#why is this hurting me like cloy

[luveline]

reader getting really stressed out about being pregnant for the first time and so hotch just makes her sit down and he totally pampers her for the day?? idk u asked for hotch reqs and this is just the first thing i squeezed out my brain

thank you for requesting <3 fem, 1.2k

There are many things that come with being pregnant. Joy, for sure, but hardship and doubt overwhelmingly. You’re always treating an ailment you didn’t expect to have or worrying that things won’t be ready —that you won’t be ready. 

You’ve developed a bad habit. You can’t stop picking at your hands. Your skin is drier since you’ve been pregnant and the further along you get, the worse it becomes. You scratch at a dry patch between your fingers, wince when it hurts, but continue until there’s no dry skin left to pick, just raw soreness. It’s the first time you’ve made yourself bleed. 

“Are you doing it again?” Aaron asks from the hallway.

You drop your guilty hands down and turn away from his approach. “No, I’m not.” 

“You are, aren’t you?” he asks, a smile in his voice. His hand is warm where he takes your shoulder, turning you to face him. “Show me.” 

“No.” 

“Show me,” he says again, not asking. 

You were supposed to be doing the dishes, but you’d noticed your baby bump was getting in the way, which was oddly beautiful for a few seconds, but was quickly just another imposition in a day full of small annoyances. It is never going to get any easier, your stomach will continue to grow as the baby grows and your body accommodates her, and when you do have her you’ll have to find a way to wash dishes with her held to your chest or on your hip. And it’s lovely, it’s what you signed up for, you can’t wait to be a mom and love your baby, but that’s a big change, too. 

Now you're tail-spin panicking about your life and your hands take the brunt of it. Aaron can’t stop you, but he always tries. 

“I can’t understand why you do this,” he says, parting your fingers gently to assess the damage, “it must hurt. Can you stop?” 

He asks with a mixture of humour and fondness, his eyes on yours and a small smile playing on his lips to encourage a better mood. You don’t have much to give, but you smile back. 

“I know I shouldn’t pick it,” you say. 

“But it’s hard to stop,” he surmises, bringing your hand to his mouth for a soft peck against the back of it, far from your broken skin. 

“I’m just worried.” 

“Oh, I know,” he says, pulling at your hand as he takes your hip in his other and drags you into him. Your bump immediately blocks the way, but bodies are soft, and he keeps on pulling until you’re squished together. 

He smells like something particular. Not cologne or deodorant, not soap or laundry detergent. You can’t put your finger on the scent, your cheek pressed against his shoulder and your nose to his neck, thinking. It’s a sugary smell, but it’s cloying, too, like you’d touch the smell and have a residue on your fingers.

“I changed the air freshener in the bathroom,” he says quietly, his face turned down to yours. 

You don’t bother asking how he knows what you’d been thinking. He’s your mind reader. 

“It was making me feel sick,” you say unnecessarily. 

“I know. Let’s go sit down, my girl.” 

My girl, you think, not sure if you should roll your eyes or hug him tighter. 

You let him lead you from the kitchen to the living room, where he helps you down onto the nice couch, much too nice for babies. You can’t imagine it will stay very clean, but perhaps you’re being cynical. Still, you lean back against the cushions and rub your cheek into clean leather. 

Aaron takes the faux rabbit fur throw from the armrest and shakes it out over you with care, tucking it under your legs, and kissing your cheek as he secures it behind your back. All tucked in, he holds your hands together atop the blanket to encourage you to feel the texture. It’s a good distraction from picking at your hands, which he knows. Aaron knows everything. 

“What do we need?” he asks. “A drink? Dinner’s easy tonight, I’ve promised Jack we’ll make lasagne. Does that sound good to you?” 

You’re honestly not sure. You're quiet for a moment too long. “Sorry,” you frown. 

“I can make you anything you want. It doesn’t bother me.” 

“I feel a little like I’m acting over the top about this.” You’re pregnant. Millions and millions and millions of women have been pregnant. 

“About what?” he asks, sitting beside you on the couch, your blanket untucking under his legs. “Being tired? You can’t decide.” 

“About everything, I guess.” 

“Well, when you figure out what it is that’s making this,” —he puts a hand to your belly— “over the top, you can let me know.” 

You lift your chin. He kisses you soundly. 

It’s nice to be loved like this. 

“What’s up with my baby?” he asks, giving your stomach a soft rub. “Is she moving today?” 

You lean back and he understands that to mean he should feel lower, where you can feel the baby’s weight more clearly. “Not much moving. She gave me a good kick earlier.” 

“Yeah?” 

“I think so.” 

He feels along the bottom of your stomach politely. It’s a little funny, the baby wouldn’t exist without him being rather less polite, but it’s also lovely. You can trust him to be a great father because he’s already an adoring husband. If he treats you with a never ending supply of tender caring and soft touches, it’s easy to picture how he’ll treat your girl. You’ve never once doubted him, and he’s never hurt you. You don’t think he could. 

“There?” he asks, putting his hand to the right side of the bump. 

You can’t be totally certain, but you’re sure he’s right. “Right there, handsome.” 

Things are far less stressful to think of when he’s near. He reminds you in something as small as a thumb to your belly that everything will be taken care of. You’re not half as alone as you feel, and neither is your baby. Aaron can do the dishes while you’re unable. He’d do them even if your only reason was that you didn’t want to. 

“Hello,” he says, charmed, eyes glowing with excitement as you encourage your shirt up over your stomach for a better view. Aaron places his hand to your naked skin, palm hot. “I love you.” 

He has to tap you under the chin for you to know who it is he’s talking to. “I love you, too,” you say quickly. 

He smiles, before his attention falls completely to your stomach once again. “And you, sweetheart. I love you. Can you say hello?” 

He has to talk for a while, but eventually your baby moves. 

Your shoulders relax. You close your eyes and let him murmur to you both, peaceful for a desperately needed half an hour.

[threepandas]

Bad End, Hidden Heir: Part 2

Prev <-

A pounding headache and cave air, that's what I woke up too. The air was being choked, though, by familiar scents. All trying desperately to make the cold, wet, and softly echoing quiet, hospitable. It was nauseating in my current state. Weak and... drugged? Had I been drugged? I certainly hadn't been drunk.

So why did my head hurt so much?

Why did every motion, make my stomach want to rebel?

My limbs felt so WEAK. Heavy and useless. Barely budging when I try to lift them. To rub my head? Adjust the blanket? Sit up? I can't tell. Thinking... thinking is so hard past... the pounding in my head. The fog. I struggle to concentrate. God, that SMELL.

Like a perfume store combined with... with... ugh. Everything!

I could pick out individual scents I knew I liked, on their own, added to the nauseating chaos. My favorite potpourri was there. But so was the one I like for winter? Fall? That one I liked as a kid until I found Mrs. Tianna's blend...

And perfumes! Colognes! The clean products and scents I preferred the maids used. God it... it blended together like a trash heap. As though someone drove a carriage through a perfume shop at speed. Cloying and musk and spice and fruity and-!

I sucked air through my teeth, trying not to smell it, hoping to god I wouldn't TASTE it.

Finally I managed to pry my eyes open. Either hunger or thirst giving my the strength to push past the nauseating pain. I NEEDED to move. Find out what was happening. Survive.

My gaze... met the most elaborate embroidery I had ever seen. Tapestries had less art. Almost to the point of gaudiness. Possibly past it. It was...

It was everything I had ever said I liked.

Too anyone.

Puppies and flowers, history and art, books scenes and more. It kept GOING! Hideous and magnificent. Chaos. Unhinged. Flowing down from above me, along the rest of the curtains, for the canopy bed upon which I rest. So I would be surrounded by it all. Even the blanket... it was a sea of my favorite flowers, made eternal through string.

This wasn't something people just DID. Could just FIND. I could feel my panic under the muting pain and exhaustion. This was the work of YEARS. Obsessive, continuous, YEARS. Some of these threads cost more then certain house hold make in WEEKS! And for what? A secret canopy bed?!

I struggled, body barely able to obey me but trying desperately to assist. The blankets were heavy. The curtain around the bed equally so, thanks to all the embroidery. I.. I manage to roll. Squirm. Wriggle my way, undignified, to the edge. Flop over it and out from under the blanket. Too freedom.

The air is cold.

The scents WORSE out here. Now, I can see why.

It is a museum to all that I am. Every like carefully gathered in one place, every preference. Stacked and shoved together, with no regard for if they fit. Hoarded like a collection.

I can not even tell... if I am sitting, flopped down, on my favorite winter bedside carpet or just an exact copy. My entire life is shoved together and suddenly... suddenly I do not like any of these things at all. They feel dirty. Dangerous. Like they have betrayed me. I want to cry.

But I am nauseous. Hurting. Tired and thirsty. So very hungry dispite it all. I just... I just need to know what's going ON! This isn't... this isn't how the Game goes! Not for Protag-chan. Not for me! I know I changed my "character's" behavior... but...

I... I don't understand...

Try not to cry. It's... it's really hard.

I was right. I'm pretty sure this is the Caves of Spring in the northwest of the Duchy. The offical Heir has an estate near them. The stone looks like the cliffs I'd seen in passing.

Crawling is hard. My legs keep getting tangled in my fucking nightgown. My... my f.. favorite.. nightgown! I'm not gonna cry. Damn it. I'm NOT GONNA CRY. How dare he? How DARE he ruin even that? What did he DO to me!? When I was... was...

No, don't think about it!

Move.

A decanter. Needlessly pretty. I probably loved it as a girl, fresh into this world. Everything was so FANCY and I wasn't used to having money yet. Hadn't developed any real class or taste. It looks so fucking gaudy to me now. But God, it has water. Please... PLEASE let that be water!

I drag myself up on badly shaking limbs. Nothing wants to hold. Wrists buckling, knees giving, legs shaking like a new born lamb. My arms are so weak. But thirst... oh thirst is a powerful motivator.

I force myself to move.

The water is not enough. It is everything. Cold and perfect, I force myself to go slow. To not spill a single drop, as I collapse against the dresser it was placed upon. Letting my eyes explore my cage in the way my poor abused body can not.

There are thick bars buried deep into the bedrock, separating the "room" I'm in from the hall that leads away from it. And it IS a "room". Made in cruel mockery to resemble the luxury of the dukes estate. Perhaps even more aggressively decadent in certain aspects, though that isn't a good thing. It makes it border on a storage room, for how crowded with luxury it has become.

It is the reflection of an unwell mind.

And staring up at the portraits of myself I KNOW I never sat for? The countless sketches pinned up beyond the bars? I am in trouble. I... I should have run. Not sent Creep away. I should have been the one to run. Before it was too late.

I think... I think it might be too late.

Footsteps.

I want to escape. But where can I run? I am caged. I feel close and far away. My head hurts. My body hurts. Everything stinks and I am cold. Why? Why did you do this? The foot steps are calm and commanding. Even. They do not break stride.

I do not bother to watch my hunter approach me. The monster I can not escape.

I close my eyes to spare myself the pounding in my head. Drink more water.

He makes a softly dismayed sound, as though he was not the one to drug me, to leave me here. The door to my cage opens. Closes. Ah... such a heavy lock. Should I be flattered?

Crisp steps, the rustle of fabric.

"My lady, the floor is so dirty! You shouldn't be out of bed yet. I was just about to make you tea."

The AUDACITY.

Tea? TEA! Ha ha! After DRUGGING my tea? He actually expects me to accept a cup from him again?! He truely IS insane, isn't he?

I am scooped up without my consent, unable to so much a truely struggle. Placed gently on a plush chair, a tea table moved in front of me. A familiar cup. My favorite blend. Pretty little snacks laid out deftly on lovely little plates. I grit my teeth. Slowly tip my head up to glare.

He pauses when our eye meet... then shudders, some terrible look of pleasure dancing across his face.

"That's right... look at me~" he whispers, leaning entirely too close. "I'm all that you have now. So you'll HAVE too now! No more others. No more distractions. No more sending me away! People trying to get between us. Trying to take you away. I'm all that you need, My Lady. All you'll EVER need."

"Just look at ME, your loyal dog. And I'll take such good care of you. I promise~♡"

[captain-hawks]

Muahahahahahaha~ Let’s give our Iwa some attention; Iwaizumi and bathroom

familiar

hajime iwaizumi x f!reader

The timing has never quite been right for you and Iwaizumi—until a run-in with your ex at a wedding changes everything.

wc: 2.6k

c: 18+ only, best friends to lovers speed run, hurt/comfort, fingering, unprotected p in v, creampie, oral (f!receiving), cum eating, past infidelity (not iwa)

SPICY SLEEPOVER WEEKEND - PART V

“Tell me what you need.”

Your nostrils burn from the cloying, floral scent that hangs heavily in the air of the oversized bathroom as you sit atop the sink’s white marble countertop, head leaning back against the ornate mirror.

Iwaizumi squeezes your knee when you don’t respond, his callused fingers gently grasping the bare skin exposed by the slit in your dress—if only by consequence, rather than a conscious choice. 

“A time machine,” you mutter, voice thick as you blindly reach out for the box of tissues you spotted near the faucet when you walked in. 

A hand brushes against yours, followed by the soft press of the thin, white square against the hot, angry tears streaming down your cheeks. 

“That’s above my pay grade,” he grumbles, “but I can go punch him if you want.”

You choke out a watery laugh, your fingertips colliding as you take the tissue from him and dab at the corners of your eyes before crumbling it into a ball. 

In hindsight, you should have known your ex-fiancé would be at this wedding, given the unfortunate amount of mutual friends that the two of you share. But of all the brash moves, you certainly weren’t expecting him to walk in with the woman he cheated on you with. 

You don’t miss him, not really. Not since it became abundantly clear he’d been fucking his personal assistant for most of your relationship. Not since you realized everything you thought you knew about him was a lie. 

It’s embarrassment and anger that fuels the remaining tears still threatening to traipse their way down your cheeks now, tears that soak into the new tissue Iwaizumi’s already patiently holding below your eyelashes.

“To be fair, I always wanted to punch him,” Iwaizumi mutters under his breath. 

Embarrassment, anger—and regret for the long-buried feelings for your best friend that now stands before you, his brows furrowed in annoyance and concern in equal measure.

It’s always been there between the two of you, this heady, dizzy feeling—charged and humming like the atmosphere on the brink of a rolling thunderstorm.  

But the timing’s never been right. Not back then, when relationships and school and sports and jobs were endlessly in the way. And certainly not now, when you shouldn’t even be hidden away crying in this obnoxiously fancy bathroom with Iwaizumi in the first place—not while he’s dating one of the bridesmaids. 

He seems to know exactly what you’re thinking, too, because—

“You should probably go find—“

“—we broke up.”

You blink at him several times, caught off guard both by the admission and the unwavering way he’s staring at you now.

Well, you had thought it was odd that you didn’t see them interact at all leading up to the reception.

“Why?”

He inhales slowly before he responds, “She said I was too involved in what’s going on with you.”

A wave of guilt washes over you as you think about how he was the first person you told what happened—in the middle of the night when you got home early from a trip and found your side of the bed occupied.

The way he didn’t even ask before getting into his car and driving across town to pick you up.

The feeling of your fingers desperately clasping the sleeve of his sweatshirt on the sidewalk as you pleaded with him not to storm back into the apartment, the sight of his clenched fists.

The steady, reassuring warmth of his arms around your tired, shaking frame as he held you close against the passenger side door of his car when your trembling fingers couldn’t pull the handle. 

You spent that night in his bed, while he insisted on taking the couch. And in the weeks that followed, after you scrambled to find your own place, he hovered. He checked in on you frequently. He brought you food.

He—

It’s not like you can blame his girlfriend—

“So she—”

It’s obvious that Iwaizumi knows you well enough to anticipate your reaction, the way you begin to shrink in on yourself, because his voice is a little rough as he tilts your chin back up to look at him and says, “No, I told her that she could leave if she didn’t like it, because this isn’t going to change.”

Iwaizumi’s gaze has always been a heavy, tangible thing, but it’s particularly difficult to breathe under the weight of it now.

“What’s not going to change?” you ask quietly.

He leans in a little closer, standing between your legs, the inside of your thighs brushing against his hips. “The way I’m always going to put you first, whether I mean to or not.”

“Iwa—”

His eyes fall shut. “I hated when you started calling me that again.”

You’d started using his given name in high school, but the letters went quiet on your tongue in the years after, a forced wedge of distance.

A necessity.

It felt too familiar, more familiar than he should be to you, to your heart.

You didn’t realize how much it bothered him.

“Hajime,” you correct yourself.

A nearly imperceptible shudder runs through him, and when he opens his eyes, they’re filled with an emotion you can’t quite define, not under the duress of your rapidly beating heart.

“Tell me what you need,” he repeats, slowly and deliberately.

You.

It’s always been you.

Your fingers shake slightly as you reach out to grasp his tie, the silk smooth against your palm as you pull him closer.

“Hajime,” you whisper again, so quiet the syllables barely make a sound as they slide over your lips.

His forehead presses against yours, your noses brushing as he rasps, “You know I’d give you anything.”

A hot, heady rush floods your veins, and you press the heels of your feet back into the cabinet of the sink, if only to ground yourself as the honesty in his words scrapes against your ribcage. Releasing his tie, you carefully let your fingers linger against the side of his neck. There’s a sharp inhale of breath as your thumb makes contact with the hinge of his jaw, though Hajime’s own hands remain planted on the countertop.

The sound of your own given name is like a whispered kiss into the space that lingers between your mouths. “Tell me what you want from me.”

Hajime smells mint gum and that same goddamn body wash he’s been using since high school.

Your heart stumbles as you breathe him in.

“More than you can give,” you admit, voice wavering under the raw honesty of your words.

He laughs, and it’s a low sound of amusement that rumbles in his chest. “I doubt that.”

Heat and anticipation and disbelief swell rapidly in your chest, and it’s enough to find the courage to finally quell the traitorous, steady itch in your fingertips—which seem to be moving of their own volition as they card through Hajime’s soft, dark, messy hair. 

He sighs, and it spurs you on further, letting your hand drop to the back of his head to tug at the shorter hair at the nape of his neck. This earns you a groan that dances haphazardly down the notches of your spine. 

“Show me what you want, Hajime,” you tell him, swallowing thickly.

It feels disarmingly natural, the way his hands come up to cup your face, the stroke of his thumbs against the curve of your jaw. 

He’s so fucking handsome, it hurts. 

Turning your face to the side, you press a kiss to the tip of his thumb. “Please.”

Despite all the times you’ve imagined this, all the late nights spent staring at your bedroom ceiling, all of the hopeless scenarios you’ve kept tucked way like a well-worn note tattered to the bone at every groove—every little thing your mind has conjured up pales in comparison to the way Hajime’s lips finally come crashing into yours.

With one hand cupping the back of your head and the other sliding down to curl around your hip, Hajime kisses you like he’s wanted this just as badly as you always have. Like he knows every dip and curve along the shape of your lips.

Like he wants to swallow every last molecule that separates your mouth from his.

It’s all-consuming, the damp heat of his lips, the steady pressure of his thumb against your hip bone, the satisfied groan he lets out as you wrap your legs around his waist and pull yourself against him. 

His tongue skirts along the seam of your lips, slipping into your mouth as they part to deepen the kiss, and all of the want and need you’ve kept bottled up inside of you spills out into something hot and messy that scorches its way through your abdomen. 

Logically, some part of you knows you should probably talk about this somewhere, anywhere but this ornately fancy single-occupant bathroom during a wedding reception. 

But it’s difficult to pin down a single morsel of logic when the sole, unspoken object of your deepest desires is currently wrapping his tongue around yours as the large palm of his hand blazes hot where it’s pressing into the small of your back, the pressure of his fingertips burning through the fabric of your dress.

It’s an accident—the way you rock forward into Hajime when he takes your bottom lip between his teeth, the breathy little moan that punches out of you at the feeling of his erection pressing into your hot core. 

But it’s not an accident when you do it again, purposefully grinding against him, the arousal simmering inside of you cracking open wide as he kisses you harder, groaning into your mouth. One of his hands makes its way up your side, caressing the swell of your breasts that’s been threatening to spill out of the top of your dress since you slipped it on earlier.

“You have no idea how distracting your dress is,” he growls, though there’s no real heat in the sound, only a desperation that curls around the edges of each word as he tugs the material down enough to expose one of your peaked nipples.

You have half a mind to complain when his lips part from yours, a trail of spit hanging between your mouths for a moment, but it’s a moot point when he leans down to swipe his tongue across the pert, sensitive bud.

“Fuck, Hajime,” you whine, fingers digging into his hair as he gently sucks, shameless in the way you rearrange the skirt of your dress to let the cotton of your panties press directly against the black fabric of his pants. 

But it’s still not enough to quell the fire in your veins.

“Hajime,” you whimper again, the sound almost embarrassingly needy as you hump the outline of his hard cock.

Hands grasp your hips, the air conditioning in the room cool against your spit-soaked nipple as he abandons it to press his lips to yours while he hooks his fingers in the waistband of your panties.

“I need you to tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your mouth. “This stops where you say it stops.”

Fingers trailing along the back of his neck, you run your tongue along his bottom lip, too drunk on your desire to feel shy about the words that push their way past your teeth. “I want to feel you inside of me.”

He lets out a rough groan, taking your tongue into his mouth and sucking on it. Gently, he trails one finger down the length of your damp panties. “Like this?”

You shake your head, reaching a hand between your bodies to clasp his shaft, a fresh stroke of arousal unfurling inside of you at the size of it.

Hajime lets out a gravelly, disbelieving sound. “I don’t have a—”

All it takes is an exchange of breathless, needy reassurances about contraceptives and clean tests to find your panties stuffed in his pocket, the buckle of his belt clinking as he frees his cock from the confines of his pants.

He drags his fingers through your slick, dripping folds as you wrap a hand around his cock, stroking him and keening softly, muscles taut with anticipation as he groans over how wet you are.

“And so fucking sensitive,” he mutters when you tremble and moan in pleasure as he slips a single finger into your cunt, his thumb swiping across your throbbing clit.

He hardly fares any better though when you spit into your palm and resume pumping his curved, leaking shaft, his hips jerking forward into the edges of the countertop. 

Hajime must feel how tight you are, must know what a stretch it’ll be to plunge inside of you, because he’s deliberate in the way he adds a second finger, and then a third, working your quivering, wet hole open until you’re panting and whining into his mouth begging for it.

Everything inside of your flares white-hot when he finally sinks his cock into the dripping warmth of your cunt, his lips against yours the only barrier to stifle the full volume of the wanton moan that spills from your mouth as you dig your fingers into his shoulderblades and rock forward until he’s balls deep inside of you. The tight walls of your pussy expand and contract against the thick stretch of his shaft, your legs trembling with pleasure. 

You want to writhe on his length.

You want to feel the stretch of it everywhere.

You want him to fuck you so deep you feel it for days.

You want to come so hard on his cock you can’t move or breathe.

It’s inescapable—the full depth of this yawning pit of desire, years of dreams that have left you restless and aching for the one thing you can’t have.

Couldn’t have.

But now—

It takes your fucking breath away, the dichotomy of this moment. The way Hajime’s fucking you so hard, the counter groans with each pounding thrust into your wet cunt. The way he’s tenderly cupping the side of your face and looking at you like he’d give you the goddamn world if you asked for it. 

(Having him would be enough.)

You’re so caught up in the moment, heart thrumming in your chest with too many emotions to grasp, you’re hardly prepared when the coil of tension in your gut unravels with the force of a whip, a shockwave of pleasure coursing through you as you go tumbling over the edge of your climax. 

“That’s it,” Hajime murmurs as he fucks you through it, fucks you through the messy, desperate kisses you slot against his mouth as you moan and whimper.

You can hardly think straight as your orgasm tapers off, your cunt still greedily taking in every inch of Hajime’s cock as he continues to thrust into you, but when his hips begin to stutter, the words leave you in a rush, “Come inside of me.”

Hajime’s thumb presses into the underside of your chin as he breathes heavily against your mouth, muscles tensing.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying himself to the hilt as his pleasure reaches its peak, his cock pulsing inside of you as ropes of thick, hot cum spill deep in your cunt.

It takes a few minutes for either of you to find the wherewithal to talk, the room quiet save for the sounds of your labored breathing and the soft kisses he presses to the corner of your mouth. To the curve of your jaw. To the bridge of your nose.

Fingers toying with his tie again as he tucks himself back into his pants, you watch as he pointedly does not give you back your underwear, instead pushing the flash of material further down into his pocket.

“Don’t I need tho…” you begin to ask, but you trail off as Hajime leans down and spreads your thighs even further apart before bringing his mouth to your cunt and lapping a broad stroke through the pool of cum leaking from your folds.

[baldursgate3tempobsessed]

I have an idea I would love to request but I wanted to check with you first! I couldn't help but think Astarion would be so infuriated & confused by me. Like when he held a knife at their throat, they're willing to give him a chance. Their reason is he has no real reason to trust them since he doesn't know them at all so they would show to him that they can be trusted. Then he's more confused when the first time he tries to drink blood from them, reader is shocked then immediately asks questions if it hurts, do they need to be healed, how should their position be so it's easier for him to drink, what would happen after that, etc. Even after he drank & they were feeling the effects, they asked if he still needed more. He answered them no confusedly before they were satisfied with his answer then passed out. He is both relieved and baffled at what just happened. What do you think of this? Please tell me if you're not interested! Thanks!

Local Vampire Spawn confused by care and offers of friendship, more at eleven.

~

Astarion, surprisingly, had gotten pretty lucky when it came to his newfound traveling companions. Two master swordsmen, a barbarian tiefling menace, and a Shar priestess were about the best one could ask for when it came to having protection. He could probably do without the do-gooder druid and walking time bomb of a wizard, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

And then there was you. The unofficial leader of the merry band of weirdos. Hyper competent, kind, and a powerful, and admittingly gorgeous, warrior. You would be perfection if you weren't so... frustrating.

Simply put, Astarion thought you were an idiot. A well-meaning, naive idiot, but a moron nonetheless.

What other explanation was there for your delusional trust in him? Your introduction had involved him pressing a damned blade to your throat, with every intent to kill you if you decided to struggle. Maybe even if you hadnt, if you had been alone. The correct response to a first meeting of that caliber would be to completely disregard him. Or kill him, for someone who had any conception of self-preservation.

But no, instead you gave him the offer to come with you, like that wasn't an absolutely insane thing to do. You had been so understanding, insisting that his penance for trickery and threats was justified. That you would be sure to earn his trust, like that was something worth obtaining.

At first, Astarion tried not to look too deeply into it. You were all going through hell, it made sense to travel in a pack, to find solidarity in others while trapped in a land full of endless horrors. It would explain why you kept the violate gith and the walking bomb around, despite their faults. There was also that foolish air of empathetic care about you at all times that helped explain things, one that extended far past Astarion himself. Though it did have limits. Astarion had borne witness to how unforgiving you could be when someone manipulated your trust. Though he completely agreed that the Hag known as Auntie Ethel fully deserved a slow, painful death, he hadn't been prepared for just how... literal you would take it.

So while you weren't completely without common sense, you still lacked a good deal of it. Like the fact that letting a vampire spawn drink your blood at night wasn't included in those same limits.

He hadn't even meant to open that particular door of feeding on you. It was just... so terribly hard to resist. You smelled divine, the scent of your blood always lingering beneath the surface of your skin. Cloying and decadent, the slightest whiff nearly enough to make his mouth water. He had been trying so damn hard to hide his true nature, feeding on whatever he could find in the dead of night. But none of it felt like enough. It should have been, he had more access to sustenance in the forest than he ever had under Cazedor's thumb. And wild boar were certainly better than sewer rats at the least.

But it wasn't enough to tame his growing desire for your taste. It had just happened. One moment he was simply on his own bedroll, staring up at the stars. And in the next the hunger was overtaking him. He was crawling over you before his mind could even catch up to his actions, his mouth already widening.

And then you woke-up, startled enough to knock Astarion out of his all-consuming thirst. You scrambled to your feet, staring at him with wide eyes as he struggled through an explanation. He had every expecation that this was it. This as the moment you would toss him to the side, realizing once and for all that he wasn't worth the danger.

But instead you just nodded along, the first question out of your mouth when he finished a simple, "Will it hurt?"

Astarion blinked at you, confused at you lack of reaction. He had admitted to being a literal monster for gods' sake. And that's what you were most curious about?

"Yes," Astarion said slowly, watching your face for every microexpression, "It will hurt, briefly. Then the pain fades into something a bit more... tolerable."

You nodded, asking another question, "Would I need healing after? Or would a bandage be enough? I would hate to wake Shawdowheart so late."

That was-he-were you actually considering this?

Astarion shook his head, hope and excitement starting to bubble to the surface, "No, a bandage should be fine. You might want her to top you off with something in the morning, but it won't be anything that can't wait."

"Okay," You said, nodding to yourself once before meeting his eyes with a determined gaze, "In that case, should I lay down? Or would standing be better?"

Astarion could scarcely believe your willingness. Part of him wanted to ask if you were sure that you wanted to do this, but his sheer lust for the taste of your blood shut that part down. Instead Astarion was reaching for your hand, gently tugging you down to lay back on your bedroll.

"This will be perfect," He murmured as he crawled back over you, his fangs protruding on their own accord, "Now stay still darling, we don't want to tear anything, do we?"

Astarion could just make out a lovely flush grace your cheeks at the pet name, barely visible by the campfire. It was a good look on you, that mixture of embarrassment and nerves, one that he wouldn't mind seeing again. But for now he had other appetites to attend to.

Astarion bit down, nearly moaning when the divine taste hit his tongue. Somehow it managed to taste even better than it smelled, warm ambrosia sliding down his throat, filling him with pure energy. It was an exhilarating experience, so much better than anything he'd ever tasted before. It was nearly too good, decadent enough for him to feel greedy.

He could feel you shaking under him, letting out the occasional whimper and whine. He was vaguely aware that this had been going on for too long, that he was taking too much. But it was so damn hard to resist.

It wasn't until you were gently pushing at him, whimpering, "I-I think that's enough."

There was the slightest touch of fear in your voice, the only thing that worked to pierce through his bloodthirsty haze. Astarion rolled off of you, licking his lips with a happy sigh. That was... better than he could ever have imagined.

He hopped up to his feet, sticking a hand out to help you do the same. You seemed woozy and unsteady as you stood, proving his suspicion that he had taken too much. It made the smallest lick of guilt creep up his spine. But it's not like you were ever going to let him do it again, he might as well indulge-

"Are you sure that was enough?" You asked, completely derailing his train of thought, "Will you be okay with just that? Or should we try again in a few hours?"

Were you actually insane?

"No my friend. I think I'll be fine," Astarion said carefully, "Another night perhaps. But, uh, are you okay?"

You shrugged, already sinking back down to your knees, snuggling back into your bedroll like nothing was out of the ordinary, "I'm sure I will be. Just a little tired now is all. Good night."

And then you were closing your eyes, out like a light while Astarion stood above you. Confused beyond belief. That was... how were you still alive? If this was the kind of thing you were willing to do for a near stranger, with nearly 0 reservations?

It was insane, idiotic, stupid. And now you just fell asleep right in front of the same man who cannibalized your blood? What the fuck was that? How was one supposed to respond to that? Astarion was grateful yes, beyond so. He went on to have a very successful hunt, even if his catches tasted worse than ever, they still left him feeling satisfied and capable. But he was plagued with thoughts of you the entire time. Thoughts that followed him through to the morning and the days to come.

You were so damn lucky that he was the spawn that was kidnapped. Half of his brethren would have already used your trust to bleed you dry before fleeing into the night. Gods knows what would have happened to you if it was Cazador who was taken in his place. That thought alone was enough to make shiver, clouding his brain with a massive discomfort at what someone like that would do with someone as... kind as you.

Astarion would never allow it. As stupid as you were, it didn't mean you deserved to be used. Well... by anyone besides himself of course. He was starting to think that he could use all of this blind trust to his advantage. Get you attached to him, force himself as a priority in your life that was worth protecting. But for that to happen you would have to stay alive. And that would mean someone would have to protect you from your infuriating self.

Astarion supposed that would just have to be his job. What it meant that the idea of doing such didn't fill him with resentment? He wasn't sure, and he sure as hells wasn't going to try and find out.

[inoreuct]

*drums my fingers on the table* so… weretiger zoro angst, anyone? (happy ending tho bcs. always happy endings) [cw: slight gore]

Zoro is on the hunt. There is something in the back of his brain snarling protect them, protect them, chase it down—

“—arimo!”

He’s so hungry. Hell, he doesn’t even need to chase— His prey is right there in front of him, fresh blood racing through its veins as its tiny heart works overtime. He can taste its fear at the back of his throat, and he bares his fangs in a grin; the poor thing screams, a sharp, high keen of terror as it scrambles backwards, and Zoro pounces. 

“—arimo!”

He is kind enough to give it a quick death. Its throat rips out easily, trachea crushing between his jaws as he slits its torso open with his blades. Blood sprays across his body. Why hadn’t he shifted? He spits out a mouthful of bone and cartilage, pierces his fangs through a forearm and yanks, feels something pop and hears a wet tear. This would be so much easier with his claws—

“Zoro!”

Oh. His human is calling for him. 

Sanji looks scared. Why, though? He drops the arm in his mouth, lets it hit the deck with a wet splat as he croons a soothing apology at not replying sooner. Gore is sticky beneath his boots as he stalks forward and he holds in a growl of irritation, nimbly avoiding the guts strewn across the wooden planks. 

Rumbling his reassurance does nothing. Sanji still looks vaguely afraid, and so Zoro tries again; safe, he purrs, and the tip of his tail does not swish through the blood puddled on the ground like it’s supposed to. He cannot feel it at all. 

The cook doesn’t budge. Zoro can smell his apprehension, his nerves, the slight sour tang of fear that makes him want to go hunt down whatever’s causing it and make it hurt. He smells it on the rest of his crew, too, and he doesn’t get it. The threat is gone, no? He senses no danger. Scanning their surroundings on the enemy boat yields no answers; all the men around them are still very, very dead. Zoro had made sure of that, so what was the problem? They should be back on the Sunny right now, sitting in the galley debriefing and having dinner—

Something clicks into place in the recesses of his mind, and dread starts to prickle through his body. 

He had been so… He’d almost eaten—

Oh, no. 

Zoro tries to shift the shape of his soul and fails. He does not feel his body changing. His shadow is, has been, in the shape of a man’s, and the blood on his skin suddenly feels disgusting. 

In the span of a moment he becomes hyper-aware of it all, pouring down his front, dripping off his chin, salty-sweet-metallic on his tongue. He turns to the side and spits multiple times, tries to get the cloying taste out of his throat as he raises a hand before realising that it, too, is coated in red. Zoro almost retches as he swallows instinctively, nausea slamming into him in a wave so strong that his stomach churns. He tastes bile. He’s thankful for it— It’s better than blood. 

Anything is better than blood. 

“Zoro?”

His head snaps around so fast that something cricks in his neck. His eyes are saucer-wide. Sanji takes a step forward and he is rooted to the spot, frozen statue-still; he is sure his heart stops beating for a second. Fitting. He knows he should step back— Knows now that he had been the threat, and yet he cannot move. 

“Let’s just… go back to the ship, how about that?” Sanji says tentatively, wincing as he kicks aside something that looks like a liver to put his foot down again, and he’s so close. Too close. “Let me—”

“No,” Zoro rasps, and God, fuck, he sounds like a fucking death rattle and he wants to claw his own voice box out of his fool mouth. The cook’s expression is a twist between desperation and something else, something that makes Zoro want to gag and cry and scream. Sanji should never look like that and it’s because of him. “No,” he tries again, quieter. He looks away. He doesn’t think he can stand looking into those blue, blue eyes. “It’s my mess, I’ll clean up.” Sanji makes a noise like he’s about to protest, and Zoro pierces through his own heart as he turns his back. “Alone.”

A beat of silence, and then Sanji is walking away. His crew is walking away. Zoro stands, surrounded by bodies he’d ripped apart, and thinks that perhaps this is how everybody that has ever been under his claws had felt. 

And that’s that. 

*

The following days are hell. He breathes in and everything he smells is wrong; anxiety, worry, an undercurrent of tentativeness that makes him throw himself into his training with renewed fervour. He is torn between the urge to bare his throat, show his belly and prove to his crew that they will never come to any harm from him, and the pride that insists he will not go against his nature to make himself more palatable for anybody else. 

He is all fang and claw and wickedly sharp teeth. He is a predator by nature, given humanity and a mortal form. This is the shape of his soul.

But they are his family. His nakama. And sitting here on the floor of the crow’s nest after running every kata he knows countless times, Zoro feels painfully, inexplicably sad. It is unfamiliar; he doesn't really do regrets, but it reminds him that at least some part of him is still human.

He lost control. He doesn’t do that, either. He never does that. But he did, and now none of his nakama can look him in the eye. 

Somebody climbs up the ladder, and his nostrils flare.

“Zoro?” Chopper asks, peeking his head up, and the swordsman immediately tries to look like he’d been busy, which… is ridiculous. He is sitting on the floor and moping. The sigh that whooshes from his lungs is defeated.

“Hm?” he prompts, when the tiny reindeer doesn’t say anything else.

Chopper climbs up fully, rubbing his hooves together. “I’ve checked everybody over except you.” 

Zoro can see the way he takes a fortifying breath and walks closer with a purpose. He stretches out his legs and allows Chopper to do as he wishes. 

“…We’re all worried about you,” the reindeer says after a while, staring intently into Zoro’s eye and testing his pupillary reflex. 

The swordsman gives a non-committal hum. “Scared of me, you mean.”

“No!”

Zoro jumps when a hoof whacks him across the forehead. “Wh—?!”

“We’re scared for you!” Chopper scolds, sounding dangerously close to tears. His distress turns Zoro’s stomach. “Do you know how scary it was to see you like that?! And then! You haven’t eaten in three days, and you probably haven’t slept, either, have you? Sanji’s been trying not to push because he knows you’re upset, but he’s been pacing a hole into the galley floor and chain-smoking like—”

“Wait,” Zoro interrupts. Replays that chunk of speech in his head. “You just said it was scary to see me like that.”

“Because we didn’t know what happened to you!” Chopper cries, huffing shakily. “And the look on your face when you realised—”

Zoro’s back bumps into the bench as Chopper grabs him in a hug, arms around his neck. His breath catches in his chest.

“Don’t do that again,” Chopper says firmly, shoving Zoro’s shoulder for good measure as he pulls back. “You seem okay, at least physically. Any pain?”

“No.”

“Any trouble shifting?”

“Haven’t tried.”

The doctor makes a noise, a cross between displeasure and something softer. “Well, try soon. Can Sanji come and see you?”

“…Yeah.”

“Okay.” Chopper stands, giving Zoro one last look. “For the sake of our cook’s lung capacity, come down to dinner.” 

Zoro sucks down a breath and holds it until it burns. He smells worry-care-care-anxiety-care and pats a hand over Chopper’s hat. “Alright.”

He sits back against the bench as their tiny doctor leaves, and within a minute someone is climbing up again. Sanji stands, silhouetted by the late-afternoon light. Zoro’s chest aches.

“Marimo,” the cook says evenly, and Zoro resists the urge to scent the air.

“Swirly-brow,” he returns, neutral. Testing the waters. “Heard you missed me.”

Sanji is silent, and Zoro’s heart gives a sickening squeeze. Has he overstepped already? He opens his mouth to say something, anything, and nearly jumps when he ends up with a lapful of gangly limbs, his spine pressed hard into sanded wood.

There are hands on his face, in his hair, lightly callused and holding him in place as Sanji kisses him like he’s got a point to prove. Zoro freezes up at first, because even in his human form his teeth are sharp and he doesn’t know what he will do if he draws Sanji’s blood. Maybe run away to live out the rest of his life in well-deserved exile. 

But then he smells salt, and something wet smears against his cheek, and Sanji’s lashes are clumped with tears as he pulls back and there is a slender finger jabbing hard into his sternum. 

“Don’t you ever,” Sanji hisses, poking him again for emphasis, “do that shit to me again, you fucking bastard.” 

He smells like bitter fatigue, acrid worry sharpened with anger and underneath all of it— love, lemon-bright and so goddamn sweet that it coats Zoro’s tongue like honey, wipes every memory of red iron and rust from his mind. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, eyes roving over Sanji’s face; the curled ends of his brows, the long lashes, the high cheekbones and strong nose and a sharp cupid’s bow, so familiar he could trace it in his sleep. “I thought you— wouldn’t want to see me.”

“Fucking bullshit,” Sanji spits, his face crumpling, and he goes easily when Zoro coaxes him to his chest. “Do you know how long I spent worrying about whether or not you were okay?” 

“I know,” Zoro soothes, and his heart is beating so fast that his ribs hurt. “I’m alright.” 

“Well, I’m not,” Sanji announces, digging his knee up into Zoro’s side with a vengeance until he gets a wheeze. “You owe me three packs of cigs. You owe the whole crew an apology. Luffy’s damn near lost his appetite; even Nami won’t so much as insult me when I try and get a rise out of her.”

Sanji’s glaring at him with the force of the sun, fierce and beautiful and golden-bright, but the dark circles beneath his eyes make guilt drag razor-thin talons across Zoro’s stomach. “You shouldn’t smoke so much,” he says softly, brows furrowing as he cards Sanji’s bangs out of his face and cups his cheek. 

“You shouldn’t go berserk and then isolate yourself without considering the fact that your crew would be worried sick about you,” the cook fires back without missing a beat. He leans into Zoro’s touch anyway, and Zoro smooths a thumb into the hollow between his bridge and brow.

“Weren’t you scared?”

“More— unsettled, maybe. Marimo,” Sanji’s throat bobs, eyes flickering over Zoro’s face. “Your eyes were slits. Like you were expecting to get attacked. We didn’t know how to talk to you without you panicking and running away.”

“I do not run—” he begins, scowling, and then shuts his mouth. What has he been doing these past three days, if not running away? “I think…” He digs deep into the memory, lays everything out in his head and ah. 

That man had crept up in Sanji’s blind spot, a wickedly long knife in his hand, and Zoro hadn’t thought. Hadn’t planned, just jumped. “He was gonna get to you,” he mutters, forcing himself to hold Sanji’s gaze even as the cook frowns. “I’m sorry, cook. I lost control. It won’t happen again.” 

The words are clunky and unfamiliar in his mouth. He’d almost eaten a man in his human form. That had to have looked all kinds of fucked up; he really didn’t blame his crew if they—

“Oi,” Sanji scoffs, flicking him in the forehead. “Are you always so distracted even with pretty people in your lap?” 

Zoro huffs through his nose. “Oh, I’m sorry, princess. Just contemplating how I nearly ate someone.”

The cook’s mouth twitches. “There are a great many jokes I can make about that, but I’ll save them for later. You’re a tiger, marimo. You were just protecting us. We really can’t hold it against you.”

“…You’re not scared of me,” he murmurs one last time, because he has to be sure.

“I’m not,” Sanji confirms easily, rubbing his thumb over the shell of Zoro’s ear, dragging through his earrings and making them tinkle like wind chimes. “Come down and the rest of them won’t be, either.”

Something in him gives. Shifts, releases, crumbles in his chest like a little collapsible galaxy as he pulls the cook down for another kiss. He feels Sanji’s tongue trace over the points of his teeth, utterly fearless— It steals the breath right from his lungs, this blatant, unwavering trust that he’s been allowed to hold cupped in his battle-rough palms. He gathers flaxen hair into his hand so that he can look the cook in both eyes, blue as the sky at high noon and crystal clear. Sanji leans into his chest with a ragged exhale and Zoro slides one palm up to the nape of his neck, one over his ribs, if only to feel him breathe, and the words slip out. “I love you.”

He doesn’t know why it feels like he’s never said them before. They must have crossed his tongue hundreds of times by now, his mind a hundredfold more. He loves Sanji, he knows; it aches under his ribs, next to his heart, woven into his soul. He loves his crew, he knows; he gives them leeway he would allow nobody else, and refuses to accept that he needs their affection as much as they want his. 

But it feels new. Every single time, it feels brand-new. Like a freshly-minted coin that never tarnishes, pure, solid gold— So he lets himself be greedy and leaves his fingerprints all over it, goes to sleep with it tucked in his fist like a child holding on to a dream. “I love you,” he whispers into Sanji’s hair, and he feels the cook shift in his arms, feels the same words shaped against his throat, teeth to bone, fingers around his heart.

He purrs the words subsonic, over and over even when his crew cannot hear. He will put them out into the world until his nakama know and he will think them a thousand times more. 

But for now, they have an hour left till dinner. Sanji is breathing slowly, his arms tucked against Zoro’s chest. The lines of worry between his brows are smoothed out.

Zoro thinks he’ll take a nap. 

[chronicowboy]

"Can I tell you something?"

Honestly, Eddie isn't sure where it comes from. One moment he's watching Buck trying and failing to bite through the long line of melted cheese stretching from his mouth to the slice of pizza held at arm's length, the next something scolding tears through his chest like a bullet from a sniper's rifle and Eddie's mouth falls open before he can think of what he's going to say.

"'Course," Buck mumbles through his mouthful of pizza, breathing around it because its still too hot of course. There's a smear of red sauce on his chin and the pizza is still held aloft about a foot away from his mouth, Eddie finds him desperately beautiful.

"In the truck, after I was shot," Eddie slides the plate under the pizza slice just as Buck drops it, "and after you told me you weren't hurt, there was one last moment that I fought to stay awake."

"Eddie—"

"Not for Christopher, not for you, but for myself." Eddie nods, eyes trained on the picture of Buck and Christopher on the fridge. "I just wanted to look at you. Just for one last moment. When I knew that you were okay, that you weren't hurt, that I didn't have to worry about you or Chris. I just wanted to look at you." Ironic, he thinks, that he can't look at Buck now. He sucks in a sharp breath and turns to meet Buck's dazed blue eyes. "I wanted you to be the last thing I saw." Buck swallows, that damn string of cheese still hanging from his lips. "And then I woke up to Ana sat next to me in the hospital, and I don't think I've ever been more disappointed in my life."

The loft hasn't been this silent since the morning after that one fateful night during quarantine when they'd thought it would be a good idea to get hammered and play truth or dare, and nobody could look each other in the eye over the several terrible secrets that had been revealed.

Its that same cloying silence now.

Not their usual silence. Not the comfortable silence Eddie revels in. Not the warm silence that greeted him when Eddie walked into the loft with a pizza after asking Buck to call him with an "emergency" to get out of a date with Pepa's latest "perfect woman".

"W-why are you telling me this?" Buck stutters out. "Why- Why now?"

"Because I've been on four dates since you died and none of them have felt remotely close to the night we scammed ten Porterhouses out of the Chief." Eddie shrugs, looking out to the red umbrella flapping in the wind on the balcony. He swings his gaze around to Buck. "Because you said you had the answers, and I'm hoping with everything in me that you have the answer to this question."

"W-what, um, what question is that? E-exactly?" Buck asks, voice breathy.

"If I told you that I'd been falling since that ambulance exploded," Eddie smiles, its a shaky thing full of fear, "would you catch me?"

"Always," Buck breathes without any hesitation, laying his big hand on Eddie's forearm. "Always, Eddie."

"And if I asked for your heart?" Eddie manages to choke out.

"You've had it the whole time, Eddie." Buck smiles, just as shaky as Eddie's had been, but bright and brilliant. "It only started beating again for you."

"One last question?" Eddie raises an eyebrow, his own smile beginning to ache in his cheeks.

"Anything," Buck promises.

"Will you kiss me?"

"Now, I'm not sure about that," Buck grins, all smug and self-assured despite the fucking cheese still on his fucking chin. "Don't I get a date first, Diaz?"

"What? Pizza and beer isn't good enough for you?" Eddie quirks an eyebrow, plan already forming in his head for a homecooked meal lit by candles in the kitchen at home, undoubtedly a panicked call to Bobby when the lasagne doesn't go to plan.

"I'd like to be wooed," Buck says haughtily. "I died, I won you steaks, I think I deserve a little wooing."

"Oh, you do, do you?"

"I do actually," Buck grins at him.

"How about you finish your pizza first," Eddie reaches up to cup Buck's cheek, uses his thumb to catch the string of cheese and gently pushes it past Buck's lips which open for him willingly, "and then we can circle back round to the wooing?"

Eddie pulls his thumb from Buck's mouth with a pop and watches Buck's pupils dilate until the blue of his irises is entirely eclipsed.

"Nope, wooed enough," Buck blurts out before grabbing Eddie's face and crashing their lips together clumsily.

Its the best first kiss of his life.

[inqilabi]

Surprises me the number of men that believe that they can have a marriage with just about any woman. Once they are ready to get married - they think any number of women with the 3-4 criteria (beautiful, educated, 1 specific physical feature they desire, 1 personality trait they desire) will work.

I believe that everyone has an internal character. And not everyone is going to be compatible even with someone who "checks all the boxes" initially. Some people have too much of an ego and just constantly invalidate or externalize every story you tell about yourself, to something other than your character - your tenacity, your smart. And with their ownselves, they'll internalize every story to their own tenacity and their smarts. For someone this might be hurtful but for someone else, this might be sexy & confident. Some people have no ego and are sweet and validating constantly. But someone might find this to be too cloying, too nice. Some people might want that fiestyness of the former.

And if your internal characters don't really match, you will have to do a lot of work - ie have *a LOT* of conversations teaching each other how to communicate so that you don't get butthurt. I actually see this as a fundamental incompatibility because to be constantly told to change your character, which you have a tendency to revert to, is going to be annoying - you'll view it as nagging. And it's exhausting for the other partner to have to communicate and teach all of this, and constantly remind.

Could it work and result in the long-term relationship? Yes. But this is what I think people refer to when they mean, "relationships are work". These people are fundamentally incompatible in terms of this "internal character". Thaat's why it requires a lot of work. And I think it's very rare to run into somebody that has an internal character that works with yours. And perhaps that's what soulmates are - someone with a disposition and internal character that soothes yours. Note that I didn't say character and disposition that's exactly like yours. Because it's possible that a complement is actually better.

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - Mer-May Part II

steddie, omegaverse, mdni 🔞

read part one

MerMay part II

After the gig at the Surf Shack, Benny counts out the promised $500 and gives each of the boys a beer. “You’re drinking anything else tonight, you’re paying for it,” he says gruffly before cracking a smile.

Steve slots himself against Eddie’s side, having already been introduced to the band, Eddie’s hand settling easily on his waist. The guys know better than to tease Eddie about Steve in front of Steve, no desire to make the sweet omega uncomfortable.

But that doesn’t stop the raised eyebrows or smirks into their glasses.

Fortunately, Steve doesn’t notice, simply asks for a sip of Eddie’s drink, and wrinkles his nose at the taste. “No. No, thank you,” he says, scrapes his teeth over his tongue.

“How about I get you some water and we split an order of fish tacos?”

Steve nods, smile wide, then lays his head on Eddie’s shoulder.

Eddie orders, and Doug says his goodnights, running to pick up his girlfriend from her evening shift at the college library. Gareth takes his abandoned beer and chugs it, then waves himself before wandering through the crowd, looking for someone to spend the night with.

“Pretty sure that’s my cue to leave,” Jeff says. “You two have fun. Talk. Get to know each other.” And then he’s gone, off chatting with Jonathan Byers.

Steve and Eddie talk and hold hands and eat tacos, sharing their likes and dislikes, finding plenty of common ground even though Steve has only had legs for a bit less than 24 hours. And then Eddie takes Steve home. 

As soon as they get through the door of Eddie’s apartment, Steve has his hands clutch tight in Eddie’s lapels, bringing their mouths together. “Want you,” Steve moans. “Wanna feel you.”

But Eddie pulls back, cradling Steve’s cheeks between his hands. “Sweetheart, maybe we should slow things down.” 

Steve pouts. “Why? We’re courting, aren’t we?”

“Courting doesn’t tend to move so fast on land, even with scentmates.” Eddie takes a step back, brings his hands down to catch Steve’s fingers with his own.

“Oh… Back home, when you find the one who shares your heartsong, you court until the omega goes into heat, and then you are bonded. There is very little waiting.”

“Even if it’s months before the omega’s next heat?”

“Does finding your mate not trigger a heat or rut for humans? Most mers court for less than a month.”

“No, it does for us, too. But sharing a heat so soon after meeting… It doesn’t usually lead to a matebond anymore. People wait a little longer, make sure they’re ready.”

“But I am ready.”

“I know, Steve. But you’ve known about me longer, been looking longer.” Eddie blinks back tears. “I don’t know that I even believed in scentmates before today.”

Steve is quiet as he wraps his arms around Eddie and brings the alpha’s head down to rest against his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even think…”

“It’s okay. I’d be excited too, in your position.” He lifts his chin, ghosts a kiss over Steve’s pulse that makes him giggle.

“Tickles.”

“I’m really happy you’re here. That you found me.”

“Me too.” Steve yawns then, and Eddie leads him to the bedroom, shoving aside piles of clean and dirty laundry and offering Steve pajamas to sleep in.

He turns Eddie down, stripping off his borrowed clothes, and slipping naked under the covers. Eddie follows suit, usually sleeping in his boxers in the summer. Leaving a thin bit of cotton as a barrier between their bodies as he climbs in the bed, letting Steve pull him close.

Tired from the eventful day, they fade into sleep with Eddie spooned tight to Steve’s back.

🌑🫧🌑

Eddie wakes sticky with sweat, the cloying scent of horny omega filling the room. Steve moans softly, presses his ass back into Eddie’s half chub, grinding against him. 

Huffing a breath through his nose, Eddie shifts his hips back and dips his head to kiss Steve’s shoulder. “Baby, you awake?”

Steve squirms, rubbing his clenched thighs together. “Hurts. Why does wanting you hurt?”

Eddie’s heart clenches. “What?”

“Never hurt like this with my tail. Just felt nice to touch my hole, but now… I ache.”

Fingers moving lower, Eddie palms Steve’s leaking dick, gives him something to rut against, searching lowers for his entrance. “Was it so easy to come? Just touch your hole and…”

“Yes! But now, the hole between my legs—”

“Your pussy needs more attention,” Eddie murmurs, trying to explain as his fingers move in and out of said pussy. “And sometimes it can get too much attention, hurt because it feels too good. But right now I just want to give you some reli—”

Eddie’s cut off by Steve freezing against him, hand wet as his pussy shudders and drools. And then something hard hits his callused fingertips. He tries to grip it in his slippery fingers, realizes what it must be as more smooth pearl slide into his cupped hand.

“Steve?”

“They’re my last pearls…”

“But you said…”

“They were already inside when I changed. The sea witch, she said they were a parting gift, would come out as my body readied itself for my heat.” He carefully places his hand over Eddie’s—over the pearls. “I will never lay a clutch of eggs, will carry our pup in my belly like the dolphins and whales do. I know how it will work, but…”

“Loss is loss,” Eddie whispers. He kisses Steve’s shoulder again. “We’ll do something special with them, since they’re the last.”

Steve sniffs, turning carefully in Eddie’s embrace. “Thank you,” he whispers, his hazel eyes staring into Eddie’s chocolate brown.

Eddie can’t help but kiss him soft and sweet.

part three

[alicerosejensen]

Where It All Began

Warning: a little angst, fear for the loss of a partner, caring, open final, fem/reader.

Synopsis: He will always be afraid of losing you and will not forgive himself if something happens to you.

A/N: I don't know what it is. It's just necessary to throw out these emotions somewhere. I like to write such lyrics to sad melodies that make me long for someone who's gone… (I am the queen of drama)

Leon never wanted to let anyone get too close to him. Long-term scars respond with pain and fear that at any moment a zombie will appear behind his back, clutching his shoulder with its jaws, tearing off the flesh, so he was always calmer alone. Perhaps of course not always, before Raccoon City he was less traumatized, even loved the girl with whom he naively thought to spend his life until she left him before leaving, but now Leon thinks that it was for the best. That rookie cop has been gone for a long time. He remained buried under the ashes of the destroyed city.

In his eyes there remains a lost light and not dead nobility. The desire to save every innocent life that is being taken away by corrupt corporations. There are few like Leon, but… he never fully appreciated his life. It wasn't even modesty, he just considers himself an instrument of the government. An ordinary pawn and never denies it.

Love is disgusting and causes pain when the object of your adoration is not around. Leon ignored that dull ache in his chest just like he ignored his feelings for you. He couldn't even figure out exactly when it started with him, you were one of those he saved and who didn't haunt him in nightmares, but you appeared in others and brought fleeting comfort, making him want to feel warmth and affection, You made him be so needy, but when he flirted with you, you only responded to a minor flirtation with your friendship.

Perfect love comes softly

Do you know all these poets beautifully praising a deep light feeling that also becomes a sweet poison that drives you crazy? Beautiful words will come to mind, the heart will want to do things for the sake of a loved one and Leon really wants to hold you in his hands and his heart. At the same time, he is afraid of being tied down, but this feeling grows in him like a branching tree that he gently cherishes looking at you, helping to do some little things.

No matter how much his soul broke into pieces after all the encounters with bioweapons, it was you who arranged it to blossom with renewed vigor with your beautiful inner light.

It was as if your hand was always outstretched for you to take him home, and he could heal all wounds and dispel longing by pressing his head against your rhythmically beating heart.

But Leon is not going to say "I love you." He is so afraid of these words, as if after their utterance there will be another outbreak that will take the lives of thousands of innocent people. He doesn't want to bring you to tears, he doesn't want you to worry about him, and he knows that he has nothing to offer you, so why then does this feeling that you evoke in him so much choke him, causing tears in his eyes when he sees that someone else showing romantic interest in you?

To his angel, who each time leads him out of the darkness to the warm light. For which he is still fighting.

Actually, this guy is cute, he doesn't hurt you, but Leon can't be happy. Only time after time he asks himself why, out of many saved, it is you, an ordinary civilian, who arouse such a feeling in him?

The storm clouds melt with you when you walk with him along the snowy sidewalks with a cup of hot coffee in your hands, discussing some everyday things, and Leon again catches every word, suppressing the desire to take his beloved by the hand, running his thumb over your knuckles. He looks into those lovely tired eyes that shine for him like a monument to the hope of something else worth fighting for. Then these tales of eternal pure love no longer seem so cloying and fictional.

And if something happens to you again, God forbid, he is ready to dig one grave for two.

Some new kind of love and Leon doesn't care at all that your boyfriend looks so enviously at how you dance with him, laughing joyfully, hugging him as a friend. Let someone dare to touch you - he can be rude not only to the bastards of the zombie creator.

Once you told him that despite the monsters living in the world, this world is not bad at all.

"Only you will never be mine in this world,"

Leon did not say it out loud, but clenched his jaw, lowering his gaze. From this thought, the world really became more and more terrible.

You were his angel even though he has big problems with religion.

Paradise could be found in your arms. You were more reliable than any honest words when you stroked his back hugging him in a difficult hour while he was not ashamed of his helplessness squeezed you in his vice. You've never manipulated him. They broke him, beat him, and you healed him. It was possible to be silent with you without feeling awkward. It is when Leon finally breaks down that he finally comes to you because his love poisons him. It hurts even when it becomes difficult for you to breathe and your lungs can't inhale enough oxygen because of this steel grip.

"I've lost so many people, but I can't lose you…" his head was buried in your neck and you could feel warm lips on your skin.

He could have hidden you from everyone, but he didn't let his selfishness get the better of his mind. That's why Leon doesn't want to leave, grabbing your face, staring intently into your eyes, leaning against your forehead. He wants to make tender love to you, forcing you to grab his shoulders, shouting a long "Leon" so that the sheets crumple to hell and your cheeks turn red from the heat while he takes possession of you. he wants more than anything to cover every inch of your body with kisses, grab your hands, interlacing your fingers and tell the stupid guy to get off you.

Leon loves to kiss this nose, although he does it for the first time being afraid of what is happening in it. The world will stop being so disgusting again because there is a house in which there is love….

And yet Leon is afraid. He allows himself an acceptable amount of destroying the fragile edge of friendship by laying you under him, whispering various pleasant epithets promising how you will feel good with him but then… You know yourself that this person is afraid of attachment and in the morning your heart will break into a million pieces when he leaves. Therefore, with tears on your cheeks, your palms are on his chest when you push him away from you, looking away.

"I'm sorry," Leon whispers, holding his hands on your waist when he realizes that this is the end.

You didn't accept his love and it's his fault that salty tears flow down your sweet cheeks that he loved so much. His wounded heart begins to bleed and if you understood this, you would never turn away from him. It wasn't worth destroying this fragile friendship because now that he realized that you don't have feelings for him, everything collapsed like a house of cards. Despite the fact that his soul screams from injustice, Leon does not dare to accuse you, so he calmly lets go of his love, knowing that he will look for a ghostly trace in the beloved place where you most often met.

Every day.

His beautiful love that still burns in his chest. He wanted so much to know the desired happiness with you, but you can't force someone to love, so he leaves, closing the door behind him and not understanding the reason for your tears, because you, just like him, were afraid that your heart would break…

[americana-antihero]

Long post, but TLDR: Lois is allowed to be flawed.

Everyone and their mother is talking about how Lois responded to Clark's secret. It seems like many are on the side of Lois, believing she did nothing wrong. And then there are many who are on the side of Clark, believing he did nothing wrong.

Before I say what I believe, let me make this point: it seems that any time a female character does something wrong, fans immediately dislike the character from that point onward. And before anyone thinks I am referring only to male fans, nope! It's actually all of my female friends who grow immediately disgusted with the female character and refuse to redeem her.

And honestly, it's hard to blame them. Because often, when a female character does something that is morally wrong, it's not written as a character flaw that she will learn to work through. It's written as an Epic Girl Power Moment! Look at this Strong Indepedent Woman! She'll jump off a building to prove she's right - that's so cool and edgy and not a sign of emotional instability at all!

What Lois did came from a place of emotional instability, and that's not a bad thing. The writers need to lean into that to flesh her out as a character, and I think they will.

Someone else mentioned how Lois's issues with her father have led to this moment. Her father concealed everything from her, and growing up, Lois probably had to learn how to get the truth out of him, even if she had to use manipulation. It was kind of a survival skill. She can't stand not knowing something, and that's why she's at a job where she gets to learn EVERYTHING.

So now she's got this good friendship with Clark in which she has tried to be more open with him than their first story together. They have built trust. When Lois finds out that he is Superman, she gives him the chance to open up to her. Judging by her playful attitude, if Clark told her that he is Superman, Lois would have probably reacted positively.

And then things take a turn. Lois is so desparate for the truth that she handcuffs herself to Superman. And then he leaves her at the Daily Planet so she won't get hurt.

That's probably when Lois was at her most unstable. Because that whole time, she waited for him, wondering if he would get hurt. And when she saw the scratches on Clark, it probably reminded her of how she felt when she found out her mom was sicker than her dad would admit. That was the nail in the coffin for her.

By taking a step off that building, Lois is acting out of unresolved grief.

Yes, what Lois did was wrong. But that doesn't make her a bad character. It makes her a real one. By trying to defend her actions as "good," "right," "just," and "morally sound," it would do a disservice to where the writers are going with her character. Or at least, where I hope they go. I really hope this isn't a case of "Epic Girl Power Moment."

As for Clark, he did nothing wrong. People (albeit few) are trying to say he should have told Lois the truth...but he already tried. His fear about her publishing his secrets was valid, because that's what she said in Episode 1 - "We'll make him tell us his secrets - AND THEN WE'LL PUBLISH THEM!" Clark has no reason to believe that Lois wouldn't do that.

I also think Clark struggles to see what people actually think of him. Because maybe if he could see how much Lois cares about him, he wouldn't have been scared to tell her the truth about his identity. Instead, he believes that she "hates" Superman...which she never said she did, that I can remember. Clark just assumed that.

So I think maybe Clark had an experience growing up that made him think that everyone would hate or disrespect him. Probably something to do with why he couldn't play sports, or how his connection with Lana ended up. It's seen in how desperate he is to be a "normal man with a normal life." He's afraid that people won't accept him for who he is.

If Clark and Lois talk through it, it could be the most touching moment in Clois history.

[blindmagdalena]

Important question: who is the top/bottom, dom/sub in Maevelight ?

i started answering this like just a normal ask, but this ficlet kept demanding to be written, so here it is! short answer: i think they're switches who don't really have much of a D/s dynamic. short schmoopy sapphic queen maeve/starlight au ahead. slightly nsfw. 🖤

"Well? What're they saying?" Maeve asks, pulling on a loose t-shirt to sleep in.

Annie—who's already reclined in bed, scrolling on her phone—glances up from under her pinched brows. "They're mostly arguing about which one of us tops."

Yesterday, Vought officially announced the two of them as a couple. The media frenzy was unavoidable, and everyone in the world has an opinion on it. Annie just can't help herself when it comes to reading the tabloids, an impulse Maeve has long since overcome.

It's kind of cute watching her get so invested in all the nonsense, though.

Maeve snorts. "What's there to argue about?" She asks, wearing a cheeky little smile as she climbs into bed.

"I'll have you know I'm winning the poll for top," Annie says, defiantly tipping her chin up.

"Oh really? Let me see," she says, skepticism written plainly in her expression. She reaches for the phone.

"No." Annie quickly hides her phone down flat against her chest, fighting back a smile. "I wouldn't want to hurt your pride. You're losing pretty badly."

"You're the worst liar," she says in turn, moving to grab her phone again. Annie lurches in an attempt to protect it, and Maeve catches her in a kiss, earning a satisfying little noise of surprise and pleasure from her.

Annie melts readily into the kiss, letting down her guard long enough to allow Maeve the opportunity to deftly snatch the phone from her. "Thank you," she says, rolling onto her back to look through it.

"Hey!" Annie cries, thoroughly scandalized despite her smile.

"The worst liar," Maeve emphasizes, giving a quiet scoff. "You're the unequivocal princess bottom of these polls. Wait, why do they think we're in a BDSM relationship? ... And why are you voting in these?"

"Just trying to help set the record straight," she says, cuddling up to Maeve's side, shaking her blonde locks out of the way before resting her head on her shoulder.

"Then why did you vote me the sub?" She asks, looking down at her.

Annie gives a little shrug. "Because you always do everything I ask you to."

"That's called being a decent girlfriend," Maeve says incredulously.

"It's also called being a good sub," Annie replies very matter-of-fact, kissing her on the cheek.

Maeve shakes her head. "I can't believe you're encouraging this," she says, setting the phone aside so that she can take Annie properly into her arms. "It's all just stereotypical bullshit anyways."

"Easy for you to say. The entire world is voting me some meek little pillow princess while you get to be the warrior sex queen," she says, slipping her arms around Maeve's waist as they get settled.

Maeve blows out a thoughtful breath. "You wanna release a sex tape or something? That'd settle matters."

"Maggie," she chastises, giving her side a punishing little tickle that makes her jerk. Maeve grins. "No, I don't want to release a sex tape. I'm just saying. It's not true."

"You don't have to prove anything to them. I know exactly what you're capable of," she says, leaning in to catch her in another kiss, which she easily succumbs to. It starts off chastely enough, but they rarely ever stay that way. Especially when Annie is out to prove herself.

She tastes like strawberries, but not in the artificial or cloying way. It's fresh and sweet, the kind of smell that reminds Maeve of picking farmland strawberries when she was a child. Annie still has the lingering warmth of the countryside bathed in sunlight baked into her skin, and the same golden wheat fields shining in her hair.

She's so much more real and honest than anything in Maeve's life has been in a long, long time.

By the time their lips part, they're both breathing a little heavier. "I'm going to guess this mean's you are topping tonight," Maeve says breathlessly, pushing her fingers through that perfect, soft blonde hair.

"You're darn right I am," Annie says giddily, reaching across her and into the nightstand next to their bed.

Darn. She never fails to make her smile.

Generally speaking, Maeve avoids the cesspit that is the internet as much as possible. Tonight, however, she'll give it a small thanks for riling up her little firework of a girlfriend into making her see stars for the rest of the night.

[cifer-ulqui]

Ulquiorra Drabbles 2

(Ulquiorra, Reader, Grimmjow)(Second one is Angst and less overtly romantic)(I wrote these in Portuguese originally to practice learning the language. They're completely self-indulgent and ooc)(part one)

Tea

“I need a place to stay.” Ulquiorra clicks his tongue. His eyelashes are so long. They touch his cheek when he closes his eyes. “It's getting late. Kurosaki said I should come here.”

Ichigo must think he’s hilarious.

“Yeah?” I sigh. I can’t say no to him. “Come in.” He follows after me and I shake my head at the situation.

“Do you want tea?” I gesture for him to sit at the table. He complies, sitting stiffly.

“I don't need--”

“Do you want tea?” I ask more firmly. Why is he so difficult? Maybe that’s part of his charm. I look over my shoulder. He’s as attractive as he is stubborn.

“... Yes.” His brow is furrowed, like I asked for something annoying.

I suppress a comment about him being a brat and return to put the kettle on the stove. “Do you have a preference for the flavor?” I know he’ll say it’s unimportant. It’s useless, There’s no reason.

“Is there a difference? Tea is tea.” There it is.

“There’s hundreds of different flavors. How do I know which you’ve tried before?” I turn away from the stove to look at him.

“Just normal tea.”

“Black tea? Green tea?

His eyes are the only sign of bewilderment on his face, but his voice sounds confused. “Tea…?”

I look at him for a moment. “I’ll make tea, and if you don’t like it, I’ll make something else.” I shrug my shoulders.

Ulquiorra shakes his head. “That’s unnecessary. I’ll drink whatever you make.”

I repress a laugh, wondering if I could make him regret those words. Hot sauce, salt, extra tea bags… the kettle begins to whistle. I take the kettle off the stove and open the cabinet that holds my tea. I take down a citrus blend, with orange, lemon, and apple. I pour the water into a teapot.

The steam fills the air and soon the smell of citrus fruits lingers in the room. We remain in silence until the tea finishes steeping. I walk over, carrying the hot teacups. I place them on the table and sit down and he picks up his cup. He looks for a moment before taking a sip.

I drink my tea, watching his face. He shows nothing, but takes a few sips in the silence.

“I should thank you for allowing me into your home. Your hospitality suits you.”

We drink tea in silence and I allow the irritation to seep from me. “You can sleep on the couch, I'll grab a blanket for you.”

“This is all unnecessary, I'll just remain sitting here.”

I sigh, a long-suffering sigh, wondering why I'm stuck with this impassive idiot. “I'll grab a blanket, just in case you change your mind.”

He rolls his eyes, but doesn't argue.

He's so impossible.

“Do you like the tea?”

“It's tea.” Ulquiorra takes another sip. I think about calling Kurosaki, maybe he can meet me somewhere quiet. Just to talk. With my hands. Ulquiorra’s head tilts as he looks at his teacup and then the teapot.

Cute.

Kurosaki is lucky I like this bat.

--- ---

The Rain Falls

The sky is gray. The rain falls.

Mist rises from the ground. I sigh, looking at the dismal rain. The air is filled with petrichor, cloying and dense. It clings to my skin.

It’s not fair.

My heart hurts, and I step out into the rain. Water drips down my face, soaking into my clothes. He’s gone. I’ll never see him again. If I am lucky, the rain will drown me.

I cared for him. The fourth espada, Ulquiorra Cifer. The one who I argued with, who taunted me and told me my life was meaningless. The man I sat atop Las Noches with in the freezing wind and vast desert stretched before us. We watched the moon together.

The only rain in Hueco Mundo is unnatural, from the spirit energy of other hollows. The black rain of Murcielago elicited a far different feeling, one of awe and foreboding. This is just….

He’s dead. Nothing but dust and the lingering emptiness. Maybe this is his heart that I feel.

I suppress a shiver. This rain seeps the warmth from my bones.

“Do you have an umbrella?” A rough voice breaks me from the reminiscence. I turn my head, seeing Grimmjow. His hair is quickly drenched by the rain, stickling to his face. He doesn't wear his usual grin, as if the melancholy of a storm is contagious.

I turn back to look at the sky.

He and a few other arrancar survived. He seems content to allow Haribel to rule, and I suddenly feel lost, without direction. What will happen to us now? What is our purpose?

Maybe there really is no purpose. Maybe Ulquiorra was right.

“Tch,” Grimmjow huffs. “Idiot. Let’s go.” He grabs the shopping bags from my hand. His hand is firm, but gentle around my shoulders as he guides me through the streets. He squeezes.

“Gonna catch a cold,” he grumbles, as if it would be something for him to suffer. His eyes catch mine as we near Urahara’s shop. They’re a cold blue.

His worry soothes something in my chest. Maybe we’re closer to humans than I thought, if even Grimmjow is capable of something like caring. I wonder if this somber hope ever permeated into Ulquiorra’s thoughts. I wonder if anything grew meaning to him in his last moments.

Grimmjow opens the door, ushering me through and grabbing a towel that he begins drying me off with. “Idiot.”

The rain falls.

[kurishiri]

11 . . . main story & letter

— this translation may not be 100% accurate or may contain creative liberties. if you enjoy, please consider reblogging, but don’t repost or claim these as your own!

— cw: consumption of alcohol, mentions of sexual assault, murder, neglect, and suicide.

When Lord Elbert fell asleep, his grip loosened on me.

I took that opportunity to quietly slip out of his room.

(Where is he...?)

For several minutes, I fruitlessly searched around for Alfons, walking around aimlessly within the manor.

When I finally found his jet black hair, I saw he was in the garden, bathing in the moon’s light, which almost seemed blue.

Kate: ...Alfons.

He was leaning back in his chair, with his crossed legs atop the tea table which was set in the garden.

It appeared Alfons was drinking.

Alfons: Wandering around late at night like this... you really are naughty, aren’t you.

A: If you were anyone else, I would have wanted to show them a dream they wanted to see.

A: But strangely enough, you don’t seem to want that.

Kate: ...Should I be happy?

Alfons: If you want to do something outrageous with me, you should feel sad.

Alfons cast a bewitching sidelong glance at me.

(As usual, I can’t seem to get a read on him...)

At his feet, forget-me-not flowers were wavering.

(Come to think of it, Alfons’ last name is the same as that flower [1].)

Alfons: Did something happen, with Elbie?

His eyes, which were the color of the night sky, narrowed meaningfully.

With some hesitation, I approached Alfons, taking a seat next to him.

Kate: Lord Elbert said that he... wanted to ‘have’ me.

Alfons: Ahh... so it’s like that.

A: I was aware it was only a matter of time, but to think it would happen as soon as tonight...

A: Now that it’s come to this, it’s not certain you’ll be able to fulfill your Fairytale Keeper duties without incident.

A: This is getting more and more troublesome, it seems.

Kate: I-I didn’t think it was that troubling...

Alfons: That’s not true. Despite how I look, I was always worried for you? You knew that, didn’t you?

Alfons traced his fingertips, which were covered by his black gloves, along my jaw.

Alfons: Even in the best of times, this world is filled with tragedy.

A: To willingly act out this tragedy, is that not foolish?

(Alfons had always said not to get involved further with Lord Elbert.)

It might have been because he knew that in doing so, I would only be stepping into tragedy.

He brought my chin closer to him, and a sweet, yet somehow complex fragrance tickled my nose.

Alfons: ...Shall I tell you of a way you can get Elbie to lose his interest in you?

Kate: ...

Alfons: If he continues to have his eye on you, the only ending that awaits you is confinement, imprisonment, or, in the worst case, death.

His words were so straightforward that my spine grew cold.

But, if I become scared here, nothing will ever get better.

Kate: I know. But now, more than that... I want to know what Lord Elbert’s sin is.

K: That’s why, I came to find you.

Alfons: So I see... you are choosing to dive in of your own free will? Rather than saving yourself?

Kate: I—

K: Of course, I don’t want to be locked up or killed to be decorated. But...

K: ...if he ever did such a thing... how much would the truth of his deeds...

K: ...hurt Lord Elbert deeply, make him sad... Just imagining it terrifies me.

K: That’s why... I want to know, truly, what drives him to do such things.

Alfons: ...

Alfons had been with Lord Elbert since they were young, so there was no way he did not know.

Kate: Why, does he allow the butlers and maids to do such things to him?

K: He should be at a standing where he can dismiss them or give orders.

Alfons: That is true. After all, he is the head of the manor.

Kate: At the art dealer’s party, his clear rejection protected me.

K: If only he could use that to protect himself...

K: But the reason why he can’t do that, has something to do with his ‘sin,’ right?

Amid the dusk, a night breeze lightly blew, carrying with it the almost cloying fragrance of the flowers to the tip of my nose.

Alfons: ...It’s a waste of time to face something like reality.

A: You are serious to the point of foolishness. Both you, and Elbie.

At the same time he said this, he withdrew his hand from my chin.

He stood up from his seat, walking toward the darkness.

Kate: Where are you going?

Alfons: You come with.

Kate: Eh?

Alfons: You want to know, don’t you? What his sin is.

Alfons brought me to a room that looked like a study.

Kate: This is...?

Alfons: Now, now, there’s no need to rush. First, take a seat.

A: Even if it’s painful, the moon tonight is beautiful. It’s ideal for a story before bedtime, no?

(A story...?)

His wording baffled me, but I took a seat on the sofa as I was told.

Alfons: Before I start, I would like to ask you something. Are you prepared?

Kate: When you say ‘prepared’...

Alfons: Of course, I mean whether you’re prepared to listen to Elbie’s story.

A: Anyhow, it is not a story fit to put one to sleep. But, is that alright with you?

Kate: Yes... it’s alright.

Alfons: What a resolute answer. It would be great if you yourself are as strong as your resolve, too, though.

Alfons was sitting next to me, and beneath the moonlight that filtered in through the window, he let out a seemingly exasperated sigh.

Alfons: Well, I did take you to be the type to not run away after having come so far.

Kate: ...If I had wanted to run away, I would not have asked you in the first place.

(To be honest, if I said I wasn’t scared at all, that would be a lie.)

(I feel like... I’ll hear something more painful than what I witnessed today, after all.)

(Not only that, this is the same as peeking into the things that had hurt Lord Elbert.)

(Just knowing in and of itself might cause him more pain.)

I clenched my hands, which were on my knees.

The cold sensation of Lord Elbert’s hand on mine still lingered on my fingertips.

(Even so... I have to know. Because, I don’t want Lord Elbert to hurt himself more.)

(And if I don’t know the reason, I can’t convince him.)

Sorting my feelings out again, I looked straight at Alfons.

Kate: I’m ready. Please, tell me.

Alfons: ...Very well, then. I’ll share with you as much as I know, then.

The moonlight from the window lengthened our shadows——

Alfons: Once upon a time, in a certain place, there was a child, born from parents of peerless beauty.

A: The father’s name was Hugh, and the mother Cecilia.

A: And it was here where Lord Elbert and I had first met as children.

A: It was here we met — right after he had killed the doctor who assaulted him. He was 9 years old at the time.

Kate: Eh...?

(Lord Elbert... killed someone...?)

Within the otherwise silent room, the sound of my heart grew louder and faster.

It seemed that, whatever I was about to hear about Lord Elbert’s past would sink me to the depths of a deep place, where not even a ray of light would be able to shine through.

In a place more deep than I had ever imagined.

—— Elbert’s POV ——

——When I opened my half-lidded eyes, I could see many flowers, all of vibrant colors.

Just now, Kate had come to my room,

and I should have fallen asleep with my hand holding hers.

At some point, I found myself in a field of flowers.

(——It’s the usual dream, isn’t it?)

In my light sleep, I’ve seen memories of my childhood in my dreams many times.

Tonight, too, I had no choice but to fall asleep, drowning in this dream.

I stopped resisting, and quietly entrusted my body to this dream.

Once I did, I heard a clear voice.

Elbert: Mother... I found a pretty flower.

Cecilia: ...Oh, it really... is pretty.

C: Thank you, Elbert.

(Ah... there it is again.)

(She has those eyes again.)

Mother would sometimes look at me with something like fear in her eyes.

(She’s looking at me the same way she looks at caterpillars, which she hates.)

I would always feel unsettled when I looked into those eyes.

It gave me a sense of uncertainty that all of the peaceful happiness was a lie.

That, at any point in time, something that was happening before us...

...could shatter into pieces like a mirror on the floor.

It was a vague, yet overwhelming fear.

(What can I do to make this fear disappear?)

(——What can I do, for Mother to smile at me?)

Wet nurse: What a beautiful child. He has locks as gold as My Lady.

Maid: He’s like an angel. See, look at those jewel-like eyes.

Butler: It was like he was born to be happy.

Paying little mind to the growing uncertainty and fear within me, the maids and butlers around me sang praises of me being beautiful.

It was almost as though ‘being beautiful’ was a condition for happiness.

(——Flowers, pretty bird feathers, glass that sparkled, butterfly specimens.)

Before I knew it, as if to bury my uncertainty, I started to collect beautiful things.

(If I have this, then it will surely be alright.)

(So, that’s why, please smile.)

(——Please don’t look at me, with those sad eyes.)

—— Kate’s POV ——

Alfons’ voice was always calm, as if he were actually spinning a tale.

And I continued to earnestly listen to him speak about Lord Elbert’s past.

Alfons: He was 6 years old when he found out the reason why his mother avoided him so.

A: Having left a will behind, she took her own life.

Kate: ...!

(Lord Elbert’s mother did that...?)

Alfons: ‘I can’t bear having to live while lying to my beloved.’

A: Supposedly, that was what was written in her will.

A: And also...

A: ‘Elbert was born from someone who is not my husband, against my will.’

I covered my mouth with my palm, as it seemed imprudent to let out any voice.

If I didn’t, it seemed something dark and heavy that had bubbled inside me would overflow in a moment.

Alfons: Is it alright if I continue?

Whether it was out of kindness or pity, Alfons looked at me, as if asking for confirmation.

Kate: Yes... you can.

Alfons: To be clear, I don’t mind if you want to run away now? I imagine this is rather hard on your fragile, glass-like heart?

Kate: ...Not at all.

(I haven’t yet heard, what I want to know.)

I shook my head firmly and looked determinedly at Alfons.

His smile widened.

Alfons: ——Well then, I will continue.

A letter with a wish, received before we left for the manor

To be honest, I’m a little concerned about bringing you with me... so I’ll write this.

No matter what happens at the manor, I don’t want you to worry about it. If you feel there’s anything strange, then find something else to distract you.

It’s not something you should be worried about, so you don’t have to feel you need to do something about it.

The servants won’t do anything rude to guests, so you don’t need to worry about that.

And, if I ever look different than usual, simply leave me be.

If possible, I wish for you to spend your time with a gentle smile.

—Elbert Greetia

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NOTES:

[1] a forget-me-not and sylvatica refer to the same thing. The Japanese version had written out [シルヴァティカ] (shiruvatika) in the previous line, but I felt it better for flow’s sake to call them “forget-me-nots” here. But anyway, there’s some food for thought to make you think about Alfons’ character if you weren’t already, eheh.

[thenanbakacorner]

Can you write an Elf one-shot with a fem reader who gets cloying with him after watching a movie where one of the protagonists dies because he is afraid of losing him please? I just want that madman to get soft and shut up for a few minutes.

Absolutely! I want that too haha

(⚠️Light TW for mention of death and description of how a character dies⚠️)

* * *

🔪What's the Matter, Dearest? - Elf x Cloying Fem Reader Scenario🔪

While waiting for Elf to come back from work, you were sat on the couch, watching a movie. It was quite the nail-biter, leaving you on the edge the whole time.

However, what you hadn't expected in the slightest was for one of the protagonists to get shot, more less practically pelted with lead, and killed. It was quite graphic, and it had you yelping in shock at the fact that one of the main characters, let alone one that you had gotten attached to, was offed.

You had to pause the movie not even a few minutes after the scene thanks to your mind wandering to the possibility of your beloved boyfriend, Elf, getting killed in a similar way thanks to his dangerous work.

You couldn't bare to see that happen to him. The thought terrified you.

Then came the fear of if he wouldn't return from work this very day. After all, it's a bit past nine. He should've been home already! Oh god, what if he's hurt? Or worse?!

You ended up pacing the living room as your mind darkened with these worries, until the sound of the lock clicking broke you out of your scared trance.

When Elf appeared in the doorway, lifting a hand up in exaggerated greeting with a cheery "Oh honeyyy! I'm homeee~!", it felt like a thousand pounds worth of weight was lifted off your shoulders.

"Elf!!"

You chirped in a more heightened voice than you intended, running up to and grabbing onto him, nuzzling your face into his chest.

"Oh!" Elf exclaimed, a bit stunned by how seemingly excited you were that he was back. Sure, you were always excited to see him come home from work, but this was.. different. "What's the matter, dearest? Missed me?"

You simply nodded your head as you kept your face buried against his shirt, letting out a tiny noise reminiscent of a whimper as you did. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around you, leaned down, and placed a little peck of a kiss on the center of your head.

"How cute.~" He cooed, nuzzling his own nose against your hair. "Wanna take this to the couch, baby?" He gently questioned, and you nodded a bit more eagerly than you meant to.

Shortly after, the two of you found yourselves laying together on the plush fabric of the couch, legs tangled and arms wrapped around one another. Your face was now resting in the crook of his neck, holding onto your man as if he'd disappear.

Elf's eyes were closed as he rested them, which was much needed after a long day. He was content, comfortable, as you clung to him, although he did mentally note that you were being a bit more lovey than normal.

Eventually, you spoke up.

"Elf, honey.."

"Mmm?"

"Promise me something?"

He opened an eye and glanced down at you expectantly with a hum of question.

"Promise me you'll be careful? I can't stand the thought of losing you.."

You nuzzled deeper against him to further express your worry, and the ticklish sensation of your breath on his skin made him shiver a little bit, before he turned to fully look at you with a soft expression.

"Oh, baby.. is that why you were so anxious to meet me after work?"

The only reply you could manage was a little whine, and Elf was quick to startle at the sight of tears in the corner of your eyes. He moved to sit up with you, using his thumbs to wipe your eyes dry.

"There, there, little one.. I'll be careful. I promise."

You sniffled and moved in to hug him tight, nuzzling against him once more. He returned the gesture and peppered your head with little kisses, whispering sweet nothings to you of comfort and reassurance. You sighed, finally allowing a smile to come to your face, feeling safe and comforted in your lover's embrace.

[rhaegang]

i know it's an overdone trope but... persephone felix and hades oliver, what are your thoughts?

My thoughts are YES. There’s just a massive stack of different myths to play with where these saltboys can easily be involved, but this one is such a core myth, you know?? And it’s pretty obvious that a lot of the appeal of cattonquick is the duality and the contrasts — light and dark, big and small, extrovert and introvert etc. That’s obviously true of this myth, too.

I think it would be extremely interesting to see someone approach it from the reverse, also. Hades certainly has more power in their dynamic, and draws Persephone into an entire realm that’s foreign to her, that would come with its own customs etc. I can definitely see Saltburn as the underworld and Oliver as a fairly innocent but sharp-tongued Persephone whose darkness is only awakened by proximity to the beautiful, congenial, yet callously cruel and selfish Felix / Hades…???

I love how it could work either way for them, and that makes my brain buzz with how they are! The same! Somehow! I don’t know how Emerald, Barry & Jacob did it but they fully managed to convince me that Oliver and Felix are the same person split into two bodies with two wildly different upbringings. Not even twins separated at birth kind of thing, but one soul cleaved in two. They seem!!! So different!!! But I don’t believe it. I believe they are Enmeshed. They are made of the same stuff, somehow.

(though wouldn’t it be fun to do like, a historic fantasy where Queen Elspeth birthed two boys and they disposed of the smaller quieter babe to avoid any disputes over who would be the heir…but instead of killing the boy, a guard or the wet nurse sold it to a modest merchant whose wife had given him four lovely daughters but who was still in need of a son…and one day that merchant’s son happens to save the prince from a runaway carriage or something and is summoned to the castle keep…)

Anyway. Back to Hades & Persephone.

Oliver doesn’t mind his work. It’s consistent, it’s predictable, it’s necessary. He has plenty of time to himself, and he has all the knowledge of the ages available to him — any scholar who has ever lived has also died or will one day, and their great minds are available for his perusal.

But it is cold, and sometimes much too quiet, and he’s so very tired of being merely tolerated by the other gods. He works hard, much harder than many of them, and he deserves recognition and respect. He deserves more than their disdain and rejection.

He knows saying this would matter little. If he wants something, he’ll have to make it happen for himself. After all — he works hard. Why shouldn’t he benefit from his own efforts now and then?

Felix is naive and trusting, and much too loose-tongued when he’s drunk. He says more than he ought to, considering that Oliver is a stranger to him, but he’s sun warm and charming and no one would ever, ever think to hurt him — he’s a child of Demeter and Zeus!

So he says more than he ought to, including that he is so very, very bored by making things grow. He doesn’t want to do Demeter’s work all the damn time. He’s tired of being forever gilded by the sun, of being enrobed in the cloying scent of fresh flowers, of the adoration of every living thing.

“…and what if you were adored by a dead thing?”

It’s such a strange question, and Felix is so drunk, cheeks and mouth flushed with wine, that he laughs.

He laughs, but when Oliver beside him does not laugh, Felix turns to look at him properly.

And he sees, very briefly, the shadow of a great scythe. He sees, for a mere moment, those sharp blue eyes embedded in a death mask, suspended in dark and empty sockets of bleached bone.

What falls from Felix’s mouth is not a laugh, then, but a gasp.

Terror grips him, and it makes him tremble, and everyone knows he’s easily scared. Everyone knows that, so later, everyone believes that he must have been too scared to run. He must have been too frightened to fight back.

Everyone understands that it isn’t Felix’s fault that he disappears, that in his absence the growing things stop growing, that the warm sun turns its face away, that winter comes for the very first time. It’s much easier to blame Oliver, the strange one, the Other, for all that. It’s easier to believe that Oliver must have taken Felix away than it is to believe he simply left of his own accord.

It’s easier for everyone to believe that, but only because they’ve never been to where Oliver comes from. They’ve never felt the calm, the cold, the peace of the place. And they’ve never felt how it feels to have Oliver’s complete, rapturous attention, to be preferred over all others by He who knows every soul that’s ever lived. They’ve never felt how it feels to be held in the arms that will one day reap the entire world.

They have never kissed him and tasted their own oblivion.

They know nothing, and that’s why they believe they must bring Felix back to where they think he belongs.

But Felix eats, willingly, fed from Oliver’s hand, and he will wait. He will lie naked in the summer fields and let himself grow sun warm again, let the scent of flowers cling to his skin, let the vibrating, screaming chaos of all this busy life sink in and swell inside himself. He’ll soak up the love of the living, and then some day soon, he’ll spill all of it into Oliver, empty himself out like an upturned bottle of wine, a ready vessel waiting to be filled up again with something new.

Something quiet, and cold. Something that terrifies him. Something he chose.

[starsarefire824]

Mike grabs onto Will’s bicep and turns him around, his skin is hot and damp with sweat beneath his touch. When he turns around, half Will’s face is lit up by the spotlights that shine onto the front of the house. It reflects off his still wet hair and it makes the way his eyes shine and the crease of his brow intense and eaten with misery. 

“What!” Will shouts, shoving him off and throwing his hands out. “Mike— what do you want?!” - The Push and Pull, The Pact.

.....Mike stops in his tracks, all of his avidity suddenly deflating. He can feel his face screw up in confusion. “What do you mean?” he asks, and he hates the way his tone is cloying and needy. 

Will glares at him, his gaze filled with hurt and an intense anger bubbling just beneath the surface. His voice is thick with emotion and Mike can tell he’s trying not to cry. Mike feels at a loss for what to do, how to feel, what to say.

“I don’t know what you want—from me!” He swallows the word and jabs his own chest so hard it seems painful. “I mean— MAX !” The way he says her name is almost a wail as he motions wildly towards the house with his arm and his eyes go wide. He sucks in a rough, snotty breath through his nose, briefly glancing around watchfully before speaking. “You say things like–like we’re a team, you say things like—you look at me like—.” 

Will’s face falls, and he swallows again, his mouth suddenly pursed shut, as if realizing whatever it is he was going to tell him is somehow erroneous…or forbidden.

“Mike —-” he starts again, saying his name with frustrated fervor. “What exactly were you trying to tell me earlier? I mean—you’ve just—-” his voice breaks around his words and he pauses to steady it. “You’re constantly pushing and pulling. You say one thing and do another. You’re close and then you’re gone, and I can’t—I kind of just can’t do it anymore.” Will stares at the grass…eyes full of tears now. “I just don’t know—if we’re friends or if we’re something else—-or if maybe we shouldn’t be anything at all.”

Mike doesn’t know what to do. He's frozen and staring at his friend who begs him for some kind of answer he can’t give right now. Because the truth is: Mike doesn’t know why he does the things he does, he doesn’t know why he can’t be honest with himself or Will, the person he’s known since he was five years old. His best friend. Mike doesn’t know what the fuck has happened at this party, and he most certainly does not know what has gone on with Max just now. Mike can’t explain to fucking Will how… he wanted her too, in a way that’s completely separate and different than what he feels for him. He can’t explain to Will that he honestly has no idea who he is or what he wants. That sometimes he feels like he wants everything; wants too much. Sometimes he feels like he’s selfish and greedy and just… built wrong . 

“It’s too painful, Mike,” Will says to him then, quieter now like he’s exhausted. He shakes his head and his mouth twists around a sob he tries to stifle. “I think–sometimes—you don’t know me at all. Or maybe you do–and you just ignore it. And I—I’m not sure I can wait for you to figure yourself out—or whatever the hell it is that you're doing.” 

“Will,” Mike says, soft and imploring, reaching out for him. He wants to pull him to his chest and whisper into his hair as he hugs him all the things he wanted to say earlier. “ Please —” His plea is broken before it even leaves his lips.

Will shakes his head, pushing his arm away gently with the back of his hand. “Just leave it—” he says, despondent. “I’m going home .” 

Mike’s breath leave his lungs and his shoulders fold in on themselves in defeat.