium.

Markus isn't the only one picking up on the energy between them. That is made horrifying clear when he glances up at the giant screen in the center of the arena. Simon notices the panic on Markus's face before he notices the jumbotron. His gaze travels from hazel eyes to an overblown display of the two of them surrounded by pixelated pink hearts and the words "kiss cam" printed in cursive. The coach glances back down to see his star player still frozen in place. Simon straightens up, scans the stadium for the camera responsible, and holds up his middle finger to it. Once the operator has moved on to victimise another pair of people in the stands Simon gives Markus a weak smile and a firm squeeze on the shoulder before retreating into the locker room.

Markus shakes his head, pulls out his phone, and does his best to appear unbothered. Simon doesn't return until the rest of the team does at the beginning of the third period. He stays distant for the rest of the game, standing on the opposite side of the bench from Markus, tucked into the collar of his fleece, staying fully focused on the ice. Markus tries to do the same but he just can't focus, watching the game but not really processing it, anxiously eyeing Simon in his periphery. He is all too aware of the missing presence by his side and is slightly ashamed of how much he yearns for it. As much as Markus may find Simon's hovering annoying he finds it comforting too. A comfort he needs right now.

The game ends scoreless putting the Crimson Sharks into an overtime shootout against the Steelheads. What would normally be a thrilling development feels more like a punishment. Twitching that once was anticipation to get back on the ice has become anticipation to leave the rink. Markus can't stand having eyes on him anymore. He wants to be alone but he also really doesn't. One thing is clear and it's that he needs to get out of here.

The parking lot is quiet. He should leave now, beat the traffic, but instead Markus sits in his Bentley and stares into the night. A few minutes pass before he decides to call North.

"Hey hot stuff," answers a low pitched feminine voice.

"Hey," greets Markus.

"You doin' okay? You dont usually call."

"I don't know. Not really?"

"What's up?"

"There was a game tonight. I'm not back on the ice yet but I was watching from the bench, studying plays, you know."

North lets out a gentle, lighthearted laugh. "I don't, but go on."

Markus snorts. "It's honestly impressive that we've managed to be friends this long and you still don't know a single thing about hockey."

"Oh, that's quite intentional," teases North.

"Aw come on, I've shown interest in your career," says Markus, a manufactured whine in his tone.

"Men like you always do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Did you really call me to get psychoanalyzed?"

"No," replies Markus, the playful tone fading from his voice. "Something happened." He pauses and North is quiet, waiting for him to continue. "Between second and third Simon and I were talking and, I dont know, I guess he was getting too close because they put the kiss cam on us."

"Simon's the coach you're sleeping with?" North asks.

"We're not sleeping together, we just made out a little," clarifies Markus.

"What are you, a virgin?"

"North, I have done things to you that I am embarrassed to even say out loud," Markus returns.

"You are such a prude."

"I am not," defends Markus. "I'm just… Sexually shy."

"That's not how I remember it," notes North, adopting a sultry tone.

Markus is quiet for a moment. Maybe on another night he would let this conversation go where North wants to take it, but not tonight. "Can we please just talk about Simon?"

"Right, your middle school crush." No reply. "You really are upset about this, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Markus mutters in response. "When I saw us on the jumbotron… It felt like everybody knew."

"I mean so what, right? It's 2038. Isn't pansexual the new straight?"

"Yeah well hockey's about twenty years behind. Simon could lose his job if anybody found out about us. He knew exactly what to do and I… I just froze."

"Look, I can't really understand what you're going through but what I do know is that your sex life is your business. It should be your decision to show it to people, not some dickhead camera operator."

"Yeah… Thanks."

"Love you."

"Love you too," replies Markus. "Do you think I hurt his feelings? He avoided me for the rest of the game."

"I mean you said he could lose his job, right? I think he was just trying to keep some distance to avoid suspicion."

"You're right," says Markus with a sigh. "I'm overthinking it."

"You wanna come over? I ordered pizza."

"Not tonight."

"More wine for me," North resigns.

"Good night. Thanks for talking to me."

"Good niiight," North sing songs before hanging up.

When the call disconnects Markus notices a text from Simon: you ok?

ya, he replies.

Three dots start bouncing in the text log, showing that Simon is typing. can i come over?

Markus stares at the message for a full minute, heart beating in his chest. Why is he so nervous? Simon visits him all the time. He probably just wants to go over the game since Markus left early. sure, he replies.

have you eaten? i can bring dinner

no i haven't. thanks

Markus is lounging on the couch when Simon arrives. He sets his phone on the coffee table before getting up to answer the door. "Hey," he greets.

"Hey," Simon returns. He lingers on the stoop for a moment before stepping past Markus. His tablet is tucked under one arm while his other cradles a bag of takeout. "Living room or kitchen?"

"Kitchen," answers Markus.

He follows Simon down the hallway, who deposits the food on the counter before settling into a bar stool. Markus grabs two plates and forks before joining his coach. The two eat and go over the game but eventually they have to acknowledge the elephant in the room.

"I had a chat with that camera operator," says Simon.

"You didn't have to do that," replies Markus.

"He's lucky I didn't have him fired. That was very unprofessional."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Hey," Simon places his fingers oh so gently under markus's chin. It doesn't take any applied pressure to get Markus to meet his gaze. "How are you doing?"

"I don't know," markus answers, matching the other man's hushed tone.

Simon closes the distance between them, pressing his lips, butterfly light, against Markus's. Markus leans in, deepening the kiss. His arms want to reach out to the other man but he keeps them down, carefully maintaining his balance on the bar stool. This isn't the most practical position for them to be kissing in but neither of them care.

"Whatever happens, it's going to be ok," Simon assures.

And Markus believes him.

[peachymilkandcream]

Break Me Slowly|Part 22|Yandere Levi x Evelyn

(A/N: Happy New Year to all of my lovely followers! What a better way to kick off this year than with another chapter of Break Me Slowly. Tomorrow is the end of the holidays so I can get back into a proper writing schedule with MHMM coming out. As always I hope you enjoy and reply to this post to be added to the taglist!)

WARNINGS: noncon, dubcon, manipulation, domestic abuse, yandere themes, forced marriage, forced pregnancy, stockholm syndrome, violence, mind breaking, misogyny, etc.

==============================================

Her core burned for him, she was so needy she couldn't think straight. Had this separation taken a bigger toll on her than she thought? He was weak and wounded, she didn't have to do any of this, he couldn't force her to do anything, and yet she wanted it. He wasn't shredding the clothes from her body, she was taking them off willingly. She refused to let the momentum slow, noticing his interest in her bare chest and putting his hands on her. Levi pinched and squeezed, making her body clench on nothing, the wetness soaking through her panties.

Evelyn started to grind down on his hips, needing any friction to hold herself together. The rock hard bulge rose to meet her, instincts taking over as she rocked her hips faster.

A gasp caught in her throat when he took her nipple into his mouth, sucking, nibbling and flicking the hard point with his tongue. Each circle he made sent a jolt of desire straight to her cunt. She needed him, oh how she needed him.

Finally she pulled his face away from her breast, forcing her tongue into his mouth and earning a groan from the usually emotionless captain. He was letting her win this fight for authority, he wanted to see how much she wanted it. Most likely it was all ammo to be used in his manipulative arsenal but when he was this hard and she was this wet who the hell cared.

Their bodies belonged together. They yearned for each other. Maybe Levi was right, they were meant to be. Two assholes destined to kill and destroy anything in their path for the sake of winning this little game. They would burn the world to the ground if it meant triumph over the other and bragging rights. Perhaps the world should be afraid of Eldians, at this moment the fate of humanity was irrelevant compared to the passion and heat between them.

His dick was leaking in anticipation, desperate to be buried in her warm folds. Painfully hard and perfect, perfect to be deep inside her. Levi was so compliant and willing to let her have her way it was almost unnerving, so she hesitated, looking to him for permission.

"That's right, give in my dear."

All at once he's inside her, when she sits fully down on his hips he's so deep it feels like he's in her stomach. Evelyn can't help it, her body moves on its own, rocking with such desperation. Moans and gasps fall freely, her hands on his arms digging in to his flesh as all the sensations are too much.

He holds her steady, hands on hips guiding her to find a good rhythm. Every so often stilling her movements to sheath himself as deep as possible, ensuring she feels every inch and vein. Praises come from him when she's willing, calling her a good girl and encouraging her to do more.

She jumps and tries swatting his hand away when his thumb finds her clit, every jerk of the hips rubbing his digits against that bundle of nerves. He keeps his finger pressed firmly, determined to drive her over the edge and squeezing every drop of cum out of him.

All at once the familiar warm tingle washes over her entire body, making her ride him feverishly to continue the high for as long as possible. Her moans loud enough anyone could hear as she cries out his name over and over, as if begging him to stop and begging him to keep going all at once.

When she's through his dick twitches inside her as his cum fills her, his breathing slowly returning to normal when she collapses onto his chest.

As touch starved as he was, Levi desired nothing more than Evelyn willingly in his arms, holding her tight and kissing her forehead. "That's my girl."

===============================================

The return to camp was awkward to say the least. Evidently even in a forest of this size passionate sex would not go unnoticed. For fear of their hide no one would dare mention it however.

Reiner especially seemed distraught. Deep down he believed that what they had done was forced by the ruthless Captain and poor Evelyn was threatened to take care of his lust. The look of pure satisfaction in her eyes a coincidence of course. One of these days he would wring that midget's neck and then Evelyn would be free, free to be his. They could both forget the war, and be happy. According to what Evelyn had said in Marley no one believed her plight, perhaps it was time to expose Levi for the monster he really was.

=============================================

Later that night Reiner fumed over the closeness husband and wife shared. With so many men present Levi seemed especially possessive, never once letting his hand leave her thigh, and taking turns glaring at all present to ensure no one would challenge his authority. Hange wasn't spared from his gaze either, even though she would never think of trying anything with a married woman, it seemed Levi wouldn't put it past even her. His attitude and arrogance sent Reiner over the edge, he couldn't take it anymore, Levi thought he could get away with anything because of his status and strength. Well now it was everyone against him with no legality standing in their way of teaching this runt a lesson.

"Something wrong Reiner?" Since it was Evelyn who asked, the sole burning gaze of hatred was settled on Reiner from Levi.

"It's nothing." He mumbled, dropping his eyes.

"Oh, well if you're sure."

The gaze of smug satisfaction on the Captain's face at Reiner's cowardice pushed him to speak up regardless.

"Actually, there is." He pauses, taking turns looking at everyone. "My problem is when a man can get away with raping a woman and holding her hostage while everyone commends him as a great hero."

The look of warning flashes in Levi's eyes, daring him to say anything more and promising a consequence.

"What are you talking about Reiner?" The barely hidden annoyance in Jean's voice just adds to Reiner's frustration at the naivety of his now comrades.

"I'm talking about your beloved Captain Levi. The measures he's taken to ensure Evelyn is a docile servant destined to wait on him hand and foot."

A look of shock comes to Evelyn's face, disbelief in the fact Reiner would attempt to expose Levi here and now of all places. Whereas the Captain's jaw twitched, moments away from publicly executing this insolent cur.

"I know you have some hard feelings against Levi for what happened to Bertholdt but that's a bit too far." Hange's frown signified her disproval of this sudden attack on her friend.

"It's not far enough. Words don't do justice the horrific torture that man has placed on an innocent woman. And you all defend him because he lies through his rotten teeth!"

"Reiner enough-" Evelyn's voice is weaker than he had ever hoped to hear, she was trying to protect him from Levi's wrath.

"I can't just sweep this under the rug Evelyn! After all he's done to you he deserves to be hung in front of everyone as they expose him for what he is!" He stands and points a finger at Levi, who is uncharacteristically calm. "Well!? Don't you have anything to say!?"

Levi sighs, as if too bored to deal with this. "Have you any evidence?"

"Evidence? I have your own wife's confession!" He forcibly softens his gaze and looks at Evelyn. "It's okay, you can tell them."

The silence is heavy, she looks between the two and then the rest of those gathered. Levi's eyebrow is raised, a silent threat but also curious as to what she'll do.

"Levi..." She hesitates, making up her mind. She could be free right now, someone believes her and would back her up. Or she could continue the life she's been living with this man.

Reiner gives her an encouraging smile, prompting her to speak.

Finally she sighs, her mind made up. "Levi is a loving husband, I couldn't ask for a better friend and confidant."

The Captain's face contorts in a smug grin, pleased with her response. Whereas Reiner's face falls into despair and disgust.

"He's threatening her to say that! Can't you see that she feels she has to say that?"

"Enough Reiner, you've lost. I'll forgive these insults you've hurled against me if you drop it right now."

"Forgive me? Don't waste your breath, this isn't over you bastard. I'll find some way to make sure you never see the light of day again." With that he storms off, causing Connie to call after him.

"Where are you going?"

"To find somewhere else to sleep, I wouldn't put it past that devil to slit my throat." He marches off, vowing under his breath to get even with that smug son of a bitch.

[tragedy-of-commons]

HI GWEN POOKIE CONGRATS ON 200 IM SO PROUD OF U !!! U DESERVE IT SM <33

can i req “who did this to you” + xiao + romantic

teehee 🫶

"Who did this to you?"

Xiao trembles with an energy he knows all too well. It's wispy and dark and miasmic, keening at the idea of tearing whoever or whatever roughed you up like this to shreds.

Despite your swollen eye and bruised knuckles, you only smile at him in response, not an iota of dejection swaying your form. It's one of the things about you that intrigues him, loathe as he is to admit it - you're never seen without a performance of bared teeth or stretched lips.

But even if you're unaffected, that doesn't change that you're hurt, that you've been threatened by some unknown force, and Xiao wasn't there to protect you--

"Well, hello to you too," you swallow, sensing his unease and repressed rage. "Um, nothing like that happened, promise! One of my friends is visiting in the area, and we decided to spar. Like old times."

Adeptus Xiao knows what sparring is, and he knows what injuries (maybe not mortal...) sustained from those lessons look like. He's fairly certain, despite you being his only human companion, that you're not supposed to be limping.

He can't touch you right now, as much as his impure heart flooded with sin yearns for it. Before he ever trusts himself to comfort you, he'll sit on his hands and remain still for centuries.

"This friend," he almost chews the syllables, "I require a name."

You purse your lips, looking out towards the melting skyline. "That's not how this works. He isn't a threat, okay? These are superficial wounds. Sometimes it just gets intense... if he'd gone easy on me, it'd ruin the whole point of the fight."

His eye twitches, and the voices recede, if only for a moment.

You are never without merit, despite how others may dismiss you. Xiao does know what it's like to be caught up in the throes of combat. Plus, you've tried to reason with him about 'how he gets'. Normally, being told off by a mortal would earn them his silent ire, but even he can't deny he feels like a scolded dog.

...but you are important to him, so he'll let it slide like he always does.

"If he truly wounds you," Xiao starts, considerate, "I need to know."

Blessed with your grin once more, you take a step closer. He's not scared of you, per se, but the Adeptus' hackles start to raise instinctually. What if he hasn't calmed down enough yet? Should he play it safe and go about his duties, if only to make sure none of his penance unjustly latches itself onto you?

Should he run the tip of his spear through every menace to Liyue, soaked in viscera, wracked with the phantoms of your injuries?

"Xiao," you whisper. "Listen to me."

No. He won't do that, because you're right here, and you are alive.

"I'll make sure to call you if that ever happens. I'm safe," he hears a bird cawing somewhere as you take ahold of his ring finger. Of course, it's devoid of any wedding band - customs such as that are below and of no use to him - but the gentle grip of your hand is close enough.

It's a silent promise; one that Xiao needn't repeat, but he will anyway.

You're fine - you're not to be taken from him. In order for you to trust him with your mundane secrets and joyous laughter, he needs to trust you to fight your own battles.

He only nods solemnly, recovering at his own pace. "Did you... achieve victory?"

Letting go of him, in a headache-inducing, booming voice, you boast, "Did you think I could show my face around here if I didn't?! These marks are nothing! You should've seen what he looked like after I wiped the floor with him! Honestly, all of my old pals have gone soft--"

Xiao is once again swept up in the whirlwind that is you. Curbing his overprotective instincts, your relationship is something he holds sacred. For as long as he's able, he wishes to relish in the dynamic, even if he's undeserving of it.

(...and perhaps also because he's a little concerned you may 'wipe the floor with him' too.)

🏷️: @akutasoda, @aviiarie, @lowkeyren

a/n: i hope you enjoy where i took this, ray! i know it's a bit shorter than average ^^" but i did enjoy writing xiao in this setting. your support means everything to me! silly yaksha. barely proofed since i'm sleepy...

event post here