#spice smuggling

[galacticgraffiti]

let me express the way i feel about this concept, this work of absolute ART the only way i know how:

thank you for your attention

may srsly you are a wonder and a marvel and every time you have an AU idea i immediately become so invested. you build these tiny worlds with such intricacies and so much care, and i just am in awe

How It All Started

Summary: Things between you and your roommate, Paz, escalate.

Pairing: roommate!Paz Vizsla x fem!Reader

Wordcount: 2.1k | Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: Modern AU, Free Use Arrangement AU, Roommate AU, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, (un)requited pining, dom!Paz, sub!Reader, Paz is an idiot in love (they both are), little bit of jealous Paz

Hello hello, my loves, and welcome to the start of a brand new series! This will be a drabble series with no strung-together plot but just the opportunity to dabble in this universe whenever I feel like it. We get to explore some different kinks and all the goodness and fluff of a Paz romance. If you are liking the idea of roommate!Paz paired with a Free Use AU, I can guarantee that you will absolutely fall in love with The Roommate Agreement by @bitchin-beskar. As always also a shoutout to @mostly-megan who lets me brainstorm literally months before I put anything on the page.

Without further ado, I present to you the introductory part of The Adventures of Apartment 23C. Please let me know what you think in a reblog or a comment!

masterlist | crossposted on AO3

gif by @casian

Paz never saw himself as a dom.

Yeah, sure, he liked to be in charge in the bedroom and in previous relationships he’d never been shy to venture into a kinkier direction but overall, he wouldn’t call himself a dom. Hell, he didn’t even know what half of the stuff meant that some of his more adventurous friends threw around. No, for all intents and purposes, Paz would put himself in the category “normal” – whatever that was supposed to mean.

But one Thursday night, he found himself googling “free use meaning” and realized that if he were to tell Boba about what he might’ve gotten himself into, even his most experienced friend would be impressed. So, how had it come this?

It was all your fault, really. Well, kind of.

Maybe not at all.

*

You had been his roommate for a little over two years now.

Stars, he liked the way your body moved, liked the dips and the curves and your smile and how your eyes shone when you smiled and how you were such a tease because you trusted him. When he first met you, his first impression had been that you were a little … stuck-up, maybe, reserved certainly. And to be honest, you still weren’t super open and outgoing even around your friends.

But you were with him.

You flashed him your panties, called out his big dick energy (not without a nervous stutter, though, which made him grin every time), asked him for advice on dates and complained. Really, it was like any normal friendship. Only that he wanted to fuck you. And when you flashed him your panties one time too many, he was sure you wanted him to fuck you too.

Which he did.

It was more of an accident, really.

It was 3 pm on a Sunday evening, everything was nice and quiet and he was watching a football game when you came out of your room. You were wearing a little silk robe. One, that Paz feverishly tried not to gawk at and instead pretended to have his eyes on the game.

“I need your opinion on something,” you announced shyly, leaning against the doorframe, “As a man.”

Man opinion, he scoffed internally, already feeling his cock twitch because he knew you were about to show him something that would haunt him in his dreams. But he nodded anyway because he was a lovesick idiot who would do anything to just get a glimpse of your bare skin.

And so, you revealed the most delicate baby pink lingerie set made out of lace. His throat got uncomfortably dry and he couldn’t even focus on the point his team made because you were turning around, popping out your ass, posing for him and stars he wanted to feel the weight of your tits in his palms.

“What about it?” He asked gruffly, trying so hard not to sound as jealous as he was.

“Do you think Dreks will like it?” you asked and he hated how genuinely insecure you sounded.

Dreks was the ultimate asshole, of that he was sure. He’d only met the guy once when he had come to pick you up for a date (35 minutes late, which meant that Paz had seen you pacing and worrying for 35 minutes and it broke his heart) and if he’d never had to see him again it’d still be too many encounters.

Dreks was someone you had worked with briefly, a kind of department hopper in your company, someone who thought himself to be more important than he was and who, in turn, was quick to treat people who did not deserve it like absolute trash. Paz had no idea what you found so interesting about your colleague that it deserved a third date.

But before he could rein himself in, the words were already out of his mouth. “You’re not wearing that,” he said, matter-of-factly. He wanted to chide himself immediately because who was he to decide what you wore? Who was he to decide who you dated?

But there was something in your eyes and the way your shoulders relaxed that kind of gave him the impression that maybe … maybe you liked that.

“Oh?” you went quiet, your fingers toying with the thin strap of your bra and Paz allowed himself to really look at you. The lace of the bra was so delicate you might as well have worn nothing and his cock twitched when he realised he could see your nipples through the fabric. He could see so much and yet so little and his mind immediately imagined what it would feel like to run his thick fingers under the cups of the brad, teasing your nipples until you would beg him to take it off and –

“Don’t you want me to wear pretty things?”

He groaned, your sweet voice like heaven in his ears and stars did you even know what you were saying? Did you know what that did to him?

And then you took a few steps closer and his legs opened and you stepped in between and stars, you were so fucking close and he was so hard. When your knee brushed against the inside of his thigh, he could feel his cock twitch.

“Yeah,” he said, reaching out his hand and putting it on your hip, “But only for me.”

He couldn’t really remember what happened then. Only that, minutes later, you were folded underneath him, writhing as he pushed his cock inside you.

“Paz,” you sighed dreamily and he swore he fell in love with the sight of your pussy stretching around his girth, “Paz, you’re so big.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he soothed you, “just relax for me, yeah?”

You nodded eagerly, head tilted back as the sun fell over your face and he, for all intents and purposes, fucked you into the couch. He was still half dressed, his shirt thrown over the couch and his jeans barely pulled down to his hips. Your panties were still hanging on your ankles and he had not managed to get you out of that bra. Though he did not mind because you still looked like a dream come true.

You felt like a dream too, your walls hot and wet and clenching so tight around him. And then there was the way, you melted into him, you listened to him. Everything he said, you did. You were pliant and eager and so lovely and when he teased you about coming inside “that pretty little pussy”, you actually came right on his cock, overwhelmed tears streaming down your face as you begged him to “please do it, Paz, please please please”.

He came harder than ever before, his cock pumping you full and it satisfied something deep inside him to see the way his come leaked down your thighs and how you opened your mouth for him when he scooped your combined release up, dropping it onto your tongue.

The “good girl” that slipped from his tongue just felt like natural progress, then.

*

After a few (excruciating) days of not talking to you, Paz realized that as much as he had avoided you, you had avoided him. But hearing your muffled cries, there was no more time to be a coward.

“Are you okay?” he asked, feeling a little awkward standing in your doorway. But he also could not not talk to you. You were one of the most important people in his life, literally, a person he shared his life with.  

“It’s over between me and Dreks,” you sobbed while hugging a pillow to your chest, “Th-That asshole better never show his face again.”

His heart felt a little lighter, knowing that Dreks was officially out of the picture. Though a much bigger part of him was furious at the man for leaving you in such a state.

“Oh,” he shifted on his feet, “Do, uh, do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head, “I just feel so humiliated and – and stupid and he – I – “

Paz sat down on your bed, knowing you well enough to know that you wanted to talk about it. He sat down, his hands fishing the pillow from your grasp and pulling you into his arms. He could immediately feel you relax, your face nuzzling into his chest.

“I found something was missing in … in our relationship,” you revealed and he hummed, “And when he mentioned becoming exclusive, I asked him if he’d be willing to, uh, indulge me, he laughed at me.”

Paz could not shake the feeling that that missing piece was something rather intimate which already had him panicked thinking of how to steer the conversation in a more appropriate direction. Stars knew if he thought too long about you in any intimate setting he’d get hard as a rock.

Especially now that he knew what you felt like, that he knew what you sounded like, that he knew how pliant you were for him. But then he heard the pain in your voice, how beaten down you felt and he knew there was only one solution.

“I’m gonna beat that son of a bitch to a pulp,” he muttered and stood up. Dreks had always been on thin ice anyway but upsetting you was the last straw. That meagre man would live his last moments in fear, regretting every time he had treated you with disrespect.

“No, please,” your hands wrapped around his bicep and pulled him back down. And he let himself be pulled because it was you. And there was nothing he would not do for you. You were much closer now, still sniffling a little and he became highly aware of how you were only wearing a large t-shirt, your bare legs tangled around his.

“How dare he treat you like that?” he demanded gruffly, “Not liking something is one thing but, uh, shaming you for something you’d like? That’s just an asshole move.”

You nodded eagerly. “It is,” you agreed quietly, splaying your fingers until your fingertips brushed over his jaw, “It just went to show what I was too scared to admit to myself.”

Paz hummed, relishing in your touch. He angled himself towards you, heart skipping a beat in what suspiciously felt like …. hope. “And that is?”

“That we weren’t all that compatible all along,” you whispered, “I have, uh, I have needs and I deserve someone who, uh, who fulfils them.”

“Needs, hm?” he teased you, running his nose along your exposed throat and hearing your breath shudder did things go him, “that wouldn’t have anything to do with what happened in the living room the other night?”

“Maybe a little,” you breathed, your hand wandering up to the back of his neck and you tilted your head, offering yourself to him and stars how did he get so lucky?

“Have you, um, have you ever heard of free use?” you asked him shyly, gasping when he planted a slow kiss on your neck.

He shook his head, still nipping at your skin.

When you did not say anything more, he pulled away.

“Well, it’s, uh,” you took a deep breath, avoiding his gaze and instead looking at the far-right corner of the ceiling, “it’s something that really interests me. And … if you’re amenable, I’d like to try that. With you.”

He still didn’t say anything.

“You know, like a friends-with-benefits kind of thing?”

“Hm.”

He knew he should probably say more and he did want to assure you that he wanted to do that. With you. Hell, yes.

But for some reason, all he could do was stare and awe at your courage, at your confidence, at how you were sitting there in your lounge outfit and still looked like the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Stars, he really wanted to make you come again.

“Let me,” he cleared his throat, sitting up and spreading his legs which was not something he was aware of until he saw your eyes drift to his crotch and there it was again – that cocky continence that popped up whenever he saw you a little flustered. “Let me do some research, sweetheart, and we will talk about it some more, okay?”

“Okay,” you smiled shyly, untangling yourself from him though he still followed you like a puppy when you pulled him to the kitchen, “Dinner?”

*

And that was how he found himself in front of his laptop, reading some explanatory article on free use and getting hard as a rock at the idea that you wanted that with him. But if there was one thing he knew it was that he would make you come several times a day if he only got the chance.

[itstimeforstarwars]

Elmga: idk why everyone immediately clocks me as Corellian it's not that obvious.

Elmga three seconds after meeting anyone: I'm Corellian fuck you.

[sadcena]

I WANT TO FINISH THE CLONE WARS! MY BROTHER IS WATCHING THE FINAL SEASON WITH ME SO I HAVE TO WAIT!

[luminnara]

Protector | Feyd-Rautha x reader

ANON REQUEST: your marriage to Feyd-Rautha is an arranged one, and your only task is to provide an heir. When you finally become pregnant, your new husband suddenly grows obsessed with you—but does he care about you, or is he simply protective of his progeny?

Warnings: pregnancy, labor, and related talk; canon typical violence

MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

Your marriage was one born out of duty, not love. You couldn’t even call it a marriage of convenience; there was nothing convenient about leaving your homeworld and traveling across an entire galaxy to marry someone you had never even met before. Yes, the Houses had agreed beforehand that you were to marry Feyd-Rautha, the Na-Baron of House Harkonnen, and immediately after the deal had been struck you had seen his face and read his writing, but you hadn’t met him until your wedding day.

You had chastised yourself for thinking it could be like the fairytales of Ancient Earth. You, a princess, your betrothed a handsome prince…in the stories of your childhood, he would have whisked you away, off to a great, shining palace full of magical wonders, and you would have lived happily ever after. Instead, your prince had proved to be disinterested in you, busying himself with his arena and his concubines, ignoring you most of the day. The Harkonnen fortress did not shine, nor did it hold any great wonders, and Giedi Prime felt far from magical, with its harsh black sun and polluted landscape.

After your vows, you had naively thought your wedding night would be full of romance. Perhaps you had been holding onto hope as a means to protect yourself, clinging to optimism to distract yourself from your harsh, sad reality. You had been all too eager to shed your dress and veil in Feyd-Rautha’s living quarters, though had not expected them to be ruined by his blade, and you had not expected him to greedily conquer you as if it were yet another battle in the arena. He had slept next to you that night, but had made it painfully obvious that he had no interest in holding you or even touching you, keeping far to his side of the bed while you remained far to yours. In the morning, you had awoken alone, and had realized that it was the beginning of a long and lonely road on your new planet.

Everyone expected an heir. That was the entire point of this marriage, a legitimate heir for the Harkonnen line. Anyone else could have done it—you were of fine breeding, yes, but any of the other Houses could have offered up a daughter to suffer at Feyd-Rautha’s side. Why it had to be you surely came down to the only things powerful men seemed to care about—money and spice. An allegiance with House Harkonnen protected your family, and your small share of spice harvesters on Arrakis added yet another drop into their vast bucket and one less smuggling operation to worry about. Your parents were happy. Baron Vladimir Harkonnen was happy.

And you were miserable.

Two months after your wedding, your monthly cycle continued as normal, and you were forced to shamefully inform the na-Baron. After an annoyed sound and a grimace, he bent you over the nearest table and took you for a second time, leaving you to clean yourself up and cry at your husband’s callousness. You didn’t know why he couldn’t bring himself to care. You supposed he already had everything he could possibly want; wealth, concubines, a throne to inherit…you brought nothing of real value to him, save for the ability to produce an heir.

Time passed, and it became clear that Feyd-Rautha would have to touch you more than once a month if he was to have any hope of fathering a child. You cursed yourself for your apparent inability to conceive—fertility had been one of your parents’ selling points when negotiating with the Baron, and now, you couldn’t even do the one thing that was expected of you. It brought you to tears every night, the stress of being reduced to this and yet still being unable to perform your task. It was maddening, though you knew you were hardly the first woman to find yourself in such a situation. You did worry, however, that you may have been the weakest.

One evening, as Feyd performed his husbandly duties, he noticed a tear slipping down your cheek and paused. You felt a rough hand cup the side of your face and opened your eyes to find your husband staring at you with dark eyes, his head tilted to suggest he was curious.

“Tears?” He asked in his raspy voice that was still so alien to you.

“My apologies, na-Baron,” you looked away from him.

“You are crying.”

You stifled an annoyed sigh. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Do not worry yourself with me, husband.” You said.

“Tell me.”

This was perhaps the longest conversation you had had since marrying him, and part of you didn’t want it to end. You looked at him once more, finding him still watching you with that unwavering, predatory gaze, and another tear rolled down your cheek and onto his hand.

“I am sorry I have not given you a child.” You whispered.

“Then let me put one into you.”

His tone sent a chill down your spine, frightening and exciting you all at once. That night, Feyd-Rautha did not let you sleep, shocking you with his determination. It was simply because the sooner you conceived, the sooner he could return to his own concerns, you reasoned.

Sure enough, your period did not arrive when expected, nor did the next. A medical test confirmed what you already knew—you were pregnant, with Feyd-Rautha’s child. A Harkonnen child, who would grow up to be just as ruthless and savage as its father, you thought.

Upon receiving the positive result, you immediately set off to tell the na-Baron. He should not be made to wait; you wanted him to know that the entire point of your union was finally achieved, and that you could both go back to ignoring each other as usual. As you walked, you had the worrying thought that he may not even keep you alive after the delivery.

“Na-Baron,” you addressed him upon finding him in his armory.

He looked up from the blade he was sharpening. “Wife.”

“I bring news,” you said, folding your hands in front of yourself.

“Then tell me, before I grow bored of waiting.” He returned to the hunting knife, looking away from you once more.

“I am with child.”

You watched as Feyd-Rautha paused, tilting his head to look at you. “My child?”

“Yes. Who else could it possibly belong to?” You asked, exasperated. “The physicians confirmed it just now. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

He nodded slowly, looking back at the knife in his hand as he thought. “I see.”

Whatever hopes you had once had for him to suddenly flip his entire personality at the news were quickly dashed by his lack of emotion. You left him there, a hand over your mouth as you tried not to cry, returning to your bed to be alone once more.

-0-

In those earlier days of pregnancy, you were often ill, sprinting from bed to the wash basin nearly every day to be sick. Usually, you were alone; Feyd-Rautha rose early, spending his mornings training and sometimes killing his instructors. Whenever that happened, he would come back, wearing blood and a grin on his face as if he had just won some great contest.

Today, however, he was enjoying a rare occasion of sleeping in. He had begun spending his nights in the center of the bed, crowding you as you attempted to stay away from him. One morning you had even woken up to find his arm throne over you, his body closer than ever. Now, he was sleeping, and you would have been content to let him remain there were you not busy launching yourself over him as you ran to the adjoining wash room.

You missed the way your husband sat up, eyes wide and frenzied as he pulled a dagger from beneath the pillows. When he found the room to be empty and free of danger, he grew confused…until he heard your retching in the next room, and slipped out of bed.

“Wife?” He asked from the doorway.

“What?” You groaned, leaning your cheek on the cool basin.

“…are you alright?”

You sighed. “No, na-Baron, I am not. I mean…I am, I just…”

“You are sick,” he pointed out.

It took every bit of willpower you possessed to swallow down the part of you that desperately wanted to throttle him. “Yes. I am. It’s the pregnancy, the pills from the doctors haven’t been working—“

“This has happened before?” He interrupted.

“Most days, yes,” you felt another wave of nausea coming over you and hunched your shoulders, preparing for the worst.

You never expected to feel a cool hand brushing your hair away from your forehead, nor the feeling of your husband’s chest against your back as he held you.

“Harkonnen women don’t have this problem,” he commented as he held your hair.

It was the least helpful statement he possibly could have made as you vomited once more, and yet it was also quite possibly the best.

“If Harkonnen women have no hair, then what do you pull?” You asked wryly, too ill and too exhausted to hold yourself back.

Feyd-Rautha stared you, unblinking, before a smirk found its way onto his lips. “If you are feeling brave, perhaps I will show you one day.”

You let out a laugh as the nausea ebbed, leaning back against him. “Perhaps one day I will finally stop seeing my lunch so many times, and then you can regale me.”

-0-

Your sickness faded as your pregnancy progressed, thankfully, but Feyd-Rautha’s company did not. By the time you were beginning to truly show, he was refusing to leave you alone, demanding your presence wherever he went. As a result, you sat in on many a sparring session, and he made up his mind to abandon the arena until after the baby was born. His sudden change in attitude was shocking; he had never paid so much attention to anything before, and now, his hands were constantly on you.

“I must keep you safe,” he had said when you first asked about it, and had acted as if it were the most obvious thing in the universe.

You assumed he was protective due to the baby, the precious new heir to the Harkonnen throne. As its vessel, you were afforded some luxuries, but you fully expected that to change after the birth. For now, though, you were content to receive any and all attention your husband saw fit to pay you.

“That went well,” you said one day after the doctor examined you.

“He should not have touched you like that.” Feyd-Rautha growled.

“What do you mean? He’s a doctor,” you laughed, somewhat nervously.

“I did not like it.” His voice was tense.

“I could tell.” You grumbled, dropping your happy façade. He had nearly chased the doctor out of the room, hunting knife in hand. “Examinations are unavoidable, I’m afraid.”

“No more.”

“But—“

“No more strangers touching you.”

"Doctors help," you protested. "Don't you want your child to be healthy?"

At that, Feyd paused in thought. "...You may have a Harkonnen midwife."

"Because a Harkonnen doctor is too much?" You asked dryly.

He glared at you briefly before looking away towards the door. "Come."

You audibly groaned, one hand on your lower back. "Na-Baron, I am tired. I wish to retire to bed."

He looked back at you, and you caught an expression of distress on his face. "I need to train."

"You train every day."

"Yes." he said it as if it were obvious, but something in his tone suggested more; he made it sound urgent, as if it were something he had to do daily, and missing a single session would be disastrous. "Come."

You heaved a sigh and followed him.

-0-

In the months that followed, your unborn child grew, as did your body. You found yourself becoming large and bloated, your gait slowing as your flexibility waned. New maternity gowns were brought to you, an interesting mix of styles--the flowing, heavy garments of your homeworld meeting the simple, stark aesthetics of Giedi Prime. You found them strange, but at that point, you really didn't care; you would have walked around naked if no one would have stopped you. You spent your days feeling uncomfortable and awkward, with swollen feet and a sore lumbar region. Harkonnen servants brought whatever you needed, and your husband ensured--no, demanded--that all of your food be tasted by someone else while you watched so that there could be no chance of poison passing between your lips.

You wondered if this was simply some aspect of Harkonnen culture that the other Houses weren't aware of or never cared to talk about. Perhaps on a planet as harsh and toxic as Giedi Prime, infertility and infant mortality were more commonplace than the rest of the known universe. Perhaps this possessiveness was common among Harkonnen men, if conception was more difficult for their people.

Whether your theory was correct or not, Feyd-Rautha had certainly become even more attached to you. Not a morning went by when he wasn’t there next to you in bed, and as of late, he had begun waking you up by reminding you exactly how you had ended up like this in the first place. Before your pregnancy, he had acted as though bedding you were a boorish duty he had no choice but to perform; now that you were heavy with child, however, he was more than interested in you physically, constantly touching you with those rough, murderous hands.

You enjoyed the attention, and you enjoyed the way he squeezed and massaged you with surprising gentleness. He didn’t want to break you, you supposed, not right now; after the child arrived, perhaps, but not now. That was a grim thought, and one you had often—what was to come of your after the birth? Would Feyd-Rautha want more children, in case this one died some horrible, brutal, Harkonnen death? Or would you be disposed of, no longer needed after his legacy was secured?

You tried not to dwell on it.

One morning, you roused on your own, without Feyd’s interference. Wondering if he was even still there, you reached out to the side, feeling for him—and you nearly jumped when you felt bare flesh beneath your hand. When you rolled onto your back with considerable effort and turned your head to the side, you saw that your husband was there, still sleeping, and that what you had felt was his exposed chest.

You took the moment to look at him, really look at him. He seemed so peaceful like this, when he wasn’t fighting and killing. You had seen him take lives so quickly that his victims hadn’t even known they had died, and you had wondered how someone could be so dismissive of those around them. The first time you had watched your husband slit a throat, you had nearly vomited, and he had found your revulsion amusing; the most recent, however, you had simply sighed and looked away. You were desensitized, it seemed, just like he was, and now, you slept just as easily after watching him commit horrendous acts of violence as he did now.

Feyd-Rautha was handsome as far as Harkonnens went. His skin was smooth like marble, free of the scars and bruises one might expect to see on a warrior. His face, usually so harsh during the waking hours, was relaxed now, and you realized he was beautiful. You couldn’t keep yourself from brushing your fingers over his lips and feeling how surprisingly soft they were, though in a way, this felt wrong. Feyd-Rautha didn’t strike you as the kind of person who would allow this sort of touch, but when would you have this opportunity again? He always rose first in the morning and slept last at night. You never caught him with his guard down, and you kept your hands to yourself during the day. This was the only time you could marvel at him like this.

As your fingers ghosted across his cheek, he twitched, and you froze. Then, to your horror, an eye cracked open, and you knew that he had been awake all along.

When you moved to pull away, he caught your wrist, then covered your hand in his. He held your gaze for several long, strange moments, and you realized that he hadn’t simply been awake—he had been allowing you to touch his face, to explore him in a way you had never been brave enough to before. It felt like a gift, in a way. In his way.

“I apologize,” you breathed, unable to look away from him.

“Why?” He asked, voice deep and rough with sleep.

“I should not have touched you without permission.”

“I am your husband,” he said. “And you are carrying my child. You do not need permission to touch me.”

Somehow, you knew his words carried a deeper meaning. You knew you were one of, if not the only, one on all of Giedi Prime whom he had said those words to. And for the first time since marrying him, you felt that Feyd-Rautha was truly your husband.

-0-

He was with you when the labor began.

You had been lounging in your shared chambers, enduring the final week of your pregnancy. It felt bittersweet, in a way; you had no way of knowing then if you would ever be experiencing this again, and a part of you desperately wanted to hold onto it while the rest was fed up with feeling massive and uncomfortable every day.

Feyd-Rautha had been agitated all morning. It was as if he had known something was about to happen, and he had spent his time barely containing himself as he paced and sharpened knives, attempting to keep to himself and leave you alone and doing a piss poor job of it. You had been ready to chase him out of the room—or at least attempt to—when you felt your waters go and the panic set in.

That had been three hours ago.

Now, you were in your bed, and a shockingly-diligent Harkonnen na-Baron had yet to leave your side. He had briefly stepped into the corridor to bellow at the nearest passerby and your midwife had arrived very quickly as a result, but after that, he had sat down next to you and refused to go anywhere else.

“Is it agony?” He asked as you stood.

You shot him a glare. “I would not wish this sensation on even you.”

He was taken aback by your tone, impressed, even, by the venom in it.

“A short walk about the room may help,” the midwife suggested. “I will assist—“

“No.” Feyd-Rautha was up and at your side in an instant, taking your elbow. “I will.”

You didn’t care who did what, you just wanted it to be over and done with. The labor was progressing quickly, the midwife assured after another check once you were back in bed, and soon, you were wailing and grunting, your face was sweaty, and the na-Baron was staring in awe. You were focused on the task set before you, one hand on Feyd’s arm as you pushed with all your might, and so you could not see the way your husband was looking at you.

When your son was born and crying at the top of his tiny lungs, Feyd-Rautha cut the umbilical cord with a hunting knife and then he stared. It seemed that the entire time, he was incapable of looking away, his eyes glued to either you or the new Harkonnen heir. You supposed he had been too enthralled to order the midwife out of the room, and the woman was smart enough not to push her luck—she did the necessary examinations as quickly as she could, then handed the baby off to you, busying herself with cleaning what looked like a murder scene and gathering the afterbirth when it came. Then, satisfied with her work and the health of the child, she left, and you were alone with your husband and son.

You cradled the infant, tucking him against your breast and pulling the edge of your robe over him in an attempt to keep him warm. He was born pale, like his father, but with a soft layer of hair that made you wonder how much he might grow to look like you. The midwife had said it before she slipped out, and you had to agree—he was beautiful, and you smiled down at him.

A thud startled you and you turned to see that Feyd-Rautha had fallen to his knees at your bedside, looking at you with a reverence you had never seen in anyone before.

“Feyd?” You asked.

He looked between you and your son, and you saw then that something had changed within him over those many months. Gone was the dismissive, uncaring husband you had wed; this Feyd-Rautha had grown to become a protector, one who would fight until his muscles tore from his bones, who would bleed himself dry for you.

“You are stronger than I knew,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over your cheek much the way you had with him all those nights ago.

You felt a lump in your throat. “Come here. Join us.”

He did.

Feyd-Rautha sat with you there, in your bed, the very bed your first child was born in. He watched as your son woke from his peaceful, short nap, and he was privy to the private, intimate moment of his first feeding. He held the baby, staring at him in wonder and what may have been a touch of fear, supporting the both of you as he helped you to the bathing room when you were well enough to stand.

“A son,” he said, watching the baby sleep that night.

“Yes.” You mumbled, exhausted and nearly asleep as well. “Are you pleased, husband?”

“I would have been just as pleased with a daughter.”

That surprised you, and you glanced over your shoulder to see him propped up on an elbow, watching your son as he slept in his simple Harkonnen manger. “Really?”

“Yes,” he said, never once taking his eyes off the child. “I can teach a daughter to fight just as well.” Finally, he looked down at you. “Are you well?”

“As well as can be expected.” You sighed.

“Are you happy?”

“Yes, I am,” you answered him, sleep already dragging you down.

You barely felt his lips as he pressed a kiss to your temple, and you barely heard his voice as he said,

“I am as well.”

-0-

You had expected Feyd-Rautha to grow cold in the weeks following your son’s birth, but he never had. He was attentive, caring for you in a way that suggested he felt some primal urge to drag back great beasts for dinner every night but modern living prohibited that.

Now, you watched as he stood before one of the massive windows within the Harkonnen palace. It was evening on Giedi Prime, but the black sun casted no shadows over the landscape. Feyd-Rautha held your son, whispering to him, and as you watched, you wished the moment could stretch on forever.

“Husband,” you said, approaching him.

“Wife,” he greeted you, turning.

“On your evening walk together, I see.”

He chuckled. “I am showing him everything he will one day rule over.”

“I am surprised you haven’t taken him into battle with you yet,” you said sarcastically.

“I will strap him to my chest so that he might taste the blood of House Atreides,” he said with a grin.

“The youngest Harkonnen warrior the world has ever seen.” You smiled, leaning in to check on what appeared to be a perfectly happy, albeit possibile bloodthirsty, baby.

“What are you doing walking alone?” Feyd-Rautha asked.

“Looking for you.”

“And now that you have found me, what do you intend to do?”

You leaned into your husband, resting your head on his shoulder. “Drop the baby off with the wet nurse, seduce you, take you to bed and then have my way with you.”

“You have my attention.”

“I thought you might be interested in trying for a girl this time…”

In a blink, he had spun you around and was dragging you down the corridor, and once the baby was safely tucked in with a nursemaid watching over him, you did indeed have your way with your husband. And again. And again. And you realized, as you retired to bed that night, that you were truly glad to have been arranged to marry Feyd-Rautha, heir to the Harkonnen throne and father of your children.

[honey-tongued-devil]

[Arcane Preference] And Their Favorite Hot Drink

Every time I say I want to make at least three, and every time it takes me a month to make three. But between today and tomorrow, I want to post something else with a cozy/winter theme, so stay tuned. Meanwhile, in my little self-promotion corner, I'll let you know that you can find my fanart here, and here you can find a fanfiction I'm working on, if you want to check out my other projects!

socials: | INPRNT | | Tip Jar | | X | | BlueSky | | Ao3 |

Jayce:

Hot tea.

With lots of cookies, not just one or two like nobles who drink tea to be chic.

He drinks tea because it makes the cookies taste better and softer.

And if I told you he prefers fruity tea?

Basically, he likes a strong flavor, and fruity teas have the most aroma, although having grown up as the Kirammans’ ward, he’s learned to drink it in any form.

Viktor:

Sweet milk.

Or milk and honey.

Occasionally, milk, coffee, caramel, and whipped cream if he wants to be fancy, but he never has the time, so it’s usually just sweet milk.

He has such a stockpile that statistically, at least one bottle is expired, but it doesn’t matter; he doesn’t pay attention to those things.

Ekko:

Cappuccino. It’s quick, it’s hot, it gives energy, and the milk makes it sweet enough without adding sugar.

Easy to find and great for the group because it’s not expensive—just steal an industrial-sized can of milk and some instant coffee, and he can make it for more than 20 people.

Tea is problematic because there are no plants in Zaun, and in Piltover, they either sell it in small doses or loose.

Vander:

Hot chocolate, because I say so.

This man was born to be a father, and what do kids love? Hot chocolate.

Hard to come by in Zaun, which is why he always adds chocolate bars or cocoa powder as an extra price in his smuggling deals.

It became his favorite because of the connection it has with his kids and his happy place.

Silco:

Whiskey doesn’t count as a hot drink, and that’s a bit of a problem.

But luckily, coffee exists.

Not American coffee, long and watered down, but espresso.

He holds the small cup in his hands to warm himself, but subtly enough that no one notices.

Jinx:

Sugar.

Not a hot drink, sure, but any drink works for her if it has enough sugar.

Milk and honey remind her of when she was little, tied to special occasions when her parents actually managed to get honey.

But pretty much anything works for her: fruity teas with three tablespoons of sugar, hot chocolate with one spoonful, cappuccino with two…

Vi:

Anything works for her as long as the cup is big enough to warm her hands.

Simple and easy-to-find drinks are great, sure, but no one can convince me her favorite drink isn’t either hot chocolate with rum or a complex, spiced Piltover-style beverage.

She doesn’t mind sweetness but never adds sugar to her drinks—she’d rather choose something with natural sweet notes.

Caitlyn:

Tea.

English breakfast tea with sugar and milk is something her parents made her during festive mornings, so it holds sentimental value.

But the tea she’s used to drinking is Oolong or Yorkshire, typical of the five o’clock tea tradition with her mother and occasionally their guests.

Mel:

Coffee and variations.

In my little artist brain, Piltover has an ethical equivalent of Starbucks, and that café is Mel’s happy place.

Coffee is easier to find for sure, but coffee-based drinks with caramel, ginger, and plant-based milk are absolutely her favorite.

She loves sipping them slowly, savoring the flavors, taking half an hour or more to finish her cup.

Sevika:

Whiskey.

No, she won’t accept that it doesn’t count as a hot drink.

She doesn’t like milk, but if she’s forced to have it, she spikes it with whiskey or gin.

The same goes for hot chocolate.

She’s not a coffee person either; she doesn’t see the point of drinking something so bitter without a real purpose.

[meinii]

"hoodie thief"

summary: Sylus' hoodies have been disappearing lately... the thief was closer than he thought •⩊•

content: fluffy fluff, Luke and Kieran cameo

                      ୨୧·。。·♡·∴·♡·。。·୨୧

Sylus was no fool

at first, he didn’t think much of it—one or two hoodies missing wasn’t a big deal. he probably left them somewhere, maybe in his office or tossed over one of the chairs in Onychinus. but as the days passed, his wardrobe slowly dwindled. hoodies, sweatshirts, even his thicker, oversized ones—all mysteriously gone

and there was only one person who had the audacity to steal from him

you.

Sylus narrowed his eyes. he had seen you wearing his hoodies a few times, the fabric swallowing your frame, the sleeves dangling past your hands. and each time, you acted as if it was no big deal. like it wasn’t a crime against the very fabric of his empire.

the moment you walked into his office that evening, wrapped in yet another one of his hoodies, he just stared

you blinked "what?"

he leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk, a slow smirk tugging at his lips "you’re awfully comfortable stealing from me, aren’t you?"

you feigned innocence, glancing down at the hoodie draped over you "oh… this? I—uh—found it"

"found it?" he repeated, amused

"yeah. just lying around"

"in your house?"

"…maybe"

Sylus exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. he could force you to return them—could pin you down and strip it right off your body if he really wanted to—but he let it slide, for now

because, truthfully, he liked seeing you in his hoodies.

that might’ve been the end of it—except Luke and Kieran, the ever-loyal informants, decided to stick their noses in where it did not belong

"boss, we have a report on your missing items"

Sylus looked up from his paperwork, giving Luke and Kieran a deadpan stare "You actually investigated?"

Luke grinned "of course. you seemed so troubled about it, after all"

Sylus rolled his eyes "go on, then"

Kieran pulled out a small tablet, tapping the screen "after some thorough research—which included some discreet surveillance—we have identified the culprit" he turned the screen toward Sylus

it was you, sneaking out of his penthouse with an armful of his hoodies, stuffing them into a bag like a professional thief

Sylus let out a short laugh, shaking his head in disbelief "she really had the audacity to smuggle them out?"

Luke smirked "oh, she’s been planning this. we even found a whole stash at her place"

Sylus raised an eyebrow "a stash?"

"mm-hm. neatly folded, stacked in her closet. she’s treating them like trophies, boss"

Sylus chuckled, tilting his head back in amusement. the fact that you collected them, carefully keeping them all together—it was both ridiculous and insanely endearing

"and here’s the best part," Kieran continued, clearly enjoying himself "we confronted her about it. wanna know what she said?"

Sylus smirked "let’s hear it"

Luke cleared his throat dramatically "'tell Sylus I have no idea what he’s talking about. those are legally mine now. he can’t do anything about it.'"

Sylus burst out laughing, dragging a hand down his face "legally hers?"

"she made a contract in her head, boss. if she wears it enough times, it’s hers now."

Sylus shook his head, amused beyond belief "She really is impossible"

Luke grinned "so? what’s the plan? gonna storm her place and reclaim your lost belongings?"

Sylus smirked "no, no… let her have them"

Kieran raised an eyebrow "really?"

"oh, yeah" Sylus leaned back in his chair, eyes gleaming with mischief "I want to see how long she thinks she can get away with this"

that night, you were comfortably curled up on your couch, wearing yet another hoodie of Sylus'. t smelled like him—faint hints of cedarwood, spice, and something unmistakably him. it was oversized, the sleeves pooling over your hands, the warmth of the fabric making you feel safe

you had no regrets. none at all.

until your phone buzzed

Sylus: I know everything

you stared at the message, heart stopping for a second

you hesitated before replying

You: everything about what? Sylus: you’re a terrible liar.

you swallowed, typing as nonchalantly as possible

You: I think you’re mistaken. I am simply a humble citizen living her best life. Sylus: living your best life with my entire wardrobe?

okay. he knew. he definitely knew.

you considered your options

1) play dumb 2) flee the country 3) beg for forgiveness

before you could type a response, there was a knock on your door

your stomach dropped

slowly, cautiously, you opened the door—only to find Sylus leaning against the frame, arms crossed, eyes sharp with amusement

"you," he drawled "are the worst thief I’ve ever seen."

you cleared your throat, shifting slightly "what brings you here, oh great ruler of Onychinus?"

he smirked "oh, just checking in on my beloved hoodie thief."

You knew Luke and Kieran had snitched. those little traitors.

Sylus stepped forward, towering over you, his fingers tugging lightly at the hem of the hoodie you were wearing

"you didn’t even bother returning one," he mused, tilting his head "you just kept all of them"

you pouted "well… they’re cozy"

his eyes flickered with amusement "and that means they belong to you?"

"yes," you said shamelessly "finders keepers"

Sylus let out a low chuckle, shaking his head "unbelievable"

"you’re not mad, though," you pointed out, a slow grin spreading across your lips "you like seeing me in them."

he exhaled, a smirk playing on his lips "you’re lucky I do"

his fingers brushed against your cheek, tilting your chin up slightly. his voice lowered, warm and teasing

"if you wanted to keep something of mine so badly… all you had to do was ask"

your face grew warm at the implication "I—"

"shh" he leaned down, his lips barely an inch from yours "enjoy your little collection while it lasts. I might just take one back… personally"

your heart definitely skipped a beat

Sylus grinned at your expression, clearly enjoying himself

"sweet dreams, hoodie thief"

and with that, he turned on his heel and walked away—leaving you flustered, warm, and absolutely unwilling to give back a single hoodie

[aspiringwarriorlibrarian]

You know the more we learn about Tatooine, the more you realize Luke does have a point about Jakku being nowhere even though he came from another backwater dust ball.

"You mean you didn't even have one crime lord? No spice smuggling? The only criminal was that one guy who traded portions for junk?"

"Yup. He did a bit of slavery, but he let you go when you were old enough. I don't know if he even killed anyone."

"He didn't even kill anyone....."

[1800titz]

The vacay piece I teased ages ago. One night stand :D

CONTENT/WARNINGS: p-in-v, oral, brief size kink (if you squint), praise kink, this one’s p vanilla.

WC: 2.5K

It starts like this:

A bohemian beach with a high riding tide, where ripples surge and flood the shore. Sand tears from its home, coasting the verge in the breeze like a fog under the overcast, and when the clouds split open, the rays hug her skin. 

She’s sprawled over a chaise lounge in a little red thing that’s all skimp and no cover besides the intimates. When she rolls onto her side and tips to her tummy, he eyes the flash of skin behind dark tint. His arms brace over the porcelain border of the pool that overlooks the beach up ahead — he’s watchful from a distance. Someone swims up to the bar behind him. Chlorine laps at his back, teeming over the grout between the tiles as he wraps his lips over a straw and nurses something cobalt and strong.

By the time he culls a second one, she’s up, all glistening skin in the sunshine, hips swaying as her toes make doughy prints in the sand. She trails to the sea, and the ocean eats her until she’s just a little silhouette in front of his sunglasses with water-slicked hair and lines that cinch and swell in all the right places. 

He sees her like that, outlying his bubble, in brief pieces like the flashes of skin. Fragments in the horizon, like the border of a stranger’s leg in the background of a photograph. He sees her in slivers where eyes interlock from across the room and linger. This bohemian summer is painted in teal, and it’s waves swathing the coast, warm skin coated in cocoa butter. 

It ends on a night where the teal metamorphose indigo, and then nearly denim, with orange on cords, glinting like miniaturized, splintered orbs of the sun have been caught to glare forever on strings in the night. Harry sees her through that indigo, this stranger’s bare leg waltzing in the depths of his touristy snapshot, mingling in the dancing horde. He trails closer, shouldering through the throng and squeezing through in polite gaps, and she twists like it’s fate — just enough to smuggle a glimpse in her peripherals. 

Eventually, Harry leans in to murmur, “What are you drinking?”

The plush of his mouth ghosts over the cartilage there, and his cadence smooths over like honey, low and deep over the pounding bass of the music. Waned tobacco and spice; a warm, pleasant musk in the flurry of scents. 

She doesn’t immediately respond, observant like she’s weighing whether the invitation is worth entertaining. It only takes a second. Then, there’s a hand over his pec, like she’s already made friends with the filth of his intentions. His red-lycra-skimp mystique rolls up on her toes. 

Harry twists his head just enough for her to respond, “It’s a Blue Lagoon.” 

Saccharine — rich and lux and smooth, something that has her skin glowy and sweeps up her throat, tucks behind her ear, enough so that the scent billows off with the motion of her hair as she flips it over her shoulder. 

Harry casts his gaze to the drink. A red straw is tucked into the ice, and the only remnants of the beverage mingle at the bottom. The ice shimmers in faded teal, much like water sloshing over the flat tides. Her fingers cradle over the cup, and that’s where soft, thin lines of gold coil. Despite the broad array, there’s no wedding band. 

“Can I grab you another?” 

That’s when she does the thing; this patently flirtatious, brazenly get-under-my-crocheted-midi-skirt sort of thing, lashes coy in their sweep and eyes innocuous as the tips of her manicured fingers pinch at the straw and siphon it to her mouth. There’s an elegant presentation to the polish — neat, short lines with a nude base and a white tip. 

The remnants of the beverage vanish until all that’s left is crushed ice painted with blue curaçao. Harry watches the straw. He watches her lips, the way they unlatch and the way the pink tip of her tongue offers a glimpse before it hides away behind her front teeth. 

When she pulls the drink away, she tips her head — an inclination for his ear again — and when he ducks his chin for her answer, she tells him, “Can you make it worth my time?” 

A tongue swipes — his — like it’s already hungry and yearning. Dimples form beside the curling edges of a mouth after the pink muscle retreats. Home in its hungry cavern; limitlessly craving. He doesn’t bother going for her ear again, instead opting to fix eyes that have wandered, all week, onto her face. Definitive, close. Mesh of saccharine and spice. 

“I’ll make it worth your time,” Harry assures. 

His eyes are virid, even in the indigo, under all the miniature suns as the lanterns throw them back into a roll of blue — it climbs over the crowd and seeps with the music. They’re virid and intent. They’re virid, and there’s something lewd that dances in the mottled talc. 

She watches him. A set of eyes flits to his mouth and stays, brief like a fragment. She nudges the cup — the fragment splinters and fades — extending it against his chest until he raises his hand and his ring clad digits curl over it slowly, wet with condensation. 

“Blue Lagoon,” sweet mystique reminds him, a little curl to her mouth. 

Harry heads to the bar. He orders a Blue Lagoon and refreshes his tequila. Double. He winds through the half-clad crowd, prodding and slipping through sweat-slicked bodies until he finds her again. 

He makes it worth her while when they’re dancing, when her arms are slung over his shoulders and the tips of her fingers graze at the little curls at his nape, like an intimacy beyond a summer fling, or maybe like a restless hunger — its touches only test the waters with dips of toes under lapping ripples. He makes it worth her while when his hand cups the meat of her hip, and she tips her head up for their mouths to meet, when their dancing slows and the kiss turns feverish, cushiony mouths teasing at the seams until they split. 

He makes it worth her time when they make the stroll back to his room, heels clicking over tile and bouncing off from lofty wall to lofty wall, a good bit of distance between them strictly for the sake of avoiding shagging in the middle of a hallway. He makes it worth her while when he braces his wrist band to the lock over the door, when she’s leant against the wall with her irises lingering on him and her lashes batting coyly. She’s well-behaved, hands tucked behind her back like a combat to handsy temptation. 

It’s a different story behind the door. 

He makes it worth her while when her fingers toy at her crocheted halter, index perusing at the fabric below cleavage and brushing over chalky yarn. He makes it worth her time when he steps into her space all slow-like, face tipped down and the pink below his cupid’s bow worked into a soft curve, lengthy, deft digits working over the buttons of his shirt. An untamed tendril teases over one of his brows. Her hands meander from fondling at her own tits, at rogue pieces of yarn in the stitches, to straying up his ink-etched forearms. That’s when he lets her take over the work, when his arms snake over the vale of her waist. When his colossal hands cup lower, when he nudges forward and their mouths brush again. He licks into her mouth and rolls into the gap between her teeth.

Filthy kisses are shrouded behind closed doors, even in the easy ambience of a resort. Furlough on the greedy pursuit of pleasure, on some secluded island with crystalline waters, plus tequila — that’s practically a petri dish for hook up culture. But filthy kisses are saved for the bedroom, and there it’s taste buds doused in citrus limon and gray goose, a tip of a tongue swiping along a row of teeth, basking in the ridges. 

“What do you like, little minx?” Harry murmurs. He climbs the column of her throat with the ruddy border of a hungry cavern, and her pulse murmurs back under his mouth. “Hm?” 

The blunt tip of his forefinger traces her collarbone, follows a line of cleavage, toys at the cinch in her top; unravels her. It splits down the center, and the straps follow limply down her shoulders. Harry pinches a nipple and scrapes his teeth over her neck, humming again. 

Behind closed doors, his red-lycra-mystique (bare, her tits are bare now, in the backdrop of his picture) gets denuded to flesh when she shimmies the dress down her hips. He helps her and then tears his own shirt over his head. It’s hasty, like disrobing takes too much time from a place where time moves slower, riding the water in leisure. Harry still doesn’t know her name, and she slips to her knees, batting her lashes, and takes his buckle apart like unslotting puts the last of the puzzle pieces together. 

When her tongue rides under the ridge of his tip, delving and dragging over the prominent vein jutting on the underside of his shaft, he cranes his neck back and makes a sound like she’s torn into his chest with the tips of her french-polished manicure. He punctuates every pornographic, wet sound with dialogue.

“Christ, you’re a dream.” 

“Fuck, you’re pretty with cock in your mouth.” 

“Yeah, that’s it, just like that, sweetheart.” 

“—Y/N,” red-lycra-mystique supplies, gaze bouncing from the twist of her wrists at his base to his face, and then sweeps his bubbling head over her bottom lip and swallows him down halfway. 

“Y/N,” Harry mirrors, tone bathed in the same sweetness she radiates at his feet. 

And then she trails the very tips of her blunt nails up his sac, and the shiver that rolls up his spine short-circuits every feasible attempt of formulating something in english. Just… gone. Something splinters. 

Harry doesn’t cum all over her tongue, despite the pretty mental image he’d cherish of Y/N on her knees with ribbons of silky white coating the insides of her mouth. He thinks about the way he’d dip the pad of his thumb against her tongue, the way he’d stir and scrub it in. He thinks about her lips latching and her cheeks hollowing. 

He’s got immense willpower, particularly when she takes him all the way down until her nose nearly brushes the neatly-trimmed tuft of hair the tributary of his happy trail pools into. Because then, she pulls off, chin sloppy with saliva, mouth wide, and stares up at him with this wickedly indelicate curl to the corners of her mouth as she gasps in breaths. Like she wants him to. 

Instead, they make it to the bed. He splits her thighs with his palms and spits where she’s puffy and warm, leaky with longing, toying at the seam of her hole with his digits. Smooths the wetness with his thumb when he tucks two fingers in and laves his tongue at the crease between her inner thigh and her cunt. He bumps her clit with the tip and rolls, and her spine arches like the highest point of her torso peaks at the clouds of nirvana. 

“You’re a good girl,” Harry tells her, and his voice is so soft, like he’s reassuring an animal that’s backed itself into a corner, “Want you to drench my face.” 

And she does, because when he holds a placid, unwavering hand out and talks her so sweetly, lips suckling in a vacuumed ‘o’ between her thighs, what can she do besides roll her hips against his mouth in little, desperate juts, face creased before bliss spumes through every major artery.

When Harry sits back, his chin is sticky, glinting in the buttery cast of the lanterns drilled into the ceiling. He kisses her again until her jaw is stained with her own slick, and despite the entire basis of a one night stand, his tongue meddles into her mouth with the same passion of a man carving a piece of her open. A cozy lacuna just for him in the depths of her chest, something that’ll linger and yearn. A hungry chasm that’ll grumble when her cunt pulses — when he’s not there to fill it. She’ll think of him; a stranger’s leg flitting like a passing speck in the background of her photograph. 

Y/N’s cunt hugs him like it can’t get enough. 

Eventually. 

Because at first, it’s: too big, won’t fit, pleated brows when he’d split her spongy walls apart on the latex-coated tip, stretching to tuck in and hovering to imbibe in miniature ticks of her expression. A twitch in her lashes, a shift in the line of her mouth, a little swallow bobbing down the column of her throat. 

“You’re a good girl,” he’d crooned, smoothing a thumb over a rib and then her clit, just to see her squirm more over his cock. 

Eventually, she clambers over his lap, planting her palms back over inky, firm muscle. It’s leverage as she bounces to fill that starving cavity — the one he’d drilled with his tongue, like the shape of him can fill every square inch of space before they never see each other again. Hungry, hungry, hungry. 

“Come on, baby, come on,” Harry coaxes, a low groan mottled with breathy pants, “—Shit.” 

Momentarily, he pauses the guiding grasp he’s got over her hips to drag the pad of his thumb over his tongue lewdly, smearing spit over the digit and swiping circles over her clit, instead. In response, the rolling pace Y/N has set stutters, knees jolting, and her mussed hair spills off her shoulder as she cranes her neck back. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

“Yes, yes, yes—“

His eyes flit from her cunt to the ethereal line of her neck, the borders of her shoulders, the shape of her tits bouncing. 

Ultimately, of course, his gaze winds back down to ogle where they connect, because that’s the view — that’s where she swallows his cock, thighs splayed and trembling, gliding from the tip until about midway before rising and repeating the cycle. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. He draws his thumb lower, lets it meddle where they merge, where her hole flutters and rolls over him, gleaning the sticky arousal that coats his shaft and bringing the pad of it back to her clit. His eyes linger. Flicker up. Return to watch her ride and nearly roll back into his head. 

He’s carved the void, and later, when she tips forward and her nails scrape over his pecs, feral, she whittles her own. Later, the space between his thighs aches and heats. Something pulses on the underside of his balls. It yearns for blue curaçao, pellucid, crashing waters, and a skimpy red bikini. 

[novaursa]

Hi! 🫂

English is not my first language!

Stark!reader x Oberyn Martell

Where reader is engaged to Oberyn. She was at the red wedding and reader is hurt with Greywind and her direwolf "Winter". They go to Dorne for help. You can choose how the ending goes! Hope you understand what i writing and sorry again for my bad english! 🫣

Shadow of the Red Wedding

- Summary: You attened the Red Wedding and survive. You wake up with Oberyn watching over you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Oberyn Martell

- Note: Let's pretend the reader was smuggled by surviving Stark loyalists somewhere safe while unconscious. Don't think too much about the logic of it. 🙃

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The air inside the Twins is thick, almost suffocating. Your head is spinning from the wine, the noise, and the underlying tension you can’t quite place. The hall is alive with music and laughter, but there's something sour in the atmosphere, like rotten meat left too long in the sun. Winter is restless beside you, her silver eyes darting around, ears flicking with every cheer and clang of cups. You scratch behind her ears absently, trying to calm your own nerves more than hers.

You’re wedged between Roslin Frey’s nervous chatter and your brother Robb’s booming laughter, pretending to be more at ease than you feel. Your thoughts keep drifting south, to the warmth of the sun and a pair of dark, mischievous eyes that always seem to hold more secrets than you can pry loose. Oberyn. Your betrothed. The Red Viper of Dorne. He would laugh at this, laugh at your unease, call you too much the wolf in the lion’s den.

Winter growls low in her throat, her hackles rising. You glance down, heart skipping a beat. She’s never like this unless—

The music shifts, a sudden lurch from joyous melodies to something sharp, discordant. There’s a flash of movement, too quick, too chaotic, and then it’s all blood and screams and steel flashing in the torchlight.

“Winter!” you shout, but she’s already leaping, jaws snapping, fur bristling like a storm. She barrels into a group of Frey men, teeth sinking into the arm of one who’s rushing Robb. You’re on your feet, blade in hand—when did you draw it?—and then you’re fighting, the clash of swords ringing in your ears, too loud, too close.

It’s a blur of chaos. You feel the sting of a blade slicing across your arm, the burn of another grazing your side. You slash and parry, trying to reach Robb, to reach your mother—your family, your home, everything falling apart around you. Winter’s a whirlwind of white and red, tearing through the Freys, snarling and snapping, but there are too many.

You see it then, the crossbow, the bolt flying, and Robb’s eyes widening as it strikes. A scream rips from your throat, raw and desperate, but you don’t remember making the sound. Everything slows, like moving through water, and then you’re on the ground, pain flaring bright and hot in your side, your leg—where did that knife come from?

Winter is over you, growling, her fur wet and matted with blood—yours, hers, it’s hard to tell. You reach for her, fingers tangling in her fur, and then there’s Grey Wind, a silver blur crashing through the hall, jaws snapping around the throat of a man who’s raising his sword. For a moment, there’s hope, the wolves together, tearing through the carnage.

But there’s too much blood. You’re slipping, darkness creeping at the edges of your vision. You feel Winter’s weight on your chest, her muzzle pressed to your face, a low whine vibrating through her. You want to tell her it’s okay, that you’re okay, but you can’t seem to find the words. The world tilts, and then it’s all gone.

When you wake, everything hurts. Every breath is a knife in your ribs, every twitch of your fingers a fresh wave of agony. You’re not dead, but you almost wish you were. The ceiling above you is unfamiliar, high and vaulted, and the air smells different, warmer, filled with spices and salt.

South. You’re somewhere south.

It’s a slow, agonizing process to turn your head, and even slower to make sense of what you’re seeing. There’s a shadow in the doorway, tall and broad, and then he’s there, beside you, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch you.

“Oberyn,” you manage, your voice a rasping whisper.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at you, and it’s almost unbearable, the intensity in his eyes, the raw emotion you’ve never seen him wear so openly. Then he curses, long and colorful, something about wolves and stubborn northern women, and it’s almost funny, almost.

“You’re not dead,” he says finally, and it’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard because of course you’re not. Not yet, anyway.

“I thought…they said…all dead.” He’s shaking his head, and you realize, dimly, that he’s shaking too, trembling like the ground before a storm. “And then you show up here, bleeding all over my nice sheets.”

You almost laugh, but it turns into a cough, and he’s there, hands on your shoulders, his face close to yours, and he’s angry—no, furious—but not at you. Never at you. You wonder if he’s going to kiss you or strangle you, and then he’s doing neither, just holding you, whispering something in that smooth, honeyed voice, too soft for you to make out.

“Winter?” you ask, because it’s the only thing that matters right now. Where is she? Did she—

“Alive,” he says, and his voice is different now, something raw and aching in it. “Your wolf is alive. Nearly tore a hole in our healer’s arm when they tried to get close to you.”

You close your eyes, relief washing over you. Winter’s alive. She’s alive. And so are you. You want to say something, to tell him how much you missed him, how sorry you are for nearly dying, but the words are tangled up inside you, too big, too heavy.

“You’re a bloody fool,” he says instead, his hand brushing over your cheek, gentle now, so gentle it almost breaks you. “What were you thinking, going to that damned wedding? Your brother, your mother—” He cuts off, his jaw tight, and you see it there, the grief, the pain he’s trying so hard to hide.

You want to tell him it’s not his fault, that you had to go, that you had no choice. But you’re tired, so tired, and his hand is warm, and he’s here, and maybe that’s enough for now. You let your eyes close, feeling the press of his lips against your forehead, the last thing you hear before you slip back into darkness is his voice, low and fierce:

“You’re mine, you stubborn wolf. I’m not letting you go that easily.”

[bradshawshawaiianshirt]

the mummy | part 1

Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x reader AU

The year is 1927 and famed archeologist Bradley Bradshaw is running on whiskey and the last of his reputation. His best skill? Charming every woman in the room - until you show up with a sharp wit, zero patience for his ego, and a lead on finding the Lost City of Nefertari. No matter how intelligent you are, it'd be unheard of for a woman to lead an expedition, so you need a front man, someone with money and connections. Luckily (or unluckily) for you, Bradley fits the bill - even if he's more interested in chasing skirts than treasure.

Rumoured to be full of gold, jewels and one vengeful mummy, the city might kill you - or make you rich. The mummy is one thing, but can you both survive each other?

length: 2.1k

masterlist

Egypt, 1927 – somewhere in Cairo 

Bradley Bradshaw woke up to the sharp sting of sunlight stabbing through the faded curtains. His head throbbed with the familiar rhythm of last night’s whiskey, and empty bottles cluttered the small table beside the bed – scotch, gin, and an absinthe glass with a lipstick stain. The heat pressed through the cracked window, mingling with the dust and a faint scent of jasmine drifting in from the street below. 

He groaned and rolled onto his back, eyes catching a faded photograph that hung crookedly on the wall. It showed a younger, cleaner version of himself at a sunbaked dig site, arm slung around a colleague, both smiling with the certainty of youth and success. The words Dr. Bradley Bradshaw felt like a ghost from a past life. Once a darling of the academic world, which was a shock in itself, considering he didn’t come from money, now he was little more than a footnote. A scandal, a smuggled artefact. Guilty or scapegoat, the academic world had turned its back. No lectures at Cambridge anymore. No invitations to expeditions.  

Just Cairo. 

After dressing in a threadbare suit and pulling on a worn jacket, he stepped out into the dusty streets. The city buzzed with life: vendors shouting their wares, children darting between carts, and the scent of spices heavy in the air. 

By mid-morning, Bradley staggered down a sun-beaten alleyway toward his usual cafe. The old men out front barely looked up as he passed. 

“Late start again, Bradshaw?” one called without much interest. 

“Only because the nights in Cairo are so demanding.” Bradley muttered, rubbing his temples. 

A vendor on the corner handed him a coffee without asking. “Put it on your invisible tab,” the man said with a smirk. 

Bradley raised the tin cup in a mock salute. “Thanks pal, you’re a lifesaver.” 

He wandered toward the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities with the sluggish confidence of someone who had nothing to do and nowhere to be. The museum was where he wasted most of his time these days – haunting the past like a bored spirit. It was quiet, cool, and full of things that reminded him of who he used to be. 

He drifted into the front hall and leaned on the marble railing, surveying the familiar stone columns and sarcophagi as if they still belonged to him. The same young woman behind the reception desk glanced up and blushed, eyes shining. Just as she did every day. 

“Oh, Mr. Bradshaw.” She breathed, her cheeks flushed. “You’re late for your morning haunting.” 

“Miss Fatima,” he said with theatrical flair, tipping an imaginary hat. “You know what they say – a true gentleman keeps ‘em waiting just long enough to build the anticipation.” 

Fatima's smile deepened. “You do have such a way with words...” 

Before Bradley could reply, the heavy museum doors creaked open. 

You stepped through, purposeful and unsmiling, a worn satchel over your shoulder and desert dust still clinging to the hem of your skirt. 

Bradley turned with mild curiosity. “Well, well. Not the usual kind of visitor.” 

Fatima glanced from Bradley to you, a faint frown crossing her brow. 

You looked directly at Bradley. Faint recognition flickered in your eyes, but it was quickly followed by distaste. “Excuse me.” you said, “I have an appointment.” 

Bradley smiled with an automatic charm. “You sure? Because I could swear we’ve met in a dream I once had. Very dusty. Very dramatic.” 

“Do your dreams often involve national archives and paperwork?” you asked flatly, unamused. 

“Only the thrilling ones.”  

Fatima stifled a laugh. You turned to face him fully then, eyes narrowing. “I know who you are.” 

Bradley straightened, amused. “Do you, now? That’s rare these days. What gave me away – the rugged good looks or the air of disgrace?” 

“Neither. I read a great deal of archeology, before your name stopped appearing in respectable journals.” 

“Ouch.” 

Your gaze didn’t waver. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.” 

Bradley stepped lightly into your path, cocking his head with an easy smile. “What’s your name?” 

You sighed exasperatedly and told him your name, attempting to step around him, but he blocked your path once more. 

He repeated your name, almost testing it out, before he continued, “You’ve come all this way for dusty papers and old stones? Surely someone like you has grander ambitions.” 

“I don’t have time for this.” you snapped. 

“Conversation?” 

“Distraction.” 

Bradley let the silence hang for a beat, eyes narrowing with interest. “You know, you’ve got a fire in you. I like that.” 

You took a single step closer, eyes sharp. “And you’ve got a reputation. I don’t like that.” 

You swiftly brushed past him, disappearing down the corridor toward the museum offices without another word. 

Bradley watched you go, a strange curiosity stirring in his chest. There was something about you – sharp, determined, maybe even dangerous – that caught his attention. But the moment passed as quickly as it came. 

He turned back to Fatima, flashing his usual grin. “So, where were we before our lovely visitor interrupted us?” 

Fatima smiled, her cheeks still flushed. “You were promising to show me a real adventure.” 

Bradley winked. “Now that sounds like a promise worth keeping.” 

-- 

The air in the archives clung to your skin like old parchment – dry, stiff and unwelcoming. Rows of aging files lined shelves like forgotten tombs, each one more accessible to time than to you. Sunlight filtered through lowered shutters, painting dusty lines across the floor and the counter where you stood. 

The archivist behind the desk wore a beige linen suit and a beige expression to match, a balding British man with a wispy mustache and an even wispier regard for your presence, who was leafing through a registry at a pace meant to discourage further inquiry. 

“I’m looking for any documentation relating to Queen Nefertari,” you said, for what felt like the third time. “Excavation reports, site diagrams, expedition notes – anything from the past twenty years.” 

He hummed absently. “The Queen’s tomb was discovered in 1904, Miss...” 

You flatly reminded him of your surname. 

“Right.” he sighed, “Yes, well, the tomb was catalogued and recorded thoroughly. As for the archives, I’m afraid access is restricted to scholars with formal credentials. University backing. Field permits. If you’re after public records, I suggest the central museum exhibits. You’d like it. There’s even a miniature replica of her burial chamber. Quite popular with the tourists.” 

“I’m not a tourist.” you said, your jaw tightening. “I’ve worked as an archivist for the British Museum for years. I’m a researcher. I studied under Professor Simpson in London. My work was cited in-” 

“Yes, yes, so you’ve said.” He waved a dismissive hand, barely looking up. “But the current archive policy is quite firm.” 

You drew a sharp breath. “Would it be firm if I were a man?” 

He sighed, as if you were a child interrupting him mid-task. “If you were a man, you’d likely already be affiliated with a university expedition. You’d have a letter of introduction. A grant. A patron. As it is, all you have is... gumption.” 

“A man just walked through those doors without so much as a form.” you snapped back. 

“That was Dr. Hewitt,” the archivist replied crisply, “He’s published extensively, well respected. And he’s... well, he’s known.” He looked up finally and offered a patronising smile. “Perhaps you should write all these ideas you have down. A little mystery novel. Ladies do so love a good treasure hunt.” 

You stared at him, stunned by the brazenness of it. The sheer, effortless dismissal. 

Your throat tightened. You opened your mouth, then shut it again. 

He straightened a stack of folders. “If you wish to submit a formal request, you may do so. But be warned, the process takes time. Months, usually. If you’re still in Cairo by then.” 

You gave a tight smile. “I’ll put it in my calendar.” 

Turning sharply, you stalked out of the room and into the echoing stone corridor, heels clicking in frustration. You passed a group of men chatting by a sculpture of Horus, all laughing far too loudly, one of them openly staring at you as you passed. 

Outside, the heat slapped you full in the face. You ducked into the shade of a colonnade, pressing your back to the cool stone, trying to breathe. 

You wiped your brow, the old anger burning up again. You had the knowledge. The training. The damned map. But none of it mattered. 

Because you’re a woman. 

And the men who held the keys to the past – figuratively, and literally – weren't giving up a single one of them unless it suited their egos, and definitely not to someone like you. 

Unless... 

Bradley. 

You hadn’t even liked him. Disheveled. Arrogant. Reeking of whiskey and wasted potential. But they had listened to him once. Maybe they still would. 

You weren’t asking for help. Not really. 

But if you wanted a chance – any chance – to get through the locked doors of history... 

You might need him. 

You swallowed hard, furious at the thought. Furious that he might be your best chance. 

And even more furious that he would probably say no. 

-- 

The bar was dim and smelled of heat, smoke and old regrets. Ceiling fans turned slow as molasses, stirring the heavy Cairo air just enough to remind you how hot it was. 

Bradley Bradshaw sat slouched at a corner table, halfway through something bitter that had stopped being refreshing an hour ago. His hat lay forgotten beside an ashtray, his shirt rumpled and sleeves rolled. The bottle on the table told the story of his afternoon – long, uneventful, and preferably forgotten. 

So, when he heard a familiar voice, crisp and unmistakable, he assumed at first it was the heat. 

“Mr. Bradshaw.” 

He looked up. No hallucination. 

It was you. 

The sharp-eyed woman from the museum. The one who’d walked past his charm like it was background noise. 

You were dressed more practically now – linen coat, sun-darkened boots – but your expression hadn’t softened in the slightest. Still cool. Still precise. 

He gave a lazy smile and sat up slightly. “Well. If it isn’t the ice queen of the archives.” 

“I was hoping for a private word,” you said, eyes flicking towards the bar. 

Bradley gestured at the empty seat across from him. “You found me. Might as well sit.” 

You did, folding your hands in front of you. “I need your help,” you said bluntly. 

Bradley arched a brow. “That’s funny. You didn’t seem particularly impressed last time we met.” 

“You were flirting with the museum staff,” you said dryly. “Not exactly the entrance of a serious man.” 

“And yet here you are,” he said, lifting his glass. “Asking for my expertise.” 

“I’ve come into possession of something,” you said carefully. “A... document. Potentially very old. Very important.” 

His interest piqued, but he didn’t let it show. “What kind of document?” 

“I’m not ready to share that,” you said. “Not until I know you’re willing to take this seriously.” 

Bradley gave a small laugh. “You tracked me to the worst bar in Cairo to ask for help, and you won’t tell me what I’m helping with?” 

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m asking if you want to matter again.”

That landed with a small, uncomfortable silence. 

You continued, “You’re still known, even if your reputation’s bruised. You know how to navigate these sites, the bureaucracy, the politics. I don’t. I need that.” 

He leaned back. “And what makes you think I’m interested in anything more than my drink?” 

“Because you used to be brilliant,” you said. “And brilliant men don’t die quietly in corners. They just wait for the right reason to stand back up.” 

Bradley studied you more closely now. You weren’t just clever – you were confident, calculated. And you had something. You were holding back deliberately, not out of fear, but out of strategy. 

That intrigued him, more than he liked. 

“You’re not going to show me the document.” 

“No.” 

“Not even a hint?” 

“I’ve already said too much,” you said. “But I’ll say this – if it’s what I believe it is, it’ll change everything.” 

Bradley dragged a hand through his hair, sighing. “And what do I get? Besides a lecture?” 

“Credit. Access. And a front-row seat to something extraordinary.” 

You stood, brushing invisible dust from your coat. “I’m staying at the Hotel Continental,” you said. “If you want to be part of something bigger than your own bitterness, meet me tomorrow morning. If not... enjoy your whiskey.” 

You turned toward the door. 

Bradley called after you, his tone light and sarcastic. “You don't want to join me for a drink, sweetheart?” 

You paused, casting a glance back over your shoulder.  

“I’m not here to flatter forgotten men,” you said. “I’m here to dig up queens.” 

And then you were gone – leaving behind the stale smoke, the empty glass, and a man who, for the first time in years, couldn’t stop thinking about tomorrow.

---

taglist:

@jessevans

@grimpowrrs

[forsaken-headcanons]

Taph go crazy when he see fries (any kind of it)

Same with shedletsky with fried chicken

dusekkar also goes crazy over pumpkin pie(bonus if spiced)

Buildermen go crazy over soda (bonus if bloxy cola)

Doombringer has to hold everyone back from going absolute feral

While every has to hold doombringer back if he sees s'mores or BBQ

Since they got forsaken'd,the other survivors have to hold the feral admin back while the killers have to hold Doombringer back

If Doombringer the killer of the round,all survivors have to do is smuggle s'mores/BBQ into the round and throw it to him,he will not kill for the whole round

-randomized anon

(projecting my friend into it lol)

If Dusekkar is eating pumpkin pie, doesn't that consider cannibalism? Or did he just enjoy pumpkins so much that his head turned into one?

Questions, questions.. /j

I also really like these headcanons. im yoinking ALL of them... grins

[the-fandom-is-now-my-life]

Okay but imagine if the Creator's child was Kaveh's.

Out of literally everyone in the world and the creator bags the broke architect 🤭

Que Jessica Rabbit's 'he makes me laugh'.

He still lives with Alhaitham bc the idea of sharing a literal child with the creator but still getting locked out of your apartment is hilarious.

The creator had a the broke architect's child

Creative child

After your child is born with no distinctive features other than his blond hair the first one to know who your lover was is your own child

WC: 900~

To be 100% truthful I only thought about doing this for the iconic physical feature like neuvi, Diluc, etc but this was fun jsjs

“Morning, parental unit” your blond son stands on the door joining your library and the solarium in which you often humored visits.

“Morning, uhm, offspring?” Your hand reaches towards the book shelf without minding him, people said children his age find joy in speaking and behaving weirdly, and yours wasn't an exception, if his giggles meant something. 

“I heard you speaking with mister Diluc about visiting Sumeru”

“It's bad to eavesdrop” softly you chastise him but he pouts and stomps.

“I wanna go! You told me dad lives there, I wanna meet him”

“Shush! I told you that as our secret” you close the book you were skimming over but sigh as you see his yellow eyes “but last month when I told you to come for a festival in Sumeru but you didn't want to go”

“Because aunties Eula and Amber were going to teach me how to skyyyy” he whines the last word, already sensing you wouldn't want to take him there. 

“Bratty child” you groan “fine, if you manage to make up for the 4 days we will not be here with your tutor I will take you” and as you finish talking you hear him slamming the door shut and his bare feet hitting the floor as he runs away.

And, somehow, your usually mischievous child managed to work hard enough to make up for a few absences, or so said his tutor, who you still believed was under the spell of his puppy eyes, just like when he managed to smuggle two cats and a cryo slime.

“Karen, stay close, we have to go to the akademiya to check some paperwork and sit through some meetings” you grab his forearm, dragging him away from the colorful stained glass mobiles and the fluffy beasts carrying spices and fruit.

After a fair bit of bickering with every stand selling something he has never seen you manage to reach the akademiya, even if Karen was almost being dragged. 

Popping your head on the administration room you see a row of desks, a familiar face standing out amongst the sea of brown hair, a long gray hair standing up tall from his scalp.

Alhaitham is lounging in his desk, a book on one hand and a pen on the other, seeing him so calm makes you decide against bothering him and rather to ask one of his coworkers, even if you have to wait for a little bit while they finish transcribing as you chat them up, knowing it could be intimidating to have you stand silently besides them.

“C'mon let's just go to himmm, he looks like he is just lazing arounddd” Karen tugs on the bottom of your tunic but you ignore his little tantrum and keep asking the girl about the date she told you she will have after work.

Seemingly waiting for five minutes was too much of a waste of time that could be used to explore this nation. Sneaking silently behind you he stands before Alhaitham’s desk, but is ignored as he has his noise canceling earbuds and Karen isn't taller than the desk.

“Hey” he says, no answer “Heeeyy” no answer, now ticked off Karen slams his small hands against the thick wood board “HEY! STOP IGNORING ME” 

Alhaitham just peeks his head towards him, not hearing the noise but seeing his hands, but when he looks at him his annoyed look and yellow eyes seem too familiar.

He opens his mouth, eyes half closed as if he was thinking about something. 

Now noticing he was causing the ruckus you drag him by the armpits so he stops hitting the desk, as you start making Karen apologize you see Alhaitham's face. His eyebrows now almost up with his hairline and his green eyes uncharacteristically wide, but quickly he changes into a smirk as Karen apologizes for yelling.

“Please don't tell me it was-”

“Keep reading your book”

“Not my guest's bed~” he teases while grabbing his book, expecting the office to be calm again when the door slams open again, a blond huffing and puffing ready to face his housemate.

“YOU… how come you always grab my keys?! I couldn't enter the house for 2 hours!” to which al haitham tugs a set of keys out of his pockets and dangles three keys and a lion doll.

“Ugh, calm down. Why even wait 2 hours if you already know where I work?”

Under all their yapping you mumble something to your son “that is your dad” and you let a small promise to make both meet if he is busy, but after 5 ish minutes of bickering and the paperwork you needed snug in your hand it's obvious it will be quicker to just end this fight yourself. 

“Kaveh? Oh, hi, it's been so long” one of your hands falls on his shoulder, making him notice your presence “like 4 years ago?” You ask as you feel Karen hug one of your legs.

“oh, yeah, it's been so long” he laughs lightly, feeling suddenly bashful.

“It's a shame I was so busy I was just able to visit Sumeru, someone wanted to meet you” the flat part of your nail rakes through your son's hair.

“Huh?” He just now notices the kid behind you and his bright hair.

“Could you take care of him for a second? I have to finish a meeting and I should be able to meet you two”

“Yep! I will show him around and we can meet at the cafe, in sure we will have a lot to talk about”

Don't dare to run away so fast... Who allowed you to use my house like a motel

Hick!

[perry-the-platypus-f1cs]

More 141 headcanons (but there actually realistic.) +other characters!

1.Soap and Alejandro have both bragged to each other about how good their family recipes are sparking a cooking competition where the two would try to make delicious meals out in the field with MREs and other military approved food supplies(this mostly happens on slow paced stakeout missions)

2. when Gaz was assigned to an SAS specific counter-terrorism program in the UK who collaborate with the police for in-country attacks he mostly kept to himself and the only times he would speak out were to question the authenticity of orders from police officers or his COs commanding officers. This aren't him a few nicknames including 'gasoline' Because of how quickly he would get ticked off about probable-faulty Intel or orders that endangered others. The nickname was then shortened to 'gas' and then changed to 'gaz' at Garrick's preference

3. At the start of Ghosts military career he almost ended it short when one of the other recruits in the SAS program picked a fight with a senior SAS member who was in the leadership position over their training unit at the time. Ghost then beat the recruit in the showers almost killing the other recruit for an unknown reason rumours started floating around that the recruit had made fun of ghost because of how much Ghost respected the SAS member like how a son would respect their father.

4. Price and Nik met while Nikolai was still an arms dealer in Russia and Price a new SAS sargeant for an information exchange for weaponry the two became close friends after Nikolai gave Price's Captain additional Intel with the weapons after finding that they had a common enemy in a human trafficking organization smuggling UK citizens through Russia.

5. Alex has a surprisingly large love and tolerance for spicy food due to him being deployed in many country's where the easiest food to come by was mostly spicy. Farah found this out after Alex declined the 'American' MREs that the ULF had for the Marines that joined them in a raid against Al Qatala. Alex then opted to have a soup with a high concentration of Akija (a thick pepper paste) and didn't flinch at the spice his only reaction was a hum and "oh. this has a bit of a kick"

6. Before Nolan had joined Makarov he was apart of the Australian Defence Forces and specialized with naval vessel seigies and hand to hand combat during his time in the ADF he was Promoted 3 times in the 5 years he served Going from a Reg (regular soldier) to a Sargent and then to lieutenant after he had found a large stock of illegal contraband on a ship headed for a repairment dock where the contraband would have been taken and distributed.

[eggcompany]

Viktor loves honey. He puts in his tea, in his desserts, he drizzles it on his toast. He goes to the undercity and buys it along with a few other things. He either buys them or trades with Piltie vitamins or powdered foods.

Jayce had no idea people in the undercity grew/raised their own foods. Honey in Piltover was overpriced in it's special dark tinted glass jars, filtered and flavoured.

When Viktor brings a small jar, an old pickled beets jar actually, filled with the most delicious almost tangy honey, Jayce is blown away. He asks where Viktor got it and he gives the name of a women's home on the edge of the slums. Jayce blinks at him and asks if they're smuggling it, or if it's stolen.

Viktor cracks him in the ankle with his cane and says not all cultures depend on retail for food sources. Next time Viktor gets more, Jayce is silently following him through the undercity market. He get's cheated out of far more money than what Viktor would have spent. But that's what happens to rich Pilties who don't listen. Viktor get's his honey and leaves, Jayce and his pockets filled with fruits and spices.

Viktor laughs at Jayce and his "luxuries"

[graceashcroft]

just tried smuggling spice to Coruscant and the ISB just emailed me this picture???

[the-s1lly-corner]

hey i was wondering if you could do more little HCS of that one prompt you did errr ahh the villian NPC w/ jax? i don’t know if you would want to do the same layout again or not but the prompt really interested me and i would love for more of it :3

More jax x NPC!villain!reader

I kind of want to make shrimp tomorrow but idk

Notes: reader is gn, you can find the other villain npc reader in the masterlist if I forget to edit the link in here LMAO, short post, i lied i remembered to go back for the link YIPPIE, this ones got some spice (IE its a little angsty)

CWs: none

one of the biggest things that sits in his mind but refuses to admit to anyone is that he knows you wont remember him when the adventure ends. you wont recognize him when you come back for another day, reset to your status quo. a blank slate.... but theres a visible falter in his usual demeanor that to some doesnt go unnoticed

what...? him? bothered by something thats out of his control? in fact, him bothered by anything at all and displaying a split second of weakness? get real, hes not actually attached to you. he just thinks youre... fun... and cool... and real- despite being very much not a real person and

...oh god...

he... subconsciously tries to prolong adventures that have you. if he can just extend it for a few more minutes so he can talk to you a little longer and cause some more trouble together for a few more hours- hes going to do it

he has no problem with betraying his fellow circus members to aid you in your evil plans- plus he thinks its funny to leave them in the dust and have them struggle to thwart the two of you

each time you laugh and clap him on the back for being a good henchman makes him smile just a little wider- another interaction to shove the inevitable right back down

if he had a proper plan he would find a way to smuggle you into the circus and keep you hidden from caine... but its too risky

...and... would he be selfish enough to shatter your entire sense of reality and self just to keep you by his side?

would it be considered selfish? it... he would be doing it for himself rather than solely for you?

that... does sour his fun with you...