#Table of Contents Strategy

[effectivethings]

Transforming Reading into Wisdom: A Guide to Effective Book Engagement

Table of contentsIntroductionBuy a BestsellerRead the Table of ContentsActually Read the BookDevelop a Habit of ReadingLet’s Use a Blue PenPlace Books Around the HouseConclusion Estimated reading time: 5 minutes Introduction Do you like books? I read a lot of books and I’m trying to improve my reading skills. It’s because of the advice my Korean language teacher gave me in high school. She…

[seoguruatlantaofficial]

Exploring the types of featured snippets reveals their role in enhancing search engine visibility and improving user experience. This article covers the distinctions between snippet types and explains their significance for content optimization. Read more at https://www.seoguruatlanta.com/blog/understanding-the-different-types-of-featured-snippets/.

[prokopetz]

Doesn't Hasbro have a strong incentive to make a "lite" version of D&D with a pared-down paperback rulebook and sell it as a casual-friendly overpriced starter kit with a bunch of dice, figures, treasure cards, etc.? It could be a strict subset of the normal 5E rules (I guess - not that knowledgeable about TTRPG design). That way they could sell you all the same books. Seems like a slam dunk

Hasbro's present marketing strategy for Dungeons & Dragons is to try to position every D&D group as potential purchasers of every D&D product. Among other things, this is one of the main reasons that every campaign setting other than the Forgotten Realms is being repackaged as a series of tourist destinations for Forgotten Realms based campaigns to visit, and why there's been a strong move away from focused, topical sourcebooks and toward big, messy "book of everything"-style anthologies that consciously avoid focusing too much on any one type of character or campaign. It's also why the core books make a lot of noise about how wonderfully modular the rules are without actually providing any meaningful modularity in practice – if the game was designed to make it easy to pick and choose modular components, they'd risk fracturing the player base into distinct subsets with different preferred sets of modules.

All this in mind, it's fairly easy to see why there's currently no official "light" version of D&D. Under the paradigm of every single D&D group as a potential purchaser of every single D&D product, a version of Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition that was actually, meaningfully simpler than the core product would function in practice as a competing game (what if people decide they like the simpler version better and just play that instead?), and the last thing you want is to compete with yourself. TSR learned that the hard way! With substantive simplification off the table, the only introductory version of Dungeons & Dragons Hasbro can offer is one with exactly the same rules which simply has less content, and tells people to buy the full version if they want more – which is exactly what they're selling in the various starter sets that are presently available.

[livecrow]

You're out with friends and joke that you're “un-kidnappable”.

John Price and the lads think that’s interesting. 

Soft!Dark!John Price x fat fem reader

cw: debatable self-deprecation, kidnapping, noncon

You don’t recall exactly how it came up. Maybe it was the latest episode of a popular true crime podcast a couple of your friends mentioned listening to the other day.

All the same, while lounging in the familiar bar’s cozy glow, the atmosphere at the table stayed light and relaxed, despite the morbid topic.

Between drinks, your friends detail stories of encounters with dubious men and swap self-defense strategies—anything to avoid an impromptu debut on a Dateline special.

They were mostly the basics. Remember to lock your doors immediately. Keep your phone on you. Never leave a drink unattended. Always travel in groups. Oh, and carry pepper spray. It turns out all of your friends carry some.

Not you, though.

When you are inevitably questioned on the matter, you concede that you have some, "...somewhere."

Your mom gave you a little canister years back. But you don’t actually know where it is, much to the displeasure of your friends. Upon further interrogation, you guessed it’s probably forgotten in a drawer somewhere, lost among AAA batteries, tangled cords of unknown origin, and appliance instruction manuals. 

As one friend suggests the classic keys-between-your-fingers trick, some of the men at an adjacent table laugh.

“Best use for keys when you’re attacked is opening a damn door.”

Apparently, they had been following your conversation. It was the oldest man who spoke, rumbling over the rim of his glass with aplomb that leaves little room for argument. He has a resonance that makes you pause, reminding you distinctly of the distant rolling thunder that forebodes a coming storm. 

The dark, handsome man at his elbow agrees. “'Sides, they’re not brass knuckles. No stability. You’re not actually gonna cause any damage like that.”

“Aye, ye’r better off jus’ takin’ one key an poppin’ the bastard’s een out.” A man sporting a mohawk added with a grin, crudely miming gouging an eye out with his free hand.

“Fine, I’ll punch them out then!” the smallest of your friend group counters, palming her fist loudly while trying to keep a straight face.

That just earns more amusement, of course. The huge masked man at the end of their table scoffs, “Like that you’ll jus’ break your fuckin’ thumb.” He proceeds to instruct her how to make a proper fist. 

It's all in good fun. They’re an interesting bunch, probably military of some sort, you’d wager. Three Brits and one Scot. Your group welcomes the interruption, despite the biggest one of the lot looking particularly murdery himself, decked out in all black and a fucking skull balaclava. 

The gregarious, younger two made up for it. They were all smiles, speaking candidly as if they’d just run into some old friends. Before long you’ve practically joined tables. Why not? After all, the four certainly look like they know what they’re talking about, each man large and brawny.

The younger men did the vast majority of the talking, answering questions and enthusiastically offering techniques to their audience while Voorhees only interjected a brusque retort every so often. Your friends were utterly charmed by the Scot’s cheeky beam and the pretty Brit’s warm eyes as they moved from outlining bodily weak points with an emphasis on “soft targets” to discussing the pros and cons of different weapons.

But there was something about the man who initiated the discourse—some quality. He held an unspoken commanding presence, despite saying little. Here he was, the catalyst of the entire interaction, and yet he seemed content to observe rather than participate. It brought to mind some indifferent, deist higher power.

You estimated he was a decade his mates' senior, give or take. Apropos stormy eyes framed by heavy brows and the beginnings of crow's feet. Odd, antiquated facial hair, wood brown with smatterings of grey. Privately, you thought it suited him—looked distinguished. At some point earlier he caught your gaze.

He introduced himself as “John.” Although, curiously, none of his cohorts called him that or introduced themselves in turn. Not that your friends seemed to mind; that, or they didn’t notice. 

Along with his name, he offered a subdued Duchenne smile that disarmed you, softening his gruff countenance in an instant. For an instant, anyway.

You’d swear that, even in the bar’s low lighting, you caught his eyes twinkle. Some uncharacteristically childish sentiment swept over you for a moment, making you want to believe that the look was for you and that he wasn’t in reality only being polite.

“...honestly, if you have the stomach for it, your best choice is always gonna be a strap.”

The Scot readily agreed with pretty-boy, as he reclined, his chair balancing precariously on just the back two legs. However, they did quibble over the type of handgun, debating various specifications that were gibberish to the rest of you. While they all listen enraptured, only one of your friends really seems truly open to the idea. The rest unsurprisingly remain gun-shy. 

Another friend suggests a taser as a compromise.

“Not for me,” you laughed, “there’s absolutely no way my ass wouldn't immediately accidentally taser myself."

“No mace, no taser, no knife—not even one of those keychain alarms!” your friend groused. “You should have something—”.

Your eyes met again. You and John. Even with the subtle haze of alcohol relaxing you, it felt penetrating. 

Your eyes retreated down to his drink seeking relief. One of his large hands flexed slightly around his glass, thick tendons shifting under the skin and scattered vellus hair peeking over his cuff, dusting as far as his knuckles.

He seemed to be in thought as he took a drink. Whiskey you think it was. His shrewd eyes didn't leave you; maybe he was just looking through you—

“How do you keep yourself out of trouble then, love?” 

His timbre immediately cut through the chatter. If you weren’t feeling so fizzy from the drink, you might feel put on the spot when suddenly everyone’s eyes are singly on you.

You were effectively the token “fat one” of your group. While the rest of this friend group happened to be straight-sized, there was absolutely nothing “straight” on your body. Hell, there was hardly a part of you that didn’t jiggle, at least a little bit.

You didn’t resent it; you were just self-aware. You were perfectly cognizant that you blended in among them about as well as a hippo “blends in" with oxpeckers.

If you were entirely sober, you might be a bit put out, might worry he’s being mean, poking fun at your expense. But no, the alcohol thankfully chased away any anxiety from building in your gut.

Besides, there’s no humor to be found in his expression, no edge of malice in his eyes. None of his mates crack a smirk either, apparently also interested in your answer.

You were mid-sip when the question was lobbed your way, and you used it to stall. You weren’t sure precisely why, but you found yourself squirming in your seat a bit before recovering half a second later. 

“Me?”, you grinned around your straw, cocking a brow. “Trust me, I’m not worried about it. I’m practically un-kidnappable,” you asserted, in a way that sounded suspiciously boastful.

John’s focus remains steady on you, appraising, but the other men share a glance. 

You could have left it at that, but pretty-boy chimed in, brow furrowing. "How do you figure that?" 

You weren’t completely sure that the men weren’t just being intentionally obtuse, but you’d entertain a ridiculous question with a ridiculous response. Flippancy came naturally. 

You carefully set your drink back onto the table. You lean in, voice lowered to a grave tone, biting back mischief that threatened to give you away. “Listen, my strategy is airtight,” you paused. “If some guy comes along, tries something?" You hold again for dramatic effect.

"...Sit on him."

"Oh my god," your friends groan collectively.

But you went on, unfazed. "It's all over for him! Why would I need a weapon when I have positional asphyxia? Besides, if that doesn't kill him, the embarrassment will."

Any outrage falls on deaf ears considering your friends are fighting back grins.

Buoyed, you continue. "It’d be like someone trying to ‘kidnap’ a grizzly bear. I am not gonna get abducted unless the guy just happens to show up with a forklift—", that earns a swat from your friend sitting closest.

"—And if that's how I get caught? Honestly? I’d have it coming if I somehow missed the fucker rolling up and can't, what, power-walk out of there?"

Another friend beseeches, "Be serious!" 

“I am serious!" you shot back, laughing. "Those things go, what, 5 miles an hour, tops?"

Apparently, the rest of the group also found the image of a low-speed fucking forklift chase funny, judging by the Scot's almost spit-take that left him choking a bit. You were pleased that he and pretty-boy had a sense of humor and didn’t bother with the pretense of finger-wagging. 

You were disappointed you didn't get John, though. He only hummed thoughtfully, an odd liminal not-quite frown on his lips that was mostly obscured by his glass as he took another sip. 

Tough customer.

One friend challenges you, “Oh, yeah? You say that, but what if he pulls a gun and tells you to get in the car? What then?”

You pressed your lips together, tilting your head in consideration.

"Well, at that point, I guess I’d have to accept I'm going to die.”

"What?!"

You shrugged, "There's no way I'm getting in that car. You never go to a secondary location. Everyone knows that. Why drag things out unnecessarily when you can die in the street? After all, there are plenty of worse ways to go than by a bullet—besides, at least then my body will be found."

Worried the last bit would have more of a sobering effect on your company than you intended, you pivot and retrieve your drink. You tilt your chin up, gazing off into the distance dreamily, gesturing with your glass.

“My final words? 'Good luck trying to dispose of my corpse, asshole. Hope you know a good chiropractor.'"

With that you slurped down the dregs, ice clinking noisily at the bottom, finally giggling with everyone else at your own joke. Cue lots of your name and "Stop it!"s.

Hell, you even eked out a single low "heh" from Hot Topic that you’ll claim as a proper laugh. You were 3 for 4.

Your friends, bless them, are extremely predictable when you’re so candid self-deprecating. They laugh only to retreat to feigning scandal. When they recover, you’re peppered with more scenarios and protests. 

You’re barely able to suppress an eye-roll at their persistence. "I mean, it's a moot point from the start. I'm not the mark for that kind of thing in the first place."

Before your friends could cut you off, you clarified, “I’m not saying anything bad. I would just be—" you paused, searching for the right word—"an interesting choice." 

"No, I’m not the target demographic for something like that.” You waved a hand dismissively. “I'm simultaneously not preferable aesthetically and not worth the hassle logistically. So that ends up pretty convenient, considering I’d rather not be kidnapped." 

You swabbed the ring of condensation you left on the table with a bar napkin absently. "They want some dainty thing—they don’t want me,” you gestured to your person flippantly. “They want a trophy, but not the 'big game' variety," you gave a lopsided smile.

Your friends’ chastisement was swift, distracting enough that it didn’t quite give you a second to contemplate the strange, tenebrous emotion that was simmering just under the surface of John’s expression or that of his mates’. The nuance was lost on you. 

Mercifully, after experiencing a couple more variations of “You should be more careful!” from your friends, the topic finally changed.

It transformed and split, becoming a bit too chaotic for you to follow in your current state; several simultaneous threads of conversation going at once turned into white noise.

After a while you must have zoned out a bit, because among the din you didn’t notice that John was now sitting near you. He leaned over discreetly, at a respectful distance that still made your head foggy and face warm, voice low.

“They’re right, you know. You might think you're an exception, but you’re not. Is dangerous to think that.” 

You're so struck by the intensity of his steely gaze that you were slow to catch up to the actual words. You couldn’t fathom how blue eyes could feel so searing; you’d swear you could feel their heat. Completely caught off-guard by the sudden seriousness, you struggled with how to respond to that. “I—”

Before you could say anything, you realized the Scot was talking to you, asking you something, reeling you back into the fray.

…

Time seems to pass differently after that; you have no idea how long it’s been, all talking and laughing, sharing bants. More rounds of drinks. It’s a good time. 

But the night is winding down for you; you can feel exhaustion creeping in. By the time one of your friends’ partners shows up ready to continue the fun elsewhere, you decline the offer.

You hated being seen as a wet blanket, but right now all you wanted to do was go home and take a hot shower. Peel off your “going-out” clothes and change into something comfortable. Maybe order in and catch up on a show. A little, "dolce far niente".

They invited the men too, but apparently they had other plans. Your friends didn’t waste any time pouting, exchanging quick, tipsy goodbyes before heading out.

It’s much quieter after that. Even the light conversation between the men has fizzled out. The small bar that night was particularly slow, consisting mostly of your two groups to begin with. You pull out your phone to check the time, frowning when you find it dead.

“...I can call you an Uber?” John suggests, as you stand.

The silence is loud, somehow. Oppressive. It looks as if the men are waiting. The air is heavy with something unsaid, some kind of significance that’s entirely lost on your fuzzy mind.

You never noticed the inscrutable look Voorhees sends John after he spoke. You’d find too late that a lot of things skipped your boozy notice that night.

Your lip tugs at the offer. “Thanks, but I promise it’s fine. I actually live pretty close.” 

John simply inclines his head, doesn’t press further. As you’re headed to the door, glancing back, you offer an earnest, albeit tired, smile. “Was nice meeting you. Maybe I'll see you around?” 

“Maybe.”

…

You were barely halfway home before suddenly, out of the darkness of a Cimmerian passing alley, arms locked around you, ripping an undignified squeal out of you.

When you catch sight of the familiar faces of your “attackers”, you clutch your chest, trying to calm your hammering heartbeat.

“Fucking hell!” you heaved.

If you weren’t so rattled and clamoring over your words, you would have been especially mortified by the incidental contact on your squishy middle. You couldn’t remember a time someone has grabbed you so brazenly. By process of elimination, it must have been Hot Topic’s large form who was holding you against his front.

“Shit! You guys are assholes,” you exclaimed between pants. “That’s not funny!” Your hands grasped at the large forearms around you, yanking fruitlessly.

It was John who was standing in front of you, thumbs hooked in his pockets, backlit by a streetlamp, haloed in faint breath vapor. It was the first time you’d recall seeing him standing; he was even bigger than you expected. They all were. 

“You left, what—” he pulled out his phone and glanced down at the blueish light in his hand, “20 minutes ago?” His eyes return to your face, raising his thick brows. “Not very ‘close’, is it? Your home.”

John spoke conversationally, a picture of ease, like he was commenting on how chilly it was for this time of year, and hadn't just jumpscared you.

“Dinnae even try tae throw a punch, no’ even one o’ those girly slaps—” the Scot muttered, not particularly quietly, to pretty-boy, who kissed his teeth in disapproval.

You’re running on fumes, so your brain is moving in slow motion, only just processing John’s words, not yet able to summon even a glare for the Scot’s commentary.

“It is close,” you insist, coming out slightly more defensively than you intended. You’re still embarrassingly working overtime to catch your breath while trying to pull away from the hard body at your back in irritation. “Besides, how do you define ‘close’? That’s completely subjective.”

Not as if that’s any of your business. You held back that particular remark.

You took a measured breath or two more. “Look, of all people, I appreciate the commitment to a bit,” you clawed uselessly at Voorhees’ iron grip around you, “but can you call your dog off?” 

Hot Topic’s previous abridged facsimile of a “laugh” echoed in your ear, an amused huff so close that it made you flinch. That wasn’t really what you expected from your unadvisable barb.

You think it was the material of his mask that you felt slightly graze the shell of your ear, but it was fleeting enough that you couldn’t be certain.

“You can call me Ghost, sweet’eart”.

On any other day that edgy moniker would have garnered some kind of mirth, but your clouded brain didn’t seem fit to supply a witty retort with some strange man at your nape.

While John said nothing, something in his expression must have communicated to Ghost. You instinctively relaxed when his arms released your middle.

It soothed your nerves a touch, enough that you didn’t register that you were in the process of being edged backwards and were now partway through an alley you should have passed on your route home.

You crossed your arms, opting to ignore the introduction in lieu of another shaky inhale. “Just wait till my friends hear that you guys blew them off just to fuck with me. So much for having ‘plans’, huh?”

You tried to tease, still desperately attempting to slow your heart, recoup some composure, and match the men’s nonchalance. You’re not sure how convincingly you pulled it off. Some nagging anxiety still seeped out of you in a slow leak, despite your best effort to pull yourself together, to not be a buzzkill in response to a technically harmless pran—. 

“This is the ‘plan’, love.” John replied simply, not missing a beat.

You huffed in exasperation, brows pinched. “...What, ‘making a point’?”

John paused for a moment, seeming to weigh his words, “That’s one way to look at it, if you’d like.”

There was a pregnant pause, and suddenly the scrape of shoes on the dirty pavement seemed loud in your ears. The smell in the alley is particularly damp and musty now. Had you been moving this whole time? You’re getting all turned around—

Pretty-boy cut in, “You know, your whole premise was faulty from the start. ‘Sides you didn’t account for more than one person being involved���. 

“Involved in what?” you blinked, bewildered. 

“Your kidnapping, obviously.”

“My k—?”.

“—Speak for yourself, Gaz. I’d ‘ave ‘er either way.” Ghost interrupted, making you jump, a stark reminder of the presence still at your back.

You were stunned into silence for a couple of excruciatingly long seconds before choking out a pained laugh.

“Ha-ha. Alright—alright, fine. I get it.” You raise your hands in surrender, head swiveling back to John as you turn to press your back against the rough brick of the alley wall, trying to keep them all in your field of vision. 

“I’ll get a taser or something, is that what you want?” you offered, wearing your best expression of deferent contrition.

When John finally peels his eyes from you, he just sighs heavily, shaking his head at the pavement; either in disapproval or disbelief, you couldn’t be sure which. 

“Bit late for that now.”

“…What—what the hell is that supposed to mean?” You stutter indignantly.

You were starting to feel woozy; maybe you drank a bit too much.

Your sole scuffs against some debris, almost tripping you up completely if not for the brick wall to steady you. Your palms sting as they slide slightly on the stone, but you don’t dare take your eyes off them to look down for even a second. 

Suddenly, with a furtive glance over Ghost’s shoulder, you realize you're almost out on the other side of the street. His massive form fills the alleyway, destroying any hope you’d be able to squeeze your wide body past him or John and the others on your opposite side.

Your mouth is painfully dry. Your throat works, trying to swallow but still managing to somehow choke on nothing. You force some authority you don’t feel into your tone, but it tapers off rather weakly.

“Listen, you’ve had your fun. I really need to get home.”

You were struck by how different they all seemed compared to hardly a half an hour prior. The shift was dramatic—made your head spin. It was hard to rationalize that the people who were just sitting across from you in the homey local bar sharing drinks and the people now caging you into a dreary, abandoned street corner were one and the same. 

An approaching streetlamp visible through the yawning maw of the alley cast harsh shadows on their faces. A literal “light at the end of a tunnel” that only offered you dread.

You swayed slightly on your feet, head darting around, desperately trying to keep an eye on the four of them. You were feeling suddenly inexplicably drunker than you felt mere moments before.

As your knees quivered and you tried to steady yourself, John remained a pillar in your wobbly field of vision. Watching. Waiting. 

You're not sure which was preferable, the ominous comments or the ominous silence.

You weren’t small. You’d never felt small in your life. But with a group of large men looming over you, it was suddenly hard not to. It was not a feeling you were accustomed to and one you didn’t enjoy now.

You needed air, it was getting impossible to think. You tried to speed your gait to no avail; you couldn’t gain any distance. They prowled, following you closely, as if there was a gravitational pull anchoring them to you. 

“Fine. Fine! Okay, you proved your point, alright?!” you exclaimed, getting more frantic by the second, louder. “Let me pass. I’m serious.”

“Oh, so now she’s serious…” Gaz teases, somewhere off to your left.

“You think I’m not?” John husked, sounding incredulous, forehead lines deepening as he raised his brows, tucked his chin to stare down at you through hooded eyes. “Love, I’m serious as a heart-attack.” 

Then he was smiling at you again.

It looked the same as before. Sincere. But where previously it endeared you, now, now it makes your heart stall, then shudder in your ribcage; fill you with the sensation of a freefall, the one that jolts you awake while on the very precipice of sleep, leaves your heart racing, despite the tranquil darkness. 

His eyes flick over your head.

Before you are able to register the glance, Ghost is suddenly on you again, grabbing you round the middle quicker than someone his size had any right to be, this time actively herding your large form forward.

You realized dully that his last grip on you must have been relatively loose compared to his grip on you now; it was clearly only a fraction of his actual strength.

“What are you doing?!” You cry, a hair's breadth away from a shriek. Your head whips back to John, imploring, “Stop—Stop, I don't know what you want!”

This is probably what it feels like to be a frog. Pounced on and scooped up roughly by some huge creature—some grubby kid’s scrambling fingers. Slippery, round body gripped tight.

You were finally out of the alley, pulled by Ghost as well as your own unsteady feet, your body's instinct to try and avoid cracking your cranium on the concrete abetting him, betraying you.

“What we want?” Ghost chaffed over you, mimicking your voice. “Go on then,” he urged, “give your ‘ead a wobble?” 

You could practically feel him cocking his head, feel his smile even with him against your back, even behind the mask.

The open air did nothing for you. It didn’t clear your mind or relieve the claustrophobia churning in your belly a single iota. After all, it wasn’t really the walls closing in on you—it was bodies.

“You’re just trying to scare me!” You accuse sharply, voice strained, grunting as you only manage to nearly heimlich yourself on the last attempt to free yourself from the steel grip around your midsection.

Gaz and the Scot chuckle.

John says your name. He utters it like it was a complete sentence, but you're not sure what it means, what he wants. Either way, it made you regret giving it to him. You suddenly preferred not hearing it on his lips in that rumbling baritone.

Ghost scoffs. “For ‘avin such a smart mouth she’s a bit thick, eh, Soap?” he comments meanly over your head.

Soap’s responding before you have a chance to voice any displeasure, somewhere between a laugh and a scold.

“A bit? Haud yer wheesht!” He turns his attention quickly back to you, leaning in close, “Aw, pet, dinnae pay him mind…Lt kens our bonnie is well thick”, he pats your cushioned hips affectionately.

A shocked gasp slips out of you unbidden at the brief but unmistakable gentle fondle of your fat love handles.

They all drank in the vulnerable, little noise. It would be the first of many. It was impossible to interpret the gesture as anything but “familiar”.

Your body jolts. You would have practically jumped a foot off the ground if not for Ghost anchoring you. With the hold, stark realization floods you like a bucket of ice water—there’s quite literally nothing you can do to avoid any of their touch. Your skin crawls at the unfamiliar contact and doubly so at the threat of more yet.

“Dead fit,” Gaz says readily, sounding like an agreement if you’ve ever heard one, his eyes roam your form.

Words were stolen from your overheating brain, still trying desperately to reboot, to process what the fuck is going on.

“Captain ‘s a man of taste—such a pretty, dainty thing,” Ghost sneers in your ear. “Playin’ coy now, when she was practically battin’ ‘er lashes all night.” 

“—It’s not too late—it’s a joke, right? Let’s—we can just forget about this—”

Ghost completely ignores you. “Soft thing like you prancin’ ‘round, cunted at this hour, thinkin’ you're safe?”

“Cun—? I’m not fucking drunk!”

“You’re lucky someone with bad intentions didn’t hear you.” The grin is loud in his tone, oozes off every syllable.  

“You think I'm a dog? So you knew wha’ you were doin’ then? You were teasin’ a ‘ungry dog, waving a juicy steak under ‘is nose. Rubbing it in all our faces, of any bloke ‘n earshot? That it?”

“What—what the hell are you talking about?! You—you can’t be serious!” You finally parroted uselessly, equal parts baffled and horrified. These men are crazy.

“She keeps sayin’ tha’,” Soap comments, perplexed.

“‘Denial’ ‘s not just a river,” Gaz shrugs.

Ghost continues. “Captain—” A big hand is suddenly on your jaw, centering your gaze back on John, ”—‘s doin’ you a kindness. Keepin’ you safe n’ sound, makin’ sure you don’t get yourself chewed up and spit out 'n some dirty fuckin’ alley,” nodding back towards the way they came, “Nice of ‘im, innit?”

You flailed desperately, hoping to catch Ghost off guard for even a second. You send your elbow into his ribs, as hard as you could manage at the awkward angle.

It was akin to hitting granite. You sucked in air through your clenched teeth as pain radiated through your ulnar nerve. His grip on you didn't waver, he didn't flinch. He laughed.

A true, low “heh, heh, heh”, that you regretted ever wanting to hear—could have happily gone your whole life without hearing. It sent rogue shivers down your spine and piloerection up your arms as you gawked up in shock, pain forgotten.

“Och, that’s a bit better, Bonnie.” Soap feigns, judging your strike like he’s trying not to hurt your feelings.

“John—” you plead helplessly, turning your gaze back to him. But saying his name was a mistake, deepening the look already there. Rubatosis filled you.

“Think you're strong, eh?" His words still swollen with caustic amusement, "That you could ever ‘urt any of us? Show ‘im you can fend f’ yourself then.” Ghost wobbled you to and fro, shook you, as if you were some weightless bauble.

As your world tilted, you instinctively gripped his arm for dear life, dizzy, afraid you would topple over.

You knew he was right, of course; there is no point denying it. 

But a man like him, like them—saying it? It was wrong—it chilled your blood. It felt needlessly cruel, to rub in how weak you are compared to them. The provocation freezes you, making Ghost’s dark eyes crinkle. 

“Slim pickings, huh? Must be feeling desperate?” you bit out, before you could stop yourself, voice bitter and thick with emotion—panic and anger congealing into snark. A hole is a hole, after all. Bad luck that you happened to be the one around.

Who would you trade places with? Better you than someone else, your conscience whispered faintly.

“You really don’t get it?” John wonders aloud, bafflement mixing with a heady intensity.

“Imagine thinking no one would want all this—” Fingers grazed your curves. Touched every roll, every hill and valley on your side with a reverence that shocked you for the hundredth time that day, left your mouth literally agape. 

“—thought is an utter travesty. One of life’s greatest pleasures is a big, soft girl. Nothing sweeter,” he declared breathily despite himself. “Nothing. So much more to hold, to squeeze—”

There was a certain palpable greediness to his touch, even while he was clearly restraining himself. Groping, not bruising. He only went so far, skirting frighteningly close to your more private bits.

At least it appeared your actual debasement was not going to happen on this particular street corner. His hands make a slow jaunt, mapping your contours. Down your back, your side, your belly, your thighs—kneading and squeezing your ample flesh.

A pitiful, “Please stop—” is eked out of you. Your unadulterated fear on full display, sincere and raw. Begging. You were begging, or trying to, anyway. Your breath hitched, flesh jolting with every unwelcome brush against you, sending your nerve endings alight, already feeling overstimulated. 

There was that expression again, that you didn’t recognize before. But it was no longer just simmering under the surface; it was boiling. Emanating out through his pores, muddled with a touch of pity. You finally recognized it—hunger.

“I’m not cross with you,” he adds oddly. “You don’t understand now, but you will. This isn’t a punishment—it’s a consequence.” 

Your throat clamped painfully, words tumbling out of your mouth incomprehensibly, trying to find the right thing to say to make him stop. “Please, I don’t, I can’t, wh—”

More hands were on you, pulling your wrists together in front of you.

“Am not going to hurt you. You have my word.” The solemnity of the promise rattled you. Maybe he truly believed it, but you certainly didn’t. After all, you’d wager you had different definitions of “hurting”. You’d die on the hill that this was “hurting” someone.

Somewhere inside you, your body was screaming at you to do something. You’d take the inspiration.

Scream what, exactly? You couldn’t be sure. You should scream “fire” not “help”, right?

But you’d never get the chance, because on your inhale, John’d somehow divined your intentions, and suddenly a hand was clamped over your lips before a sound could escape them. The pressure of the palm was close to bruising this time, unyielding—he wasn’t taking any chances, apparently. 

Jerking your head did nothing to dislodge the hand, unlike those on your limbs. It followed the movement rather than impede it. As fate would have it, your struggles only left your head spinning, vision partially obscured by the force of the hand pushing your plump cheeks into your eyes. Whiplash pinched in your neck at the frantic jerks. God, you felt sick.

After that, everything happened very quickly. Suddenly it felt like there were hands all over you, everywhere. Grabbing, holding, pressing. You could hardly tell up from down.

You’d shut your eyes for even a momentary reprieve, willing the vertigo to cease. For everything to stop. For all of them to stop touching you. Hoping desperately that you’d wake up and find yourself safe in bed, this all a bad dream. 

Then there was a ripping sound, then a couple more. Someone was pushing stray hairs out of your face. The hands on your wrists moved up instead to grip your forearms. No sooner than you heard it, the large hand had fled your lips only to be immediately replaced by some large sticky substance that was stretched taut across your mouth, from cheek to cheek.

Startled, your struggles renewed, some expletives trapped by the stuff, transforming into useless “mphhhing!” as your hands jumped to pull the offending material from your face. An entirely fruitless endeavor considering the grip on your arms, which didn't budge an inch. John seems fit to ignore your pitiful struggle, simply smoothing it out carefully, layering a couple more pieces. He hums in satisfaction, wide palm patting his work, cupping your mouth and jaw again for good measure.

There was that sound again. With the fear it shot through you, it might as well have been a gun racking. You couldn’t see it, but this time your sloshy mind recognized the distinct creak and shrill shrrrrrrrrrrrp. It was duct tape being pulled from the roll, then wrapped noisily around your wrists, aided by the hands forcing your arms together. 

Trying to shove, to bully yourself between them was hopeless. They were all too close, too strong, too heavy, all bearing down on you. You didn’t have room to throw your weight around or even properly kick out at them. Round and round, the tape went, and round and round again for good measure before the end was ripped, smarting where it snagged slightly on the hair on your arms. 

You're quite literally fighting for your life, sweating with exertion and panic, panting behind the tape, but your desperate flailing didn’t deter them at all; you didn’t receive even a single hitch in any of their breath for your effort. Hell, it couldn’t even hinder some conversation. Not that you caught most of it with your head swimming, heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“—‘course she’s scrikin’, we’re nicking ‘er,” Ghost rolls his eyes. 

Something else was said, probably by Soap, based on the accent.

Ghost just doubles down. “No point tryin’ to talk sense into ‘er. Thing doesn’t know what’s good for ‘er—“

John took his time; he’s dedicated to his task. Precise yet generous with the tape. As soon as the hands left your forearms, more tape was applied where they departed, this time around your entire body, effectively pinning your arms down at your front, circling you enough times that you lost count.

Your struggles and thrashes reinvigorate, an absolutely method portrayal of a snared rabbit. It hurt—hurt how hard you were pulling against them. Bruises would undoubtedly bloom in the coming days wherever their hands gripped you from your wild jerking. That is, assuming you lived that long. Your chest heaves with anxiety. The men allowed you a bit more space, enough that you didn’t feel actively compressed on every side. By them at least.

Not John, though. It was his face that filled your vision, his eyes that pinned yours.

“Shhh. There’s a girl. It’s already over.” You hadn’t yet noticed the tears gathering, that you were so close to falling apart. He said it like it would be some sort of comfort, cupping your plump cheeks delicately. John spoke to you gently, in the softest tone you’d heard yet, softer than you would have believed his husky voice capable of, and yet, with an disturbing finality. “It’s done. Nothing you can do now,” he whispered into your terrified face. 

He was too close—there was a little mole on the right side of his nose you never noticed before. He smelled of smoke, and under that, something woodsy and spicy. A large, rough palm smoothed over your hair. Your terrified eyes squeezed shut, willing him out of your face, to stop looking at you. You’re certain he could feel your terror; hell, he could probably feel each little panicked puff of air forced out of your lungs on his face as you tried vainly to regulate your breathing through your nose. “There you go,” he praised, “In and out.”

Shining tears wobbled precariously in your waterline. You tried with all your might not to let them loose, to salvage any shred of dignity. Any sense of control. As if that would somehow make things worse, as you sucked in a wet, sniveling sound.

Your internal pleas for space were less than useless, as John leaned in ever closer, cradling your skull in his hands, pressing his lips to your crown in a chaste, whiskery kiss.

The sheer intimacy of the gesture made you balk. Held and boxed in, there was no way to move away, making you whimper pathetically. Sounding foreign to even your own ears. A savourable sound, that went right to John’s belly.

Trying to hold it in was all for naught; as soon as John’s lips touched you, your resolve shattered. Shattered into so many pieces even Kintsugi couldn’t repair it.

Your face was soaked with the onslaught, tears traveling as far as down your neck. Dizzy with panic, the duct tape swallowing up most of your damp sobs. You couldn’t recall the last time you'd broken down like that in front of another person, much less four near strangers. 

“I’m keeping you.” He says suddenly. He waits for you to take in the words, thumbs stroking slow circles into your cheekbones.

You hiccup behind the tape, teeth chattering in your clenched jaw as you realize you’re shaking. Face tacky with tears. You angrily tried to pull away again, but John just held you still as you quake. 

…John didn’t need Ghost for muscle, you realized dully. His grip was an epiphany, the promise of strength in his hands alone—it made you feel all the more useless.

Calloused thumbs rasped over your cheeks, wiping away the wetness there, only for more to replace them. “I won’t try to stop you from crying, won’t punish you for being upset,” he rumbled, “but, you have to understand it won’t change anything. What'll happen. From now on, you’re mine—but I take care of what’s mine. You’ll see.”

Why?! Your heart ached. You couldn’t understand how people you’d been chatting and laughing with mere minutes ago could do this to you. People who had seemed so normal—

Gaz smirks, nudging Soap, murmuring, “Oh, don't worry, she’ll feel heaps better when she’s creamin’ on—”

You didn't think you were capable of feeling worse. Your eyes bulge in horror, breath snagging again in your throat.

John sighs, interrupting him with a harsh jangle of metal as he pitched some keys to Gaz, who caught them easily in one hand. “Bring the car ‘round will you?” John asks, but it’s really not a request.

“On it!” Gaz’s reply is prompt and cheery as he steps off the curb into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlamp, practically a spring in his step. 

You sniffled, sinuses starting to burn, following your eyes’ watery influence. Feeling humiliated as you can feel your nose start to run, tickling your philtrum. Soap cooed over your teary face. You flinched as he raised his hand to you, but he only wiped your nose, disgustingly with his own sleeve. 

He had the nerve to look chagrined at your reaction. When he spoke again, it was uncannily quiet compared to his familiar boister, as if he was trying to soothe a spooked horse. “Dinnae fash, it’ll be awricht, bonnie, swear it.”

His words were worthless; didn’t pacify you at all. You were possessed by a primal terror of a cornered animal that couldn’t fathom what was going to happen to it. Your eyes flooded, everything in your vision warped by tears. You couldn’t see, couldn’t hear over your own hammering heart. Soap’s cursin’, saying something. Maybe it was fucking Gaelic, you didn’t understand what he was saying.

“—Wee lamb, greetin—”

“‘Nough fussin’, Soap. You’re almost as bad as ‘er.” 

“Ah ken, ah ken…”

“I did warn you, even gave you an out.” John sighed, commiserating, as if he weren’t the source of your angst. It wrung completely hollow, he didn't sound disappointed in the slightest with any of the events. If anything, you'd suspect we has trying to tamp down the opposite.

“Jesus wept, Cap—” Soap blurts, any remorse apparently long forgotten as he suddenly grips your ample belly possessively, making you shriek, “—almost made us lose out,” he grumbled. “Ah knew ye were tryin’ tae tip ‘er aff”.

You thrashed in his rude hold, face hot, but he just grinned, loved how your squirms just showcased your enticing bounce. Despair and humiliation ached in your chest, heavy like lead. You just wanted to go home.

Headlights round the corner.

In a last-ditch attempt, you allow yourself to completely go limp, following through on the threat of being unmovable. You barely start tipping before Ghost and Soap are on either side of you, holding you up between the two of them, completely halting your descent.

Your mind shuddered to a halt with the idea they might actually be able to lift you. When you tried to buckle your knees, they went ahead and confirmed your fears true. Not even a slipped grunt of exertion gave you any satisfaction, when you were being half carried, half dragged practically kicking and screaming to the car. Well, as much as you could through the tape. As you’re urged onward, you lock your knees as your legs jam against the car’s running board.

“You’re going one way or another,” John calls simply, tapping something into his phone.

“Watch your head, trophy.” Ghost grins, huge hand spanning your skull, pushing you down past the door frame, but you think you just might have preferred the concussion. Your own weight does the rest of the work, sending you sprawling belly first onto the back seat, teary cheek smooshed against the cool, leather interior.

You should have been prepared to be absolutely as difficult as possible, regardless of whether or not it’d change your fate, but you were utterly spent. Your limbs ached at all the struggling. You couldn’t muster any more fight as Soap and Ghost maneuvered you into the middle seat. Your plentiful "handholds" aiding the process.

The lone lap belt buckled tightly across your lap before Ghost and Soap followed you in, sandwiching you, sitting in the seats on either side. You were practically spilling over onto them, it was a tight fit. 

You couldn’t quite swallow a yelp as rough fingers were wedged under your plush form on either side. Apparently unsatisfied with your positioning, you were swiveled so your ass remained in the seat while the rest of your body lay flat. Your upper body in Ghost's lap and legs curled in Soap’s, the seat belt digging into your soft belly at the awkward angle.

You were normally hyperaware of the space you occupied and tried to be as respectful as possible about it. You would be mortified, feel a bolt of white-hot shame if any squishy bit of you even accidentally brushed up against someone else. You’d do anything to risk a stranger's look of annoyance or disgust, god forbid someone say something. And yet, here you were, your fat body draped across two men's laps, both looking quite fucking pleased with the arrangement. There was nothing you could do about it, as Soap paws at your thigh, humming happily.

“Behave, you lot.” John stoops, smiling at the group fondly as he shuts the door.

The car is moving.

You were completely adrift. Maybe you were in shock. All it took was a handful of seconds for your life to become entirely and irrevocably derailed. 

While lying prone, the motion rocked you slightly. Outside the window, the world flitted by. All you could make out from your vantage point was the wide expanse of sky, purplish, the color of a dusky developing bruise, only swagging power lines and the tops of towering street lamps flashing across the horizon.

Just like that, slow conversation started up again, right above your head. It was as if they were back at the bar; the normalcy of it was chilling. Soap’s hands were still resting over your thick thigh, petting you. Repetitive strokes up and down your thigh that also eventually blended into the background. The car was so warm now—John must have cranked the heat. You feel the warmth dust across your face where it filtered into the backseat.

You're feeling floaty—disconnected. Your body couldn’t sustain the level of terror that should still be at the forefront of your mind. Adrenaline burned everything out of you, drained you till there was nothing left but fog, thick and cloying. It became a task to keep your eyes open.

You were so tired. 

Your limp body bounced lightly as the car went along. The voices were even more distant now, a muted background noise, like someone speaking on the phone in the next room over—you can just hear the mumble through the wall but can’t decipher any of the words.

…

“—get some proper rest on the plane.”

(I horked this up originally after re-reading one of @391780 posts. I think it was the one where Simon calls dibs on you while you're out with friends? Clearly things deviated a lot, but still. Do yourselves a favor and read all of their stuff.)

[zyafics]

RED FERRARI CHASE | Masterlist

MAIN | IRL & Social Media AU

Pairing — F1 Driver!Rafe x High School Sweetheart!(F)Reader

Summary — Before Rafe became one of the best drivers on the grid, he was yours. However, when his popularity skyrocketed, he became one of the most eligible bachelors in F1, leaving you behind to indulge in the notoriety of the sport. Yet, years have passed, and he hasn’t stopped thinking about you: his first love, his high school sweetheart, the only person to believe in him. When new management takes over his team, he’s afraid their new strategy could undermine his role in the cutthroat league. But in an unexpected twist of fate, Rafe discovers you returning to the circuit as part of the new leadership—now, with a ring on your finger. Engaged to his boss.

Content — formula one au, tba

NAVIGATION — COMMUNITY

rfc asks – rfc thoughts – rfc help – rfc analysis

TABLE OF CONTENT —

Part 01 🏁 Part 02 🏁 Part 03 🏁 Part 04 🏁 Part 05

Part 06 🏁 Part 07 🏁 Part 08 🏁 Part 09 🏁 Part 10

EXTRAS —

🏎️ rafe gets a 5 second penalty

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

[lovemomhatepolice]

what brought back that smile? - lando norris

navigation taglist requests

pairing: lando norris x fem! reader

warnings: kinda established relationship, fresh relationship, curious muppets!, English is my second language!

type: fluff, pure fluff

word count: 3,5k

summary: 5 times when someone asked the reason for Lando's sudden surge of happiness, but he preferred to keep his sweet secrets to himself

more content: f1 masterlist, lando norris masterlist, birthday one-shot

Since Lando Norris broke up with his then-girlfriend Luishina in 2022, no one has seen him this happy since. Of course, there have been moments where Lando walked around smiling - for example, when he won his first race in Miami or partying with friends in Ibiza. On more than one occasion, fans saw him joking and laughing until his stomach hurt with other drivers, but further down the line, everyone knew that the old Lando was gone. The one who laughed through love. The one foolishly in love, who proved it at every turn. Since his former relationship, Lando hasn't bonded with anyone - there were only rumors of fleeting romances or PR relationships. Until recently. In fact, no one knows when it took place. And since when Lando felt like a foolishly infatuated boy again.

THE FIRST TIME: Oscar Piastri When Oscar noticed changes in Lando's behavior, it was not much before the Japanese race. Or at least it wasn't so visible before. Norris was walking around smiling from ear to ear, constantly forgetting what he should do or who he should talk to about the changes in the car. No one paid much attention to it, and Oscar initially tried to ignore it as well, and winning in Miami a month later further eclipsed the spy's thoughts. After all, Lando had won his first race after so long in Formula One and so many times standing on the podium. The Mclaren drivers weren't the best of friends on the grid, but Oscar knew it wasn't because of winning the race. Or at least not just because of that.

Oscar was curious, even if he said very little about his life, the Lando case drilled him from the bottom up. And it started off small.

One morning 2 weeks after the Miami race, Lando showed up for a meeting with a goofy smile on his face. His attention was focused on everything during the strategy discussion, his mind was clearly elsewhere.

“Are you okay?” asked Oscar, poking his teammate under the table. As if awakened from his trance, Lando stopped tapping his fingers against his thigh and turned his head toward the Australian, smiling that silly grin again. “Yeah, all good, mate. “ he asked, tilting his head to the side. Oh, how foolishly charmed he was. “Why do you ask?”

Oscar shrugged. “I dunno. You just seem... happier these days. What brought back that smile?”

The question hung in the air for a long moment. Lando hung his head and laughed quietly under his breath, as if he was thinking whether he wanted to say it or rather not. And that was the option he chose, keeping his new infatuation to himself.

“Well, you know, buddy, I won a race recently. A chance to celebrate, huh?”

Oscar laughed, but couldn't shake the feeling that there was something else behind that smile, and that Lando was lying right in his eyes. Something - or someone - had brought back that trademark Lando smile. But Oscar decided to let it go for now.

Meanwhile, Lando was smiling to himself. Was it really that noticeable? Could everyone now know his sweet secret?

Such questions were cluttering his mind, but he tried not to worry about them. They were quickly superseded by thoughts of [Y.N]. It was wild how fast she had slipped into his life. What had started as a chance meeting turned into hours of effortless conversation, late-night phone calls, and a connection that had somehow brought him back to life. He hadn't felt this way since…. well, he couldn't remember the last time. And that was the point of it all.

MUPPETS: Carlos Sainz Jr Carlos had known Lando since 2019, so this year was their 5th anniversary of knowing each other. From the very beginning, the men, despite the age difference, got along great. And they soon became friends, too, supporting each other in worse and better moments. You could say they knew each other like the back of their hand, so while Lando was drifting away more and more each possible time during their conversations, the Spaniard had no more questions or thoughts. He was well aware that his younger friend's head was occupied by not something, but someone.

The sun beat down on the lush green of the golf course, the Spanish heat was unrelenting even in the early hours of the day. Carlos set up for his shot, squinting against the blinding glare, while Lando stood to the side, waiting his turn. It was a rare moment of calm before the chaos of the Spanish Grand Prix weekend, and Carlos was glad to be spending it with his best friend.

Until he saw Lando miss every time, which hadn't happened all that often before. Well, okay, Lando was worse than Carlos at golf, but to that extent?

And those constant glances at the phone, which he was so reluctant to leave in the golf cart.

“Ay, muppet. What the hell is wrong with you?” rang out Carlos' voice as he hit the ball.

Of course it flew cleanly where it was supposed to fly. But what's the pleasure of playing as your friend drills a hole in the grass with his club, his other hand constantly checking his phone screen?

"Huh?" Lando snapped out of his trance. This had been happening to him more and more often lately, nay, it had been happening to him for more than three months now.

“You’ve been smiling like an idiot all day,” Carlos teased, though his tone was softer, more curious than mocking. “Actually, you’ve been like this for weeks like not months now. So, tell me—who is she?”

Lando’s cheeks flushed pink, and he quickly turned his attention to the golf ball at his feet, fiddling with his club. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered, but there was a grin he couldn’t quite suppress. And in fact, I don't think he wanted to get rid of it.

Carlos laughed, poking Lando playfully on the shoulder. “Come on, cabrón. I know you too well and it's been a long time since you've been this happy. So who's the lucky girl? Who brought back that smile?”

Lando sighed under his breath - he knew he could trust Carlos, he was his best friend. He just liked the fact that he and [Y.N] were in a closed bubble of happiness that they had made for themselves in three months. Of course it was still fresh and nothing was certain yet, but Lando gave in. To whom as to whom, but to Carlos he already had to tell. It was drilling him from the inside.

“It's … nothing serious,” Lando finally said, shrugging his shoulders as if it was no big deal. “It's just… I'm meeting someone. I'm trying to keep it discreet.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Dude, I've known you long enough to know when you're serious about someone,” he said, and his voice became softer. “And if she makes you smile like that, I'd say it's more than a casual.”

Lando bit his lip, trying to hide the smile that threatened to break through. The truth was that [Y.N] had quickly become the best part of his days.

“Maybe,” he admitted, finally meeting Carlos' gaze. “But for now it's just … between us, sure?

Carlos clapped Lando on the back, a broad grin on his face. “I’m happy for you, hermano. And don’t worry—I won’t tell anyone. But I have to say, it’s good to see you like this again.”

They both laughed and Lando already knew he was lost. Together, with Carlos, were like the biggest gossips, so he quickly unlocked his phone, even jumping up and down with happiness, wanting to show Carlos some pictures of them together. What luck befell him when he found out that [Y.N] also loves to take pictures.

Carlos leaned closer, curious. Lando pulled out a photo from a few weeks ago - from his once-in-a-lifetime date with [Y.N]. They were sitting on a blanket in a meadow somewhere by the water, the golden sunset casting a warm glow over them. The girl's head was tilted toward him and resting on his shoulder, her eyes were crinkling with laughter, and Lando looked happier than Carlos had seen him in a long time. His hand was on the girl's shoulders, visibly embracing her closer to him.

“I want her to be the one, you know?” muttered Lando, smiling even wider when he saw the notification from her.

LUCKY CHARM: Lando's parents Lando was able to hide his fresh relationship from his friends, from his fans and from the rest of the world. But he definitely couldn't hide it from his parents and siblings. Not even a month of knowing [Y.N] had passed when he vividly talked about how much he had fallen in love and how he hoped she was the one and last woman in his life. His loved ones were damn happy to finally see the most sincere smile of his entire life on the face of this little Lando Norris.

The air around Silverstone was charged with electricity, and the energy of the home crowd gave Lando joy like no other race on the calendar. Walking through the bustling paddock, he felt lighter than he had in years. It wasn't just the thrill of racing on his own track - it was the realization that somewhere among the sea of faces there was [Y.N], watching him.

Fortunately, he managed to smuggle her into a private hospitality suite, away from prying cameras, journalists and fans. They had been seeing each other for almost four months, in truth they were not a couple, but everything was going for it. Lando wasn't the only one who was foolishly infatuated with the relationship; the girl, like him, walked around with her head in the clouds, as her university colleagues or friends seemed to notice more than once. But in her case it was easier to hide, after all, she didn't have a million eyes on her like Lando did.

When Lando entered his private area in the Mclaren garage, he immediately noticed his parents, sisters and brother, who were smiling at him from ear to ear. The entire Norris family had a close relationship with each other, so of course everyone knew about Lando's new sweetheart, whom he had been dating with for four months.

“And there's our smiling boy!” laughed Lando's mother, hugging her son tightly. The driver laughed under his breath, hugging his family one by one, fortunately in a place where the eyes of others did not reach and they could have a moment of peace. “I'm glad you're all here,” Lando said, stroking his younger sister Flo's hair.

“How could we not be here?” asked Oliver, Lando's brother, laughing under his breath.

The atmosphere was great, however, everyone knew this question would come sooner than perhaps it should?

“Well, you know what, tell us where she is,” said Lando's dad, poking him lightly on the shoulder. “You're laughing so hard, I won't believe she's not here.”

“Yes! Show us finally what brought back that smile,” said his mom, echoing her husband.

Lando felt his face heat up, but he couldn’t keep the grin from spreading. “You two don’t miss a thing, do you?” he said, shaking his head.

“We just want to meet her,” his mum said softly, eyes twinkling with warmth. “We’ve heard so much about her, and if she’s the reason our son’s been so happy lately, we’d love to say hello.”

After a moment's thought, Lando nodded. “All right. I'll bring her - but behave,” he said with nervous but excited energy.

Lando slipped stealthily out of the garage and headed for his room, which only he and a few Mclaren people had access to. Although it was a rather hidden place, [Y.N] did not complain. She could wait out the time until the race in peace, just as she could go out to Mclaren's garage and watch it there. Lando made her as comfortable as possible.

When the girl saw him, she raised her eyes and smiled warmly in his direction. “Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yes, everything is fine,” he assured her, taking her hand in his. At the same time, he forced her to get up from the soft couch. “But… there is someone who wants to meet you. My family is even dying to meet the woman of my heart.”

The girl took a deep breath and smiled. “I'd love to meet them.”

Holding hands, they returned to the hospitality. When they went inside, Lando's mother sighed quietly and immediately crossed the room to hug [Y.N]. “Oh, how nice to finally meet you,” she said, and her voice was filled with sincere warmth.

“She's beautiful,” Cisca whispered, looking at Lando. The boy only whispered a quiet “I know” and laughed under his breath.

Immediately the whole family greeted the girl, hugging her tightly and bestowing kind words on her, including telling her how happy they were that she was making Lando so happy again. And everything was somehow better. His parents and siblings were talking to the girl he'd had in his heart for several months, and everything was going smoothly. Lando was just standing off to the side, keeping his hand on her back and giving her a little kiss to make her feel better. But he was probably the most stressed one there.

Lando checked his watch, feeling the familiar pre-start jitters begin to overwhelm him. But today he felt a little better than usual.

“I have to go now,” he said reluctantly, turning to face the girl. His parents moved away to give them a moment of privacy.

“You can do it, you're amazing on the track,” she purred, placing her hands on his shoulders and gently correcting his suit.

Lando merely smiled in her direction and without hesitation placed his hand on her cheek and leaned in, pressing their lips together in a quick but tender kiss. This was not how they had imagined their first kiss, but in that moment it was their best memory and the time this kiss could have happened. Lando pulled away from [Y.N], their eyes met and they both smiled at each other, giggling under their breath.

Lando checked his watch, feeling the familiar pre-race jitters starting to creep in.

“I’ve got to go,” he said reluctantly, turning to her. His parents stepped back to give them a moment of privacy.

“Good luck out there,” she whispered, her eyes shining with pride. “You’re going to do amazing.”

Lando smiled, but there was a flicker of nerves in his eyes. “I hope so. This one’s important,” he said softly.

[Y.N] reached up, cupping his cheek with her hand. “You’ve got this, Lando. I believe in you.”

Without thinking, Lando leaned in, pressing his lips to hers in a swift, impulsive kiss. It wasn’t planned, but in that moment, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. He pulled back, their eyes locking, and they both smiled.

“For good luck,” he whispered, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

And even if he came in third place after the race, it didn't bother him much. He won something better and it was an amazing woman.

HI IBIZA: Max Fewtrell stream Max knew Lando since they were kids. Both could not imagine life without the other person, they were inseparable. Even if it didn't work out for them to be Formula One drivers by their side, it didn't change anything. They were always side by side, and as soon as Max heard about Lando's new crush, he knew this was the one. Norris had never talked so seriously and eagerly about any girl before. And Max liked to tease him about it. But at the same time, he was damn happy.

The warm glow of sunset in Ibiza paints everything with a golden sheen. Lando Norris, Max Fewtrell and their group of friends held a casual live stream at their bungalow, which they rented for the whole group of friends. This stream was definitely different from their typical ones, where they played games on two different sides of the screen, but that was good too.

Everyone was more muted than at times when they were playing and shouting at each other. However, the biggest difference could be felt in Lando. He was more subdued, gently but sincerely smiling, and his eyes shone with such happiness that you could envy him.

The stream had been going on for about an hour, and the fans didn't run out of questions. They were inundated with the same questions as always, but today they had more opportunity to answer them because they weren't stressed by the background game. Lando kept getting questions about the Championship, the races, the competition and some side silliness. Until Max caught one significant comment among thousands of others. And of course he had to ask them.

Fan comment: "Lando, what brought back that smile? It's been a long time since we've seen you so happy, and of course that's great, but what's your secret?"

Max looks at Lando with a smile and winks. "Good question," he says, leaning back in his chair. "So, man, what's been making you so happy lately?"

"Oh, you know. Life has been better lately. Beautiful weather, sunshine, we have a beach house. The break from racing is good for me too, my head isn't as busy," Lando replied, playing with his hair and smiling under his breath.

Oh how he lied, how he lied to keep his bubble of happiness calm even longer.

"Really? Gee, I guess I agree with that comment, you're somehow happier lately," said Max, glancing at Lando with a teasing look. He remembered well how Lando had talked down his relationship on the stream, but he wasn't going to do the same to him. "Or maybe you've found a hobby other than Formula One?"

"Maybe," he laughed lightly under his breath, feeling the warmth inside his body. "I guess I just got old and I'm not that rebellious 20-year-old anymore "

"Oh, it's definitely old age, you name it" Max laughed and went back to looking for interesting comments, leaving the matter of Lando's happiness. He wanted his friend to still have peace from prying eyes.

After the stream was over, everyone went their separate ways. Some decided to have a bonfire, but Lando felt he needed the solitude. He walked out to the beach, which they had right outside the gate of their cottage, and felt the cooler evening wind brush his face. He smiled under his breath when he saw [Y.N] by the shore. It wasn't a smile that the cameras could see; he reserved this one for her alone.

The girl was wearing a white loose dress that swayed gently in the wind, and her hair was tousled by the wind. It wasn't a moment before she heard him and gently turned toward him, giving him a beautiful smile. "Have you finished the stream yet?"

"It's been a while now," Lando stepped closer, feeling the sand under his feet surround him pleasantly. "I had to get away from the chaos. And the fans are getting curious, they asked what secret I have"

Girl raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Secret? What secret?"

Lando smiles mischievously and walks closer. "That I'm the happiest I've been in years." - he says in a quiet but sincere voice.

[Y.N] smiles, her eyes sparkling in the moonlight. Without another word, she steps into his arms, and Lando doesn't hesitate to wrap his arms around her, pulling her close. They stand there for a moment, just the two of them, the sound of the waves crashing in the background. Lando takes a deep breath and places a kiss on her hair, pulling her even closer to him. It was the peace he had needed for a long time

FIRST CHRISMTAS: [Y.N] Lando and [Y.N] had been together for almost half a year. Their lives were filled with happiness that neither of them had ever experienced before. From the first day, they understood each other like two peas in a pod, and that's how it stayed. That's why she was surprised by how happy Lando was.

The couple in love are together in the kitchen, with the countertop in front of them strewn with flour and other ingredients for making gingerbread cookies. [Y.N] is wearing one of Lando's voluminous sweaters and humming a Christmas carol, pacing next to the countertop. Lando, on the other hand, dressed in his loose Mclaren T-shirt and Christmas pajama pants, is trying to roll out the dough, but it's not going well. His hands are covered in flour and the dough keeps sticking to the rolling pin. Well, it's easier to say that his whole body is covered in flour.

"Do you need help, chef?" - asks [Y.N], leaning against the countertop and looking at him with an amused smile.

Lando raises his gaze, feigning impatience. "It's harder than it looks, sure?" - He laughs, combing his flour-dusted hair with his hand. "I thought baking was supposed to be easy."

"It's easy, you just have some manual problems," the girl laughs and moves to his side, gently taking the rolling pin from his hands. "Here, let me," she says, guiding him to the side. Their fingers brush as she takes over, a soft, tender moment.

"Sure, my baking queen," the boy laughs, looking at her with adoration.

"You could do the icing." the girl says, pointing to the already made gingerbread cookies.

Lando's eyes brighten, his smile widening. "Icing, huh? That's sounds better." He grabs a piping bag and starts filling it, but as he attempts to pipe a simple design, it all goes horribly wrong.

“Lando!” she laughs, her eyes crinkling with amusement. The icing has spilled everywhere.

He looks down at his hands, dripping with icing. “Well, that’s not what I had in mind…” He shrugs sheepishly.

“You’re adorable when you try, you know that?” She leans in and wipes a bit of icing from his cheek, her thumb brushing against his skin.

“And you’re just adorable,” he says, moving closer to her.

Lando’s hands quickly find their place on her waist, and his face is twisted into a genuine big smile. They both giggle, putting the matter of the cookies aside.

“What brought that smile again, huh?” the girl asks, touching his lips, which is also dirty with icing.

“You,” he says simply, and his voice carries a quiet sincerity that makes her heart skip a beat. "It was always you"

For a moment, they both stand in silence, the hum of the Christmas music in the background, the quiet crackling of the small fire in the corner of the livingroom adding to the coziness of the apartment. It’s a peaceful stillness, the kind that only exists between two people who’ve found something real.

A/N: i know it's no nut november and this should be smut but i swear when i had a vision i had to write this. i hope you like it because i won't lie, i fucking love it!

please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)

[starvales]

a/n : a small contribution to bruce wayne x gn!neglected!reader bcs i love these kinds of stories. the reader is bruce’s child (younger than dick, older than jason ((reader not specified if biological or adopted)) and is in their mid-twenties.

“After all these years, of neglect and ignorance and dismissals, why should I do anything for you? You don’t know anything about me!”

“I know everything about you. Your full name, your birthday, your qualifications—”

You cut him off.

“—If you know me so well, tell me something about me that isn’t projected on a screen in your man-cave.” You slam a specific folder onto the strategy table and snatch the contents inside.

“Tell me something about me that isn’t public knowledge—” Throwing the few and sparse pages at your father, you don’t falter at his stare while he does nothing to stop you.

You remembered praying for a day like this, begging every night against your bed. A day where your father spared you a glance, for even a second. And what did it take?

“For fuck’s sake, tell me something about me that isn’t on a piece of flimsy paper tucked away in an old manila folder gathering dust!”

Almost two decades of complete familial solitude and a favour that apparently only you could fulfil.

One of the pages fall in front of Bruce and he gently takes it into his hold. There’s a picture of you at the top left, barely hanging on by a cheap paper clip. The you in the portrait is staring mechanically at the camera, staring back soullessly at him.

You’re… fifteen in this photo, he thinks.

“Sure, you know my birthday. But what was the flavour of my cake for my first birthday that was celebrated in the manor? I wouldn’t know, because I didn’t have one, let alone anyone to celebrate with.”

You’re seven years old, sitting in front of a sloppy attempt at a cupcake in a cold kitchen, because you couldn’t reach the switches to turn on the heating or lights.

“You know my list of achievements and qualifications— But goddamnit Bruce, why did you not come to any of my award ceremonies or graduations?”

You’re sixteen, graduating high school early with high honours, thinking that maybe, just maybe, your family will show up. You end up walking back to the manor in the dark.

You’re twenty one, graduating gotham university with a doctorate in engineering. The only difference with this graduation, you drive yourself home.

“I was busy and you know that,” Bruce states. States instead of says, because you know he doesn’t know how to speak to you.

“No, I didn’t know that. Wanna know why?”

You round the table, clenching your fists and grinding your teeth, you got right in his face and spat venom.

“Because you didn’t have the decency to tell me yourself.”

[arabella0001]

cn: explicit sexual content [nsfw / 18+]. aggressive sex. biting. slighty ehibitionism. aphrodisiac use. dirty talk, 4k+ words.

⟡ fandom: attack on titan | pairing: levi x reader

⟡ request

𓃠

To have feelings in times like these it’s such a selfish thought sometimes; it makes you want to scream into your pillow every chance you get.

And worse than that?

To have feelings for the captain of the recruitment division, the irreplaceable, cold, and strict Levi Ackerman was way worse.

You were one of the few left from the old squad. The camaraderie between you and your old comrades was cut off instantly after their death, as if it never existed. And sadly, it created a strange, clumsy distance between you and Levi. The only two survivors.

Not that he was the friendliest man, but the respect between you two was something admirable. Still, delusionally, you sometimes thought… maybe it was more than that.

Maybe he didn’t yell like that at everyone, so loud you’re sure it echoed to the other side of the world, when he thought you’d died on a mission two years ago.

Maybe he didn’t carry everyone in his arms, even when his own body was collapsing from pain, prioritizing your life.

Maybe not everyone got that subtle twitch of his lips that resembled a smile when you two shared tea now and then—and you teased him for being too strict, poking at his side just to get a reaction.

But those childish fantasies crumbled the moment Historia Reiss, the new queen, arrived at tonight’s gathering… and stood a little too close to Levi. The very same Queen who once slapped him—and he let her—and smiled back at her.

The gathering had been Erwin’s idea, a rare celebration after a successful mission. One of the only times there was plenty of food and wine without guilt along with it.

You sat at the table with Hange, who was talking with her mouth full, a mirror of Sasha doing the same. They both gulped down wine afterward, cheeks flushed red from the alcohol.

Though Hange was tipsy, she was still sharp. She noticed it. That quick, nervous glance you threw when Historia’s hand touched Levi’s arm. His gaze wasn’t detached like usual. He was leaning against the wall, engaged in conversation. Actively.

That alone made your fingers tap angrily against the table as you looked around, pretending you were simply bored. Hange gave you an amused look, tilting her chin toward the pair.

You rolled your eyes, but her eyes gleamed with some forbidden idea she wasn’t ready to say out loud yet. Instead, what came out of her mouth was:

“Hm. Did you know the air outside is way fresher in this season? Might be good to check.” Her double-meaning didn’t go unnoticed.

Sasha, unfazed, was more focused on a piece of pork on fresh bread.

“Maybe you should go. You both seem a little heated.”

Hange and Sasha laughed, leaning their heads together, grinning with the euphoria of wine-soaked joy.

“You got us. At least we’re not some bitter old lady who forgot how to have fun.”

You glared. “Hange.”

She raised both hands, mock-defensive.

“What?! I’m just saying, girl!”

But her plan needed to move faster.

“You know what? Follow me.”

Hange stood. Sasha glanced at her but didn’t care enough to ask. Hange didn’t wait—just started walking toward the exit.

You stood too, and you felt someone’s gaze on you from across the room. You ignored it.

But Levi watched your back a little longer than he needed to as you left. Then he returned his attention, somewhat distracted, to Historia’s strategy proposals. He was tired. Too much socializing for one night. Ten minutes of talking with Historia already felt like ten hours. She talked too much. Like everyone else here.

…Except you.

He always sensed the distance between you, one he blamed himself for. It wasn’t a priority, but sometimes, somehow, his thoughts always ended with you. The feelings inside him were small?, faint—but they echoed. He couldn’t name them. They were useless anyway. A weakness.

That’s how it should be. That’s how it must be.

You probably didn’t see him that way anyway.

And he understood. He wasn’t the warmest person alive.

┈─┈─┈─

When Hange saw you dragging your feet, she tugged you by the elbow and threw you into her chaotic, paper-filled office.

Then, from a box, she pulled out a dusty bottle sealed with a wooden cork and tied with twine.

“Let’s make some magic, shall we?”

You wrinkled your nose as she handed it to you, letting you smell it first.

“What the fuck is this? It smells awful.”

Hange waved her hand dramatically, a little wobbly.

“You don’t know what’s good! The old stuff is the best. Heals the body, solves your problems—I’m serious. I’ve tested it.”

“Just because you’re a research freak doesn’t mean I believe everything, you know?”

Still, you took a drink. Your emotions were buzzing too hot in your veins to think straight. The taste was awful but you didn’t stop at one sip.

Hange watched you with something close to admiration. She was happy—mission complete. But her face turned panic-stricken as you kept drinking. She grabbed the bottle out of your hands.

“ENOUGH! This wine is very precious. We should save it.”

You licked your lips. now stained wine-dark and your cheeks flushed fast. You looked at Hange, and your gaze made her grin.

Not me, pretty lady. I’m flattered, but not me.

“I’ll be back in a second. Gotta get some cheese to go with this wine.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever.”

You collapsed into her surprisingly comfy chair and stared at the wall. But your thoughts turned—obscene. What the hell is happening?

You hadn’t drunk in a while, but this was something else. Your body felt too warm. Too restless. You shifted in your seat, fidgeting endlessly.

⸻

Hange rushed down the hall, nearly crashing into the door—right as Levi was walking out.

“Oh! Just the person I needed!”

“Spare me, Hange. I’ve had enough for tonight.”

Hange just planted a hand on her hip and the other under her chin, dramatically pondering.

“Hmmm. Then who should I ask to help Y/N?”

Levi was about to walk past her but stopped. Gave her a side-glance.

“Help? With what, exactly?”

“Well, let’s say… too much wine can make you lose control of your brain and body? Yeah, that definitely applies.”

Really? You? Drunk as hell? Since when?

“Where is she?”

“My office.”

She smiled far too innocently for Levi not to be suspicious. But he didn’t say anything. He just went straight to you.

┈─┈─┈─

When he opened the door, he found you waving your shirt like a fan, wide open—exposing your dark blue bra.

“Thank god. What the hell took you so long?! I’m dying over here!”

Your eyes shot to the door— And locked on Levi, standing there. His gaze was sharp. Angry. But also very much fixed on your chest.

“Fuck—? What the fuck are you doing here?!”

Your voice cracked, not angry—just embarrassed. You buttoned your shirt furiously.

“When did you become this irresponsible?”

“What? I had a few sips! Are you calling me a alcoholic or what?!”

Your words slurred slightly. Levi’s eyes flicked to the half-empty bottle.

“Looks like it.”

“Oh, shut up. Didn’t you have a conversation to get back to? Or are you just here to lecture me too?”

His thoughts faltered. Your tone… sounded accusing. Jealous? No. Can’t be.

“It’s over.”

You started fanning yourself with Hange’s scattered papers, your body feeling annoyingly uncomfortable—especially in certain areas.

“Nice. Maybe something good will happen.”

Levi froze at the double meaning.

“Something good?”

He picked up the bottle and took a slow sip.

It was disgusting. Weak. This got you drunk?

When you didn’t answer, which was unusual. Levi looked over. You were ignoring him, staring out the window with a sulky expression.

“I asked you something.”

You sighed. “You know… something. You and the bubbly new queen—what a ray of sunshine in this battlefield.”

Your sarcasm wasn’t subtle. Levi’s quiet, firm steps drew closer.

No. No, stay away.

Standing in front of you now, he looked down. Your expression—almost… embarrassed?

A strange wave of heat hit him. Unfamiliar.

“You find that funny?”

“Maybe. The bright little queen with the cold, sharp captain. What a pair.”

You snorted nervously, trying to mask it with a smile. Levi didn’t know why this stupid conversation was continuing. Why he was still standing here. You were fine. He should leave.

“You sound offended.”

The fact that he didn’t deny it almost made you want to push him from your face. But instead… the vulnerability in your body, his presence, pushed you in another way.

“Do you like her?”

Levi didn’t know what shocked him more, your question, or how red your cheeks suddenly were.

“No.”

You stared at him until you were sure he wasn’t lying. Then looked away.

“Why ask?”

“Curiosity.”

He stepped closer.

“Do I look like someone who doesn’t think clearly?”

“No?”

“Then why lie to me?”

You avoided his gaze. But when Levi’s hand gently tilted your chin toward him you froze. His fingers were shockingly gentle on your skin.

And just like that he knew something was off.

“What did Hange say before she left?”

You groaned.

“That she’d be right back. That traitor.”

Something was missing. Levi picked up the bottle, poured a bit onto his finger.

“Hey! You’re wasting precious wine—”

“Shut up.”

You muttered, “Mean.”

He didn’t answer, even though he should’ve.

You were talking too much. More than usual.

The liquid glistened faintly. Levi frowned. Aphrodisiac.

He looked at you again and slowly scanning from head to toe. You gulped.

“I think Hange tricked us both into drinking it wine with aphrodisiac…For… some unknown reason. That fucking psycho—”

But he cut himself off when he saw you sinking into the chair in shame.

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“No?”

“Y/N.”

A pause.

“No.”

“No, or you don’t want to say?”

He was being so persistent, it scared you. The fact that you both took it. That he was this close. That you couldn’t stop thinking about how beautiful he was. How badly you wanted him right here, right now. You slammed your head onto the desk.

“Leave. Please.”

“Speak now, or I’ll go.”

“Why should you need to know? It doesn’t matter.” You muttered, head still buried.

“I don’t like lies. Or people hiding—”

You shot up suddenly, furious.

“OKAY. I fucking like you, okay?! For a long time…since we were…nevermind. She probably set me up!”

Levi’s ears rang. He didn’t hear that right.

But your heaving chest and the brutal honesty in your eyes said otherwise. And he couldn’t respond. Didn’t know how to.

He just stared.

Embarrassing. God, this was so embarrassing. You thought.

You stood up clumsily, ready to storm past him and vanish but Levi reacted instinctively. His hand grabbed your arm.

“W-what?”

Levi considered himself an idiot before making the most impulsive decision of his life. But all thoughts vanished when his lips pressed against yours.

┈─┈─┈─

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment when you moaned the second Levi tried to deepen the kiss. His veiny hand cupped your cheek while your hand found the back of his undercut curtain hair. When his lips left yours, you chased them, but his darkened gaze locked you in place, your breath irregular.

Fuck it, Levi thought.

He kissed you again, dominating the way his lips pressed onto yours, forcing you to open them. But you were far too happy to do it now, your tongue dancing with his in an aggressive competition over who wanted the other more.

He guided you backward until your ass hit the desk, lifting you by your thighs instantly so you were sitting on it. Returning between your legs and dragging them until they locked around him. He groaned in your mouth when he felt you grind on him.

How did it come to this?

He began to move slower until he tried to calm himself down, to regain control, his head dropping over your shoulder.

“This isn’t okay. We’re not in control.”

“You don’t want me?”

Levi’s head tilted back to meet your gaze.

“Don’t want you? I want to fuck you this second if I did what I wanted now.”

You gasped, chasing his hips.

“Y/N.”

“You only want me now?”

Your gaze was so convincing, lustful, that if he stayed here much longer, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions. But he thought twice before making an irresponsible confession in a situation like this. Fuck you, Hange.

“No.”

His short answer made your heart leap out of your chest. And the look in his eyes was enough to confirm he wasn’t lying.

“Then fuck me.”

He let out a low, mocking laugh.

“Tomorrow morning to be damn sure you’ll regret how brave you were last night.”

The pressure between your legs made you squeeze them around him, chasing relief.

“I don’t care.”

He tilted his mouth into a small smile, whispering in your ear.

“Yeah?” He took your earlobe in his mouth, making you shiver. “I even think you don’t want me to fuck you.” Your whine urged him to bite your earlobe before soothing it with his lips. “Two fingers are all I need to get the job done.”

“L-Levi.”

Your mind couldn’t comprehend how he was speaking to you right now—only that it made you unbearably wet.

His fingers traveled along your body before cupping your breast and chasing your mouth. You moaned against his lips, your hand on the back of his head pushing him further into your kiss. He was already addicted to how you responded to him.

Levi’s fingers went lower, raising goosebumps across your skin until he teased your inner thighs.

You whimpered in his mouth, furrowing your brows in impatience from his teasing. But he couldn’t wait anymore—he needed to feel it. He let out a low growl at your wet, clothed panties.

“For how fucking long have you been thinking about me to be like this right now?” A string of saliva connected you both, his hand cupping your pussy before you leaned into his mouth, but he didn’t give you the choice. “Tell me.”

“All night.”

“You fucking kidding me.” His lips left wet kisses along your neck, marking you again with his teeth, still biting lightly.

His fingers pushed your panties aside to reach your clit, starting to move in quick circles considering how wet you were even before he went lower for one of your holes. He tested with one finger, but when he didn’t find much resistance, your moan lingered in your throat before continuing with harder finger-fucking until he added a second finger.

“F-fuck, Levi!”

His dark strands, now damp with sweat from how hot his body felt, stuck slightly in his serious gaze, dilated pupils pulling him far from his image as a strict squad captain. He didn’t look like one anymore. He looked like a man who would do anything in this moment to make you feel good.

Levi had been fed up for some time now with being such a control freak, suppressing his emotions even though Erwin had never advised it—just something Levi knew how to do best. But now? He didn’t give a shit anymore. At least once, he could allow himself this.

“Yeah?” Levi’s lips brushed against yours faintly, his warm breath on them.

“More, I need more—”

He moved you instantly and pushed you forward even more, exposing your ass under your skirt, still covered by the white tights he immediately tore apart.

“Levi, for fuck’s sake—”

He slapped your ass—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to sting—then soothed it when you whimpered. Then he did it again in the same spot before switching to the other cheek. Your breathing was difficult to control, your eyes wide open in ecstasy. It wasn’t hard to guess he liked things like this, and it wasn’t hard to guess that you liked them too.

“You want more? Then fucking take more.”

He spread your ass cheeks, and you felt too aroused to feel shame as he knelt down, right in front of your ass, and began to lick you. It shocked you so much that your back arched even more, your mouth wide open from the sensations his exaggeratedly attentive tongue gave to every spot in your most intimate area. Your legs started trembling as Levi continued licking both holes, then up toward your clit and pushing his fingers back in.

“Please, please. Now, I can’t wait—”

He stood up, leaning over you, his hand moving in front of your body until it found your chin, lifting it while your skin shivered from your ear downward.

“And what can’t you wait for, cadet?”

You almost groaned in frustration, but your hole clenched around nothing, your body telling you directly what his words did to you. If you had known Levi was like this in bed, you would’ve listened to Hange a long time ago. But you knew the aphrodisiac played a role too.

“Damn it, Levi—”

He turned your head further, your body instinctively arching into him, feeling how affected he was by your presence too.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t wait any longer for you to fuck me, Levi. Fuck me, please!”

Your voice was rushed, yet full of sensuality mixed with desperation.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” His mocking tone didn’t disappear—behind closed doors, his usual attitude still lingered.

“S-shut up. Lock the door!”

He was undoing his pants, and all you heard was the rustle of clothing and the sound of a belt falling to the floor.

“I don’t care about that damn door.”

You couldn’t lie that it turned you on a little. The probability of someone coming here was very low, considering how far your desk was from the others. But with how loud you were, that probability could rise.

You looked over your shoulder, noticing, in your opinion, one of the most beautiful cocks—veiny, with the tip dripping proof of how turned on he was, its considerable length adding to the effect. You looked at his dick, then at him, with an awe-struck expression that made Levi’s mouth twitch slightly. Not that he cared about this kind of thing; his ego had been completely unraveled a long time ago, back in childhood. But the scary, lustful look on your face? It drove him like a caged animal to give you more than you could take.

He teased you, slowly moving his cock between your ass cheeks and barely penetrating your pussy. You didn’t even have time to complain before he began thrusting into you, both of you opening your mouths in sync from the pleasure.

He pushed in to the end—some of him still outside—and bent over until his mouth touched your shoulder, sucking it before he began moving inside you. He had to calm himself a little so he didn’t come like some pathetic teenager who couldn’t handle puberty.

His heavy breathing turned you on even more, and when his thrusts became slower but deeper, your voice didn’t stop moaning his name until he put his hand over your mouth.

“You want me to close the door for what? You’re still yelling loud enough for everyone to hear.” His groans didn’t stop though, a sound you never thought you’d hear from him. “Never thought you’d feel so good.”

He moved his hand from your mouth, letting one finger stretch your lips as he fucked you harder. The other hand stayed on your back to support his rough thrusts.

“You’ve thought of me like this before?” Your answers irritated Levi because they turned him on even more, letting him speak too openly about something he shouldn’t.

“You have no idea.”

His answer came voluntarily, simple, but it still made your heart clench. You let out a sound of frustration when he pulled out, your body leaning back toward him to find him again but he turned you to face him, which was even worse.

His piercing eyes immobilized you and suddenly you remembered what shame felt like when Levi was staring at you, perplexed by how beautiful you looked, his gaze dropping from your swollen lips, to your aroused breasts, then between your legs.

You pulled him by the shirt to kiss you, and he didn’t pull back; on the contrary, his hands cupped your head to keep you in place while he devoured you, the kiss messy again, you moaning into his mouth, trying to pull off his black shirt, wrinkled with passion. Your hands felt the muscles he built through harsh training and punishment, your eyes tracing the scars that reminded you how strong he was.

Your vulnerable gaze after Levi kissed down your neck and looked back at you was too much for him to handle. He couldn’t think about what he felt for you right now. It was out of the question but his softened eyes still caressed your soul.

He placed both hands on your thighs and lifted you slightly on the desk before spreading your legs and entering you. Your hands went around his shoulder, your head falling there too as Levi grunted in your ear with every deep thrust.

“Come for me first.”

He turned his head slightly toward you to meet your gaze while his fingers moved to your clit to help you. The excessive wetness made it easy for him to bring you to the edge, even though you could’ve stayed in this moment forever with Levi inside you. So close.

You turned to face him, making sounds that bordered crying while you looked at him, and he can only murmur:

“Yes, just like this. Do it for me. Do it now.”

His eyes never left yours until your head tilted back slightly, your body shaking uncontrollably as your legs, previously locked around his ass, loosened and fell until Levi’s hand grabbed one of them and the other cupped your cheek, not letting you look away as you came. He couldn’t forget this look. He needed it.

His erratic movements became harsher until he pulled out, stroking himself until the last drop spilled on your belly and a little lower. Your hands were barely holding you up on the desk. The aphrodisiac was almost halfway worn off, but your mind was still obsessively drawn to Levi and his presence.

But the shame you felt now was even stronger, trying to cover yourself, not wanting to feel so exposed anymore. But Levi only memorized how special you were to him; and not just because of the sex, but in general. Memories rebuilt themselves in his mind as if they were yesterday, of how much you’d been there for him through his life.

He pulled himself out of those thoughts, not allowing himself to drown in them. Hs hadn’t even allowed himself to get here before, but here they were.

He looked through drawers and around the desk until he found some wet wipes to clean you, at least superficially, because he couldn’t stand making a mess, especially not on someone like you. He lifted you off the desk, seeing your fragile legs, but you surprised him by hugging him tightly, not letting him protest how hard you held him.

“Y/N.”

Even if he couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t do anything to stop it. His hands still weren’t touching you.

“Hug me back, Levi. Please.”

He felt a lump in his throat, suffocated by your love. But he hugged you back, one hand cradling your head as he stared blankly. It was hard to accept this from someone. But you weren’t just anyone.

“You’ll catch a cold if you stay naked much longer.”

Your voice was muffled by his shoulder.

“I don’t care.”

You squeezed him tighter, now that you had him this open, you couldn’t let go so easily.

He leaned toward the desk, stretching his hand to grab a shirt to cover you. That melted your soul even more.

“I wanna sleep with you.”

“Y/N, you know it’s not allowed for a commander to sleep in the same bed with another—”

“Please, Levi. I don’t think I can breathe well without it.”

He was annoyed at you and your rule-breaking, exhaling an irritated sigh—but didn’t say anything at first.

“If you don’t come as subtly as possible in the middle of the night, I swear I’ll make you regret it.”

You lifted your face from his chest and smiled at him, sincerely. Though his expression seemed serious, there was a playful one underneath. Levi’s walls were down tonight for you. And maybe, they would stay open more often. Life is too short not to love each other in the limited time you have.

You pressed your face back into his chest, hugging him tighter. From the outside, the image was as romantic as it could be—the two of you at the center of the office, moonlight covering your bodies and leaving only your shadow as proof that, in this moment, you truly belonged to each other. No one else.

[lucy-literates]

Well, Lewis would be possessive of his girl 🤭

Next idea is again with a younger reader (28 years old) and she is Roscoes nanny and they fall in love :)

Greetings :)

A/N: I'm glad you enjoyed it! Hopefully, you enjoy this one too! Ibox is open :)

The Heart He Didn't See Coming

You were hired to take care of Roscoe. That was it.

Just a temporary gig—two months, max—while Lewis figured out travel schedules and recovered from back-to-back races. You’d been recommended by a friend of his physio, and your background in animal behavior and gentle energy made the decision easy.

Still, Lewis hadn’t expected you.

He hadn’t expected the way Roscoe took to you almost immediately, curling at your feet within twenty minutes of meeting you, snorting contentedly as you scratched the perfect spot behind his ear like you'd known him for years.

And he definitely hadn’t expected the sound of your laughter in his kitchen to feel like something he’d been missing.

“You sure you’re not feeding him treats under the table?” Lewis asked one morning, as Roscoe followed you around with that adoring, bulldog loyalty that had taken even him months to earn.

“I only give him carrots,” you replied, turning to him with a grin. “You’re the one sneaking him bites of your toast, champion.”

His smirk deepened. “Can’t help it. He looks at me like I hung the moon.”

You tilted your head. “So do you, sometimes.”

Lewis blinked. You didn’t even realize what you’d said—or maybe you did, because you turned away quickly to refill Roscoe’s water bowl, humming like it hadn’t just made his chest go tight.

That was the beginning of the ache.

It wasn’t supposed to be romantic.

He was older. Busier. Constantly surrounded by people and noise and cameras. You were quieter. Sunshine and calm. Someone who moved through life like it didn’t owe you anything, and still, you chose joy.

But when you walked Roscoe through the paddock at Silverstone—laughing as he tried to chase a golf cart—and handed Lewis a little cloth-wrapped lunch you’d packed for him, just in case the catering was late, he’d stood there for a moment too long, something warm rising in his throat.

“You’re ridiculous,” he’d said softly.

“Is that your way of saying thank you?”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

After that, things got blurry around the edges.

One evening in Monaco, the sky cracked open unexpectedly.

You and Roscoe had gone for your usual walk along the waterfront, but the rain hit faster than forecast. By the time you got home, soaked and laughing, Roscoe was a damp loaf of contentment at your side.

Lewis opened the door before you even knocked.

“Jesus, you’re drenched—get in, quick.” He grabbed a towel and gently rubbed Roscoe down while you toed off your wet sneakers.

You were dripping in the hallway, mascara smudged slightly, Lewis’s hoodie shoved into your arms without him thinking twice.

It was warm. Soft. Smelled like cedarwood and whatever expensive cologne he wore sparingly but perfectly.

“Go change,” he said, “you’ll catch a cold.”

You returned a few minutes later, barefoot and wearing the hoodie over your leggings. Roscoe was curled in his usual spot by the couch, and Lewis looked up at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

“You should’ve called me,” he said. “I would’ve picked you up.”

You blinked. “You were busy. Besides, it’s just rain.”

He shook his head, then patted the spot next to him on the couch. “Come sit. You’re always running around after my wellbeing. Let me return the favour for once.”

You hesitated—but then sat.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. Not really. But the hoodie was warm and Roscoe was snoring and Lewis’s hand moved gently over your shoulder while you listened to him talk about his next race strategy in that low, rhythmic tone.

When you woke up, your head was on his chest.

And his arm was around you.

Things changed after that.

Not drastically. Just... quietly.

Lingering glances. Soft touches. A new depth to your late-night conversations. He started asking you questions that had nothing to do with Roscoe: What did you want from life? Had you ever been in love? What scared you?

You didn’t ask him the same things out loud. You didn’t need to. You watched the way he talked to his team, how gently he moved around people, how he stood on the edge of the ocean sometimes like he was still searching for something.

One night, as you handed him a mug of peppermint tea, he said it—so softly you nearly missed it:

“You make this place feel like home.”

Your breath caught.

“It’s because you finally stopped running,” you whispered.

There was a pause. Then his hand found yours.

“No,” he said. “It’s because I found something worth staying for.”

You kissed him a few seconds later.

It wasn’t rushed. It was the kind of kiss that built over weeks. Careful. Reverent. Your fingers slipped into his curls, and he hummed softly against your mouth like the moment had been waiting for you both.

Roscoe snorted in his sleep. You both laughed.

The next few weeks were a blur of quiet touches and shared mornings.

He kissed your shoulder while you prepped Roscoe’s meals. You slid handwritten notes into his travel bags. You didn’t go public—not right away—but his team knew. And they all smiled when you were around, like you were exactly what he needed.

But then the press found out.

Photos. Speculation. Headlines: “Roscoe’s Nanny, Hamilton’s New Flame?”

It wasn’t cruel—but it was invasive. You panicked. You didn’t want to be seen as a trophy, or someone temporary.

“I never wanted to be a scandal,” you said one night, eyes shiny. “I didn’t want to be a story someone clicks on.”

Lewis shook his head and crossed the room to hold you.

“You’re not a scandal,” he said firmly. “You’re not a story. You’re the person who brings Roscoe his toy at bedtime and sings along to my awful shower playlists. You’re the one thing in my life that feels real.”

You blinked. He tucked a hand beneath your chin.

“And if the world can’t see that… then I’ll show them.”

Three days later, he posted a photo.

No caption. Just you, Roscoe, and him on a balcony, wrapped in blankets, sipping tea. Your head on his shoulder. Roscoe snoozing across both your laps.

It went viral in seconds.

But the response shocked you.

“This is the softest thing I’ve ever seen.” “I want what they have.” “Protect this trio at all costs.”

Your inbox flooded with kindness. People saw you. And more importantly—they saw the love.

A few months later, Lewis took you to a beach on your day off. It was quiet. Peaceful. Roscoe ran in wide circles, barking happily at the waves.

You sat on a blanket, his arm around you, sun low in the sky.

Then he called Roscoe over.

There was a velvet box tied to Roscoe’s collar.

Your heart skipped.

“It’s not a ring,” Lewis said quickly. “Not yet. I just... wanted to ask if we can keep doing this. You. Me. Roscoe. All of it.”

You opened the box. Inside was a small gold charm: a tiny dog paw next to a heart.

“Yes,” you said, instantly.

He kissed you again, deeper this time.

Roscoe barked once. Loudly. Offended at being ignored.

You both laughed against each other’s mouths.

And maybe love hadn’t come in the way you expected. But it arrived exactly when it was meant to.

With muddy pawprints, fresh tea, and the softest man you’d ever known.

[sharkwidow]

Nerf War | Avengers x Teenage reader!

✮⋆˙Summary: War broke out, and you were the culprit.

✮⋆˙Content Warning: Chaos, affection, and lots of foam darts.

✮⋆˙Word Count: 785

✮⋆˙Notes: The Avengers adore you... even if they don't easily admit it.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

Fury left you with them like you were a fragile box.

"Take care of her, she's useful. She's a spy. And yes, she's a teenager, but don't underestimate her."

He said it dryly, but the Avengers understood the subtext. You weren't just useful. You were important. You'd been through things no one should have to go through, and Fury, that grumpy old man with a hidden heart, trusted them to give you something you never had: a family.

And at first... it was weird. Tony called you "ninja girl," Natasha analyzed you like a mirror, Steve offered you food every five minutes, and Clint gave you training arrows. Even Wanda calmly taught you how to use your abilities, as if she wasn't worried about you accidentally melting a cup.

But today... today you weren't a spy. Today you were a bored teenager in a giant tower with superheroes too busy.

So you decided to unleash hell.

Colorful. Foam. Totally harmless.

The best hell.

You snuck through the halls, sliding as only you knew how, until you left a modified Nerf gun in the kitchen. On the table. It was pointed directly at Tony Stark.

"What the...?" he said when he saw it.

A note taped to the side read: "First to shoot wins. Begin!"

Tony looked up just as a foam dart hit him in the forehead.

"Was that you?!" he yelled, running after you.

And so the war began.

Steve showed up five minutes later with a shield converted into a barricade. Natasha had two Nerf guns and terrifying accuracy. Wanda levitated darts with her magic. Clint fired from the rooftop, and Peter Parker came swinging through the window with a backpack full of ammo.

Bruce refused to participate... until a dart hit him in the back. Then, the controlled version of the Hulk launched cushions like grenades.

You were laughing so hard you almost fell down the hallway as you dodged Tony's attacks and hid behind the couch.

"She started it!" Tony yelled, pointing at you.

"And she's going to win!" you screamed, launching a barrage of darts with lethal accuracy.

At some point, Steve tripped over a poorly placed shield, Natasha got caught in a net you'd set up as a trap, and Clint was left hanging from the ceiling light, laughing like a madman.

When Thor returned to the tower from another mission and saw the mess, he simply asked, "Is this a battle? Where's my Nerf hammer?"

And that's when the chaos doubled.

Darts were flying everywhere. Peter was screaming like it was a real war, you were using your training to disappear and attack from the shadows, and Tony was already planning to build an automatic turret to shoot him.

The chaos lasted almost two hours.

Two hours of laughter, screams, pillow fights, and hearts healing without saying a word.

When it was all over, you were on the floor, laughing, with Tony lying next to you, his hair covered in darts, and Wanda using her magic to remove the ones Clint had stuck in his face.

"You're dangerous, kid," Natasha said, sitting next to you.

"Thanks," you replied with a smirk.

Steve tossed you a water bottle.

"Good strategy, agent."

And for a moment, you felt... loved. Not for what you could do. Not for your training or your skills. But simply for being you.

An orphaned teenager who had started a Nerf war so she wouldn't feel alone.

And it had worked.

"Rematch tomorrow?" Peter asked hopefully.

"Get ready, I have better plans," you replied, and everyone laughed. Even Thor.

The Avengers—your Avengers—looked at you as if you were one of them. Because you already were. From the first foam dart.

[austinbutlerslovers]

Devotion

Label 18+

Summary Your Na-Baron Feyd Rautha becomes dangerously obsessed with you, consumed by a need to have you entirely to himself—until a fateful event forces him to choose between his desire for you and his legacy.

Part 1 🔗Obsession for the wedding

🚨Depraved Smut🚨 Feyd feral • obsessive • constant claiming • Feyd impatient • oral on fem • nipple play • clit play •words of devotion • body praise • sex on a ceremonial table • sex after a battle • rough sex • missionary • girl on top • breeding kink • lactation kink • thigh rutting • Feyd jealous • multiple orgasms • creampies 🔗 Masterlist

📖 Proofreaders @purejasmine @magicovento @psycheetamore ✨Inspired and dedicated to @lokisnapemalfoy 🗳️ Based on Unanimous 🔗 Poll Decision 🏆

🏆 1st Devotion 2nd Daddy’s Doll 3rd Love/Hate 4th Wild Hearts. *Special thanks for voting 😍 & enjoy the upcoming fics!🤩 🗳️

Devotion

The Harkonnens were never content to leave their future to chance. For centuries, their breeding practices had been as meticulous and calculated as their rise to power.

The Baron himself was the architect of these plans, ensuring that the Harkonnen bloodline remained as ruthless and potent as the poisons they used to eliminate their enemies.

The philosophy was simple: strength and ambition above all else, ruthlessness and cunning embedded in every generation.

When Feyd Rautha was born, he was hailed as the progeny of this breeding program,a perfect specimen of Harkonnen genetics.

His childhood was molded not by love but by calculated cruelty, ensuring he would grow into the precise tool the bloodline needed.

His beauty, his intelligence, and his lethal instincts were all results of an unforgiving strategy to create an heir who could dominate not only Giedi Prime, but the galaxy itself.

But the Harkonnen obsession with breeding didn’t end with Feyd. The Baron viewed every union as a transaction, every offspring as a pawn to be used in his intricate web of power.

Alliances were forged through bloodlines, with matches calculated for maximum political and genetic advantage.

You would be the first female to bear a Harkonnen heir, and were scrutinized for your lineage, physical strength, and intelligence.

The Baron had manipulated your ruling planet to approve the match, believing it would ensure a viable heir and secure his nephew’s position.

The union was never about love or even desire; it was about creating the perfect Harkonnen progeny, an heir born of cruelty, strength, and unyielding ambition.

It was a calculated transaction, a means to secure the future of House Harkonnen in the brutal game of power and dominance.

But the Baron, in all his scheming, underestimated one thing.

He didn’t know you.

You were no pawn in their dark schemes—every move you made, every choice you accepted, was driven by one singular desire:

You wanted Feyd-Rautha

From the moment you first laid eyes on him, you were bound to him.

When the Harkonnens arrived on your homeworld, flanked by imposing guards and the ever-watchful Baron to negotiate with your father, the bargain was sealed before the terms were even spoken

The Harkonnen presence was suffocating, their power overwhelming, but it was Feyd who drew your attention.

There was something in his dark intensity, the sharpness of his gaze, and the lethal grace of his movements that captivated you completely.

You saw the danger in him, the cruelty, but it only deepened your fascination.

As the negotiations wore on, you realized you were not being forced into the agreement—you were entering it willingly.

You were lured by the darkness that surrounded Feyd, and you knew you would surrender everything to be his.

After the grim Harkonnen wedding traditions of Blood Binding, the Trail of Chains, and the Bending of the Will—you belonged to him completely.

From your wedding night until the first light of dawn, you gave yourselves to each other, surrendering in ways neither of you had anticipated, driven by pure unspoken obsession.

Though he once seemed so incapable of love, over time the calculating and cruel Feyd Rautha began to surrender himself to you, piece by reluctant piece.

The Na-Baron of House Harkonnen, underwent a remarkable transformation since you became his Baroness.

The arrogant grin that once promised manipulation and danger now softens every time he looks at you, a rare tenderness breaking through his hardened exterior.

Instead of being bound by silent obedience to duty, you find yourselves infatuated with each other—an obsession that neither of you can resist nor wants to control.

Now, as you sit before the Baron in a meeting about your recent union, you are both restless beneath the oppressive weight of politics.

Seated across the long obsidian table, you and Feyd exchange stolen glances, the heat between you simmering just beneath the surface.

The sharp planes of his face are illuminated by the cold artificial lighting, his lips forming a signature smirk every time your eyes meet his.

Beneath his polished veneer of diplomacy, something far deeper stirs in Feyd as his gaze roams over you possessively, making it clear what he wants.

His jaw clenches in a way that makes your pulse quicken.

You know that look.

It’s the silent promise of what’s to come.

You try to focus on the Baron’s voice droning on about the future of House Harkonnen, but the weight of Feyd’s stare burns into you, his fingers drumming impatiently against the table.

By the time the meeting ends, the tension between you is unbearable.

No sooner than the words have left the Baron’s lips concluding the meeting than Feyd is on his feet, striding purposefully toward you.

His hand finds your wrist, his grip firm and commanding as he leads you through the fortress corridors with swift, measured steps.

His silence is more telling than any words as your heart pounds in anticipation.

He shoves open a heavy steel door to a separate hall, dragging you inside before kicking it shut behind him.

The echo reverberates through the chamber, and before you can catch your breath, Feyd’s mouth is on yours.

The air is cold, but you barely feel it as he presses you against the ceremonial table in the room’s center, the harsh edges digging into your thighs.

“I could not wait,” he rasps, his lips claiming yours in a demanding kiss, the force of it nearly bruising.

You whimper into his mouth as his hands slide up your thighs, pushing the fabric of your gown higher in a frantic search for skin.

When his fingers graze your bare flesh, a low groan fills his chest.

“You’ve worn nothing to keep me from you,” he rasps, his voice thick with need as his fingertips trace along your wetness.

You gaze into his blue eyes—sharp and vivid, unmatched by anything on Giedi Prime’s dark expanse, “Nothing could keep me from you,” you whisper pulling him into another searing kiss.

His hands grip your hips as he hoists you onto the table with effortless strength, your body yielding as he steps between your legs.

His kiss turns messy, his lips parting against yours as his tongue slides in, devouring you in ways that make your heart race.

You clutch at his shoulders, your fingers trailing into the intricate design of his pendant as his movements become methodical undoing his fastener, driven by a hunger neither of you can suppress.

“I will claim every part of you,” he rasps, savoring the evidence of your desire as his hands slide to your hips, fingers pressing hard into the soft flesh.

With a possessive grip, he thrusts in sharply, a desperate plunge that fills you with a raw, searing heat that borders on pain.

His length forces its way deep inside your body as you give in to the relentless sensation.

His hand grasps the back of your neck as he penetrates you fully, your breath catching as a satisfied moan escapes your lips.

His blue eyes meet yours, and for a fleeting moment, all of his arrogance and cruelty falls away.

His lips part, as his pupils dilate, and his face softens in a rare moment of unguarded bliss.

The way he looks at you in that instant, like you are the only thing in the universe steals your breath away.

“You are mine,” he whispers reverently, his lips pressing against yours as he slowly begins thrusting his cock deep inside.

You moan as he takes what’s his, reaching for his face, cupping his sharp jawline as he leans into your touch, his lips claiming yours in a rough, desperate kiss.

The stone walls of the fortress echo with your moans and the sharp, guttural sounds Feyd makes as he takes you.

It is his domain, his right, yet in moments when his passion subsides, when he cradles your face with a gentleness that no one else will ever see, when he brushes his lips across yours in reverence whispering your name like a vow, the cruel and calculating Na-Baron is nowhere to be found as he becomes entirely yours.

No place within the Harkonnen fortress or even the cold steel corridors of his warships remain untouched by the echoes of your passion.

As newlyweds, the intimacy between you is endless, and insatiable, a hunger that neither of you can resist.

The tension that once simmered beneath the surface gives way to an all-consuming need, and with every stolen kiss every hidden moment of intimacy, Feyd becomes more entwined with you—so deeply, so thoroughly, that he begins to lose himself.

His hunger for you becomes an obsession, a need that overrides his cunning nature, making him reckless, distracted.

And then, one night, something in him shifts entirely.

Feyd had been gone for weeks, sent on a brutal campaign to crush a lingering rebellion on the outskirts of Arrakis. The mission was relentless, hunting down insurgents through the planet’s caverns.

He relished the slaughter, the thrill of the fight, but something clawed at him beneath the surface. No matter how many bodies fell at his feet, no matter how much blood stained his blade, his thoughts always drifted back to you.

You, soft and waiting in his chambers, you untouched by any one but him. The thought of you is the only thing that soothed the rage simmering beneath his skin, the only thing that made the relentless crusade tolerable.

And now, as he strides through the fortress halls returned from his mission his mind is on one singular focus.

You.

His boots echo against the polished stone floors, his presence commanding as guards and servants alike step out of his way without a word.

His face is hard, his muscles tense with an impatience that only grows stronger the closer he gets to his quarters.

He doesn’t knock. He never does, the door opens with a forceful shove, and there you are waiting for him just as he had envisioned.

You stand in the dim glow of his chamber, draped in a delicate silk robe that clings to your form, tied loosely down the front in anticipation of him undoing it.

When word had reached you of his return aboard his Ravager, you immediately prepared yourself to see him, and now, as he stands before you, the intensity of him sets your heart ablaze.

He is clad in the stark, angular lines of his Harkonnen Warlord uniform, black as the void and edged with argent, the fabric clinging to his broad shoulders and tapering down to his lean waist.

The harshness of the attire only sharpens his beauty—his full lips parting as he takes you in, his blue eyes piercing like the ice of some distant planet with a heat that defies their cool hue.

He is the epitome of command and power, the sculpt of his face so handsome it feels like he is a blade honed to perfection.

Your smile is soft and welcoming, a quiet glow of happiness at seeing him again. But the glint in his sharp blue eyes tells you he’s missed you far more than you’ve missed him.

“You have returned,” you breathe, but you barely get the words out before he’s on you, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you flush against his battle-hardened body.

His lips crash into yours with a desperate hunger, devouring you with a need that is raw and filled with longing.

Before you can react, he lifts you effortlessly in his arms as he carries you to the bed, laying you down with determination.

He only takes a moment to look at you, his gaze dark, reverent, his chest rising and falling in heavy anticipation.

“I have craved you” he whispers, his voice a hushed confession as his fingers pull at the lace of your gown, his mouth claiming yours again with a fierce hunger.

He kisses a trail down your neck, his lips hot and wet as he sucks heavily to leave marks for himself.

You gasp as his hands slide down your waist, fingers digging in possessively as he lowers himself, his mouth following the same path.

“I must savor you,” he whispers, his voice rough and low as his hands tear your gown free, exposing you to him.

And then, with effortless strength, he lifts your legs over his shoulders, holding your thighs on him as his breath fans over your skin.

The first flick of his tongue has you arching against him, your fingers grasping the silk sheets beneath you, reaching for anything, to ground yourself.

The pleasure is sharp, intoxicating, and as he delves deeper, his grip tightens on your thighs, holding you still as he works you open with unrelenting precision.

You moan as his tongue flicks against your clit before dragging down, slipping between your folds, tasting every inch of you with torturous intent.

Your body shudders, the sharp gasps spilling from your lips turning into a desperate moans as his tongue moves faster, stroking, coaxing, driving you higher.

Your hips push instinctively against his face until his hands tighten, pressing you firmly onto the bed and he holds you still as he devours you with ravenous sweeps of his tongue.

Your body writhes beneath him, your nails dragging against the sheets as your moans rise higher, desperate, uncontrollable.

He groans against you, his voice rough as his mouth seals over you, sucking hard before his tongue flicks in with relentless strokes, sending surges of pleasure racing though your core.

Your thighs tremble, threatening to close around his head, but he only buries his face deeper his tongue plunging in with unrelenting force.

Your back arch off the bed the tension coiling impossibly tighter inside you.

“Feyd—” you plead in a desperate breathless cry, placing your hands on his head as your body tightens, every muscle locking up as the pleasure peaks.

Your release crashes through you like a tidal force and Feyd groans into you, drinking it, lapping it up with a feral intensity that leaves you shaking in his grasp.

You lay panting beneath him as he rises above you, his lips glistening with your pleasure.

Without a word, he strips off his surcoat, the glow of the chamber’s dim lighting casting shadows over the definition of his pale muscles, every ridge and line carved to perfection.

His chiseled chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, his hunger for you burning in his eyes as he moves over you.

“How long have you endured since I have bound you to me?” he asks, his voice low and rough like gravel, a glint of possession flickering in his gaze as his fingers trace your skin.

“An..eternity,” you reply with soft breaths, your words sparking a fire in him that nearly destroys his composure, his breath catching as his control frays.

You crave him like this—feral, unhinged, completely yours.

He climbs on top of you, his weight pressing you down, his skin hot against yours. His hands pin your wrists as he gazes down at you, his eyes filled with dangerous devotion.

“I can not escape you,” he confesses as he lowers his mouth to the curve of your breast. “Not for an instant have you left my mind,” he whispers, his lips brushing over your nipple before gently sucking it into his mouth.

His teeth tense with a punishing force, needing to make you feel what he feels. Then as you whimper his tongue soothes, licking gently, as if to atone for his obsession.

His hands slide down your arms around your breasts, kneading and squeezing as he claims them possessively.

Then his thumbs flick over your nipples, before his mouth follows, hot and relentless, his tongue licking heavily as he savors what he wants.

Your fingers trail over his broad shoulders, pulling him closer, needing him just as much as he needs you, and he groans in response, pressing himself harder against you.

“You have missed me,” he whispers, his voice rough with certainty.

His hips shift as he lines himself up, and your eyes drop between your bodies, taking in the sight of his cock, thick and rigid, heavy with an aching need for you.

Your fingers slide down his chest, grazing over the defined ridges of his abs before wrapping around the base of his cock.

His breath catches, a low groan escaping his throat as you stroke him slowly, feeling the heat and weight of him in your hand.

“I have missed you,” you whisper in return, your voice filled with longing, your eyes locking onto his.

There’s no patience in him now, only the need to claim you, the need you to remind you that you are his.

His lips seize your mouth in a kiss that steals your breath as he nudges your legs apart, settling between them, his cock pressing against you.

He drags the head along your slick center, collecting your wetness with each slow, measured stroke, making you arch into him, making your body beg for more.

Then he thrusts his thick cock inside, drawing soft whimpers from you as your nails drag down his back, your pleading eyes locked on to his feeling him stake his claim.

Your slick walls tighten around him as he pushes in deeper, a rush of pleasure flooding your core as you surrender to the overwhelming sensation.

His thrusts are slow, methodical, but with each roll of his hips, his need sharpens. His hand slides up to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze to stay on his as he drives into you with a primal urge to breed.

It feels impossible that he can go any harder, but he does, each thrust sending waves of pleasure through you that leave you trembling.

“I want you swollen with what is mine,” he rasps, his thrusts growing more intense, his need for you all consuming.

His pace quickens, his hips snapping as he angles deeper, making you shudder and gasp clinging to him harder.

He groans your name, low and wrecked, lost in a pleasure that no one else has ever made him feel, and the sound of his voice, the raw, helpless way he gives himself to you makes you come undone.

Broken moans spill from your lips as he thrusts into you, relentlessly, ravenously, feeling you orgasm against him, each movement dragging more pleasure from you as you lie beneath him.

His grip slides to your hips, his muscles flexing with every thrust, groaning as he feels the depths of you that only he can claim.

His eyes, dark and fevered, lock onto yours- his pleasure raw and unrestrained, his body moving with one sole purpose.

He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t slow and his thrusts become desperate, punishing, consuming, as if the idea of stopping is unthinkable.

“Feyd,” you gasp, wrapping your legs around him, pulling him deeper, your voice a tether in his chaos. “Give yourself to me.”

He tilts his head back as your words reach him and a groan of surrender tears from his throat. His rhythm falters under the weight of your command, and he thrusts once, twice more, before he spills into you, the heat of his seed flooding through your core.

The sight of his face and the way his mouth parts as his eyes darken with ecstasy, fills you with a devotion that leaves you entirely his.

He slowly collapses onto you, his body heavy and warm, his breath coming in ragged pants against your skin.

His lips find your chest, pressing soft, dazed kisses between your breasts as he basks in the aftermath.

“You have ruined me,” he murmurs, his voice drowsy as his fingers trace lazy circles over your skin.

“You are not ruined,” you reply, trailing your fingers over his neck. “You are mine.”

He hums softly at that, his lips curving into a rare smile as he leans up to kiss you again, slower this time, tender in a way that feels almost out of place for a Harkonnen.

In these moments, Feyd Rautha, the cruel and calculating Na Baron becomes something else entirely.

He becomes yours.

As he drifts to sleep in your arms, you know that you have satisfied him in every way imaginable, leaving him soft, surrendered, and completely undone by the force of your love.

It comes as no surprise when the proclamation is made that you are bearing the seed of House Harkonnen.

The fortress hums with whispers of your impending role, the air thick with the weight of expectation and legacy.

The Harkonnen bloodline, ruthless and unyielding, will continue through you, and the realization settles over you that you have fulfilled your role to Feyd in every way.

You are beyond obsessed with him, though you try to hide it. The thought of him fills your mind, even when he is not near, and as your pregnancy progresses, his attachment to you deepens in ways that even he cannot even fully understand.

You carry the life you created together, a new chapter in the blood-soaked lineage of the Harkonnens, and as your body becomes heavier with the weight of your unborn child, you become Feyds object of fascination.

His gaze lingers every time you are near, a curiosity so raw it seems to surprise even him. Every swell, every change in your form draws him closer, as though the transformation within you stirs something deep and primal in himself.

In the final days of your pregnancy, a ceremony takes place deep within the fortress.

It is held in a grand shrine carved from obsidian, lined with cruel, jagged relics of past conquests.

Shadows dance along the towering walls, cast by the flickering glow of fire pits filled with thick incense that clings sweetly to your lungs with every breath.

The air is heavy, suffocating, charged with an ancient energy that feels both sacred and oppressive.

The only two males present in the vast, echoing chamber are the Baron and Feyd.

You are dressed in a black opulent gown lined with dark obsidian crystals, your entire body veiled save for your lower face and hands.

This is a sacred time in your pregnancy, mere days from birth. The fabric clings to your form, accentuating the curve of your swollen belly, a visible testament to the life growing inside you.

A heavy Harkonnen pendant rests at your throat, a symbolic marker of your new role within the dynasty.

Carefully, you are knelt upon a cold white stone slab as trembling female attendants gather around you.

Their heads remain bowed in submission, their hands shaking as they place a modesty cloth over your legs and slowly lift your robe to reveal only your bare belly, round and full with the future of the Harkonnen line.

They work in fearful silence, their ink-darkened fingers tracing ancient markings of fertility across your skin, binding you to the legacy you carry.

At the head of the room, the Baron lounges forward in his oversized throne, his grotesque form draped in layers of dark, rich fabric that do little to conceal his bloated mass. His beady eyes glisten with an unsettling mix of greed and cunning as he surveys your womb for the first time.

“My dearest nephew,” he rasps, his voice thick with satisfaction, “she bears the fruit of our dominion… the future of House Harkonnen.”

Feyd’s piercing gaze never strays from you, fixed on the swell of your body that carries his heir.

There is something raw in his eyes, an infatuation bordering on obsession, a hunger so possessive it sends a shiver down your spine.

His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to touch you, to claim you, even here, even now, in front of them all.

The Harkonnen Shaman enters the chamber and steps forward, cloaked in dark robes adorned with symbols of death and rebirth. His voice is low and resonant, each word deliberate, steeped in ancient authority.

“You now bear the fruit of life,” he chants, his withered hand hovering over your belly, as if feeling the of the life within. “And it is life’s blood that shall nourish it.”

A ceremonial basin rests ominously on the altar beside you, filled with a viscous substance, and your heartbeat quickens as the Shaman gestures toward it.

Feyd steps forward, his breath heavy, the tension in his body coiled tight with unspoken obligation.

Without hesitation, he lowers his fingers into the liquid, the thick red substance clinging to them as he lifts his hand.

His dark eyes meet yours, and without breaking contact, he brings his fingers to your womb.

“Seal our future,” he says, hushed and commanding, laced with something deeper—something desperate. “Deliver our heir,” he whispers.

Your skin prickles with anticipation and fear, but beneath it all, a dark thrill stirs within you.

The weight of Feyd’s gaze, the feel of his touch, it’s intoxicating, binding you to him in ways you could never comprehend.

Feyd watches intently, his blue eyes dark with fascination as he draws the ancient marking of his bloodline over your womb, staining your skin as the Shaman watches approvingly.

Whispers ripple through the chamber as the Baron’s grin widens in grotesque delight.

Feyd works methodically, each stroke pressing the significance of this moment deeper into your soul.

When the markings are complete, the Shaman raises his arms, his voice rising as it echoes through the vast chamber. “The oath has been written. The heir will be strategic and cunning and will bring forth powerful alliances to House Harkonnen.”

The Baron lets out a thrilled laugh, his thick hands clapping together in arrogant satisfaction, his eyes darting between you and Feyd.

“Strategic and cunning indeed,” he praises, his voice laced with dark approval and greed.

Feyd says nothing, but his eyes remain locked on you, unreadable yet intense, the weight of his gaze speaking far more than words ever could.

The ceremony is strange and overwhelming, yet beneath it all, something within you shifts irrevocably.

You are no longer just a vessel, you are part of something far greater, something ancient and unstoppable.

You belong to Feyd, to the future you now carry, and to the darkness that binds you both.

Late at night after the ceremony, under the pale light of Giedi Prime’s twin moons, you rest in your chamber, the heavy silence pressing in around you.

The bed beneath you is vast, adorned with dark silks, the headboard emblazoned with the sigil of House Harkonnen, yet it feels empty, foreign, without Feyd’s warmth beside you.

For the first time, you have been sent to separate sleeping quarters, a symbolic tradition meant to mark the transition from union to lineage.

Unable to sleep, you open your eyes to see Feyd standing in the doorway bathed in the cold glow of the twin moons filtering through the towering windows.

His tall form remains still as he leans one shoulder against the doorway, watching you rest, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes fixed solely on you.

With the birth only days away, he is forbidden from seeing you, a decree meant to protect your fragility in these final moments.

But as his eyes search yours with longing, you see he can not bear it.

In an unmistakable act of defiance he approaches you slowly, as if he is afraid to disturb the quiet sanctity of the moment.

His hands, used as instruments of destruction, are gentle as they trace the swell of your belly.

“I never dreamed this,” he rasps, his voice carrying an unfamiliar vulnerability. “That I could create something… pure.”

He lowers himself to you, his movements almost worshipful as his hands splay protectively over your womb.

“I crave what your body has become,” he whispers, his voice thick with awe and desire as his fingers trace reverently over your curves in worship of them.

“Every change of your form is so perfect,” he praises, his lips meeting the sensitive skin of your neck as his hand moves lower, caressing the swell of your womb.

“Your nuturing body… your sustenance…” he rasps, his fingers tracing the soft fullness of your breast.

He trails his lips lower, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down your collarbone until he reaches the peak of your breast.

His mouth hovers just above your nipple,his breath fanning over the sensitive skin as his dark eyes flick up to meet yours.

He hesitates, waiting, testing, then with a quiet groan of surrender, he seals his lips around it.

A quiet moan falls from your lips as his tongue rolls against your nipple, coaxing, teasing.

His first pull is firm yet careful, his mouth working gently, as though he fears you will break the fragile connection.

A tingling warmth blooms at the peak of your breast, spreading through your chest, as if something deep within you responds to him, awakening, yielding.

It’s primal, instinctive, as though your body knows what he wants before your mind fully registers it.

The tenderness of his mouth trying to pull milk leaves you vulnerable. What he is doing feels forbidden, yet the sight of him, his lashes fluttering as he tries to drink from you, makes it impossible to stop him.

Your nipple hardens under the stimulation, the sensation growing sharper, hotter, your breast swelling with heat as he sucks deeper.

A soft gasp escapes you as he switches to the other, his mouth latching with purpose, his breaths warm against your skin.

He groans with frustration low in his throat, his fingers squeezing the soft swell of your other breast as if urging your body to give him what he craves.

And then you see it—a slow droplet of milk rolling from your nipple.

His hum of satisfaction vibrates against your chest, deep and resounding as the first taste of your sweet milk warmly coats his tongue.

His fingers tighten possessively around your breast as a shudder runs through him, feeling something primal overtaking his restraint.

The intimacy of it is overwhelming, the way his mouth works on you, his soft whimpers of his pleasure, the desperate way he drinks from you—it all becomes too much.

His suckling grows stronger, more intense, his grip tightening on your breast as he holds it drinking deeply, greedily, craving this more than he would ever admit.

His tongue laps at your nipple between deep hungry pulls, his fingers rolling over the other, coaxing more milk to leak from you to feed his growing need.

You softly stroke his face and he whines, rutting his hips against you, his arousal evident and throbbing with need. His hand reaches between you unclasping his faster to free cock and he firmly thrusts it between your slick thighs.

You softly whimper as he uses you, the slippery heat of his cock making your thighs press together. He clings to you as though tethered thrusting harder between your thighs, the slick sounds of his movements filling the quiet chamber

His hand slips between your bodies once again, this time his fingers push into your throbbing core, stroking you, coaxing more from you as your loud moans fuel his growing need.

He draws from you forcefully, the unrelenting pull of his mouth making your nipple ache as he thrusts between your thighs, his husky moans drowsy with satisfaction from both pleasures

His fingers work inside of you, deeper, firmer curling just right until you can’t hold back and a sharp cry spills from your lips as you orgasm from his intensity.

He groans against you feeling your release, his hips rutting harder and deeper until his release comes sudden and forceful, his cock twitching as it spills in thick, hot streams between your thighs

The warmth of his seed leaks slowly down your skin, as he becomes weaker, softer, drinking from you until there is nothing left, until he is too spent to take more.

As his body grows heavier beside you, his breaths shallow and his fingers slip from you, his lips barely touching your nipple as exhaustion overtakes him.

He hums as you stroke his chin, his eyes half-lidded as his lips curve into a lazy, milk-drunk smile, utterly satisfied, utterly spent.

As he looks at you his gaze lingers with something unspoken, something softer than words, as if in this moment he needs nothing but you.

As he drifts into sleep in your arms you watch him rest peacefully, his features serene in a way you’ve never known.

Each night Feyd visits you this way, and each night, his hunger seems to grow, his need for you deepening, as though he is becoming dependent on the very act

As he lies milk-drunk in your arms, you caress his temple, finally summoning the strength to confide what you’ve withheld from him for so long, your voice trembling with quiet unease.

“I fear the medical facilities here on Giedi Prime… and the Harkonnen rituals after a female gives birth,” you confess, your words faltering as you dare to resist a Harkonnen rite for the first time. “…The bloodletting of the mother to bind her strength to the child—it terrifies me,” you admit.

Feyd listens intently, not once dismissing your fears of his customs.

“I will not let them touch you,” he says, his voice resolute, low and heavy from his indulgence, carrying no trace of resistance.

The very next day he hires a skilled doula from a distant planet, sparing no expense to ensure you are comfortable.

When the night finally arrives, Feyd paces outside of the chamber like a caged beast, his brute strength shattered by the sound of your laboring cries.

Yet, when your daughter, Lily, is finally born in the intimate warmth of the birthing chamber, Feyd is the first to hold her.

His expression melts into something unrecognizable as he looks at her with pure, unrestrained joy.

His fierce hardened exterior crumbles as he stares down at the tiny life in his arms, his breath catching in his throat.

In that moment, nothing else exists. Not war, not bloodlines, not duty only her.

In the days that follow, Feyd’s initial joy slowly and unexpectedly, turns to bitterness.

Whenever he sees you nursing Lily his jaw tightens and his gaze darkens —yet he says nothing, only brooding in a corner, if not storming from the room entirely.

You can feel the weight of his longing, the frustration he refuses to voice.

Then one night, after the baby has fallen asleep, he lays in bed with you, his body tense beside yours before hesitantly confessing his desire.

“I envy her,” he admits, almost shamefully, as he trail his fingertips over your breast. “You give her something I can no longer have.”

You smile softly, caressing his cheek, “You have me“ you say soothing him but the longing in his eyes does not fade.

His hand moves lower, cupping your breast, his fingers pressing in, squeezing just enough to make his own torment worse.

His jaw clenches, his breathing uneven as he watches with dark satisfaction seeing your milk begin to soak through the fabric of your gown.

He pulls down the delicate material, baring your breast fully to his sight, your breath catching as his expression shifts, his blue eyes darkening with something deep and primal.

He squeezes until you are leaking down his hand and deep and a broken groan falls from his lips as his head dips lower, his breath hot against your skin.

“There is enough for me,” he whispers, his voice almost reverent, and before you can even think to stop him—his mouth latches onto you.

His lips seal over your nipple, his tongue rolling softly as he begins to nurse, his hand squeezing over your breast, coaxing more for him to take.

His lashes flutter in bliss, his face softened in quiet ecstasy as he drinks from you, his low hums of satisfaction vibrating against your skin as he becomes completely lost in his indulgence.

Lily’s soft cry breaks the quiet, and Feyd pulls back, his guilt shadowing his features.

He climbs out of bed and lifts her from her cradle, holding her close as if to atone for his selfishness.

“She needs you more,” he says softly, his voice breaking as he places her in your arms.

He watches her latch as he sits beside you, his gaze fixed on the tiny life between you.

As Lily struggles to nurse, he reaches out, brushing his knuckles gently against her soft cheek, encouraging her to drink.

And when she begins to suckle greedily he smiles —a true, unguarded smile that you’ve never seen before.

Over time, his love for Lily grows to match his love for you. Gone is the spoiled Na-Baron who once demanded you all to himself. Instead, Feyd becomes a doting father, personally feeding Lily as she transitions to solid food.

Each meal is a ritual, he speaks to her softly, telling her stories of bravery and caution, instilling in her the strength to carve her own path.

And every time you watch him hold your daughter, his once-imposing figure now gentle and protective, you’re reminded of how love has transformed the cruel heir into a man capable of profound devotion.

The day Lily reaches one year of age a Harkonnen ceremony marks the occasion.

You attend with Feyd to introduce her to the gathered nobles and warriors of Giedi Prime.

The ritual is dark, grand, and imposing, like everything else on this world.

The hall looms massive, lined with banners of House Harkonnen and the nobles stand in disciplined silence as Feyd carries Lily forward.

She is dressed in black and crimson, the insignia of his house emblazoned on her tiny chest.

A shaman anoints her forehead, intoning ancient words of devotion, binding her to a legacy of war and conquest. Then, with reverence, Feyd places her into the waiting arms of her grandfather, the Baron.

For the first time, the ever-calculating, grotesque Baron does not sneer or grin in mockery.

His pale blue eyes soften, overtaken by an expression no one has ever witnessed.

As he drapes the obsidian necklace around her tiny neck, she blinks up at him, wide-eyed and impossibly small in his massive arms.

Something shifts in him—unvoiced, un-calculated.

He cradles her delicate form as if she’s far too precious for a world that knows only cruelty.

In a voice quieter and raspier than usual, he vows to her, “My little Harkonnen Heiress, I will mold you to twist rulers like reeds in your grasp and we will shatter any who defy our dominion.” He grins with his ruthless satisfaction.

Then the Baron turns, proudly presenting Lily for all to see. The nobles and warriors salute in unison, the sound echoing through the chamber, cementing her place in the Harkonnen bloodline.

Through it all, you stand with Feyd, observing the ceremony with fulfillment as his fingers trace secretly down your palm, a hidden caress amid the solemnity.

“She is perfect,” he praises, his voice low, meant only for you and as his gaze lingers on yours, his sharp blue eyes glint with a ferocity that transcends the moment.

You know that look —and as his fingers tighten around your hand, you can sense the promise of his deepening desire—the unspoken vow of what’s to come

After the ceremony, you and Feyd place Lily to rest in her chamber as she sleeps from the momentous occasion.

Her crib gleams of dark obsidian, its edges carved with angular Harkonnen runes, a stark cradle of power softened by a black silk lining.

Lily lies within, her tiny form serene, skin flushed with the faintest of rose, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she breathes softly.

Feyd brushes his fingers gently across her cheek, ensuring she is peaceful taking one last look before walking the distance to your quarters, both of you still dressed in immaculate garments.

Feyd wears a sleek, black surcoat edged with crimson, the Harkonnen insignia stark against his chest, while you don a flowing gown of midnight silk, its hem embroidered with silver threads that shimmer like stars against Giedi Prime’s gloom, the cut accentuating your form with regal grace.

Once the doors shut, sealing you in silence, Feyds hand cradles your face with a gentleness that defies his strength. “You have undone me,” he says, his voice low and enamored, his blue eyes soft with awe.

His lips press reverently against yours, each kiss burning with quiet fervor, his breath grazing you like an unspoken vow.

He pulls back, his sharp blue eyes blazing with devotion as he lowers to his knees before you, his powerful frame, perfected by years of combat and conquest, submitting willfully to yours.

“Give me another,” he rasps, his voice rough with worship, his hands trailing up your hips.

“Let me feel you bloom with my seed again,” he rasps, placing his hand on your womb in a fervent plea to your dominion over him.

You smile, trailing your fingertips affectionately over his head before you slip from his grasp, leaving him kneeling.

You walk across the room, your robe trailing behind you like a lure he can’t resist, its silk whispering against the stone floor.

His sharp blue eyes follow your every move, glinting with a knowing, unreadable hunger.

“You crave another legacy to bind us deeper in this world of shadows,” you tease, eyes locking with his as he stands, his gaze drawn to you like a blade to its mark.

You lay back on the sheets, arms spread wide with a smile of invitation. “Come then,” you order, and he hesitates for only a second before disrobing.

His surcoat falls away, revealing his pale, muscular form, his broad shoulders sculpted by battle, abs ridged with power, and lean hips framing his thick, pink tipped cock, rigid and heavy with need against his pale skin.

He approaches with purpose, his hands brushing lightly over your feet, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your arch before pressing a kiss to your ankle in reverence.

“You need yet another heir to solidify your empire?” you challenge, your voice a silk caress, your gaze steady as he pauses at your words.

He climbs over you, fingers sliding and lifting your gown, kissing along your thighs with worshipful hunger before pressing his lips to your womb, lingering as if willing his seed to take root.

“You are my empire,” he rasps, his voice low and fervent, before his kisses trail upward over the fabric of your gown, pausing between your breasts, his hands parting your thighs with reverent care.

“I would conquer worlds to see you carry my blood again,” Feyd breathes, his voice husky with adoration, his warm breath fanning your skin.

His words blaze through you, sparking a fever pitch of desire, your pulse hammering as his fingers slip beneath your gown, hooking the delicate silk at your hips leaving nothing between you.

“Take me,” you whisper, urgency threading your soft command, your impatience mirroring in his own as he tears your gown apart, the midnight silk shredding under his strength.

The sight of torn fabric and the raw power in his hands sends a jolt of arousal surging through your core and his lips find yours, desperate and devouring.

His tongue brushes yours as pants and moans spill between you, the kiss deepening into a frantic need for each other.

His hands roam over your hips, your waist, your breasts, savoring curve with possessive hunger until he suddenly pulls you on top him.

His hands guide yours, placing them on either side of his head as he looks up at you, his eyes darkening with pure, unfiltered lust as he takes in the sight of you above him.

“You hold my fate,” he confesses, his hands sliding up your sides, his eyes trailing down to where your bodies will meet. “I will forge dynasties if you grant me more,” he vows, his hands gliding up your thighs and pulling you down onto him, his cock nudging hard against your slick entrance before pushing through.

You softly gasp as he fills you deep, the heat of him radiating your core, the hard length throbbing as he lowers you until the base of him settles against you.

His breath falters as your walls clench him tight, and he surrenders, his hands clutching your hips with worshipful desperation as he watches you take him.

Each slow grind on his thick cock draws sounds of satisfaction from him as his gaze fixes on where you claim him.

His hands trail up your body caressing your sides guiding you until they cup your breasts, your skin warm and flushed to his touch.

He pulls you to him with a possessive longing, guiding your breast to his mouth, his breath teasing your nipple before his lips seal around it.

A soft moan spills from your lips as his tongue flicks around it, his mouth pulling with an unrelenting need amplifying the pulsing heat of his cock inside you.

The sensation drives your hips to move faster, and he switches to the other his mouth hot and insistent, sucking stronger, harder, as you feel his moans vibrate against your skin.

“Feyd,” you whimper, your voice shaking as his lips remain latched and his hips begin surging up to meet yours in deep, unforgiving thrusts.

The sounds of your broken moans and his feral grunts mingle as he pulls off your nipple with a wet pop, leaving you gasping.

His breath is ragged as he groans, his hands seizing your hips to drive you harder onto his cock.

Your moans are unhinged desperate cries as your climax slams into you, your body quivering violently in his grasp. Your walls tighten, pulsing around him, as the pleasure overtakes you completely.

Feyd pants as he watches you, his hands gripping your hips firmly, keeping you grinding on him, dragging out your release until you can do nothing but shake and sob above him.

Then with one fluid shift, he guides you beneath him never breaking the connection, his hands hooking behind your thighs, lifting them high as he lays on top of you.

His chest presses yours as his thrusts become demanding, his hips slamming against you with ruthless intensity, the slick, wet smacks of your bodies filling the chamber, raw and unrestrained.

His face is a haze of need and lust as his cock throbs inside, swelling with each punishing stroke until his rhythm falters. A deep moan escapes him as his climax hits and his body seizes with ecstasy.

He thrusts harder, his hips jerking as thick, hot streams of his seed flood you into you and your walls milk him instinctively.

The overstimulation wrecks him as he rides out the aftershocks, his desperate grunts fading into soft, ragged breaths, until he is spent and collapses against you his chest heaving with exhaustion.

Your fingers graze his shoulders in a soothing caress as he presses drowsy kisses over your heart in quiet devotion.

“You have given me everything,” he whispers, his voice thick with reverence as he lifts to look at you, his blue eyes sharp and endless with desire.

An endearing blacked-out grin forms on his lips as your thumb brushes his chin affectionately.

“Because you are mine,” you confirm, smiling in return as you trace the sharp edge of his jaw with possessiveness.

“Forever,” he rasps, his eyes heavy with surrender, his voice fading as the vow settles between you.

On the cold, brutal world of Giedi Prime, a love you never thought possible formed in the shadows of House Harkonnen, yet remains completely untouched by its cruelty.

The ruthless and ambitious Na-Baron, who once sought only power and conquest, now finds strength in his lineage and as your womb swells with his second unborn heir, Feyds obsession deepens—his sharp blue eyes tracing your rounded form with a reverence bordering on worship.

The halls of the Harkonnen stronghold, once filled with whispers of betrayal and fear, now echo with Lily’s laughter.

He adores her—she is the only one who can make the Baron soften, the only one Feyd kneels for without question. And you, the anchor that keeps him steady, the only person he will ever truly belong to.

To the outside world, he remains a formidable force, a warrior, a ruler, a Baron who commands both fear and respect. But in the privacy of your chambers, he is simply yours.

He worships you with the same intensity he once reserved for battle, his hunger for you never waning, his devotion growing fiercer with time.

Feyd-Rautha, the once cold and callous Harkonnen, now lives for his legacy, and the woman who holds his heart forever.

END ⚔️

🔗Masterlist

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[aventurineswife]

Can you write Aventurine's reaction to seeing his baby opening eyes for the first time and revealing Avgin eyes?

A World Worth Seeing

Summary: In the quiet of a desert nursery, Aventurine holds his newborn child for the first time. As the baby opens their eyes, the unmistakable mark of their shared Avgin lineage, Aventurine is overwhelmed by a flood of emotions. Memories of his painful past and the loss of his clan resurface, but so does a newfound hope. Determined to give his child a better future, Aventurine vows to protect them and ensure their life is free from the suffering he endured.

Tags: Dad!Aventurine, Parent-Child Bond, Emotional Reflection, Hope and Redemption, Avgin Heritage, Found Family, Fatherhood, Vulnerable Aventurine, Post-Trauma Healing.

Warnings: Mentions of Past Trauma, Brief Reference to Slavery and Loss, Emotional Content‼️

A/N: CRYING, THROWING UP, 😭 WHY?! Ahem, I love Dad Aventurine or dilfs in general, I hope this fic makes you cry‼️🤗💖🫶

The nursery was quiet, save for the soft hum of the desert wind filtering through the window. Aventurine sat beside the crib, his usually flamboyant demeanor replaced by an uncharacteristic stillness. In his arms rested a small bundle wrapped in soft, white fabric—his child. The baby stirred slightly, their tiny fists curling and uncurling, and Aventurine’s heart beat faster than it ever had at the gambling table.

He hadn’t prepared for this moment, not truly. For all his meticulous strategies and contingency plans, nothing could have readied him for the weight of fatherhood. He gazed down at the infant, his hair falling over his face as he adjusted the blanket.

“Come on, little one,” he whispered, his voice unsteady but warm. “Let me see those eyes.”

The baby stirred again, a soft whimper escaping their lips before they blinked slowly, their tiny eyelids fluttering open. Aventurine held his breath as two vibrant eyes were revealed—magenta and cyan, with the unmistakable black pupils of an Avgin.

His heart stopped.

For a moment, the world fell away. The distant sound of the wind disappeared, the weight of his past faded into silence, and all that remained was the tiny being in his arms. The sight of those eyes—so strikingly familiar yet entirely unique—triggered a torrent of emotions he wasn’t prepared to face.

Memories rushed in like an unbidden tide. His clan. His mother’s gentle voice. His sister’s laughter, long since silenced. The horrors he’d endured, the chains around his wrists, the pain of losing everything. And now, here was his child, carrying the unmistakable mark of their shared lineage. A lineage he had fought to preserve, even as he tried to bury its painful legacy.

Tears welled in Aventurine’s eyes, but he quickly blinked them away, his signature grin faltering for only a moment. “Well,” he finally managed, his voice soft and laced with an unfamiliar vulnerability, “aren’t you full of surprises, just like your old man.”

The baby cooed, their tiny fingers reaching out and gripping Aventurine’s thumb with surprising strength. He chuckled, a sound filled with both awe and disbelief. “You’ve got your Papa’s eyes, huh? I guess fate had a hand in this one.”

For the first time in years, Aventurine felt something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel: hope. This child was more than a reminder of his past—they were a chance at a future he never thought he could have. A future where his clan’s story didn’t have to end in tragedy. A future where this little one could live free, unshackled by the pain and cruelty that had shaped his own life.

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the baby’s forehead. “Don’t worry, little star,” he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “I’ll make sure you never have to face what I did. I’ll give you a world worth seeing with those beautiful eyes.”

The baby blinked up at him, their gaze curious and unclouded by the weight of the world. Aventurine smiled, his resolve solidifying like the roll of a perfect hand. Whatever risks he had to take, whatever games he had to play, he would do it all for them.

In that moment, holding his child with their shared Avgin heritage shining back at him, Aventurine realized he’d already won the most important gamble of his life.

If I see more Dad!Aventurine reqs, I'm gonna cry fr‼️😭💔😕

While writing this fic, I saw this, I'm not okay ☹️💔

[enderlovez]

Trivia Night

Spencer Reid x BAU Reader WORD COUNT: 791

Summary: Garcia should've known it was a bad idea to put you and Spencer on opposing teams at trivia night, and now she's stuck with two very competitive people who will stop at nothing to win.

────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────

Garcia should have known better. Really, she should have.

The idea of a BAU trivia night seemed innocent enough—a fun team-bonding activity after a particularly grueling case. Drinks and snacks and a little friendly competition, what could possibly go wrong?

Apparently everything, when she made the critical error of placing you and Spencer on opposing teams.

"Alright, everybody!" Garcia chirps, standing at the front of the room with her clipboard. "Trivia night rules are simple: answer correctly, earn points; answer incorrectly, face public humiliation—kidding, sort of. Now, let's keep it light and friendly, okay?"

Spencer casts you a sly look from across the room, his lips twitching into a smirk. "Light and friendly," he echoes. "Got it."

You meet his gaze with an arched brow. "Sure, as long as you don't cry when you lose, Doctor Reid."

A ripple of laughter goes through the team, but Garcia sighs, already regretting her decision. "Why did I think this was a good idea?" she mutters to herself, scribbling a quick note to never pair you two against each other again.

The first few rounds go smoothly enough. Questions about geography and pop culture and history fly by, each team racking up points. You nd Spencer trade victories, but the air between you grows increasingly charged with every answer.

"You didn't even buzz in for that one!" you accuse after Spencer correctly answers a particularly obscure literature question.

"Because the answer was obvious," he replies smugly, leaning back in his chair.

"Oh, it's on," you mutter, cracking your knuckles dramatically, much to the amusement of the rest of them.

By the time the final round rolls around, the room is split between two factions: Team Spencer and Team You. Everyone else has resigned themselves to the sidelines, content to watch the show. Even Garcia has given up trying to referee, instead leaning against the bar with a drink in hand.

"This question," she announces, "is for the win."

You sit up straighter, your focus narrowing. Across the table, Spencer mirrors your intensity. His sleeves are rolled up, his tie loosened—classic signs of a man in deep competition mode.

"What is the capital of Bhutan?" Garcia asks, her eyes flicking between the two of you.

Your hand slams down on the buzzer half a second before Spencer's. "Thimphu!" you shout triumphantly.

Garcia checks her clipboard, nodding slowly. "Correct."

You throw your hands up in victory, earning cheers from your teammates. Spencer, however, is already leaning forward, his expression incredulous.

"That was a reflex," he argues. "She didn't even think about it."

You smirk, holding your hand up for a high-five from Morgan. "Or maybe I'm just faster and smarter than you, genius."

Spencer narrows his eyes. "Faster, maybe. Smarter? That's debatable."

The room erupts into laughter as you two go back and forth, your playful banter quickly escalating into a full-blown debate over split-second reaction times and the nuances of trivia strategy.

"Alright, alright!" Garcia finally intervenes, clapping her hands to get your attention. "We're calling it there before this turns into a break up. Trivia night is supposed to be fun, remember?"

You glance at Spencer, who's still staring at you like you've personally insulted his entire academic career. Despite his faux-annoyance, there's a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

"Truce?" you offer, extending your hand towards him.

He considers it for a moment before shaking it. "Truce. But don't think this means I'm letting you win next time."

"Next time, you'll have to try harder," you reply with a wink.

As the room starts to clear now, you linger by the bar, waiting for Spencer to join you. When he does, he's holding two drinks—one for each of you.

"Good game," he says, handing you the glass.

"You're not mad I beat you?" you tease, taking a sip.

"Mad? No," he replies, leaning against the counter. "Impressed? Maybe. I didn't think you'd know the capital of Bhutan."

You grin, nudging him playfully. "I'm full of surprises."

Spencer chuckles, his gaze softening as he looks at you. "You know, Garcia's probably ever going to let us be on opposing teams again."

"Probably not," you agree. "But it was fun while it lasted."

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence, the earlier competitiveness melting away. Despite the antics, it's moments like these—when you're teasing each other, laughing, and completely at ease—that make everything worth it.

"By the way," Spencer says after a moment, his tone casual but laced with mischief, "you buzzed in half a second early. Technically, you cheated."

You roll your eyes, but your smile doesn't fade. "Technically, I still won."

"Technically," he echoes, his lips quirking into a small smile.

And just like that, the competition starts all over again.

[osaemu]

GOJO SATORU: ❛❛ BEGINNER'S LUCK ❜❜

.ೃ࿐ streamer!au: you beat him at his own game on livestream, and it's your first time playing

contents: fem!reader. gojo gets slandered by everyone </3 but he slanders toji. again. vague descriptions of what game you guys are playing, imagine whichever game u want.

author's note: thinkin' about making streamer!gojo a series, stay tuned ...

"so you're gonna want to click that when someone attacks you," satoru informs you, hand on your shoulder. his chin rests on the top of your head as he watches you learn the in's and out's of some game he's well-known for streaming. "no, not that one, silly. the other one."

you groan and make a face at the screen in exasperation. "why do all the buttons look the same?" you grumble, drumming your fingers on the table next to his luminescent keyboard. "you better go easy on me when we go live."

satoru laughs and kisses the top of your head before strolling over to his own plush seat next to you. "don't worry, sweetheart. i will, i promise."

a couple minutes later, satoru starts chatting with his thousands of viewers as you puzzle over how to join his co-op lobby. 

toji-fushiguro: is your gf gonna join? ;)

you hear satoru scoff and see him lean closer to the monitor, squinting at the message that mentions you. "i remember you," satoru huffs, white hair falling into his eyes. "you better stop bringing her up or i'll block you, fishface."

a small laugh bubbles out of your lips as satoru continues addressing the flood of comments asking about you. in his last stream, he had mentioned thinking about teaching you to play the game he got famous for, and his viewers reacted more than enthusiastically. "wow, you guys really want to see me win against my own girlfriend?" satoru tsks, wagging his finger at the screen. "nah, i promised i'd go easy on her. i like her more than you faceless strangers on the internet. i'm looking at you, toji."

"satoru?" you whisper, scrunching up your nose when he immediately turns to you, all thoughts of publicly humiliating toji set aside. "how do i... join a co-op session?"

your boyfriend grins and leans over, clicking a couple buttons in too fast of a sequence for you to follow, and soon enough, your avatar stands next to satoru's. "there!"

"thanks," you huff, watching him slide back into his chair and banter with a couple more comments. and moments later, the game starts. satoru starts out with a play-by-play of his actions, making it really easy for you to piece together the strategy and techniques of the game. to your surprise, you don't die that easily — in fact, you eliminate five other players before retreating to the top of a tree to hide.

a couple kills later, you and satoru are some of the last people on the map. satoru makes quick work of the leftovers before stretching his arms and grinning smugly. "looks like i trained you well, darling," he calls, briefly turning to you and blowing a kiss. "now, where are you? come out and let me catch you, baby."

you hum in response, not bothering to come down from your tree. thankfully, the leaves are thick enough to obscure your avatar from satoru's view, and he walks right past you without even bothering to check. you grin and lean in closer to the computer, aiming at his blissfully unaware avatar and—

"what the fuck?" satoru yelps when his avatar crumbles to the ground. a message noting his death appears on his screen, and he turns to you immediately, betrayal evident on his shocked expression. "you shot me in the back!" he whines, getting up and looking at your screen in disbelief. "how could you?!"

you stick your tongue out at him smugly. "i win!" you cheer, and satoru splutters in disbelief, stumbling over his words as he watches you reap the rewards of your win. "i can't believe you lost to a beginner," you muse, rubbing in your victory. "maybe i should take over your stream," you continue, fluttering your eyelashes at satoru as he gapes at your screen.

"it's only 'cause i went easy on you!" satoru huffs, walking back to his chair and requesting a rematch. "this time, i won't be so nice."

the next game, satoru doesn't say anything, ocean-blue eyes focused on his own screen. from the stream opened in the corner of your monitor, you see his comments blow up.

suguru-geto: wow you're really off your game today

inumaki: he just sucks wdym

toji-fushiguro: deserved 💯

you think about hiding in a tree again, but decide against it. satoru would probably expect you to repeat that strategy, and for all you know, he might have an item that could help him sneak up on you. so you run off to an area that's relatively flat and keep an eye out for other users. you eliminate two before you catch a glimpse of satoru in a tree, but just a second later, he vanishes. 

from the corner of your eye, you see satoru mouth "got you" to his screen, and just in time, you dodge an attack you wouldn't have seen otherwise. somehow, your finger slips, and you shoot without aim. and somehow, your aim was on-point — satoru's avatar falls to its knees once more, and satoru groans in defeat.

"why are you good at this?" satoru grumbles, jumping off his seat and strolling over to wear you sit with a cocky smile on your lips. he all but abandons his stream as he walks over and pokes you childishly. satoru watches you eliminate the last two users, and he scoffs at the emblem of victory that lights up your screen. he kisses you begrudgingly and mutters something about losing a bet, to which you kiss his nose affectionately.

"but really," satoru whines, plopping back down in his chair and swiveling it to face you. "how are you so good?! and shut up suguru," he snipes, leering at the chat. "i'm doing fine, she's just insane! and you too, inumaki. there's a reason all your fans are regulars on my stream! because you suck!" at that, you snicker, spinning around in your own chair and half-watching the chat blow up with more of his viewers' thoughts. 

inumaki: SHUT UP U JUST LOST TO A FIRST TIMER

megumi-fushiguro: real 

"oh, shut it, other-fushiguro," satoru scoffs, narrowing his eyes at the chatbox. "at least my hair doesn't look like how little kids draw grass."

you cover your mouth with your hand to stifle the laugh threatening to slip out, but when satoru turns and pouts at you, you can't help it. he's so petty and stubborn, but his eyes soften when he sees how big your smile is. and, not to your surprise, he matches your grin with one of his own. satoru draws a heart in the air with both his index fingers and scrunches up his nose at you, and your heart melts.

"you're so stupid," you mumble, watching him kick his feet like an antsy five year-old. satoru opens his arms in response, and no more than two seconds pass before you're nestled in his lap. he's wearing a light blue hoodie and white sweats, and nothing could make you more comfortable than that in the world. you turn your head and make eye contact with satoru's camera, and smile at the flood of comments on how cute you two look together.

yuuji-itadori: awww its kinda cute

suguru-geto: sooo down bad tbh

toji-fushiguro: you gotta be f*cking kidding me

satoru kisses the side of your face while glaring at the screen, and eventually he presses his lips to your ear and whispers, "wanna end the stream? there's too many people watching and i wanna keep you all to myself."

"hehe, let's do it!"

[lotuswish]

˗ˏˋ what loving you feels like to them (pt. 6 - octavinelle) 𓆝 .ᐟ

synopsis: have you ever wondered what falling in love feels like for each twisted wonderland boy? this series explores love from their perspective—how their personalities, experiences, and desires shape what loving you means to them.

featured character(s): azul ashengrotto, jade leech, floyd leech.

content warning(s): none.

a/n: what loving you feels like to them might occasionally use the same words, but those words mean something a little different for each of them. it might sound familiar, but it's still their own!

link(s): (masterlist) (pt. 1 - scarabia) (pt. 2 - savanaclaw) (pt. 3 - heartslabyul) (pt. 4 - ignihyde) (pt. 5 - pomefiore) (pt. 6 - you are here) (pt. 7 - diasomnia)

azul ashengrotto

loving you feels like being swept away by an unstoppable current for azul ashengrotto—inevitable, overwhelming, and carrying him to places he never dared to dream of. for someone who has spent most of his life meticulously planning, calculating, and staying two steps ahead, love is a variable he cannot fully predict or control. it’s both exhilarating and unnerving, a kind of risk he would never have dared to take before you came into his life.

azul has always carried a deep-seated insecurity beneath his polished exterior. years of being ridiculed as a child for his appearance have made him fiercely determined to prove his worth through power, success, and control. yet loving you doesn’t feel like a negotiation or a transaction—it feels like surrendering to something he can’t quantify. it’s raw and messy and completely unlike the smooth, calculated persona he presents to the world. you don’t look at him for what he can offer, for his intellect or his business acumen; you see him, the parts of himself he tries to hide, and you love him for them. that terrifies him. but it also makes him feel something he’s never felt before: truly enough.

loving you feels like the gentle pull of the moon on the tides, constant and inescapable, drawing him toward something he never thought he could have. it’s the way you make him feel safe enough to lower his walls, to let go of the mask he’s worn for so long. around you, he can be vulnerable without fear of being judged. you’re the one who notices when his smiles don’t quite reach his eyes, the one who knows when he’s tired of putting on a show. with you, he doesn’t have to be the untouchable azul ashengrotto; he can just be azul.

at the same time, loving you stirs a fierce protectiveness within him. he’s spent years honing his ability to turn the tables on anyone who dares challenge him, but with you, it’s different. he doesn’t want to shield you out of strategy or obligation; he wants to protect you because you matter to him in ways he’s still learning to put into words. you’re more than a part of his world—you’ve become his most cherished treasure, something he would protect with everything he has.

for azul, loving you feels like finding a pearl in the depths of the sea—a treasure so rare and precious that he can hardly believe it’s his. it’s a reminder that even in a world driven by deals and ambition, there are things that can’t be earned or bargained for, things that simply exist in their beauty. loving you is terrifying and freeing all at once, and though it challenges everything he thought he knew about himself, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. you are the one thing he never saw coming, the one thing he never wants to lose.

jade leech

loving you feels like curiosity turned obsession for jade leech.

to jade, love is something foreign and utterly fascinating. it’s a deep ocean he’s never fully explored, and you are the mystery hidden beneath its surface. his love for you isn’t loud or obvious; it’s quiet, calculated, and deliberate, like the way he nurtures rare plants in his terrariums. loving you is a process, one he savors as much as he analyzes, peeling back the layers of who you are, uncovering your quirks, your fears, and your dreams. for jade, this discovery is intoxicating, a puzzle he never tires of solving.

and yet, it’s not just fascination. loving you feels like control slipping from his grasp in a way he never anticipated. jade is meticulous, always composed, always in control of himself and his surroundings. but with you, there are moments when he feels unbalanced, when the depth of his emotions surprises even him. it’s as if the current is pulling him somewhere unknown, somewhere dangerous, yet he can’t resist being swept along. loving you is a contradiction: it makes him feel both completely exposed and utterly alive.

for someone who rarely shows his true intentions, loving you feels like a quiet surrender. you see sides of him no one else does, the softness beneath the sharp edges, the warmth behind the cold, polite exterior. it’s disarming and thrilling all at once. you make him feel seen, not just as azul’s clever right-hand man or as the more composed leech twin, but as jade. you notice the details no one else bothers to see, and in return, jade finds himself wanting to give you everything, to open up the world to you as if you were the only person in it.

yet, there's also a possessiveness to his love, a quiet but unyielding need to keep you close. jade is not one to display his emotions openly, but beneath the calm exterior lies an intensity he keeps carefully hidden. loving you is like uncovering a sunken ship filled with untold treasures—a rare discovery he'll guard fiercely, no matter what. his protectiveness is subtle, woven into the fabric of his interactions with you, but it's unshakable all the same.

loving you feels like tending to a rare and delicate flower—something beautiful that requires both care and patience. you are the one thing in his life that cannot be manipulated or controlled, and instead of frustrating him, it fascinates him. he finds joy in watching you bloom, in learning how to nurture the connection between you. loving you is more than fascination; it’s a game he never wants to win, a puzzle he never wants to solve—because the joy isn’t in the answer, but in the endless discovery of you.

floyd leech

loving you feels like chaos and calm all at once for floyd leech.

floyd’s life has always been shaped by his whims, his moods, and his insatiable need to avoid monotony. to him, the world is a game, and people are pieces he moves and discards when they stop being interesting. but you? you’re different. you’re the one thing he can’t figure out, the one person he doesn’t want to toss aside. loving you feels like the kind of chaos he craves, but it also unsettles him in ways he’s never experienced before.

floyd thrives on extremes. he’s not used to balance or moderation, and his feelings for you are no exception. loving you is all-consuming—intense, raw, and sometimes overwhelming. it’s like the ocean at its most turbulent, waves crashing against his heart with a force that leaves him breathless. you challenge him, intrigue him, and keep him guessing, and that’s what he loves most. with you, there’s no risk of boredom, no stale routine. every moment feels alive, charged with a kind of energy he thought only existed in fleeting thrills.

loving you is something he never thought he’d allow, something that sneaks past his defenses and takes root before he even realizes it. floyd has never been one to settle down or feel tethered to anyone, yet with you, he doesn’t feel trapped. he feels seen. you don’t flinch at his unpredictability or try to smooth out his rough edges. you accept him as he is—moods, sharp teeth, and all—and that makes him want to keep you close, tighter than he’s ever held (squeezed) anything before.

it’s not easy for floyd to process emotions like this. he’s used to acting on impulse, but loving you makes him hesitate. it makes him think about what it means to want someone so deeply, to be afraid of losing them. it brings out a possessive side of him, but it’s more than just wanting to keep you close. it’s the fear of you walking away, of you deciding that the chaos he brings isn’t worth it. the idea of losing you is one of the few things that can genuinely make him feel vulnerable.

for floyd, loving you feels like a temptest—untamed, intense, and utterly consuming. it’s a force of chaos that turns his world upside down, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything. you’re the only one who can keep up with him, the only one who doesn’t try to dull his edges, and for that, he loves you with every ounce of his chaotic, unpredictable heart. you’re his favorite thing in the world, the one person he never gets tired of, and he’ll make sure you know it every single day.

congrats on making it to the end! if you enjoyed this, likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated—they help motivate me to keep creating and sharing!

[downbad4sylus]

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

Stargazing

(part two, part three, and part four)

synopsis: Being a Princess never suited you, your spirit too wild to be contained within the life of a royal. But one fateful night, your penchant for adventure goes awry and you find yourself in enemy territory facing down a mysterious man with an interesting secret.

content: king!sylus x princess!reader; use of Y/N; slow burn; kidnapping sort of; brief mention of war; mostly proofread

word count: ~2k

a/n: here’s part one to the new series!!! not sure how long this will end up being so we’ll see where it takes us lol. thanks to all who joined the taglist, if anyone is interested in being added, that post is linked here. enjoy <3

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

Nothing spoke to your restless soul more than the sound of birds chirping on a cloudless day. You craved the soft kiss of the spring breeze on your cheeks. The squish of soil beneath the soles of your feet with the scent of last night’s rainfall wafting through your nose.

But you couldn’t experience any of these simple delights, not yet at least.

Your father, the King of Linkon, demanded your presence at tonight’s welcome feast.

A knock on your bedchamber door tore you from your daydreams.

“Princess Y/N! Are you dressed? It’s time to go downstairs!”

You groaned, forcing yourself away from the window, your slippered feet dragging along the floor as you made your way to the door.

Just one more day, you reminded yourself.

One more day and you would perform your greatest trick, escaping the castle to explore the unfamiliar city.

The King of Linkon was currently engaged in a rather vicious war with the neighboring country of Onychinus. As the King’s only daughter, and thus heir to the throne, you had spent the last few years sequestered in various castles and estates at the behest of your father. You knew he was doing it protect you, to protect the future of Linkon, but you had never been one to remain idle. Adventure called to you like a siren’s song, one you were helpless to resist, especially when you found yourself under explicit instruction to stay put. So, through grueling hours of trial and error, you mastered the art of escaping from whatever home you lived in. You were aware of the risks, aware of how dangerous it was to roam around as heir to an entire country equipped with nothing but your thirst for excitement, and you didn’t care. You never wanted to rule anything, never asked to be a princess, and you did everything in your power to live a life free of the responsibility of a future ruler.

Tonight, however, you held no such power.

You followed sullenly behind the servant who knocked on your door, your shoulders slumping with each step closer to the massive dining hall. The last thing you wanted was to entertain the “esteemed” guests awaiting you. The nobles from the region your father had whisked you away to—located right next to the border of Onychinus—were putting on this feast to welcome their ruler and his only daughter. Talk of war strategies or current affairs were among your least favorite topics of conversation and would undoubtedly be the forefront of this feast. But you were expected to sit pretty beside your father, a smile on your face, and participate as if you cared.

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

Dread sank like a stone in your gut as boisterous laughter echoed into the corridor signaling what you had to look forward to within the dining hall.

“Ah! There is my lovely daughter!” your father announced, rising from his seat at the head of the obnoxiously large feast table. Everyone quickly followed suit, bowing as you entered. “Come sit at my side my darling Y/N.”

Fixing a smile onto your face, you closed the distance between you and your father, taking your rightful place at his side. One day you would stand where he stood, he liked to remind you, so it was best to keep you as close to him as possible.

You loved your father, you really did. He treated you well, loved you fiercely, it wasn’t his fault this unwanted fate befell you. You had no siblings, and your mother died from illness when you were very young. Rather than marry another, your father remained steadfast in his love for his late wife, refusing to wed anyone who wasn’t her. So it had just been the two of you for years, the only family either of you had to rely on, but that also meant you had no one to pass along the title of heir.

“Please, everyone sit and let us commence this feast in earnest,” your father declared, sinking into his chair.

You sat beside him, snatching up a goblet of what you hoped was wine, needing the sweet embrace of alcohol to get you through this meal. The goblet clinked against your teeth as you brought it to your lips a little too enthusiastically and a wave of relief washed over you as the taste of wine spread across your tongue.

“Thank the gods,” you whispered under your breath.

“What was that darling?” your father questioned despite the noble to his left talking his ear off. Ever aware of you he was, a trait you would find endearing if it wasn’t so stifling.

“Nothing Father,” you assured with a tight smile.

He hummed noncommittally and returned his attention to the noble.

The delicious food and wine were what allowed you to make it out relatively unscathed from the feast. You played your part well, just as you always did, engaging with those who made conversation, keeping quiet when it best suited you, and flashing that deceivingly innocent smile when the men started to suspect there might be a little bit more going on in that pretty head of yours.

There was a skip in your step as you returned to your bedchamber, grateful to finally be away from all the chaos. Servants helped you bathe and dress for bed, leaving you in peace for the rest of the night.

As soon as the door snicked shut, you threw back the covers and jumped out of bed. Tomorrow couldn’t wait, you wanted to go exploring tonight.

It certainly wasn’t the first time you slipped out past sunset. Sometimes the scenery was more beautiful at night, the moon and stars illuminating the land in a way the sun could only dream of.

You changed out of your bedclothes and into a dress better suited for nighttime adventures. Then without an ounce of hesitation, you were climbing out the window and scaling the side of the castle walls.

Learning the guards’ shifts was like second nature for you at this point, so you snuck out of the castle limits and into the city proper with ease. You aimed for the flower field you’d spied from your window your upon arrival, confident it was the prime spot for stargazing.

You could hardly hold back excited giggles as the field came into view, the night sky above already one of the most dazzling sights you’d ever seen.

What a life you could live were you not a princess, you thought as you collapsed amidst the flowers. Stargazing every night, exploring the world during the day, just endless possibilities for adventure.

You sighed.

Many times throughout the years you’d entertained the thought of running away but leaving your father alone was what always stopped you. You couldn’t hurt him like that, not when he’d done nothing to deserve it. You’d be a good daughter, a worthy princess, and fulfill your birthright, even if it tore you apart to do so.

A shooting star flashed across the sky.

You closed your eyes and made a wish.

I wish I could escape the life of a princess.

A twig snapped to your left.

You jolted upright, expecting to find a wild animal prowling in the field only to be met with two men wearing black masks and leather armor.

Heart pounding in your chest, you stared the two men down and they stared back, frozen where they stood.

Then you were moving, on your feet and sprinting through the flowers.

“Shit,” one of them swore before heavy footfalls started pursuing you.

Shit was right. This was exactly why your father kept you locked inside. The threat of being taken, of having unspeakable things done to you, of being ransomed with no guarantee for your life. You knew the risks, had several close calls, but none as close as this.

The men were right on your heels, and suddenly your face was becoming well acquainted with the dirt.

One of them had tackled you. Was forcing your hands behind your back and tying them with rope.

“Let me go!” you demanded, squirming beneath the man’s weight to avail.

“No can do Miss Trespasser,” the man said. “You crossed the border into Onychinus’s lands and now you’ll pay the price for it.”

What? You had no idea this now cursed flower field was past the border, had never so much as checked a map before venturing out.

Shit. You were in some deep shit.

The man wrenched you to your feet and tossed you over his shoulder like a bag of flour.

“Where are you taking me?” you questioned.

The man looped an arm around your legs, keeping them locked tight against his body to prevent you from kicking. “Boss-man will want to know why such a pretty face was caught within his lands.”

Boss…man?

You flailed despite being restrained. “I don’t care about this boss of yours! Take me to your king, I wish to speak to your king immediately!”

Both men laughed in a way that sounded as though they were one person but neither bothered to reply as they brought you toward this boss-man.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Curious stares followed you from the moment you entered the war camp still thrown over the man’s shoulder. The man you realized, along with his accomplice, likely soldiers from this sprawling army.

You didn’t know the enemy was posted so close to the border, the walk here only taking about thirty minutes. What exactly was your father planning in coming here so close to the fighting? What was he thinking bringing you along?

You were set on your feet in front of a rather large tent, at least compared to the hundred others surrounding it. The man nudged you forward, causing you to stumble through the flap and into the warmth.

The moment you lifted your head, you locked eyes with the most attractive man you’d ever seen.

Perfectly disheveled white hair. An amused tilt of full lips. A face made of sharp lines. And those eyes. Striking red eyes that looked more like gems than anything.

Who was this beautiful man before you?

His gaze shifted to the men behind you. “Do you two even know what kind of trouble you’ve brought to my doorstep?”

His voice, deep and sultry, caressed your skin and you had to hold back a shiver from the sound alone. But you weren’t naive enough to think this man wasn’t the most dangerous person in the room, perhaps in the entire army beyond these flimsy walls. He exuded the quiet confidence that came with a seasoned fighter. A man who knew the power he held in the palm of his hand. You were both terrified and intrigued by this man.

“We watched her cross the border, Boss,” the second man explained. “Rules say we bring anyone of interest to you for questioning.”

He raised a single brow. “What was she doing?”

“Uh, she was—”

“I was stargazing,” you supplied, holding your chin high.

“Stargazing,” he repeated, amusement dancing in those red eyes as they regarded you.

You were pretty sure he was a general, likely the general of this army. It was the only explanation that made sense based off the very little information you had.

“Did you know you were crossing into my lands, Princess?”

Every muscle in your body tensed.

He knew.

He knew exactly who you were.

Shit.

You sucked in a deep breath and steeled your nerves. “Well,” you huffed, “since you know who I am then let’s skip the formalities. I wish to speak with your king regarding my safe return to my father.”

He said nothing which was far more unnerving than outright refusing your request. His striking eyes roved over you, drinking in every inch. The shiver you’d been suppressing was powerless against his fierce gaze.

You struggled against your restraints, ropes tugging at the skin of your wrists. “I demand to be brought to your king!”

The general’s red eyes gleamed as his lips curled into a menacing grin. “You’re looking at him, Princess.”

- - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - - ┈┈∘┈˃̶༒˂̶┈∘┈┈ - -

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