#finally the brain worms can be silenced

[cadenzarose]

BEAU-ed Apple: A Bakery "Enemies" AU tribute animatic

Finally! It is done! (There's also a non-flashing version if you need it!)

I present you with my bakery "enemies" AU animatic! I love this AU with all my heart and when I heard this song (sung by Marinette's English VA btw), I could not get the idea of an animatic out of my head. Some frames are basically panel redraws, while others are from my own imagination :)

As always, the bakery "enemies" AU belongs to @buggachat! Thank you for all you do in the fandom, it is truly incredible!

[lovebugism]

i feel like eddie doesn’t seem himself as “hot” but obviously you do. you’re on your way to a pool party and steve’s and he walks out in just swim trunks asking if he looks okay (they were thrifted and he’s just making sure they fit correctly okay 🥹). y’all barely even make it to steve’s because you can’t get over how GOOD this man looks.

you're so real for this anon. ty for requesting :D — the one where eddie munson has no idea how pretty he is (established relationship, hurt/comfort, cw for mentions of body insecurity and allusions to smut 18+ | 1.1k)

Eddie stands in the corner of your bedroom, before the full-length mirror propped against the wall, and pokes himself once in the stomach. The pale, pudgy skin there dips under his pointer finger before bouncing back in place. He can’t stop looking at his tummy, which sits just barely over the hem of his swim trunks. 

It’s hardly noticeable. Nothing anyone else would bother looking twice at. But to him, it’s so distressingly obvious that the sight alone makes his chest ache.

“Do these look okay?” Eddie mumbles absentmindedly, not looking back at you as he runs his ringed fingers under the elastic edge of the plain black shorts. The gesture is obviously an anxious one — like, if he does it enough times, maybe he can stretch it out a bit. (It hasn’t quite worked for him yet.)

Your silence is palpable and hardly encouraging. 

Eddie looks at you over his shoulder, deep brown eyes glimmering with melted chocolate and distant worry, half-hidden behind his wild curls. He finds you lying in the middle of your bed — with your head in your palms and your feet kicked up behind you — staring right at him.

Your eyes meet. You blink hard, face burning as your glazed-over gaze regains its life once more. “Hm?” you hum, then clear your throat.

Eddie’s lips quirk faintly upward. A mere flicker of a smile at your coyness. “I asked if these looked okay.”

You look him up and down to admire his form, (which you’d been doing the entire time, in truth, only now you’ve got the go-ahead for your unabashed leering.) 

Your boy is a tower of milky white quartz — full of lanky limbs, fading tattoos, and dustings of sparse hair. As far as you’re concerned, Eddie Munson was carved by Michaelangelo himself. A hand-crafted sculpture lost to time who somehow wormed his way into your heart and Forest Hills trailer park alike. 

Your eyes trail from his pretty face, to his long neck, to the black widow tattooed on his collarbone. They land finally on the happy trail below his belly button that disappears into his swim shorts. 

Your breath catches in your throat. You swallow hard and try to come up with something to say as your brain short-circuits.

“Yeah. Yeah, they look— they look great, Eds,” you stammer, rising from your lounged position on the bed to sit along the edge of it. You squeeze your thighs together when a dull throbbing settles suddenly between them. “Do they fit okay?”

Eddie, unaware of your blossoming desire, turns away. He looks back at his reflection, and his eyes fall immediately to his stomach. He runs his pointer fingers under the hem of the shorts and pretends it does something. Though, it doesn’t change how much of his torso is on display just now. Or how pale his lanky legs are after being hidden all summer season.

“I think so,” he murmurs with an unconvincing waver to his voice. He shifts his weight on his bare feet and caves. “I don’t know— I think I’m just gonna change.” 

You rise from the squeaking mattress. The oversized tee you’re using as a makeshift cover-up floods your smaller form. You catch the boy’s wrist before he can reach for the clothes he left in a pile on your floor. 

“You promised you weren’t gonna wear jeans!” you protest in a playful whine.

Eddie meets your pout with a more exaggerated one — brows twisted, nose scrunched, mouth snarled.  “I know, but I hate these,” he says with a louder whine.

“I don’t want you to get heat stroke and die,” you confess, mousy and obviously sarcastic, as you fall into the boy’s bare chest. 

You wrap both arms around his waist and rest your chin on his sternum, blinking up at him with pretty, glittering eyes. You can smell the floral shampoo in his hair from here, and the musky cologne on his neck you bought for him last Christmas.

Eddie cups your cheeks with softly calloused palms. “Good to know,” he quips with a lopsided smile that he then kisses you with. The crooked grin tastes faintly of nicotine and boy — a nostalgic feeling more than a real flavor.

“I’m serious, Eds,” you tell him with a stern glint in your eyes, chin bobbing against his chest with every word. “They look great on you, okay? Cross my heart.”

His chest sparkles at the compliment. Warms so much it starts to hurt all over again. 

And it’s not that he thinks you’re lying, he just wishes he believed you more. Or that he could see himself through your eyes or something. They always get so squishy around the edges when you look at him — with an adoration he doesn’t know he deserves.

“You’d tell me if I look like an idiot, though, right?” he wonders, half-joking.

“I tell you you look like an idiot all the time,” you deadpan, equally half-joking.

That gets a laugh out of him. “Fair enough,” the boy nods with a quiet chuckle.

“But I like these. Seriously. You should wear them,” you advise firmly and step back from him. Eddie mourns the warmth of your body when only your hands reach out to touch him. “And you can blame them for making us late…”

Eddie’s brows furrow at the mischievous lilt in your voice. “We don’t have to be at Steve’s for another, like, fifteen minutes,” he insists with a breathy laugh that gets caught in his throat when your hand dips under the hem of his swim trunks. “Oh?” he hums with a crooked smile.

You nod with your bottom lip trapped between your teeth. The fuzzy hair of his happy trail tickles the soft skin of your fingertips. His skin is soft and warm and inviting. Your hand starts to ache with the longing to feel him completely.

Eddie forgets how to breathe when you cup his stiffening cock in your supple palm. His eyes go heavy as his pink mouth falls softly agape. “Oh…” he repeats, deeper and more far away this time.

You grin in the face of his distant pleasure, which you seem to give him with little effort now (like a total fucking minx.) Eddie’s chest twists at the roguish twinkle in your eye. He knows he’s surely in for it now, but he doesn’t mind it. He yearns for it, really.

He only hopes that Steve won’t mind either — when the two of you show up at his place a half hour or more late, mussed with an obvious pleasure and reeking of it just the same.

[fictionismyreality3]

Simon Introduces You

Warnings: romance and everything that comes with it, military stuff?, nsfw at the end because I’m a whore

Notes: somehow all of my drabbles end with a nsfw scene and I blame the worm in my brain that whispers sweet nothings to me in the night 😔🙏🏻

He would’ve kept you all to himself if the rest of the team (Johnny) hadn’t kept begging to meet you.

Soap saw that Ghost seemed to be on his phone more and more during down time, his fingers flying across the screen as he responded to someone or something. Even Price was getting curious.

“Who ye textin’, mate?” Johnny slid up next to Simon, poking him with a sing-song tone to his voice and a shit eating grin on his face. “Fuck off, Johnny.” Ghost snapped as he tucked his phone away. “C’mon, big guy, who’s the wee lass who got your balls in a-” Soap was subsequently silenced as Simon put him in a headlock.

Will debate even asking you about whether or not you wanted to meet his team for like 3 weeks at least. What little you know about his work is enough for him, he doesn’t want you in that world.

He had been acting quieter than his usual quiet self. “Simon? Have I done something? You can tell me.” Coming to stand beside him, you reached up and pressed a kiss to his chin. “No, no, dove. I just..” He trailed off, looking out the window. “If it’s about the dishes, I know I said I-” You were silenced by a firm kiss. “Nothin’ like that, luvie. It’s.. the lads wanna meet ya.” Your ears perked up and you swatted at his chest. “Why didn’t you just say that, silly?”

You were given explicit access to visit Simon at the base. Everyone was oddly polite and even looked at you with a little confusion. The poor private escorting you around kept calling you Mrs. Riley, and you had no doubt that was Simon’s doing.

Finally, you were ushered out to a training room of some kind, where you spotted Simon with some other men. “There you are, sweetheart.” He rumbled, coming over to you and wrapping you in his arms. “Missed you, Si.” Gaz had to literally close Soap’s mouth as they watched Ghost, the Ghost, dipping his head to press a kiss on the neck of a pretty girl. “M’glad you’re here, luv.”

The introduction went well, aside from Soap’s teasing. They were all very respectful, even though they all had an air of lethality. Simon kept his arm around you the whole time, internally growing irritated with the jeers about his girl.

Simon’s massive, gloved hand took up nearly your entire face as he muffled your cries. “Wanted me t’show you off, huh?” He growled into your ear as he pounded you into a random briefing room desk. “Wan’ the whole base know your mine, dovie.” Your eyes rolling back only served to remind Simon why he’d never share you. “You’re mine, my- oh god, my fuckin’ girl.” You blushed as you waved goodbye with hickeys you didn’t show up with.

[lisenberry]

141 when they find out reader has been crying:

(an earlier brain worm had me expanding this to all of them)

Price: He pulls you into his office and shuts the door. It barely closes before he turns on you, crossing his arms and looking down with his chin tucked against his chest. He rocks back on his heels once, twice, while he waits for you to spill.

You can only blink up at him, willing your tears not to fall while he's watching you so intently.

"What is it, sir?" You finally chance the use of your voice, but instantly regret it. Your miserable croak isn't hiding anything.

"I can't help you if you don't tell me why you've been crying." His tone is gruff, like sandpaper over rock salt, but his eyes soften imploringly.

For a minute, you want to tell him everything, but instead you just give in and cry harder. For a moment, he looks disappointed, but he simply pats you awkwardly on your shoulder and grabs a box of tissues from his desk drawer.

He motions to the sofa in the corner where you sob quietly for a half hour more while he finishes his paperwork. He doesn't know what's going on, but he's not going to let you do it alone.

Ghost: It doesn't matter where you hide, he finds you. The kitchen? He's in and out three times. Tea, a spoon for his tea, another tea. He crowds your space each time, no matter where you stand. Forcing you in circles as you try to keep your face averted.

For a silent man, he manages to make as much noise as possible to distract you to the point of almost asking him, "What the fuck, Simon?"

You finally move to a bathroom stall, but before long you hear the door open and two large boots stop just beyond the door. You know it's him by the size alone.

You hold your breath for a beat, and then two, so long that you wonder who is going to give in first. You know you've got about 3 minutes before you pass out. But just as you're about to stand up and face him, he turns and leaves without a word.

Exactly ten minutes later, he finds you in the rec room, dragging someone by the neck. It's not until Ghost kicks the man's knees out from under him, forcing him to kneel in front of you that you realize who it is. Some asshole from the other team who was giving you a hard time in training this morning.

With Ghost's knee pressed painfully between his shoulder blades, he grits out, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry! It won't happen again!"

He's not the reason you're crying, but watching his face turn ten shades of purple does make you feel a little better.

Gaz: He keeps his distance and hates to see people cry because it always makes him cry, too. He doesn't know why. Movies, talk shows, commercials, they just get him right in the feels.

But every time you look up, his golden eyes meet yours, glistening with empathy. You simply shake your head at him and go about your day, until eventually, you get a text.

You mad at me?

-No, I'm fine.

You sure?

-Yep.

Fucking xxxx again, innit?

Of course he'd be the one to guess right. He paid the most attention, listened when you talked and remembered every detail. To be honest, he'd been the one you confided in the most for that reason.

He took your silence as a confirmation.

I hid some ice cream in the freezer. Unless Soap got to it first.

Soap: You head back to the kitchen again in search of the contraband ice cream, hoping it's the good mocha chip flavor you love, only to find Soap has beaten you to it. He innocently scoops out the last bite before seeing your face crumble and guiltily tosses it into the sink.

"Och, shit. Was that yours?"

"No, it's okay." Could this get any worse?

After dealing with these four, you just give up and slink back to your room.

"You know what you need?" He charges you before you can get any further.

"No, Johnny, don't!" Not one to listen, he pulls you up over his shoulder in one swoop and fireman carries you out to the gym.

"We're going to sweat it out, yeah? Always makes me feel better. Whether it's fighting or fucking is up to you."

You finally laugh at the absurdity of it, for the first time all day.

[dr3amfyr-e]

moon, river - c.s. ( w. 1049 )

꒰ cregan will always defends your daughter’s claim ꒱ — cregan stark x reader

୨ ⎯ period typical misogyny. implied trouble concieving children. reader is written to be very influenced by her environment, and therefor uncertain of herself and her self worth. girl dad cregan. cregan's kind of a medieval feminist. i named your daughter for you, sorry. this is very cregan pov, not many of reader's thoughts. umm maybe not canon cregan but it’s my cregan. uhh dialogue heavy. tbh i don't even know what i was writing here. fem!reader. ⎯ ୧

i advocate for creganwives who don’t want to have ten children.

Cregan wasn’t nearly as physically imposing underneath all of his armour. 

You had observed as much before — watching keenly as he unclasped his cape and slid out of the thick leather armour. It was a sight to behold, the muscles in his shoulders and arms as he fought to disrobe. 

He was much different here, in your shared chambers. Lord Stark shed with his dayware, Cregan stood in his wake. 

You had been married for years, and still, your heart fluttered like an infatuated girl when he loomed over the bed, hair damp from the bath. 

Married for years, with two children, and yet — sprawled across the bed in naught but a thin nightgown, you ogle him as he makes his way to bed. 

He's hard to wrangle; he walks the keep and checks on your daughters, among other mindless tasks, before finally getting into bed every night. It gives him ‘time to think’, and makes you senselessly anticipatory. 

Most nights are the same. He curls into you, head on your chest, to decompress. It's sweet, to see such an intimate side of him.

Tonight, in lieu of the typical mindless drivel that lulled you both to sleep, you had been quiet. Cregan could feel the tension of whatever weighed on your mind, but he had not wished to pry.

You rub aimless little circles against his back before finally speaking, “Are you content with this?”

Cregan looks up, lifting his head from your breastbone. He doesn’t speak for a moment, reading your expression, “Content?” When you don’t reply he continues, “Of course I am content. What has prompted you to ask such?”

He can see the solemn, contemplative expression written across your face; the way you gaze down, as if through him, “It is just…” You hesitate, he keeps firm in his stare, “We have been married years, and I have not given you many children. And, no boys.” 

He doesn't reply, unsure how or what to say. True, it is, that in the years you have been married there have only been two children — both daughters. 

“Do you think,” He begins, sitting up more, “That I am discontent because you have not given me a son?” 

Silence hangs heavy in the room. You look guilty; he cannot tell what it is you feel guilty for, but he wishes you did not feel guilty at all. 

Cregan says your name once, his voice low and soft. When you meet his eyes he can sense the resignation — you wish you had not brought this up.

“I just worry, that is all,” You reply, quietly.

His expression stays set. There is solace in knowing him well enough to read his microexpressions; he isn’t brooding, he is concerned. 

He speaks, “What is it that you worry about – my discontentment?”

“Perhaps I have not performed by duty,” You shrug, as if to pass the comment off as nonchalant. Maybe it is; ladies raised to believe their self-worth lies in their good stock and ability to breed and please can talk about such matters with a level of insouciance. 

Frustration blooms in the space between his lungs. He understands the way polite society worms into young women’s brains, and how hard it is to remove that sickness once it's taken root. Still — you surely must know that your worth does not lie within your womb, he thinks.

“Your duty?” He asks, tone firmer now, “And what duty is that? To be bred like a milking cow?” 

The abruptness and near vulgarity of his words are enough to leave you taken aback, blinking at him. Cregan was certainly not one for eloquent metaphors. 

When you seem not to have a response, he begins to feel bad. This isn’t your fault. You were raised to think like this.

“I have not given you an heir,” You’re quiet, almost embarrassed. 

“You have,” He counters. 

“You have no son,” 

“I have Lyanna,” 

A log in the fireplace shifts and crackles as you sit in silence; a scullery maid shuffles by in the hallway. 

He watches you gather your composure before you speak, “And you do not mind?” You sound unsure, he hates it. 

Cregan reaches, sliding his fingers under your jaw to make you look at him fully, “Tell me — if we should have a son, would you be content to strip Lyanna of her birthright?” 

The question feels harsh. He watches guarded confusion swirl into your eyes.

Of course, you would not wish for your daughter to have her title taken from her. But so many others, men in Cregan’s council, mocked the idea. They rued Lyanna’s power, the status she already held above them as a girl of all but five. So it would be no shock if someone insisted she be stripped of her title as heir to Winterfell, and it was frightening. Frightening to imagine someone stealing your daughter’s future and freedom. 

“If it is what you wished,” You answer, resignation thinly veiled. 

“I asked you a question,” He’s firm but gentle. 

You gape for a moment, before answering, “No, never. I could not imagine doing that to her.” 

“And do you think I would?” 

“No,” 

He nods, sliding his hand up to cradle your face. You look ashamed, he tries to soothe it away with his thumb over your cheekbone. 

“Do you think you’ve disappointed me, pet?” He doesn’t wish to subject you to the humiliation of answering such a vulnerable question, so he continues, “You need not worry so much. I do not need a boy; I am more than pleased with things just how they are,” He strokes his thumb slowly, “Do not agonize over something so trivial.” 

He catches the tear that rolls down your cheek.

When you speak your voice is quiet, “You are so good,” And then, “Many lords do not care much for their daughters.”

The thought makes his chest burn; to not care for his daughters? Unthinkable, “Do not praise me for loving my children. Those girls are my world, as are you.” He feels lighter when he sees the edge of your mouth tick up, so he speaks again, “I care not that I have daughters in place of sons — I have, and for that I am lucky.”

He has and he is lucky.

[leaflessfae]

The Harper brain worms are taking over

Pairing: M!Harper x F!pc

Content. MDNI. Noncon, kidnapping, jealous Harper, a sprinkle of yandere Harper, p in v, unprotected, sedated pc who's half-conscious, some hallucinations (I wanted to write more hypnotic stuff but that would've made this way longer so I'm holding back. For now.), tentacles but only for a liddol, fingering, (pc's cum) tasting, and hopefully that's it.

A/N. Snickering to myself as I write and lie 'Harper is a good doctor' kdkxksk

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

"It's looking..." There's a sharp intake of air, then a click of a tongue before Harper is finally turning to you, what you assume to be your documents in his hands, "pretty bad."

A grave silence prevails over every corner of the room that seems to only tighten and suffocate you in its white walls. Harper stays silent for a few seconds, only running his eyes over your bewildered, yet concerned, countenance. "Wh... what's looking bad, doctor?" Eventually, you inquire, a brow raising skeptically, "I'm feeling okay?"

He breathes out, turning to set the documents on his desk and taking a moment to force his features to soften, to demolish every attempt of a smile coming out before he turns to you again, a frown drawing his brows together slightly. "Have you been taking any medications without my supervision lately?"

You have. "No, I haven't."

"Well, your tests say you have. You wouldn't lie to your doctor now, would you?" He shakes his head, "because that would be pretty disappointing."

His tone makes you visibly reel back in your seat, a grimace fighting its way to your face. "It's just painkillers." You lie through your teeth, keeping your head held high and alert. You've never taken a liking to the doctor standing before you; always has he given you unpleasant vibes that screamed at you to bolt out of his confined room of an office. You've trusted your guts at that time and changed your doctor, only to notice that something is very wrong with the way your body feels lately. Doctor Harper, very unfortunately, was actually good at his job (or so he appears), and so you reluctantly made your way back to him, only to remember why you changed doctors in the first place.

"Don't underestimate medicine, sweetheart. What have you been taking?"

You've fallen silent once again. All plans of actually fixing whatever the hell was up with your body thrown out the window; you just wanted to get out of here. And so you lie again. "Maybe the tests are wrong. I'm feeling totally fine, and I haven't been taking anything."

"You haven't been attending your weekly checkups." His hands are already dressing up in medical gloves, eyes aren't even on you as he scolds.

"I'm just busy."

"Busy changing doctors?" A final snap announces the gloves are in place as he glances up at you, gaze fixing you in place.

Your lips thin into a line, hands gripping the edge of the bed you're sat on. Harper sighs before you can retort back, shaking his head. "I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed. Look at where you've gotten yourself." He shrugs his hand at you, gesturing to your body, "Now we gotta fix you up, don't we? You wouldn't have gotten into this in the first place were you to listen to me."

"I-I'm late for my shift, actually. Let's discuss this later?" You scramble to get off the bed once he starts approaching. "Next week–"

"No, you don't know how dire your situation is. We have to take action immediately."

You don't even think as you bolt for the door upon noticing a syringe filled and ready in his hand, your hands gripping the handle and harshly tugging. The door rattles in protest and refuses to budge, so you tug it again in case you didn't force it enough the first time, but it only meets your efforts with macabre immutability. When the hell did he lock–

"Trust me, darling, I'm not very happy about doing this either." You would've believed him if it weren't for his breath picking up, a foul grin stretching his lips. "I would've been able to detoxify your body with you conscious, but your test results are extremely alarming. I'm going to have to sedate you for this."

"No. I'm good!" With the door being completely out of the escaping picture, you resort to using what you always use in the streets. You swing your fist at his face once he's close enough, placing a great amount of strength in it; half of it induced by fear, and it works. Harper doesn't seem to expect your sudden attack as he stumbles back, clutching a hand to his bleeding nose. It buys you enough time to run to the windows, not caring if the jump would break your fucking legs.

But a surprisingly strong hand yanks you back by your shirt, sending you tumbling back and hitting his desk in the process. Harper lunges at you before you can lunge at him and wrestles you to the floor, seizing your wrists in a firm grip and sitting over your body, rendering you immobile. He was stronger than he looked, and it terrified you to think what he might also be in hidden sight.

"Stay put. You wouldn't want to hurt yourself further now, would you?" Harper's grin only widens as you struggle and writhe underneath him, blood smeared across his face and dripping on your skin. "I'm only trying to help you out."

"I would rather fucking die!" You spit, fiery eyes glaring and legs kicking– trying to kick.

Harper clicks his tongue several times in disappointment as if you were a child who needs to be disciplined. "Such foul words. You shouldn't say that to a doctor. It wounds them." He produces the syringe again, punctures your skin before you can scream in terror in hopes for someone to come running for your aid. "Shh...sh...I've got you." He's got his hand glued to your lower jaw to drown out every screech for help you could utter until your eyes grow impossibly heavy, body falling limp beneath him.

-

When you awaken, it's not at the hospital.

None of the bleak white walls and glaring lights greet you when you flutter your eyes open, head feeling heavy as ever as you struggle to make sense of what could've possibly happened. It's dim in the room, the only light being the street lamps filtering in through the window. It's– wait. Street lamps.

You would've jolted up in the realization that it's nighttime were your body functioning, but all you can feel is– nothing. You can't feel your legs. You can't feel your arms, your hands, your fingers. Panic settles in your veins, your heart palpitating faster with each passing second. You're quick to feel lightheaded with anxiety, heart drumming loudly in your ears. Where the fuck were you–

"You can't move, doll. Don't bother." A soft voice that could only belong to Harper rings out from beside you. Terror-stricken yet unable to move, your eyes flit to your side, and there he is. A gentle smile adorns his rather gentle features as he lays beside you. "Don't worry, it's going to wear off eventually. You're safe with me."

You're anything but safe with him. Your eyes can only follow his hand as he moves to toy with a strand of your hair, idly twirling it around his fingers before bringing it to his face, breathing in deeply then kissing it. He sits up, twisting around to grab a glass of water and a pill from the nightstand. "This will make you feel better."

You press your lips together at once, jaw clenching and refusing to open your mouth as he presses the pill to your lips. He frowns, pushes it further until it clashes against your teeth. "Yeah?" He says, before forcing your jaw open with a hand clenching the sides of your face. "Should I really teach you a lesson to listen to your doctor?" He forces the pill into your mouth before hurriedly holding the glass to his lips. Soon are his lips on yours, passing the water through his mouth and tipping your head in a way that would force you to swallow.

"There we go." He pulls away then immediately yanks at your skirt, pulling it all the way down your legs. Your panties are pushed to the side and, despite how dry you are, your pussy welcomes his finger. He only glides it along your folds, but you feel yourself getting weirdly wet way too quickly.

"Did you really think you could fool me?" He huffs, out of breath already even though he's barely touched you, a manic grin spreading his lips. He isn't even trying to hide it the way he usually does at your appointments. No. There's no need. Not when he has you all for himself, all docile and vulnerable for all his fantasies and wicked intentions. "Did you think I wouldn't notice when my favorite patient starts frequenting other doctors? You're so cute. So dumb."

Then he pushes his finger into you, and he moans at the sight, at the sensation of your warm cunt, and at how your pussy makes those adorable squelching sounds when he starts fucking his finger into you. An exhilarated laugh leaves him when you start making small whimpery noises, which only leads him to push another finger into you.

Whatever he made you swallow was taking a toll on your mind. Harper was starting to look blurry, hazy, and even a bit disoriented. You blink rapidly, trying to clear your vision but only starting to see something taking shape around him. "Mmh.." You blabber as if to alert him, but he only chuckles in that frightening tone of his.

"What's that, darling? I can't understand you."

"Mnngh..." another trial that only proves your tongue to be too heavy to form actual words. Harper suddenly fingers you faster, forcing moans out of you, and then you feel it. Slimy and wet and sticky, sliding across your legs and all the way to your thighs, slipping under your shirt and caressing your tummy. Your breath shakes, both from Harper's assault and fear. Blobs, thick and thin, taking multiple shapes and sizes, vaguely resembling tentacles, surround you.

You feel them getting closer to where Harper is coaxing fluids out of you. You feel them circle your nipples and latch onto them. You feel them snake around your thighs and spread them further, or that might be you gaining some control in the sense that you can slightly move your body, just not upon your conscious command.

With a strained voice, you whimper, both scared and on the very edge of climaxing. You don't know if you want to push him away - if you had the strength - or to hold onto him in fear of the tentacles. "H-Ha..pa.."

"That's my name."

Then you're gushing around his fingers, pussy squeezing them so delightedly and covering them in your sweet sweet slick. "Oh yes– fuck, fuck yes. Squeeze my fingers like that!" Harper might be hyperventilating with the way he pants, his usual self-control nowhere to be found as he hastens to pull his hard cock out of his pants, his hand wrapping around it and pumping in time with the clenching of your walls.

"Sweet doll." He withdraws his fingers at last, laughing as he presses them together only to spread them apart, watching your slick form sticky threads between them. He brings his fingers close to his mouth, lolling out his tongue and moaning loudly as he twirls it around them before sucking them completely into his mouth.

He takes his time tasting you, savoring every drop with a moan, not bothering to hide how hard he's getting and how his flushed tip leaks precum on your thigh. Meanwhile, you're fighting the urge to cry, to wail as something else plays with your slit. Slimy and thin and you feel it fluttering around your twitching hole. Harper doesn't react to it, as if it's not even there, but you can very clearly feel it. It must be there!

"Mm, so..." Harper says, finally letting his fingers out and giving them a last lick, "so sweet. Here. Taste yourself." His fingers dip into your cunt so suddenly it makes you jolt a bit, and he gathers your cum and slick before it's pushed into your mouth. "See? You taste good."

He doesn't stop there. Toys with your tongue like it's his right, feeling the warm muscle beneath his fingertips, not taking his fingers out until he's sure you've cleaned them of your cum, and covered them instead with your saliva. Harper is entranced as he watches you as if he's the one under the influence; his eyes are half-lidded as they drink you in, and his lips are slightly open, face so flushed and tinted deep red.

His hands grip your hips and he drags you closer to him, his cock nudges at your entrance and suddenly the tentacles that were invading your vision disappear. You gasp, blinking up at the ceiling then at him in confusion, and he smiles so wide when he sees your gaze on him, his ears flushing redder than they already were.

"I'm gonna make you feel good," whispers as he holds your panties to the side and slides in, feeding his cock into your tight slippery hole, his jaw falling slack and eyes rolling back, throat rumbling with a long "fuuuuck..."

He pulls you up, cradling your body against his as he bottoms out. "So– shit, so much better than I imagined."

Harper is up in a second, lifting you with him by his hands that dig into the plush of your ass. "I've always wanted to try this," he whispers before you're lifted until only his tip is snug inside you, then brought down until he's fully enveloped again, cock hitting so deep in your cunt. "Fuck– ah, h-hold onto m– right, you can't." He laughs out of breath, then you're slammed against a wall, weight distributed between him and the cold wall against your back.

He lets one hand move up to shrug your arms around his neck, telling you to be good and try to keep them there. "You can do that, no? Some of that strength must be back by now." He whispers in your ear before he's drilling into you, moaning loudly directly in your ears, even drowning out your own moans with his. "You– have no idea how much I waited for this."

He kisses you, tongue first, licking into your open mouth and groaning with wild abundance. Harper never falters in his thrusts and never makes you feel as if you're about to fall, his grip firm and stronger than you thought him to be. He bites your lower lip as he pulls away then smiles at you. "Do you know how hard it was to hold back? To stop at a few invasive touches but never go far enough to satisfy?"

He angles his hips, hitting spots you didn't know would send you squealing. "To see your cute little ass trot into my office, to sit so fucking prettily, and to talk my ear off about worthless scums trying to get a piece of you when all I can think about is how pretty you'd be split on my dick?"

He slithers his hands from your ass and to the back of your thighs, holding you by them and spreading you open, his gaze falling down to where his cock disappears again and again, getting sucked so hungrily by your greedy cunt. "F-fucking hell. Look at you taking me so well! I knew you could take it."

But then his tone changes, and his thrusts turn harsher, rougher without the usual care he carries. "But then you go off and think you can avoid me by seeing another doctor." He hisses, eyes blown with infatuation yet frustration, "It's okay. Hah, it's okay. You'll always come back to me. I'll make sure of it."

It's only then that you notice. That your eyes focus a bit and zero in on the stains on his shirt. Some of them are brown and dry, but the fresher ones– the fresher ones are tinted crimson, spread about chaotically as if something was squirted messily and splattered his shirt. Harper notices your gaze and laughs, loud and breathless.

"I did it for you. " He stutters and plunges deep within you, pressing into your body as close as possible while his seed splutters your insides, pumping you full of his cum as you moan and follow very close behind, clenching around him and milking him of every drop he's worth. Harper holds you against the wall for a while, until both of you almost catch your breaths.

Your eyes barely stay open as your head lays on his shoulder, more exhausted than you originally were. This time, you notice a small card on the nightstand. Your heart suddenly picks up again when you focus on it, recognizing the bloodied ID as the doctor's you frequented a few times, confirming your suspicions.

Harper seems to know that you're looking directly at it, and he smiles. "I told you I'll make sure of it."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

A/N. Once my writing skills evolve and I can write mind break (and be satisfied with it) it's over for yall

[therhythmafterthesummer]

Wereroomies werewolf!chan reaction to his girl in a rabbit costume? I know that man will go insane

this ask wormed its way into my brain and made me write a drabble in record time. sorry if anything's worded weirdly, i was literally possessed while i wrote this whole thing.

Pairing: Werewolf!Chan x Human!F.Reader (one of the main pairings of my WereRoomies series). | Word Count: ~1k. | Warnings: Chris’ POV · curvy/chubby reader · primal play (can it be considered primal play when one of the parties involved is an animal already?) · breeding · unprotected penetration [piv. no barrier method, but the reader is presumed to be on birth control].

minors do not interact.

It was rare for Chris to take you to his house in the woods on your own. Typically, the entire pack would come for their monthly run, but every once in a while he needed to come check on the place to make sure everything was in order–the amount of times he’d woken up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night with the sudden thought that he didn’t turn off the lights before leaving during their last trip were too many to count at this point.

This weekend, Chris decided to take you out on a little escapade, just the two of you in his big house. You both had been working nonstop the last couple of weeks, between that and pack duties you’d hardly had any time for yourselves as a couple, so he was more than needing his alone time with you, to disconnect from everything and everyone else.

So here he was, doing the final checks on the house to make sure everything was fine before he could finally join you wherever you were in the house to lounge around and snuggle and hopefully have some delightful sex later in the evening.

“Baby, have you seen the–the…”

Walking into the living room, and seeing you all of a sudden like that, sitting on the dining table of all places, was something Chris did not expect. His mind short-circuited immediately, and the fact that you had the nerve to gasp and act surprised as soon as you spotted him wasn’t making it any better.

“Oh, my… Seems like I’ve found myself in the wolf’s lair. What am I gonna do now…” You brought your hands to your cheeks, which only squished your breasts further together, all garnished with the fakest look of concern he’d ever seen on your face.

That bra was barely even a bra, it was just a couple of pieces of fabric tied around your neck by thin straps, it did absolutely nothing to keep your breasts contained. It was white, too, practically transparent. The bottoms weren’t much better, also a barely even there piece of fabric that did incredibly poorly at covering your plump centre. But the worst pieces of all were the white and pink suspender belt, with the matching stockings over your mouth-watering thighs, and the goddamned bunny ears on your head.

Something stirred deep inside of Chris, something just so incredibly dangerous, something he just knew was exactly what you wanted to awake with this entire set-up of yours.

Prey, prey, prey, prey, prey…

What kind of boyfriend would he be if he denied you of your fun? So of course he played along. 

“Aww, poor little bunny got lost?” Chris cooed, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning on the door frame, staring you up and down.

You bit your lip, nodding. “You’re not gonna do anything bad to me, right?”

Chris took a deep breath, and he got almost winded by the scent of your arousal lingering in the air. “Well… That depends, pretty bunny…”

“On?”

A smirk made its way onto his face, and Chris could already feel himself straining in his briefs. “On how fast you can run away from me”.

You bit your lip and whimpered, looking almost scared. 

There was a moment of you staring at him, and Chris staring at you… A moment of silence that fed the tension in the air. In an instant, you were getting off of that table and bolting out of the room, letting him see the fluffy tail attached to your bottoms, and he could feel the fine hairs on his nape stand on end.

Chase, chase, chase, chase, chase…

Chris immediately ripped his t-shirt off of his body and chased after you. He was suddenly feeling incredibly warm, and he could feel his instincts further clouding his reason as he looked at your form trying to get out of his reach.

He let you off easy for a few minutes, revelling in the deep breaths you took, in the way your heart was racing inside your chest, and in the smell of your scent taking a hold of every single one of his nerve-endings. Until he just couldn’t take it anymore, he needed to catch you, to show you your place and make you submit.

After a while of running and hiding around the house, Chris finally caught up to you on the upper floor, right after climbing the stairs–his shorts had been discarded at some point during the chase, he didn’t even notice when he’d removed them, and he, honestly, also didn’t care.

With a tight hold on your waist he pushed you against the nearest wall. He would’ve felt bad by hearing the whimper that came out of your mouth as soon as your back hit the wall, but, at this point, he knew your limits, he knew how to read your body language, he knew the exact word you would use if it all became too much for you, and, especially, he knew when you were putting on an act. 

With a hand cradling the back of your head, he tilted it to the side, making himself more room to shove his face in the crook of your neck, to prod at your pulse point with the tip of his nose and get a proper whiff of that scent of yours that made him delirious, especially now with how horny you smelt, with his senses enhanced by the chase.

“What now, bunny?” Chris mumbled. He licked a stripe up the expanse of your neck, relishing the taste of your skin under his tongue, and he felt you shiver with the motion.

You swallowed, taking a deep breath. “What are you gonna do to me? I’m just a poor, innocent bunny that got lost…”

“Are you, now?” Chris brought his free hand to the ears on your head, feeling the soft fur between his fingers for a moment, only to finally move that hand to your side so he could drag it all the way from your ribs down to your hips, relishing the goosebumps that rose under his touch. “And what was a pretty bunny like you looking for so insistently you ended up lost in my lair?”

“A partner”, you replied simply, although your voice got a bit shaky when he started to toy with the string that tied your underwear in place. “I just…need to be bred so badly”.

Chris could’ve fainted with how fast blood rushed from his head to his crotch.

“Oh, sweet, sweet, bunny”, he dragged his teeth down the length of your neck, until he finally found a spot to suck the first of many love bites he was ready to leave on your skin. “I can give you exactly what you want… I’ll pump you so full, pretty. Just how you need”.

“You will?” You reached for his hips, and the warmth of your hands on his bare skin was further feeding that pool of desire in the pit of his stomach. “Is the big, alpha wolf going to put his pups inside me?”

God, he might’ve been the predator, but you certainly always had the upper hand, and Chris knew you were aware of it. You always knew what to say to get him to react, to get exactly what you wanted, and he was ready to fall for it every single time.

Chris leaned in closer, close enough he could feel your lips brush against his own when he spoke. “Only if you ask nicely”.

You moved your hands from his hips to his ass, squeezing generously. “Please… Please, I need your pups so bad. Please, breed me, alph–”

A squeal left your lips when Chris took a hold of your hips and turned you around all of a sudden. He just couldn’t take it anymore, not after all that had transpired since he spotted you on that table downstairs.

With a hand on your upper back, he pressed your chest further into the wall as you pushed your hips back towards him, giving him the delicious sight of your round bottom in that barely there piece of underwear with the fluffy tail, and the way your soft flesh dipped under the taut straps of your suspender belt that held the stockings on your legs almost made him dizzy.

Chris spat on his free hand and smeared the saliva all over his length. Pulling your underwear to the side, he got a perfect view of your soaked folds. Clearly, all the running around had been a good warm up for you, too, and he was almost trembling in anticipation.

In normal circumstances, he would’ve probably stretched you out first, even loosen you up with his mouth and his tongue. But these were no normal circumstances. He could barely think straight at this point, all he knew for sure was that he needed to be inside of you and give you the pounding of your life.

Breed, breed, breed, breed, breed…

You whined once he started to push his cock inside you. The feeling of your warm, wet, tight walls stretching over his length had him rolling his eyes to the back of his head. He might’ve worried he was hurting you, but he knew by now that when you reached back for his hip like you were doing now, almost like you were urging him to ram himself into you already, it meant you were doing just fine, so there wasn’t a single spark of worry in his hazy mind just yet.

As soon as he was fully sheathed within your warmth, he nuzzled your neck, holding the soft skin of your hips tightly in his hands. “Don’t worry, pretty bunny. I’ll give you what you need. All of it”.

© therhythmafterthesummer 2023. all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my stories.

figured i’d tag anyone that wants to be tagged in my wereroomies instalments. if you don’t want to be tagged in little ask responses like these let me know !

@raspbinniecreme · @staaa96 · @oiminho · @straylightdream · @starshine-moon · @biribarabiribbaem · @100layersofdaddyissues · @dearalice · @alexis-reads-fics · @xcookiemonsteer · @knowleeknow · @chanlovesme · @liminaldaydream · @sstarryreads · @svngiem · @notastraykid · @princelingperfect · @violetpenguinkris · @leedunno · @peepeepoopooharrie · @aestheticsluut · @skzhomiehopper · @cessixja · @mimzibee · @hipsdofangirl · @djeniryuu · @floatingcoffecup · @minnysproutgriffinteddy · @moonmooncr · @phobia0325 · @leebitsimpracha

[xlpoww]

GUTS

love is embarrassing

Anonymous asked: okay okay i just read your sanji imagines and maybe make a part where the roles are reversed? like the reader gets flirted on by someone else and she flirts back and sanji doesn’t understand why he feels jealous all of a sudden? this is part two to this original request, which can be found here: SOUR and the finale: LOVE

thank you for taking the time to read my silly little stories :)

warnings: jealousy, sanji and zoro get into a physical fight

word count: 1209

opla! sanji x f! reader

the moon is high in the sky when you return to the going merry that night. theo’s sweet words echoing in your mind, what a charming boy. no matter how great a time you had; he couldn't even hold a candle to your ship’s resident flirt. no one could worm their way into your heart like sanji vinsmoke had.

the resident blonde of the going merry is in a foul mood. 

what reason did he have to wake up on the right side of the bed? he’d gone to sleep before you’d even come home last night, and woken up to see you missing from your usual morning reading spot. the eggs made this morning were over whisked and undercooked, and sanji couldn't find room in his brain to truly care. 

“good morning sanji,” nami walked into the kitchen with a yawn. she’s covering her mouth as she shuffles towards the island. when she reaches it she leans on her elbows, looking at sanji’s back as he moves about around the stove.

“good morning mademoiselle, how did you sleep?” there was a robotic feeling to his flirting, the redhead frowned at the sound; with a raise of her eyebrow she spoke

“what’s gotten into you?” sanji turned to look at her with a smile, placing a plate with eggs and bacon in front of where she stood leaning on the countertop. he wipes his hands off and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his suit pants.

“nothing gorgeous, i’m quite alright! especially since i have the pleasure of seeing your beautiful face so bright and early.” before nami can push him any further, luffy comes barreling into the kitchen nose first. 

“sanji! i knew i smelled something good cooking!! i am starving.” nami is forced to drop the subject as she quickly snatches up her plate before luffy can steal a piece of bacon straight from it.

—

by the time you walk into the kitchen for breakfast, the crew has assembled and luffy is on his third plate of eggs. everyone greets you kindly, except your favorite blonde. the silence from his causes a stinging feeling in your chest, and as you sit down you notice he’s staring intently at the wall opposite of you. ‘why wont he look at you?’ 

it stings, of course it does! you considered sanji a very good friend of yours, for him to suddenly start ignoring you. you can't deny the pang you felt in your heart. ‘did you do something to upset him?’

"how was your night y/n?" nami turns to look at you, there's a ghost of a smirk on her face. you face lights up like a fire engine, you're looking bashfully down at your plate of eggs when you reply.

"it was nice, he was very sweet." 

"i'm glad to hear that, do you have any plans to see him again?" she's leaned her elbows onto the table and placed her chin in her hands. her question is finished off with a wink.

"well actually-" your reply is cut off by an abrupt slamming sound that makes you jump. sanji has slammed his hand onto the table and stood up, his chair making a loud noise as he propels it backwards. he snatches his empty plate off the table, grabbing nami and zoro's as well before stomping over to the sink. he takes the time to light a cigarette and stick it in between his lips before starting to clean the dishes. 

the rest of the crew sitting at the table with you are staring at sanji's back with confusion (zoro with frustration) but no matter how piercing your gazes are. he wont turn to meet a single one. 

"what's your problem waiter?" zoro speaks up, looking so very over the cook's jealous antics.

"whatever could you mean my friend?" sanji speaks up, plastering a smile that doesn't meet his eyes on as he turns to look at zoro. you subconsciously tilt your head in confusion, and when sanji sees it out of his peripherals he cant help the way his heart swells. you make it impossibly hard to stay mad. you're so naturally adorable.

"you've been in a shit mood ever since we left the bar last night." zoro crosses his arms and leans back in his chair.

"i'm not in any kind of mood. why don't you mind your own mosshead?" sanji's words are practically spit out of his mouth.

"why don't you quit acting like you're not jealous, waiter." sanji turns off the water, forcefully placing down the plate he'd just washed on the drying cloth. he turns around and begins to roll up his sleeves. 

"it would be wise of you to shut your stupid mouth, now wouldn't it."

"you think i'm scared of an idiot who can't even tell his best friend he's in love with her?" it feels like your heart has jumped out of your chest and into your throat. before you can even begin to process the words that just left zoro's lips, he's standing up to face sanji as the blonde walks over. 

"you don't know shit." and sanji's legs has gone flying up into the air, aiming for zoro's head. the green haired man catches it with his hand and pulls it, knocking sanji off balance.

'holy shit. they're fighting.' 

"guys, stop it." nami has stood up from her place at the table, but her words fall on deaf ears. usopp is looking at you sadly, but has to quickly dodge a stray kick from sanji. he stands up and back away from the table. 

"woah hey guys, maybe it's time to cool down a little yeah?" the sniper raised his hands next to his head and slowly backs away from the scene.

"guys!" nami's next shout is fractic, zoro had drawn two of his swords and sanji had kicked usopps chair far away. the two men show no sign of stopping, apparently this argument had been building for much longer than you would've known. 

you're still frozen in place in your chair as zoro's accusations, sanji's weird behavior towards you this morning starting to make sense. he had feelings for you, and you had left with another guy last night. you only can begin to wonder how heartbroken he must have been, had he stayed up to see if you would come back home to them, to him?

'you felt awful'

you're broken out of your train of thought by a sickening cracking noise, and when you turn sanji is on the floor covering his nose. you can see blood flowing from underneath it, and you jump up in worry. 

"sanji!" you rush to his side, kneeing down besides the broken man on the floor and placing a hand on his shoulder. you can hear the sound of a sheathing sword behind you, but your eyes don't leave sanji's. he looks so, defeated. you had never seen his eyes so sad.

he brushes you off without a word, standing up and walking out of the room. there’s a heavy silence in the air, and you slump down on your knees. with tears in your eyes you turn to glare at the swordsman.

“what the fuck zoro.”

Taglist: @the-maladaptive-daydreamers @teenyforestfairy @gothicuwusposts @cheesesoda @shuujin @untoldshortsofthefandoms

[hopefulceladon]

a battered light (can only burn so bright) | sunday x reader

summary: it truly was only a matter of time before he burnt himself out, wasn't it? pairing: sunday x reader word count: 4.5k (help me) notes: the self-indulgent brain worms influenced me i am so sorry. you give sunday a wing massage and he clearly has Mixed Feelings about it all. is he yearning? is he just stubborn? the world may never know.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A blanket of starlight had wrapped itself around the Dewlight Pavilion, the ethereal glow illuminated ever brighter by the governing moon.

On such peaceful nights like this, solace for the fatigued was all too simple to acquire for those who sought it, yet even still, there remained those who did not yet allow themselves the luxury of rest whenever daylight grew dim.

It was just such a terrible pity that the Head of the Oak Family was one of them—a conclusion strengthened by the restless, focused, and very much still awake Halovian displayed before you.

“Mr. Sunday,” you called for him as you balanced a silver tray in your arms, hoping to garner his attention.

Your hopes were soon drowned out by the clatter of footsteps as they treaded to-and-fro against wooden floorboards, a pace that hardly ever changed in stride and never once dared to cease.

The sight laid before your eyes was a troubling one; Sunday was in the midst of sizing up his miniscule-scale model of the Golden Hour, his weary eyes roaming over the elaborate diorama as he muttered words that fell upon your ears like muddled verses of a foreign poem.

It was also a sight that you, unfortunately, were growing all too familiar with.

When the two birds of a feather had been reunited by the scarred hands of dormancy days prior, you quite naturally—and quite foolishly—had believed they had snatched away the tension that rested upon Sunday's shoulders in exchange.

It hadn't.

The scattered plumes of both deep purple and white, the likes of which were now haphazardly skirting themselves beneath the premises of the table Sunday paced around, had already given that away, after all.

Wordlessly, you avoided trampling any of the fallen feathers by the grace of your careful footing, and you settled the tray that carried both a cup of tea and a small plate of freshly cut strawberries—Robin had let it slip that he was fond of them once before—upon his desk in the room above, before descending the stairs and continuing to observe the madness before you.

Once you decided you could no longer bear the burden of playing a helpless bystander for much longer, you took a step forward and gently tapped Sunday upon his shoulder.

Sunday's feathers bristled in reaction to the abrupt touch, but his gaze softened once he turned around to face the source.

“Ah, do forgive me, please,” he began with a cordial, apologetic smile, his eyes tearing away from the model to glance at the tray. “I must've forgotten about this evening's tea.”

“If it clears your conscience any, I nearly forgot to start brewing it.” you admitted.

“Is that so?” Sunday hummed in response, nearly bewildered by your confession. “Hm, perhaps I should allow for a bit more leniency in the schedule...”

You frowned at the self-deprecating chuckle that left his lips, but you resisted making a remark. Without a further word spoken, you sat down in the chair that he had graciously pulled out for you, planted right next to his desk.

Peeking over at the files he was so adamantly focused upon, a small smile graced your lips at the underlined and emboldened heading, proudly declaring the parchment's title of ’Charmony Festival Preparations’.

“I can see why your memory slipped,” you mused, hoping to stave off any suffocating silence. “It’s an exciting thing to be in charge of something so memorable, isn’t it?”

Sunday tensed, a flicker of something unreadable dimming the usual poised gleam of his golden eyes.

“It... most certainly will be a festival one shall never forget.” Sunday finally replied.

You decided against inquiring as to why his wings had betrayed him, a subtle twitch disrupting their perfectly mundane flutter.

You also decided against dwelling upon the pitiful sight of gaps between his feathers.

As Sunday picked up his pen to scribble something upon the documents, a frown crossed your lips as you noted the way his eyes, with their appearance already marred by the evidence of lack of proper rest, had their corners crinkled from overexertion.

The remnants of a dying flame lingered upon the nearby candelabra’s wick, before extinguishing itself with a forlorn puff of smoke. As the light diminished further within the room, Sunday’s eyes squinted.

With a frown creasing your lips, you finally decided to speak up.

“Sir, if you’d like, I could relight the candle?”

Sunday paused to look up at you, shaking his head in light of your concern. “You really needn’t go through the trouble.” As your unwavering gaze met his, the visible extent of your worry piercing through his obstinate resolve, Sunday promptly faltered. “...but, of course, if you’re so insistent, I won't stop you.”

You nodded before getting up to scour his office for a matchstick, acquiring one with relative ease. As you struck the match against the igniter, you waited for the head to mingle with the worn-down wick with a steady hand.

Your focus soon fell upon Sunday’s weary countenance.

He was much akin to his candle, you reckoned—meant to burn bright for all to see, yet the burdens of his extensive obligations had weighed his benevolent, ever-giving wick down to a charred stub; whenever he had wavered, so, too, did his light.

And, much like a moth enraptured by a kindled flame, you, like most any other Dreamscape denizen, had clung to the luster he meticulously weaved from the luminance of his candle. Nonetheless, his elevated status hadn’t hidden that he was as helplessly human as those he served, and that even he, too, needed a lamppost to sturdy himself upon.

You wondered if he ever allowed himself to acknowledge such logic.

Once the match finally ignited the wick, you silenced your internal musing with a sigh, snuffing the lingering embers upon the wooden stick with a flick of your wrist.

As you set the candelabra back down onto his desk, it was then that you noted the still untouched cup of tea.

“Your tea must be getting cold by now...”

Sunday’s attention drifted away from his paperwork, and he glanced over at the cup. “Ah, right...” he hummed in acknowledgment, studying it carefully. “It’s chamomile, I presume?”

“As evident by the pigment, yes.”

“And the bitter leaves have been amplified by a squeezed lemon, correct?”

“Of course.”

“Thoroughly stirred, though not too harshly?”

“Only the gentlest of stirrings for you, sir.”

“That’s my wonderful assistant,” Sunday mused with a tired smile, lifting the drink up to his lips and taking a small sip from it, before setting it back down. “Life is quite more convenient when everything is coordinated as it should be, isn’t it?”

You nodded at his observation, all too familiar with the principles he's uttered before in the past. “It does have its perks.”

Sunday stirred the spoon in his cup around in slow circles, his expression growing unreadable.

“So, it truly is a shame whenever something disrupts how things ought to be...”

“You’ve... mentioned that before, yes.” you replied, hesitantly clinging onto his every word.

Sunday hummed as he took another sip. As he refreshed the tea against his palate, his eyebrows narrowed in concentration, prompting his lips to form a frown.

“I’ve noticed the sugar you've been sprinkling in.”

“And I’ve noticed that you've begun to molt.” you quickly retorted without much thought. It was childish, yes, you knew, but perhaps your hasty tongue had a point.

The Halovian had stiffened at your remark.

“I beg your pardon?”

Your confidence wavered as Sunday’s eyebrows furrowed, yet your shame was outweighed by your concern.

“The floor is littered with proof, and as pristine as you keep your appearance, it’s hard to cover up unevenness caused by fallen feathers," you paused, your focus drifting from the wings near his temples to fall upon his paperwork. “And, given the stress that normally accompanies festival preparations...”

Sunday’s tongue clicked in frustration at the implication.

“Whether or not I was stressed—or even molting, for that matter—my feathers should hardly be any of your concern,” he replied, his voice trailing off as he eyed your approaching hands.

In a swift motion, he pinned your wrists down against the desk, a counteraction made in desperation to prevent them from reaching their destination.

“...and I would appreciate it if you kindly refrained from touching them.”

You tried your best to recoil one of your hands away, but they wouldn't move—how could they, when they now sought the mercy of his restrictive grasp?

Even as Sunday’s palms cordially arranged for your wrists to be wed to the wooden surface, however, you didn't budge. “Were this over anything else, I would gladly listen, but given the fact that you’ll need someone to help you safely-”

Sunday’s eyes squeezed themselves shut in frustration.

“Beloved assistant of mine, please do not be so obstinate.”

As the Halovian's hold upon your wrists gradually softened, you snatched them back to your sides.

“I learn from the worst.” you murmured.

Sunday let out a soft sigh in response before returning to his paperwork. A part of you wondered why you even dared to bother vocalizing your concern.

Nonetheless, in the ever-growing silence, it was only then that you realized how truly worn out the Halovian had appeared. The dark circles underneath his eyes and the missing feathers had been telltale signs, but even his countenance had changed; beneath his layers of practiced, superficial perfection, you could sense that he was exhausted beyond both your unwavering understanding and his intentional ignorance.

Your heart sunk to the pit of your stomach as your eyes caught themselves on the sight of dried blood in the center of one of the gaps in his feathers, before they reluctantly tore themselves away. It was hardly like him to ignore his appearance to such an extent.

A sigh crossed your lips as you focused upon a droplet of heated wax, witnessing it roll off the surface of the pitiful candle and onto the table.

You couldn’t hold your tongue for much longer.

“Sir, you really should examine your wings.”

“I hardly have the luxury of time on my side,” Sunday countered swiftly. “Were it not for the preparations, I would've already-”

“Then, please, at least let me try?” you interjected without second thought.

Sunday’s gaze tore away from his desk to stare at you, unblinking, as if you had just uttered the most irrational thing possible, and perhaps you indeed had—an offer made in haste could surely be considered as such, couldn't it?

“Did I not already beg you not to do so?”

“You did, but as your assistant, I’ve known you long enough to be certain you’ll just prioritize perfecting the festival over your own well-being, so...” you stared at the spot once more before glancing back at him. “Please.”

Sunday shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he pondered your offer, his wings twitching from what you assumed was contemplation. He parted his lips to speak, only to draw out a mere reluctant sigh.

Slowly, Sunday opened one of the drawers to his desk, pulling out a cloth and a spray bottle, before holding out his hand with the two items bundled together within his grasp. As he motioned for you to take the items with a nudge of his hand, you noted that his eyes never once met yours.

“Thank you.” you said with a soft smile.

Recalling the multiple occasions you had witnessed him clean his wings, as well as the knowledge you secretly procured from handbooks on Halovian biology, you spritzed the water upon the cloth and held it a few inches away from Sunday’s wing, all memories of the least intrusive methods coming to mind.

As you pressed the cloth against the surface, a sharp breath had made you halt.

“Forgive me.” Sunday muttered. “As you can tell, it’s... been a while.”

You nodded, all questions dying upon your tongue for the sake of his comfort, before gently dabbing the cloth against the spot, wiping away the bloody inequity and restoring his pristine visage.

Setting the cloth down on the desk, you smiled. “And... done.”

“Ah, thank you kindly.”

A small portion of your worry had ebbed away at in light of the relief in his voice, but returned with a vengeance once you remembered the sight of the disastrous floor from moments prior. As your gaze trailed away from him and towards the dark purple feathers that dotted the floor right next to those of cloudy white, Sunday’s gaze had soon followed.

Inquiries regarding their condition formulated themselves without much prompting within your mind, but you couldn’t dare speak them out loud.

Not when he had already been so stubborn over his first set of wings.

Not when he had already faltered so strongly in his breathing, a pattern you associated with immense discomfort.

In the absence of all conversation, you both tirelessly danced around the inevitable before something finally had to give.

“The festival has been, admittedly, more of a... project than I could’ve ever expected,” Sunday began, droning off with an awkward, tensed chuckle. “...and I suppose that, perhaps, amidst the madness of it all, the matter of my wings’ upkeep must’ve slipped my mind...”

“I... I see.” you acknowledged his words with a soft hum, accepting his unlikely-to-be-true excuse without further prompting.

Sunday sighed as his hands absentmindedly fidgeted with his gloves to smooth out an invisible crease, before he finally continued.

“The upkeep of a Halovian’s wings just hardly isn’t a thing to entrust so lightly to another being, you see, and I just, I...” his voice trailed off. 

The eyes that were once so keenly intent on scrutinizing the floor beneath his feet soon met yours.

Had you of been anyone else, you would've surely melted under his weary gaze, but no, quite frankly you couldn't and most definitely shouldn't, for you were merely his assistant, and such feelings must not be stoked by any such foolish thing-

“If I absolutely must trust another soul with such a hefty responsibility, I suppose it would indeed be you.” Sunday finally murmured.

You were startled, to say the least. Hurriedly, you gleaned for any signs of hesitance upon his features, finding nothing except a softness in his eyes that you prayed was not drawn from reverence.

“And you're sure of this, sir?”

Sunday hesitated, his expression unreadable before finally, he nodded.

As Sunday arose from his chair to stretch his stagnant muscles, intent on ridding himself of his white coat, he had reached for his shoulder with a barely-suppressed wince. Without thinking, you rushed over to his side, cupping the top of his shoulder with your palm, attempting to gently work off the sleeveless coat for him.

Seemingly frightened by the abrupt touch, Sunday breathed in sharply, hastily brushing your hand off of his shoulder before his picture-perfect poise could shatter.

“Please,” he murmured tersely, his hand still protectively grasping his clothing. “I believe I can handle doing this part myself.”

You nodded as you slowly stepped back, resting your treacherous hands at your sides.

As Sunday worked the snow-colored coat off of his shoulders, he grabbed the discarded garment and folded it into a neat square before putting it up on his desk, then focused on the silvery blazer that had laid beneath.

After a few moments spent fumbling with his multiple layers, Sunday was now stripped down to his dark turtleneck.

Your eyes fell upon the sight of the dark blue, wing-like vest that wrapped itself around his waist, and just as you were about to ask if they were yet another layer he had to remove, you froze once the ‘vest’ had shifted and twitched.

“Are those...?”

Sunday noted your confusion and shook his head, his fingers working diligently to unwrap the clinging, restrictive article of clothing.

What had twitched underneath the vest was a pair of deep purple wings, their plumes matching the pigments of what was strewn beneath you. As beautiful as the appendages were, the difference between their standard of upkeep compared the likes of which rested above his temples were like night and day.

A part of you wondered if, for whatever unspoken reason, he was ashamed of them.

The Halovian tensed under the weight of your prying gaze, trying to relax to force the dormant plumage awake as he averted his sight. “I know what you must be thinking,” he whispered, his voice taut from the effort. “...but I beg of you, please do not pry.”

Your heart ached at the way he struggled with the furled appendages.

“Do you... require assistance?”

“I...” Sunday fussed with the tight wrap once more, before reluctantly nodding. “I suppose.”

Your hands were quick to approach the wings, intent on massaging the tension out of their pinions so that they'd might unfurl.

The very moment a disgruntled, screechy craw from a raven rung from above, however, Sunday had faltered and hastily smoothened his garments back down, urging your hands to shy away.

You turned to face the direction of the sudden disruption, before tilting your head at Sunday, wondering why he seemed so distraught by the avian's call.

“Is there something wrong?”

“Yes, there is something wrong!” Sunday snapped, before his tone softened. “This... this is improper ! To have convinced myself to allow you to touch my primary wings was one thing, but this...” his voice broke off as he glanced down at his unsightly feathers. “...this... I truly never should've...”

A frown etched itself upon your lips at his sudden change of heart.

“I’m sorry, sir. I know a Halovian's wings are...” you hesitated, vividly recalling the multiple times he had recoiled at your touch. “...sensitive. I’ve studied handbooks once before, and-”

Surprise briefly flashed in his eyes at your admission, before his face hardened into a disapproving scowl the moment he interrupted you.

“You mean to tell me that you’ve studied handbooks upon such a topic, and yet still, you allow yourself to willingly fall victim to the whims of compliance over my foolish fallacies?” he sputtered, his tone abrasive. “You should've stopped me, for heaven’s sake!”

Irked by the criticism, you, too, began to bristle.

“If this truly is so wrong in your eyes, then did you really ever wish for my assistance?”

Startled by the bite in your words, Sunday bit back any further protests, swallowing down his anxious ire. Loneliness had been his home for so long, and your touch was nearly a dangerous siren's call—he couldn't truly bear the thought of losing such a privilege.

The puffed up, bristling feathers of Sunday’s higher wings smoothened themselves back down as he steadied himself, flexing his fingers against his palms.

“Please, just get on with it.”

“Thank you.” you whispered before leaning forward, your hands delicately palming the fragile cartilage of his wings as you tried to help them unbind themselves. Reluctantly, Sunday flexed them against your touch, trying to encourage them to spread.

“Still, this is all so... terribly insolent,” Sunday muttered through gritted teeth.

You stilled your efforts, desperately wishing you knew why he was so resistant to your assistance.

“Are you absolutely certain you want me to do this?”

Sunday winced from the loss of motion, the loss of blissful touch against the very surface that yearned for it, no less, and he was far too quick to nod his head.

“Yes, of course. Loathe as I am to confess such a thing, this... truly is a process that must be done,” he replied, his breath wavering. “It’s hardly your fault that I’ve been so... neglectful.”

As your hands tenderly helped work the cartilage to awaken, massaging the spots you figured must’ve been sore, it only took moments later for them to finally loosen from their protective stance.

Dark, raven-like wings, pigmented like the glimmering skies of midnight, had blossomed forth from Sunday’s sides and splayed themselves before you. Battered and bristled as they were, they were nonetheless a breathtaking view.

As the deep purple plumages fanned themselves out like curtains, you gaped with pity at the sight of the clipped plumes, the multiple defects marring an otherwise symmetrical pair of wings. A remark formulated itself upon your tongue, but died upon your lips once Sunday acknowledged your staring with a slight grimace, as if he could guess what you were nearly about to say.

You continued to stare at his fragile feathers with unwavering wonder.

“Your wings are truly beautiful, sir.” you whispered adoringly.

Sunday turned around to bare his back before you instead, swift enough to conceal the rush of both shame and bashfulness that had abruptly invaded his features.

Gently, you reached your hand forth and tentatively brushed against his plumage.

“Careful.” Sunday reminded you with a slight wince.

You nodded at his warning and reached for the cloth with your other hand, dabbing the damp material against any dried spots of blood where his plumes had fallen out, before placing it back down after you finished tending to them.

Your touch was light, delicate, as your fingertips mapped a path forged by concern against the surface of his wings, seeking out any broken feathers as you sought to soothe as many of his aches as you could.

Unbeknownst to you, your very touch was both a soothing balm for Sunday’s miseries and a temptatious instigator for a stirring within his very core.

Brushing past a sore spot located at the starting muscles of his wings had ripped a soft gasp from Sunday’s throat, and quickly, you stopped.

“Does it hurt?” you asked quietly.

“No, no, just...” he breathed out, distracting himself by how heavenly your hands had felt. “If you would just kindly massage them, that'd be-”

Before he could finish his sentence, you worked your thumbs carefully against the cartilage's base, inadvertently rendering him silent, save for a few tender, wavering breaths.

Your hands worked practical miracles against the bothersome likes of his tension, snuffing them out by the source as they brushed up and down the entirety of his wingspan, your body pressed close to his for better grounds.

As your breath cascaded upon the back of his neck, your fingers delved deeper against his muscles. “I hope this is enough...”

Sunday swallowed thickly at your closeness. “Oh, dearest assistant, you...” he paused, clearing his throat. “You haven’t the faintest idea how much of a blessing this is to me.”

Slowly but surely, Sunday’s ever faithful front of ‘perfection’ had bared its frayed threads before you and unraveled itself by its fragile seams, leaving the fate of his precious, oft-concealed vulnerability within your tender hands.

Every trembling breath at each pass of your hands, along with every visible tremor of his bones in wake of your care, had clawed further at your heart, constricting its cage with concern.

Weathered down by his responsibilities and blemished by the expectations placed upon his shoulders as he was, it was clear that he was blind to how thin he had worn down the wick of his perseverance—the very structure of his charitable soul.

Finally satisfied with the sight of relaxed feathers displayed before your very eyes, your hands had retreated back to your sides, and as sudden awareness of your close proximity washed over you like a rebuking flood, you hastily moved yourself away.

Sunday had turned around to face you, his pale skin flushed as he shifted his weight from side to side. The moonlight that filtered through the Pavilion's windows seemed to enhance his ethereal beauty, the glow of the evening catching upon his halo and permitting it to shimmer like an ever-glittering star.

“I must ask,” Sunday began quietly, his gaze fleeting about the room, from the candle, to the barely-sipped cup of tea, even to the untouched plate of strawberries. “Why did you do this all for me? Surely, there must be something you need in exchange...”

You shook your head and frowned at his words. Why did he believe an act of goodwill had such a price to pay?

With so many words you wanted to say and a plethora of woes over his wellbeing you wanted to profess, you held your tongue and swallowed down the bitter medley of trepidation, fearful of shattering the tenderness that graced this rare moment of solitude.

Surely, one day, there would come an opportunity where you could properly formulate all of your thoughts, but this night was far from being that night.

“It’s just that you’ve been working tirelessly these past few days in preparation for the Charmony Festival,” you began, eying the stack of paperwork that laid in a neat pile upon his desk, before turning back to him. “...and it seems to be my obligation to at least try to remind you to take a break.”

“I’m sure I would’ve remembered to take one eventually...” Sunday protested weakly, as if he himself hadn't believed his words.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Perhaps, once you’ve finally burnt yourself out.”

Sunday’s head wings lowered themselves with a meek display shame upon being put under such conviction.

As his eyes flitted away from yours, far too sheepish to meet your perceptive gaze, you took a step forward and, without much thought behind your all too forward actions, you wrapped your arms delicately around his waist.

Feeling your familiar touch snake around his sides as it enveloped him into a warm, blissful embrace, Sunday stiffened.

You gulped as he tensed against your grasp.

“Forgive me,” you whispered an apology against his chest, careful to not overwhelm him with any further skin contact. “...you just looked as if you needed one.”

Sunday took a few moments to steady his breathing before responding. “I... suppose I did.”

You watched as, with trembling footsteps, Sunday dragged you both backwards, before stopping to allow himself to sit back down in his chair.

His gloved hands clenched at his sides before finding purchase on the tops of your shoulders, pushing you down so that you'd settle against his lap—adjusting you accordingly so it wouldn't look conspicuous—before finally reciprocating the hug.

Completely unsure of what to do with his hands, Sunday had freed one of them to lift your head up with a shaky palm, his cold glove a soothing touch against your chin.

With ever-softening glances being exchanged, the weight of so many unspoken confessions had hung in the balance of the room's silence, but to your surprise, you hardly minded at all. Sunday’s eyes were briefly drawn to your lips before he forced himself out of his stupor, resisting the deafening call of the tender temptation with a soft clearance of his throat.

It was for the best, however—you really weren't sure if you could've resisted the notion of leaning forward yourself.

You were startled as the top of Sunday's head brushed against the underside of your chin, leaning his face down so he could rest the side of his cheek against your chest, breathing softly as he melded himself close to you, cocooning you both together within the vast expanse of his wings.

“I... I truly thank the heavens upon every moment I remember that you're in my life,” Sunday murmured fondly.

Ignoring the abrupt, intrusive flutter in your chest, your arms strengthened the secure hold they possessed against his form.

“I feel much the same, Sunday.”

In the silence of the night, you held each other close, the beat of your own synchronized hearts as you clung to one another the only melody worth dwelling upon.

Even if you couldn't outright plead for him to be more mindful of his limits and capabilities—that his singular light was not enough to shoulder the burdens he subjected himself to, let alone be strong enough illuminate the entire sky—you were grateful that in your arms, he could find his ever-fleeting, redeeming solace.

In that moment, it was enough.

It had to be enough.

[xythlia]

— FALSE LIFE ˎˊ˗

› ascended astarion x f! spawn tav

› word count : 2k+

› sorry but his ascended lines do something to me >.< & I finally felt brave enough to post this after my 200+ game hours (also im open to astarion requests btw :3)

warnings : mdni. compulsion. noncon elements. posessive behavior. angst ish. fingering. toxic relationship. reader has hair long enough to brush off shoulders. reader wears a revealing dress. pet names (dear, darling, little love, ect.). oral f receiving. he calls you dinner sorry lol

This is the first time he's ever done this, compelled you.

If heat could still pool beneath your skin, anger more akin to molten lava beneath the surface, surely it would have. He broke his promise to you, the small thread of security that allowed you to go along with becoming a spawn. You also want to weep, wish tears could well freely in your eyes and track down your cheeks.

But even that is denied to you. Instead you're rooted to the spot, the marble flooring devoid of any echoing footsteps and the air hanging thick with frightening anticipation.

You can't reflexively jump when his lithe fingers move your hair from your shoulders, brushing your own equally icy skin. Much of your body is routinely on display for the vampire ascendant, something else you've always swallowed your displeasure on. There is also the absence of a gasp as his hand grips the back of your neck, an odd pantomime of a mother cat carrying its kitten by the scruff.

"Tell me," he asked, "do I not give you a life of constant pleasure?"

The words slip from your mouth unbidden. "Yes."

"Haven't I made sure you want for nothing?"

Again. "Yes."

His grip tightens, forcing your head to the side a bit and you wish you could wince.

"Then why, my little love, are you so insistent on acting like an ungrateful brat?" He spits out the question, forcing you to meet his ruby gaze by turning your head himself. You've never felt more doll-like, a petulant child.

"You compelled me. Forbade me from going outside the palace bounds. It upsets me that I cannot see our friends and companions. It upsets me that you broke your promise." Your affect couldn't be flatter, a dizzying contrast to how much pain you truly felt inside, a cruel effect of compulsion.

The dining room is quiet, thick with tension as he seemingly takes in your reasoning in silence.

The laughter that bursts from his lips is harsh, not because it's forced or hollow, but because it's real, legitimate laughter. He releases you to cross his arms, chortling so much tears well in his eyes. It makes something absolutely hideous twist in your gut, watching his display as if your feelings were nothing but the realms crassest joke.

All the while you stand statuesque, frozen and seething as your lover mocks you.

"Don't be stupid, darling. You're mine, remember?" Astarion caressed your jaw, positioning himself front and center in all your senses. "Your future has been mine to decide the moment that little worm was ousted from our heads."

Your eyes catch the scar on the side of his neck, bite marks like a twin to your own. Something else inside you is dying, a slow march, and soon the Crimson Palace will be more like your mausoleum than your home.

"Yes."

"Good," he pauses, seemingly sizing you up for reasons unclear, "Sit back. On the tabletop, darling."

Your movements are automatic, body and mind completely untethered from one another in terms of control. An anxiety grips your mind, sharp fingers digging into your brain and you perch on the vast, ornate table.

"Mhm, you know, I didn't get to finish my meal since you decided to spoil dinner with your silent sulking." His smile is a wicked thing. "But I do think we should move on to dessert now anyway."

One hand slides up the revealing slit of your dress, icily fondling your flesh and slowly inching upwards before his fingers are brushing along the seam of your underwear. All you can do is remain frozen, legs spread, as if you were a plaything for him to pose and contort any way he pleased. You suppose that's all you might be now.

"How about an... even trade, of sorts? In exchange for forgiving this little trespass with no punishment, you agree not to question my decisions."

Its not fair, the answer isn't truly your own. "A deal, yes."

A contented sigh leaves him as his index finger rubs up and down your clothed cunt, but his eyes are sharp and you know it's not lost on him how damp your underwear is. When he grins again those fangs are on full display, exaggerated by the shadows cast from the flickering candlelight.

It breaks your heart that he's as beautiful as ever, that still the baser parts of you can't help but desire him.

His plush lips find yours with comfortable familiarity, the perfect genius of their synched movement a testament to how much time he's spent mapping your mouth, committing it to memory. As you slip your arms around his neck you realize the compulsion is gone, but desire keeps you rooted in place, enjoying the feeling of his wandering, groping hands.

Forcing yourself to forget for selfish pleasure is surprisingly easy, a skill you've cultivated the past few months.

You gasp into his mouth as his fingers slip past your underwear, swiping through your wetness before lazily circling your already aching clit. The stimulation makes your hips jerk, chasing his hand for more friction but his other presses firmly against your hip to keep you still.

"Don't be gluttonous dear. I'm the one who didn't get to finish my dinner." He whispers against your parted lips, trailing sloppy open mouthed kisses down the column of your throat, the exposed tops of your breasts, until he's sunk to his knees in front of you.

As he lifts the skirt of your dress you lay back against the heavy polished oak table, and if your heart could race it would be galloping out of your chest in anticipation. Thankfully Astarion doesn't keep you waiting long, he was true to his word that there was no punishment this time as he pulled down your underwear and trailed chaste kisses from your calf, your thighs, all the way to your soaked cunt as you squeezed your eyes shut.

"My delicious little treat," he murmured, his breath fanning across your skin, making you clench around nothing right before he placed a kiss to your clit.

The smallest of moans escaped you and it was enough to encourage him, tongue swiping through your arousal as his fingers prodded at your entrance. When he sucked against your clit your back arched off the table and every noise became amplified: the way you were panting, the slick slurping sounds of his mouth working against you, the squelching as two fingers slid inside you to start scissoring against your spongy walls. The cacophony was enough to make your head spin as your hands flailed downward, looking to grasp any part of him you could reach.

Grasping at his alabaster hair you cry out his name, with the same reverence one would use to call out to a god, and it only spurs him on. He groans against you as your hips start to rise, chasing the stimulation from his tongue and feeling the first embers of climax catching in your abdomen.

"Please -" tears slip down your cheeks as his fingers increase their pace, his tongue devouring you ceaselessly and you nearly choked on your own cries as your thigh muscles tense impossibly tight.

Your legs shake against his shoulders as your fingers scrape against his scalp, the embers now transformed into a roaring pyre, burning you from the inside out as the edges of your mind start to peel from the internal heat and pressure. You squirm recklessly, mouth hung open in a silent cry as your upper half rises off the table.

Slowly you lay back, struggling to control your muscle tremors and with one final kiss to your throbbing clit, that makes you yelp, Astarion pulls back, draping your skirt back in place and slipping your underwear in his pocket.

"You see, I can be quite forgiving darling. Just don't push it in the future."

[benevolenterrancy]

Congrats, now all I'm going to be able to think about all day long is Chifeng-zun being stunned into silence by the sight of Meng Yao's braids, the same as if he had never left. His hand reaches out and clenches in mid-air, while Jin Guangyao stands shell-shocked and panicking, or blissfully oblivious to how Nie Mingjue's world is tilting on its axis. He could be mad, the rage that almost let him call the Unclean Realm home making Hensheng thrum: because what right does Nie Mingjue have to want him now, when he finally has a place he belongs? And why does want to quit it all for him?

Anyway, now you can share in my brain worms~

In that moment, something was communicated

unfortunately, neither knew exactly what it was

[bbnibini]

Random Cocytus Hall Headcanons

Mornings start late. Breakfast is lunch, lunch is dinner and dinner are some random snacks in the middle of the night–small and bite-sized, especially made for one particular sorcerer who has a tendency to forget his meals once he’s deep in his research.

Solomon gained a habit of eating anything that’s put in front of him, your pen? Gone. MC? Why is the steak crunchy? Man’s literally pavloved to do this because he wouldn’t eat otherwise. (Thanks, OG!Timeline, Simeon.)

Your weekends are spent scouring for magical items that will be considered rare in the original timeline/future. An "investment" if you will.

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” “Am I also a worm, MC?” “No????” “Can I be one too? 🥺👉👈” (He doesn’t want you to be alone)

“Pretending” to be a couple to get couple’s discounts in everything. Purposely making a scene in public for clout. (Fake proposals, wholesome pranks and polite catcalling). You both like the chaos. Responsibly (because Barbatos is watching). Sometimes, Asmo joins in too!

Every day is a marathon to outrun Solomon to the kitchen. It’s rather unfortunate that most of the time when it’s his turn to do the cooking, something goes wrong and you have to eat out. Not like he minds (a date is a date<3).

This is you everytime you try to wake Solomon in the morning. (He’s a notorious night owl and also a light sleeper, so he made some precautions to get a good rest by casting several layers of sound blocking spells that activate once his brain waves fall into a specific frequency range. And yes. You have to disarm them One.By.One. Every.Morning.) As much as you want him to sleep longer, unfortunately, RAD doesn’t have night class. :’( (What is even “night” in Devildom if it’s always dark? Don’t mind me having an existential crisis over a fictional realm lmao)

Solomon isn’t the type of person who voices out his grievances. He’s the type who endures and always tries to act “maturely”, especially in situations he considers unfair. (Please protect this man. He doesn’t know a thing about receiving compassion nor affection. It’s a very touchy subject to him; he would rather give and get nothing in return. Because that's what always happens. Kindness makes him vulnerable and being vulnerable scares him. )Why would he make his dearest apprentice worry? You are a person meant to be loved(unlike him), and he is painfully aware how he would have to share your attention with everyone else. What you might not know is how much he beats himself up over feeling “petty emotions”. Jealousy? Loneliness? A few swigs of liquid courage would make him forget, even just for the night. He is Solomon the Wise, not Solomon the Fool.

Is the type who answers you in person every time you try to text him in Decommunication:

You Hey, do we still have some bread? seen 1 hour ago

Then when you got tired waiting for him to text back he just: *Teleports behind you* “I bought some now! Did we forget anything else?”“SOLOMON I AM LITERALLY IN THE BATHROOM RIGHT NOW! HOW DID YOU GET HERE? WHY CAN’T YOU ANSWER MY TEXTS LIKE A NORMAL PERSON?!”“But…what about the bread? :( I got it for you.” "GET. OUT." "Do you need toilet pap-" "GET OUT!!!"

Contrary to Solomon’s defeatist beliefs, you crave his presence as much as he does. The little traces of him in Cocytus hall that lingers there even in his absence brings you so much comfort and reassurance. He is the first person you turn to in difficult times. “If Solomon is here, everything will be okay.” is a mantra you like muttering to yourself when you are especially troubled. Perhaps if a certain, depressed and inebriated soul would come to hear it, his own heart’s worries would finally be silenced.

WE GET IT! YOU’RE MARRIED!!  <; —----- everyone when you talk about each other

----

Happy NB Remix Release! Take this late tribute (AO3 mirror)

[mushroommanstan]

Sleepy Handy

Shigaraki x reader

Warnings: smut, mommy kink, hand job

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You gasped as your eyes opened with a start, just coming out of an intense dream only to be met with the equally intense red eyes of your lover. He flinched, retracting the hand he used to nudge you awake like you burned him, discomfort etched into his face.

You let out a deep exhale, eyes fluttering in the darkness as your tired mind tried to get a grip of its surroundings. You let out a sleepy groan, eyes lazily landing on your boyfriend as as you rubbed one of them with your fist.

“Shiggy?” You called out, weakly. “Waz th matter babe?”

He sighed, looking away from you childishly. “I can’t sleep.”

You hummed, reaching over and turning on the beside table lamp, the piercing brightness making Shigaraki hiss.

He huffed, eyes finally adjusting as he got a good look at your tired expression. One that made him feel even worse for having to wake you up, knowing you cherish your rest a lot more than he did. But, then again, you were the only person in the world that could help him with this.

You knew what he wanted you to do, restless nights happening often for him and becoming almost routine. And yet, you waited. Waited for him to ask you properly. To beg, like a good boy.

Shigaraki sighed, his eyes leaving your face entirely once more as he mumbled:

“Can you just… do the thing?”

You had to stop the smirk that threatened to worm its way onto your face. You have him no answer, instead grabbing his chin and forcing him to look at you properly.

“The thing? You’re gonna have to be more specific baby. And where’s my ‘please and thank yous’? Have you forgotten your manners already? How can I help such a naughty boy.”

He looked at you, fear in his eyes as he honestly thought you were going to reject him in his time of need. The sight almost made you drool.

“Please mommy… just-please?! Please d-do the thing! You know, the thing!” His voices raised slightly, cracked with exhaustion.

You let him sit in silence for a moment as you pretended to mull it over. But truth be told, his fate had been decided the moment he woke you up. Of course you’ll help him.

How could you say no to such a good boy?

You reached out, hand fumbling with the hem of his boxers, making him gasp in surprise. He shifted, pulling them off impatiently and presenting you with his achingly hard cock. You smirked. Just like clockwork.

Slowly, your hand began to pump him, soft tugs that had his hips jumping impatiently. A harsh glare stilled him.

Your other hand reached down and grabbed his nuts, gently squeezing them as your hand continued to glide over his shaft. He wheezed, trembling a little whenever you stopped to tease at the head.

You always knew just how he liked it. If any part of him became extra needy while you pleasured him you attacked it mercilessly before he could even open his mouth. It was scary, honestly, how you were able to read him better than he could himself. Not that he was complaining, or could even do so with soft moans replacing all words and thought as you sped up.

He could feel electricity pulsing through him, his legs rising as he slowly went into the fetal position as you continued. Both of you could feel his heart racing, his shaft now beginning to pulse as his balls tightened in your grip.

Then, just for a moment, everything was bliss as you quickly leaned down and took his head in your mouth, catching his ropes of cum as he exploded in euphoria. He whimpered loudly, wanting to grab your head and smush you into his thighs but not being able to do anything but tremble and wail out.

Then, finally, you pulled off of him, wiping your chin as he melted back. His restless nerves and muscles finally relaxing, his tired brain finally getting the message that it was sleepy time. He went completely limp, drool escaping his mouth a little as his eyes fluttered.

You rose, taking the blankets edge with you and tucked him back under the covers comfortably. His eyes fell shut as he felt you adjust his pillow for him, and you ended your help with a little boop on his adorable lil nose.

“When you wake up, you’re doing the same for me.” You taunted, but he was already too far gone, snoring peacefully looking like he’d been alseep for hours. You smiled, reaching back and turning off the lamp with a satisfying ‘click click’.

Whatever, you’ll get him in the morning

[jude5bellingham]

Jude is sitting on the apex of a dune, leaning back, using his arms to support his weight, taking in the waves of sand created by the worms. Although he missed the sights of the rugged terrain and water that caladan offered, arrakis had its own unique charm, with the wind slowing down, the sand and spice being dragged in the air looking almost mist-like. You approach him silently from behind, but he starts before you can say anything.

"a messiah?" jude can only scoff and shake his head, the idea that he is a messiah is so ridiculous to him. He was hardly equipped to lead his house (when he was a duke-to-be), much less a population of religious fanatics who believed him to be their prophesied saviour.

Your eyes stay set on him, unblinking. You don't say anything, hoping that the silence will give him the time and ability to digest his fate. You hope that in the silence, that he will hear it.

"they can't be serious..." his gaze drops to the floor, suddenly understanding the gravity of the situation which he is in. Your gaze drops with his as you're unable to do anything other than nod, you're sure that he desires some form of comfort but you aren't able to provide him with it, not now, especially not now. he stands up, his back to you, staring at the horizon in front of him created by the varying dunes of sand.

"Tell me..." he starts, keeping his back to you, standing completely still, "do you believe, honestly, that I am the messiah? Your messiah?"

You take a step to stand next to him, huffing a breath out as you do, carefully sifting through the words running through your head to attempt to form a sentence light enough for him to hold onto for now, fearing that a heavier statement may only cause him to bend under its weight.

"I don't know..." you begin, Jude's head turning to look at you, "I think a messiah is just about hope, you know, something to believe in…"

His eyes watch as your chest rises and falls while you think carefully about your choice of words, treading lightly around the idea of him being a hero, prophet, and messiah. He juts his bottom lip out to urge you to continue your train of thought, he’s sure that whatever words you speak next will be far more intelligible than anything he has going on in his brain currently anyways.

"You've seen it Jude. The way people look at you, the looks that your presence commands…” You turn towards him as you speak, finally meeting his gaze, “You inspire hope and I think that’s more than enough.”

“Even if it's false?” he turns towards to look at the horizon again, his question leaves his lips as a quiet mumble, fearing any answer you could possibly give him to his question.

“Hope is never false.” you state, copying him and looking at the horizon, “Not to the believer.”

He can't help but chew on his bottom lip, thinking about it all. so ridiculous. all of it. Just a while ago he was the son of the Duke, now he is expected to lead the Fremen to freedom. How was he supposed to manage that?

hi this is a short part from my dune!jude au 😭 i havent proofread it but im about 3k words in but i wanted to see if i'd get any engagement!! thank you so much if you've read this far 🤍🤍 please let me know your thoughts

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

murphy congrats on 5k!!!! ahhh you deserve it all<3333

for the celebration, if possible could i request a lil blurb with the prompt “it’s always been you.” with dbf!santi?

once again congrats🥳🥳

Cards On The Table.

dads bestfriend!santiago garcia x female reader

warnings - cursing. unspecified age gap.

note - thank you babe!! you’re too sweet <3

written for my 5k celebration - post here, masterlist here, inbox here.

“Why are you being a brat?”

You scoff, shaking your head incredulously.

“Me? I’m being a brat?”

“Yeah. You are. Cut that shit out.”

You’re stood outside your front door, Santi’s fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist. Your family and friends are in the backyard, enjoying the barbecue that your dad is perfecting.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Santiago.”

He sighs deeply, hunching over and putting his hands on his knees. He looks as done as you feel.

“I didn’t drag you here to argue.”

“Then why did you?”

He’d snapped at you in the kitchen, one of your many comments of the day finally adding up. Snatching at your wrist, he’d pulled you forcefully out the front and onto the porch, shutting the door behind him quietly.

“I- I want to know what’s the matter with you. Why you’ve been so upset with me today.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You weren’t quite prepared for his honesty, or the fact that he’d noticed how unhappy you’ve been. You could tell him the truth, but that’ll open a whole new can of worms. So, you bow your head and sit down, silence engulfing you both.

“Hermosa-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ve always called you that.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

He’s quiet again, clearly unwilling to let the issue go. He moves to sit next to you, thigh pressing into yours.

“Please,” he begs. “What have I done, hmm? I don’t like feeling like you’re mad at me.”

You’re tired. Tired of fighting the way you feel, tired of protesting your mind all the time. So, you give up. You tear down your walls and let him in.

“Why did you bring her?” you whisper.

“Emma?”

“Yeah.”

“I- I don’t know. Your dad told me I should bring a date, and I just… I thought it would be alright. I didn’t really think it through.”

You process for a moment, unmoving.

“Is… is that why you’re upset with me, carinõ?”

You blink back tears. You feel stupid, having thought that there was something between the two of you. You know it’d be wrong, you know it’d be forbidden… but the heart wants what it wants. You figured that maybe your little crush would go away, but then… it didn’t. And all of a sudden, it felt like Santiago was looking at you differently. Speaking to you differently. Treating you differently.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do.”

“Then yeah. Maybe. Doesn’t matter now anyway.”

“It matters to me.”

You shake your head, biting at your bottom lip nervously. You can hear your parents jokingly shouting at each other in the back, competitive as ever as they play a game by the pool.

“Just leave it, Santi. Look, I’m sorry I was a bitch today. I didn’t mean to take it out on you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

He grabs your hand, rough skin against your soft palm.

“Look at me. Please.”

You tilt your chin up to meet his big brown eyes, warm and pleading.

“Cards on the table.”

“Cards on the table?”

“Cards on the table… I only invited Emma to try and get over you.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you look at him, mouth slightly agape. You’re trying to work out what this means, processing his words, but your brain keeps coming up empty.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t feel what I feel… but I do. And I knew it just wasn’t realistic, so, finally, I decided I needed to move on. Your dad suggested dating, and I thought fuck it, why not? Can’t hurt, right?”

He squeezes your hand, and continues.

“Wrong. It hurt so bad, sitting there with her and watching you watch me with that look in your eyes. Like I’d betrayed you or something. Which I guess, I kinda did.”

“I don’t- Santi, I… what are you saying?”

“I’m saying…”

He cradles your face in his hands, gazing at you pointedly.

“It’s always been you, hermosa.”

“It- it has?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, resting his forehead against yours. “And I know this is complicated, and confusing, and all sorts of wrong, but… I’m sick of denying what I want.”

“We can figure it out,” you whisper. “It’ll take time, but, we can.”

“I know we can. I know.”

He leans in and presses his lips to yours, gently and tenderly.

“We’ll take it one day at a time,” he reassures against your mouth.

You nod, pulling back to rest your head on his chest.

“You can start by taking Emma home,” you mumble into his t shirt.

He laughs, pulling you in closer.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” you chuckle, wrapping your arms around his back.

“One day at a time,” he reassures quietly, rubbing patterns into your bare shoulders.

“One day at a time.”

[billietherock]

There was No Weirdmageddon (Pt5)

By:Billietherock

Chapter 2 (Pt2) Deals over Tea

Ford coughs not expecting that answer, I mean who would. But what Ford was concerned about was how he could fix this ‘too much Humanity’ problem. He knew it was how he worked, but was it because he went about things wrong or that simply didn’t have the mental fortitude for the amount of work Bill was asking of him? Or worse, maybe it was both.

It entertained Bill to see Ford in such a state of panic. Watching his thoughts race just behind his eyes, even entertaining for the fact that Ford was breaking the silence with his erratic breathing. This whole situation entertained the demon, even as predictable as it tended to be. His hand was almost twitching with the excitement of an incoming deal.

Bill pours himself another cup of the tea as Ford squirms under his gaze. Ford was finding it hard to focus on his own thoughts, desperately trying to fix himself on the spot.

Bill seems to soften his gaze,” Oh Fordsy, someone is in a panic again~” Bill floats over and lightly touches his head” here. Let’s make you feel better. Great minds can’t think when you’re in such a panic!”

Ford’s cheeks get a slight tint of pink to them, slowly his thoughts start to clear, he takes a breath. Bills chuckles and ruffles Ford’s hair a little before sitting on the table, directly in front of him. Bill throws his hands out to the side and the objects around him immediately disappear, the color even drains from the space they were in.

“So. How to fix that little limitation you have?” He pokes Ford’s forehead,” you can’t really erase the humanity out of a human, cause you’d just end up dead!”

Bill teleports behind him, causing Ford to jump a little,” the thing is, humans need to eat… sleep and rest, or else they become useless piles of worm food! So how do you fix that Sixer?”

Bill wraps his arm around Ford and pokes his cheek, causing Ford to look at him. Stanford Pines for once didn’t have an answer.

“You, don’t I suppose?” He says, grasping at straws for something.

Bill shakes Ford’s head around,” DING DING DING! That’s right! Boy are you smart! You can’t do anything about it! But I can.”

Ford shakes the dizziness out of his brain and quickly looks at Bill,” you can… suppress my human instincts?!” He seemed pleasantly surprised,” how have I never thought of this?! This would put my productivity through the stratosphere!” He grabs Bill,” tell me! How do you plan on doing it?”

Bill blinks and shakes out of Stanford’s grip,” well, unfortunately, eating is required… but sleeping isn’t.” He floats above Ford’s head,” so while you sleep, and dream of whatever, I’ll be piloting this meat suit you call a body! We’d get that portal done in no time.”

He teleports in front of Ford once again and holds out his hand,” so whaddya say? Goodbye to human limitations and hello to progress?”

Stanford Pines in another universe would be all too eager to shake Bill’s hand. Kick off the events that would lead to the deaths of almost his whole family. But now, as he stared at the hand of almost certain death, he was hesitating.

Bill held his pose for a while before quickly growing annoyed,” I will say it again! Sleep wouldn’t be an issue! You could wake up to pages and pages of new notes and get an added bonus!” He leans in,” You could fire that Fiddleford Guy!”

Ford stares at Bill as he keeps the pose, down to the smile only shown in his eye. It’s a few minutes of thinking, Ford’s heartbeat in his ears counting every second. The final stone falls on the cosmic scale.

“No.” He pushes Bill’s hand down.

Bill blinks,” What. do. You. Mean. No.”

Stanford Pines thinks for a second, before looking up with a sigh, he thought of his twin Stanley, what he would do in this situation. He thought about whenever they would get into a situation where they only had one or two options. Stanford steals his resolve.

“I mean I have a different deal… in mind.”

(Thanks to everyone showing their support! Ya’ll may get a few extra parts today since I’m moving back to Uni. Thanks everyone for the support. Any spelling or Grammar errors will be fixed in due time)