#you get a writer’s block

[lifeofkaze]

Where All Stories End

Warning: mortal injury, major character death

The wind was howling around the ancient walls of Fraser Hall. The storm that had been building over the Scottish Highlands had broken earlier in the evening, the leaden clouds looming so close to the ground that it looked as if the sky were caving in on itself.

The man in the library wasn’t aware of the clattering raindrops against the windows. He was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, as he had been for hours - back and forth, back and forth. His gaze was directed inwards, his fingers toying with the chain of the pocket watch adjusted to his waistcoat, quietly mumbling to himself as he went.

Presently, Henry Lovecraft stopped at the heavy oak desk the lady of the house had moved there for his convenience. Picking up the quill and dipping it into his inkwell, he set the feather to the paper. Before the tip could touch it, however, Henry paused. Frozen, he watched as the first jet-black drop formed on the quill’s end, growing bigger, heavier, laden with all the words of all the worlds. Eventually, it fell, landing on the pristine parchment with a quiet thud. It was a soft sound, nothing compared to the beating against the glass outside, but to Henry’s ears, the impact sounded deafening. 

With a sigh heavier than the mountain on his heart, Henry dropped the quill again, turning away from the desk and the empty parchment staring at him. The whispers, which had been quiet for the time he’d stood at the desk, returned, begging him, luring him, asking him to tell their story - no, their story - no, their story.

Henry shut his eyes, too weary to keep the whisperings at bay. He didn’t know what was happening; as long as he could remember, the stories of the past had talked to him. They had always invited him, like friends, lovers, making the past his playground and the present his stage. It was his gift, his singular talent, the one thing that had set him apart from everybody else. Lately, however, his gift had turned into a curse. The stories wouldn’t stop haunting him, calling for him louder than ever before, but every time he tried to put them to paper, they would vanish like the ghosts time had made them. The words slipped through his fingers like fog, only to return and envelope him again as soon as he turned his back. 

Henry let himself sink into the chequered armchair close to the fire, stretching out his long legs with the worn, slightly too big slippers Selene had given him on his feet. He took out his pocket watch and flipped it open, studying the familiar face of the token that had once belonged to his father. It had stopped working earlier in the evening, and Henry fiddled with the button on top, watching the hands of the clock turn at his will. He brought it to his heart, but, of course, there was no sound. The clockwork wasn’t ticking, as if the watch was stuck in an eternal moment in time. 

A smile flickered across Henry’s face. A strangely comforting thought. 

“Uncle Henry?”

The sound of a small voice made Henry break from his musings. Looking up, he saw that a little girl had slipped into the library. She was dressed in a nightgown, her dark hair held in place by a haphazard plait and the bow Henry had brought back from his latest trip to Greece. 

“Caitlin,” Henry smiled. “Why are you up at this hour? It must be close to midnight. It’s far too late to wander, especially in a storm like this.”

“I know,” Caitlin Fraser sniffed and shuffled closer, “but I cannot sleep. The wind is howling so loudly. Will you keep me company?”

Henry hesitated. “I shall if you wish it so. But wouldn’t it be better if you found your mother?”

Caitlin made a dismissive noise that made her sound more grown up than a girl of five. 

“Mother is in one of her moods tonight.” She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial manner. “She locked herself in her study again, and I swear I can hear her pacing. What is the matter with her, Uncle? Why must she always be like this?”

Henry suppressed a sigh. Storms had always made Selene feel restless, trapped inside without a means of escape. And it wasn’t only that; it had been almost six years now since…

“Come here, little Cat,” Henry said, closing his arms around Caitlin, who rested her head against his chest. “Leave your mother be. She has her own ghosts who haunt her.”

“There are no such things as ghosts,” Caitlin wrinkled her nose. “Everyone knows that, Uncle Henry.”

“I think Alan would like to disagree.” 

Caitlin frowned, as if she hadn’t even considered her mother’s undead pet ferret up to this point. 

“That’s different,” she declared eventually. “Alan was always like this.”

“Was he?” Henry had meant it as a joke, but somehow, the thought made him contemplative. “What do you think ghosts are, Caitlin?”

“I don’t know,” Caitlin said, looking at him quizzically. “Do tell, Uncle Henry.”

“Judging by the ghosts I’ve met,” Henry said, ignoring Caitlin’s doubtful look, “ghosts are a little like memories. They linger in our world because something’s keeping them. Something that’s too important for them to let go.”

“Like what?”

“It depends. Some have unfinished business to attend to. Some are too scared to move on. And some… some just don’t want to be forgotten.”

Caitlin hummed thoughtfully. “That sounds dreadfully sad, don’t you think? Why wouldn’t you want to go to Heaven when it’s your time?”

Because some people die before their time, Henry was about to say but held the words back; Caitlin was too young to learn this dire truth. 

“I don’t think it’s sad at all,” he told her instead. “For some, maybe, but there’s something beautiful in getting to pass on your story, don’t you think?”

“But that’s what you are for, Uncle Henry. You and your books. It’s what you do.”

“It’s what I do,” Henry echoed, trying not to think about the empty parchment on his desk, “but a thousand lifetimes wouldn’t be enough to tell all the stories of this world, little Cat.”

Caitlin giggled, sheepishly covering her mouth with her hand. It was one of Henry’s favourite sights; it made the stern little girl look more like the child she actually was. 

“You will need to become a ghost yourself, Uncle Henry. Then you’ll have all the time in the world. Oh, just imagine! The first proper ghost I would know. Apart from Alan, of course.”

Henry laughed quietly. “Of course. I do hope I shall be here for a while longer, though.”

“But one day, maybe.”

“One day, maybe.” 

The two of them sat silently for a while, listening to the fire crackling and the wind beating against the window panes. 

“I asked Mother about Father today,” Caitlin whispered presently. 

Henry exhaled slowly. “What did she say?” 

“Nothing, like always. She forbade me to ask about him again.” She raised her face away from where she had snuggled against Henry’s chest. “Sometimes, I wish you were my father.”

There was a dropping sensation to his stomach as Henry gently adjusted the bow on Caitlin’s hair. “Don’t say that.”

“But why? Why can’t you be?”

“I am your Uncle Henry, am I not?”

“I wish you were it, though,” Caitlin stubbornly insisted, her jaw set in the same way her mother always did. “I don’t even know my real father, and I bet Mother doesn’t know him either, or else she would have told me. How can you not know something like this?” 

Henry shook his head. “The story of your father is not mine to tell.”

“How entirely unfair.”

“It might appear so, but there is nothing I can do about it, I’m afraid.” Taking Caitlin by the shoulders, he lifted her to the ground. “But there are other stories I could tell you. Do you wish for me to read them to you?” 

Caitlin’s face lit up. “Will it be one of a princess in a castle and her handsome prince?”

“If you wish it so.”

“And you will stay to wait out the storm with me?”

“Of course, little princess.”

“Thank you.” Caitlin flung her arms around Henry’s waist. “You and your stories are the best.”

“There’ll always be a story for you with me,” Henry smiled, biting the insides of his cheeks as those big eyes, which reminded him so much of her mother, looked back up at him. “Hurry along now, Your Majesty. I’ll select a book and be right with you.”

Caitlin smiled and flitted away, her light footsteps drowned out by the thunder rolling outside. Henry stared after her for a moment before gathering thoughts and turning toward the bookshelves lining the walls. He knew exactly which book to get for Caitlin; he could already feel it calling to him. Its lure was oddly strong, much stronger than Henry knew it to be. He trusted the feeling to guide him deeper into the darkness of the room, not bothering to take a light. He knew where he was going. 

An almost dreamlike smile on his face, Henry climbed the ladder to reach the top part of the bookcase he had been headed for. He thought of how Caitlin’s face always brightened at the part where the prince would rescue the princess; she would look exactly like her mother then, only that Selene had always preferred the dragon to the knight in shining armour. 

Thinking of the two women he considered family, Henry extended his hand. A shudder ran through him as his fingers brushed the worn edge of the storybook. It felt strange, like a cold whisper breathing down the exposed skin of his neck.

Caught off guard by the sensation, Henry’s foot in the too-big slippers lost hold on the rack of the ladder, and suddenly, there was nothing beneath him but emptiness. Sudden panic struck him, making him cling to the first thing Henry could get hold of - the upper edge of the bookcase. His feet kicking against it, the ladder fell away, and for one horribly long moment, Henry Lovecraft hung there, his fingers slowly slipping off the polished wood. The thought of his father’s watch flashed in his mind, set for one moment in time, forever and all eternity.

Then, the bookcase began to topple, pulled forward by Henry’s weight. He screwed his eyes shut and let go as he rushed towards the ground, spinning around as books and whispering pages rained down around him. As the thunder rolled outside, the bookcase collided with the back of his head with a final-sounding crush. 

Raising his eyes one final time, Henry saw the book he had wanted to bring Caitlin just beyond his fingertips. He reached for it, his vision already fading, fingers just so grazing the old spine. Another shiver.

Then, darkness.

[nanaslutt]

insatiable

ʚ synopsis: Choso accidentally discovers that you can squirt and he’s determined to make you do it over and over again

ʚ cont: fem reader, rough sex, multiple orgasms, squirting, mating press, dirty talk, he talks you though it, inexperienced choso, unprotected sex, cumming inside

ʚ note: another brilliant ask from 🌱 anon <3

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ

The position he currently has you folded in is one that has you seeing stars behind your eyes. Your legs are folded against your body while Choso drops the weight of the bottom half of his body down onto your pelvis with each thrust, making his cock assault your sweet spot deep inside you to no end. It felt like your organs had molded to make room for Choso's cock.

His hard pelvis crushed yours each time he thrust into you, his hot skin smashing against your clit, making your walls spasm and squeeze around him ruthlessly. "God, you're so tight-" Choso gritted through his teeth, his hot breath tickling your neck as he whined and groaned against your skin. Each time he bullied his cock into your walls, you felt something coil itself tighter and tighter in your stomach.

It felt deeper and more intense than your usual orgasms, but you were being fucked with such force that you were unable to utter any words, only able to squeeze your arms tightly around your boyfriend's neck and cry choppy moans as he humped into you ruthlessly. "O-oh shit-" Choso's eyes twitched and his eyebrows furrowed as your jaw fell open, mouth forming a big O shape as the ball of tightness in your pelvis burst.

Choso placed his hands on the undersides of your knees and pushed his body up, allowing him to look at the mess you were making on his cock. His eyes opened in shock, his hips not even slowing a bit as he fucked streams of a white liquid out of your cunt. The feeling of you gushing out around him made him bite his lip between his teeth, his balls throbbing as he watched you have an orgasm like you never have before.

You gasped and breathed heavily as you struggled to come down from such an intense high. You placed your hands over your face, mortified and aware of what you just did. Choso paused his hips, relishing in the feeling of your tight cunt throbbing around him in the aftershocks of your orgasm as he struggled to comprehend what just happened. You'd never cum like that before.

A bead of sweat dripped down the side of Choso's face, sliding down his bare neck. His eyes were wide as he stared at your ruined cunt, a little swollen on the outside the force of his thrusts. His abdomen and balls were coated in your cum from when you squirted all over him, the liquid dripping down onto the mattress and joining the wet mess under your bodies.

"What… what was that?" Choso asked, slightly out of breath from how rough he was going. He kept you folded in that intense position, just using your cunt to cockwarm him as he waited for you to respond. Choso stared at your cunt for a few beats longer, and when you didn't respond he dragged his eyes up your body to find your face, which was covered by your hands. "Hey," Choso spoke, releasing the hold he had on one of your thighs, letting it fall over his own as he grabbed your wrist, trying to pull your hand away from your face.

"Baby, what was that? It was so hot, can- can you do it again?" Choso asked, replaying the moment you squirted on him over and over again in your head. You dropped your hands from your face and grabbed his wrist, averting eye contact. You felt your face burn with embarrassment at the thought of explaining what squirting was to him. It wasn't his fault he had little experience in bed and had never watched porn before.

"I just came… that's all." You tried to lie, not wanting to face the mortification of the conversation. Choso cocked his head to the side and looked down between your legs again. The wet spot underneath you had grown as your liquids had seeped into the sheets, making your mess look even worse. "I've never seen you cum like that," Choso responded, a bit skeptical. He felt his cock throb inside you, he wanted to make you do that again, he needed to.

"Fuck Cho…" You cursed, your face scrunching in discomfort. Choso wrapped his arms around one of your legs and placed it over his shoulder, keeping your appendage snug against his body. His cock jolted inside you as he pressed himself deeper, making sure the two of you were as close as possible. "Then, you can do it again right?" You reached out and placed your hands on his lower hips, resting them there.

You shook your head in embarrassment, not wanting to squirt again. "Why not?" Choso asked, almost sounding like he was pouting. "Cho, I squirted, that's what that was." Even after your explanation, Choso still had no idea what that meant, but he did know that both he and his dick liked the sound of it. "That's only happened one other time… when I was touching myself. It's so messy and embarrassing." You explained.

Choso's eyebrows furrowed together, he didn't understand why you thought it was embarrassing. You sure looked like you were feeling good when it happened, so why was it so bad? And the mess? Choso was never one to care about something like that, especially in bed. He fucked sloppily and came buckets all over you every time you had sex.

There was another thought Choso was having though. He was irritated that you had squirted without him, and hadn't told him you had done or could do such an amazing thing. "Well, I think it's hot. I wanna see you do it again please." Choso said, not giving you any time to respond before he pulled his hips back and fucked half of his cock back inside you.

Your nails dug into his hips at the unexpected stimulation. The man above you started at a quick and fast pace, the same one as before. "W-wait Choso-" You tried to cry but your moans fell on deaf ears as Choso's arms wrapped tighter around your leg, keeping you sturdy and close in proximity as he abused your cunt with his cock. You threw your head back against the pillows in pleasure, already feeling something start to well up inside you again.

Choso turned his head against your leg and opened his mouth to press sloppy kisses and lickes on your skin. His eyes were shut tight, eyebrows furrowed together as he molded your pussy to shape his cock. "A-ahhh-" Choso groaned in pleasure against your leg, biting the flesh there before pulling away and cracking his eyes open, looking down at your disheveled form.

"H-how, how do I make you squirt again? Will this help?" Without warning, Choso used one of his hands to rub quick, sloppy circles against your clit with his thumb, his other fingers and palm spread out on your thigh. "God wait- Choso not there-" You gasped, shaking your head back and forth against the pillow, gritting your teeth together.

Choso's choked moans could be heard in his throat, his ragged breathing making you feel dizzy from how hot he sounded. "Y-you're getting tight again, are you gonna squirt?" Choso asked, leaning forward over your body. He placed his hand next to your head to stabilize himself as he continued fucking into you, his thumb ruthlessly rubbing back and forth against your sensitive clit.

"Choso f-fuck, c-choso-" You could do nothing but cry and whine his name as he fucked you in that deep angle again, your one leg folding over his shoulder and dangling weakly by his head, your body limp from all the pleasure he was giving you. "Please squirt again, I wanna see it, I need it." He begged, adjusting his hips against yours so his cock was drilling impossibly deeper inside you.

"Don't be embarrassed i-its, okay, I got you, please just cum." Choso's words were doing wonders on your body. The same feeling of that tight, deep ball was forming inside your pelvis, reading to be released all over Choso and his cock once more. Your eyes could barely stay open as your body took in all the pleasure your eager boyfriend was forcing on you.

"Oh god- oh god-" You winced when you felt it ready to release, you bit down hard on your teeth, your lips parted to show your strained expression, your body going rigid against him all the while Choso kept fucking into you, working you right up to your breaking point. "Yeah, y-yeah yeah-" Choso groaned along with you, fighting the urge to not blow his load before you came.

His eyes were glued to where the two of you were connected as he waited to see that liquid gush from your cunt again. His jaw fell open in a silent scream when your cunt constricted tighter than the first time and that same liquid from before squirted out from around his dick. "Goddd- yesyesyes-" Choso groaned from between his teeth, shaking his head back in forth in disbelief as you squirted all over him.

Not long after you came, Choso followed your lead. His hips stuttered and paused against your cunt, pushing his cock as deep inside you as possible as his balls throbbed and he released load after load of his cum inside you. You shook and spasmed against him, feeling your insides grow warmer as he filled you up with his seed. Your leg slipped off of his shoulder, allowing him to collapse fully against your body as the both of you shook in the aftershocks.

You wrapped your arms around Choso's neck and whined when he weakly thrust his cock in and out of you, using your cunt to milk his balls dry. You were just starting to catch your breath before you heard Choso mumble something against your neck quietly. "Huh?" You managed to force out, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion when Choso pushed himself off your body and placed his hands on either side of your body, looking down at you.

His hair was disheveled, his face all the way down to his chest bright red, and his chest heaved as he fought to catch his breath. "Again." He said, louder this time. Your eyes widened in shock, surely he couldn't be serious, your body felt like jello, you didn't know if you had anything left inside you to give. "N-need you to do that again, just one more time." You swallowed harshly, trying to mentally prepare yourself for Choso's unsatiable cock to drill you all over again.

You felt him twitch inside you, already back to life even though it felt like he had released all he could give you from his balls. You winced and whined when Choso slowly pulled his cock out before pushing it back inside you, relishing in the warmth and gumminess of your now cum soaked walls.

The mess on the bed underneath you was not twice the size, and it was about to get worse when you felt Choso's cum force itself out from around his cock and drip down your ass, joining the mess. Choso found your eyes with his and waited for you to say something as he continued slowly pushing himself in and out of you "One more time." You whispered, holding your finger up in front of you, trying to look stern, but failing. A satisfied grin spread across Choso's features. "One more time." He repeated.

[nhoirr]

It was the year of spring when you got the most lamest confession you've ever heard.

all from a man you'd never expect—nobody ever did expect that GOJO SATORU had the time and capacity to fall in love.

what a surprise, because he was too.

"go out with me," he states more than questioning.

like a giddy normal teenager that was not the most handsome man in the world—the, gojo satoru asked you out.

infront of everyone; without shame, oh but full of smugness that makes you want to reject him just to see his pride fall.

but perhaps the from shocking event did the thought not come to you that day, not when the pressure was all time high.

"This.." you start and the crowd quivers in their boots, boys and girls alike already demanding their victory from the bet, "this is what you greet me with after ignoring me for weeks, satoru?" the said man stiffens with his posture, and as if the bouquet of flowers he held felt the shift of the atmosphere—it dramatically wilted.

"oh, c'mon that was just—" he knew reasoning was futile when he gulps the words down his throat again, catching the way you glare.

and you spin your heel around. guessing with how he hangs his head low, you think he's discouraged enough to let it go and take the rejection.

but the man you knew was always so annoying, so stubborn.

you hear a call of your name but you don't snap your head like your-all-time-secret-is-out kind of surprise, but it's because the dumbest man spoke the dumbest words you've ever heard.

"I, the heir of the gojo clan, am insanely inlove with you!"

the crowd goes eerily silent, like time was frozen but not in a romantic way. It was embarrassingly awkward that you could hear the sound of a pin drop.

"what?" you spat out in disbelief, not comprehending his words and he takes it as another sign to repeat himself to you.

"I lik—" you stop him from talking by slapping a hand to his mouth, glowing eyes shimmering with the brightest smile known to man, "yes yes, don't repeat yourself!" you exclaim almost immediately.

your breath hitches in your throat the moment you feel his hand grasp your wrist, the one that covered his mouth and he points a finger to speak, muffled by your hand, "dso yu asekpt?" you could faintly make out the words he said—do you accept?

it syncs with the voice echoing at the back of your head ever since he confessed.

and yet, the answer always remained the same.

so you drop your hand from his mouth, catching the way his eyes follow your every move—perhaps enough to notice the hesitation, and he worries for the words you'll speak with such an expression.

quickly he starts before you speak, "Its fi—"

"I like you," he gets cut off, jaw slacked and unmoving in shock.

he blinks once or twice, but the crowd reacts before he can, waking him enough to respond back.

with a lopsided grin and dusted cheeks, he speaks again too—he thinks could be lost to the noise of the crowd, but with how close you were, he thinks you'll be able to hear even a whisper.

"I like you too."

©nhoirr — DO NOT COPY NOR PLAGIARIZE MY WORKS!

thanks for tuning in for another episodic brain riot of mine that goes no where!

want more? check out navigation for latest posts. <33 (shameless self-plug because.)

[kayentokk]

“A lot better, now.”

Just imagine being so stressed after a long day, whether it was work, maybe pressure from expectations, or you’re just completely exhausted. There doesn’t even have to be a reason, you’re just tired and drained.

You barely make it one stiff, tired step into your apartment before he comes around the corner to greet you with a warm kiss and hug. It’s routine for you at this point. Every day you receive the tightest, secure, warm embrace from your favorite person. Arms snugly encircled around your waist, hands giving soothing rubs up and down your back. 

Then after remaining in that moment, for what feels like the best couple seconds of your life, soft, pliant lips place a gentle peck on your forehead. 

Those same arms wrap back around you once more, just for good measure, and cradle you. You’re completely surrounded by the calming scent, body, and essence of him.

This is the best part of your day, the thing that wakes you up in the morning and lets you lay down peacefully that night. You could stay like this forever, you think. 

You’re gently eased out of the hug, hands running up and down the sides of your arms. There’s a deep inhale before he softly inquires,

“How was today?”

“A lot better, now.”

[Kento, Hinata, ushijima, Izuku, Rengoku, Kirishima, Suguru, Katsuki, Kuroo, Bokuto, Tanjiro, your fave]

@/cafekitsune for the divider!

[jethrowest]

let me see you stripped down to the bone…

- stripped by depeche mode

congratulations! you’ve been hired as homelander’s entire glam squad! what an opportunity! now let’s try real hard not to let the fumes get to you, okay?

pairing : homelander/afab reader

word count : 5.6k

warnings : homelander in and of himself, toxic workplace environment, something akin to stockholm syndrome, fingering, smut. 18+, mdni

special thanks to @blindmagdalena @sehtoast @homeb0ys and @clockworkzeppelin for letting me scream at you about this!

writing tag

gif credit

divider credit

Homelander is an asshole.

That doesn’t bother you much. You’ve dealt with plenty in this field, which means you’ve learned how to make life easier for all parties. That particular learning curve includes when to stand out and blend in, at times concurrently depending on what variety of asshole they happen to be.

As a whole, the makeup artists and hairstylists at Vought take care of The Seven and go where they’re needed. And as a cosmetologist, you were hired to provide both services for Homelander and Homelander only, which you consider to be one of the most prestigious stamps one could add to their professional passport.

Before you became official, you were colorfully threatened by a Ms. Ashley Barrett, who, after the fact, had no qualms throwing you into the lion’s den to figure your own shit out.

In no uncertain terms were you told that if you fucked any part of this up, your sparkling resume would look best as something to sit her smooth, bare ass on while getting fucked on top of her desk. No lube or protection. It would then be tossed exactly like her salad.

Not an image you could have ever predicted crossing your mind. Honestly, you should have stopped her right there and walked your happy little ass out of her office toward pastures that might have not been greener (you were being handsomely compensated), but certainly not as toxic. While the red flags were a color you couldn’t quite ignore, you were also curious about why they stood out so much more than they did regarding previous employers.

None of this is to say you live under a rock. Anyone who has access to the internet is ambushed daily by these Supes’ personal lives. Homelander’s track record as far as choice in partners went hadn’t been ideal, so you understand that made him less popular at the time. That of course has nothing to do with you or your capabilities.

You opt to wear gray-colored glasses, seeing everything with a neutral blend of black and white. As much as possible anyway.

Nevertheless, curiosity killed the cat. But hopefully not your career.

The first day was awkward to say the least. Immediately, you knew you weren’t going to like your coworkers.

Glints of sympathy changed how they perceived you. A target, whether they intended for this to happen or not, was nailed to your forehead, and it made them buzz around you like avid, greedy wasps keen on seeing how rapidly the honeybee will be brutalized. You didn’t much care for going cross-eyed while staring at that target whenever you crossed paths. They didn’t know you, yet because of who you were working under, deemed you helpless. They didn’t give you a chance to establish yourself before branding you a victim.

Why should you respect them?

Small talk wasn’t entertained either, as their judgment tarnished any future encounters. They ostracized you once you showed no interest in engaging with them. That didn’t disappoint you. You weren’t here to make friends.

You do wonder how those before you fared: if they were jaded when they arrived or if they couldn’t help but succumb to the pressures of being at the top rung of a very unstable albeit sought after ladder.

Ms. Barrett quickly introduced you to Homelander, her parting gift before leaving the two of you alone.

You weren’t completely nervous in his presence. He wasn’t any different to you than the other celebrities you’d worked on, except he could rip you in half like a piece of paper if he was so inclined. But he’s the hero of this country’s story, so really, you should have nothing to worry about.

His demeanor, you noted, suggested arrogance, annoyance, and boredom. All things you’re used to. So you offered your hand to shake, which he eyed with a slightly upturned nose before grabbing, told him it was a pleasure to meet him and got straight to business.

Looking back, he was clearly expecting more out of you. Maybe not a display as excessive as getting on your knees and professing your undying love, but close enough. Somewhere in the middle, perhaps.

Part of you believes he might have also counted on fear. To you, he’s not anything or anyone unknown. Another big name in a fancy suit with impossible demands.

You were given a routine to follow and products to use. You did as you were instructed and found the process to be simple and, as Homelander’s expression revealed, uninspiring.

While you were utilizing a face brush to apply powder, he must have decided he was done enduring your lack of enthusiasm, because he suddenly asked, “What are you wearing?”

You stopped for a split second, no longer than, and continued. “The name of my clothing designer, you mean?”

He scoffed, waving his gloved hand at you, almost knocking the applicator you held to the ground. “No, your perfume. What are the top notes?”

You laughed and that seemed to confuse him. “Why, you want a bottle?”

“I don’t like it.” He sniffed sharply and cleared his throat. “Smells like you should be on the corner selling your used body parts.”

Ding ding ding. Alarm bells and red flags galore. You enjoy a challenge, however, and are a bit of a masochist, so you persevere.

“Well, what doesn’t smell like a cheap hooker to you? I’ll start wearing that instead.”

He cocked a brow, studying you. Trying to figure out if you were being serious or mocking him.

“It’s your first day.” A warning. “Are you on your best behavior, or can you do better?” He leaned forward in his chair, forcing you backward. “You should be working harder to prove yourself. Prove your worth.” He sat back again and shrugged. “Or maybe you really are worth as much as that dumpster juice you doused yourself in.”

At this point, he more than likely envisioned your happy little ass getting offended and storming out of the room. Breaking down, sobbing. Questioning why he was being so rude. One of those or, better yet, a nifty combination.

You’ve heard worse, unfortunately for him. Not always directed at you, but that doesn’t matter. You can handle it.

“You’re absolutely right,” you stated calmly, folding your arms across your chest. He looked at you with pretentious, petulant intrigue. “It is my first day, and I want to make a good impression. Which is why I’m asking you what you would like me to wear so I can continue to keep that good impression intact and, as our professional relationship develops, stay on top of it.”

Homelander’s mouth twitched. He sighed deeply and slouched in his seat, staring at the wall to the left of him. Then he deigned to cast his gaze back at you, resting his cheek on his index and middle finger. He tapped the arm rest with his other hand.

“Ugh, fine. Whatever.” A pause followed that lasted longer than necessary. Were you meant to guess? “Just wear something, I dunno, less. If you would have done your homework like a good little peon, you’d know I have super senses. Highly developed. Can you even imagine what that entails?”

Finally, he freed the canvas you were nearly finished with, and you flicked the soft bristles across the bridge of his nose. You smiled, more to yourself than him.

Felt rather on the nose, as the saying goes.

He didn’t comment on your grin. You didn’t give him time to. But he did huff like you were being obtuse on purpose.

“I can try. And my imagination is giving me some less-than-ideal scenarios,” you replied. Another pause. At least he was letting you do your job again.

You don’t know what compelled you to keep going, but something about his lack of a real answer made you carry on. “Do you have a favorite flower or baked good? Maybe a spice?”

Homelander almost glared up at you. You say almost because, for whatever reason, it didn’t seem like he was directing that harshness at you, though former words and actions proved otherwise. Something inside, perhaps. Or outside of this enclosed space.

“I already told you what to wear. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You took the hint and remained quiet the rest of your session. Soon, you were done.

As you were packing and tidying up your station, he took it upon himself to stand behind you. He lingered over your shoulder, watching the scene play out like he was director and star and you were barely an ant on the sidewalk he acknowledged before squashing.

The heat radiating off of him was impossible to dismiss, a wall of it barricading your backside. He clasped his fingers underneath his cape and inched closer. You thought he was as close to you as he could get without touching you. He was that warm.

When you glanced up, he was staring at you through the mirror. As absurd as it was, you managed to get chills. Goosebumps broke the surface of your skin.

“Fresh chocolate chip cookies. Straight out of the oven. Like mom used to make.” He flashed an unnerving smile before turning to exit.

From there on out, even after you bent to his will and found a gourmand scent that matched what he described, Homelander tested you. Your work ethic, clothing choice, eating habits, and most of all, patience.

Your parents would ask how you were liking your job, how it was working alongside the Supes- not to mention the most famous of all- and you’d lie through your teeth. You felt you had no choice, Ashley’s threat ringing in your ears.

Resume, bare ass, tossed salad...

Oh yeah, it’s going great! They’re all super flexible. I couldn’t be happier!

At least that pun made you feel a little better about hiding the shame of what you’ve allowed yourself to take on.

This was all in the first few weeks. It started to get a little easier after that, which is surprising considering more was added to your to-do list.

You should have moved on before starting. But, for whatever asinine reason, you didn’t.

Every time you go back to your apartment and assess your appearance in the bathroom mirror, you wonder who’s making who up here. He’s changing your looks more than you are his. You’re like his human doll.

You’ve put up with a lot over the years, but this takes the cake and shoves it in your face. As fucked as it is, the flavor is growing on you. Like a fungus. Growing, nonetheless.

You can’t stop thinking about him.

It’s innocent enough, you try convincing yourself. Making sure you have the right outfit laid out the night before, the right lunch (no onions or fish or anything “freaky”!), etc. He is your superior, after all. You shouldn’t be viewing him in any other light.

He’s the most frustrating aspect of your existence these days, but he’s also the one you’re around the most. His penchant for workplace gossip and how unintentionally funny he is tends to make him palatable, which has regrettably become an understatement.

Months go by. You’ve witnessed how alone he truly is. How he has nothing outside of performing his tricks on Vought’s all-encompassing stage. And when he begins asking for your input, starts doing things for you that are so blatant it’s perplexing, you find your stress and vexation melting into cumbersome fascination.

It’s embarrassing. You don’t have the courtesy of enough time to dwell on your feelings toward the situation either, from beginning to whatever end you might be met with. You suppose that could be beneficial in the long run.

It also hits you when you least expect it; when you really don’t want it to.

Your body doesn’t wait until you finally have a moment alone. It decides, while you’re helping Homelander with his skincare routine that he insisted upon because you know more than these vacuous corporate douche-bags, to heat up without warning and slither from your head to your heart until it grasps you unfairly between your legs.

You try not to step into momentary paralysis. You understand to what extent his powers reach. It’s not like he doesn’t go on and on about them. About himself.

Whatever he notices, it’s not right away. A palpable tension fills the air between the two of you eventually. But it takes a more significant amount of time than you would have anticipated to permeate the natural flow of things.

Fuck, you can’t even be safe inside here, where your thoughts, whatever they may be, are yours. You can’t even have yourself. He has every part of you, and you are willingly relinquishing that control.

Your evening, once you can have it, consists of combing over every decision you’ve made leading up to this strange, disorienting space you find yourself occupying. All it does is leave you exasperated in a much different way than before and with an unsettling observation (or hallucination):

Was that the tail end of the American flag outside your window?

You are unacceptably late.

Rushing around, you throw on the first top and bottoms you see from your closet and spritz some perfume on your neck and wrists. You don’t check your phone. You’re afraid of what will pop up on your screen. And, frankly, you don’t have the time.

Your only option for transportation is the subway, as you’re sure the special vehicle from Vought is long gone. Why would they wait for someone like you, even if you’re practically Homelander’s personal assistant? One of his only friends. You doubt he has more than Black Noir, and that isn’t as perfect as it appears to the casual viewer.

You dread what kind of explosion you’re without a doubt walking into once you show your miserable ass up. You’re going to smell like everyone on this train. He’s going to go ballistic.

The question remains: why are you continuing to put yourself through this? It’s not your circus, yet somehow, the monkeys have become your liability.

You know, deep down, what keeps you going back. It’s simply too ridiculous to admit aloud.

Making your way past security, hurriedly presenting your badge, you realize you forgot to brush your teeth, or at the very least, gargle some mouthwash. You thank your lucky stars when you open your purse to a pack of gum tucked away in one of the compartments.

It will have to do.

When you open the door to Homelander’s dressing room, you see a couple of employees standing near the counter where the bag of supplies has been opened and rifled through, looking like they might soil themselves, a frantic Ashley, and an extremely pissed off Homelander in the middle of it all.

Reflexively, you cringe. You attempt to wipe any trace from your features, but it’s too late. Ashley is glaring daggers at you and Homelander can hardly bring himself to look in your direction. The others don’t matter to you. They never did.

“I’m so sorry I’m late. I know there’s no excuse-”

“You’re goddamned right, there’s no excuse! I don’t give a shit if god and his whole fucking choir of angels came down from heaven and divinely called you to give them a makeover! What were you thinking?!”

You’re about to answer, though you comprehend her query is more or less rhetorical. She interrupts your slightly open mouth while gesturing wildly, proving your point.

“Oh, that’s right! You weren’t thinking at all, were you?! But I do believe you’ve thought long and hard about what’s at stake here. And you know damn well we at Vought don’t tolerate this kind of sloppy behavior. Not to mention the way you’re dressed! It’s adding insult to injury!” Her hand swipes at the air, the length of your outfit, and you glance down, recognizing how comically mismatched you are. Her correct observation affects you more than it would have months prior, stinging your ego- one of the many things that’s been shelved in order to accommodate the person who won’t even grace you with a glance.

A dramatic groan cuts short any further commentary from the redhead, perpetually stretched thin between her absurd duties.

“Jesus Christ, Ashley, why are your big fucking horse gums still flapping?” Homelander’s booming voice slices through your mind like a jarring, dense migraine. He pinches his brow between middle finger and thumb, eyes closed. “I want you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum t’get the fuck out. Now.”

Ashley is plainly dumbfounded, struggling to see where she went wrong (a pattern when it comes to dealing with the volatile leader of The Seven), mouth agape. She shakes her head. “But sir, are you-?”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about or doing. Clearly.”

Ms. Barrett turns a shade paler, staring at Homelander and blinking owlishly before snapping herself out of her stupor. She hurries her lackeys out of the room, shooing them along like a pair of misbehaving toddlers. She doesn’t give a final look, no further warning. She merely shuts the door behind her.

You also hear it lock.

What the hell does she think is going to happen?

You should have stopped this while you had the chance. You should have never taken this job. You should have stood up for yourself and walked out. You should have you should have you should-

“Who the fuck do you think you are?”

His caustic tone sends shivers down your spine. It’s unlike anything you’ve heard come out of him. And you’ve heard enough.

Again, you open your mouth. It fills with blood, thick and metallic and more potent than the mint from your gum. You’re silenced by it.

He stalks toward you and grabs you hastily by the shoulders, swiveling you around so you’re face-to-face with the choices you’ve made. Your mirrored image is reflected back at you, exhausted and searching for any last shred of who you might be beneath his heavy palms.

“Look at yourself! Do you even recognize who’s staring back at you?” No.

“What kind of game are you playing, hmmm? Is this… humiliating spectacle you’re putting on for the money? Your pathetic career? Like it’s goddamned rocket science to pick up a can of hairspray and use it. Monkeys have hands.” He makes a noise that’s akin to a snorting horse, exhaling forcefully past his nostrils. “I mean, did you really think you could pull a fast one on me?” He clutches your jaw, squeezing it between middle and thumb. Every muscle in your body tenses, your heart picking up rhythm.

“Spit that fucking gum out. Don’t think I can’t hear you grinding it between your molars like a dumb animal. You aren’t a mama bird, are you? Y’don’t have cute little baby birds t’force-feed your regurgitated leftovers, do you? Eugh, gross.”

You take a deep breath and exhale through your nose. It presents you with a false sense of security. You do as you’re told, and it lands on the floor in front of your shoe, saliva dangling on a thread as withered as your sanity.

Suddenly fresh breath seems like the most insignificant issue, when Homelander himself once made it out to be something earth-shattering.

You’re such a fool.

He leans in and sniffs your throat. Your fingers lengthen and bend.

You’re so many things at once. Confused, angry, nervous, scared. And, to your dismay, warm. God you’re so fucking warm. He’s heating you up from the inside out. You clench your jaw, still held in place by a firm bind.

“Get rid of those ugly clothes. I don’t care what you have to do. I can’t stand the sight or smell of them.”

You shut your eyes. When you open them, all you see is red. The other emotions are smothered in favor of that brand of heat. What happens next is a blur. You temporarily leave yourself.

“Fine. Have it your way, Homelander. You always do.”

Breaking free of his fluctuating hold, you start tearing at what you’re wearing, tossing everything- including your bra and underwear- to the ground. Your shirt winds up with the gum sticking to its loose fabric. You even take your shoes and socks off, not paying any heed to where your belongings go. Just that they’re gone.

You don’t process the glaring fact that you made yourself naked in front of your boss. In front of the most powerful man this country, and possibly world, has known. You don’t care that things have escalated this far. That they shouldn’t have. They shouldn’t have. But guess what? They did. And these are the consequences you both have to deal with.

“You wanna know what game I’m playing?” You turn around, forcing him backward. “It’s funny, I thought you’d be able to answer that for me, considering all the hoops I’ve had to jump through to not only save my ass, but make sure you had someone to talk to at the end of the day! Who on your team can you say goes above and beyond like that for you?!” He blinks at you now, eyes wide. Features fall to the floor where your clothes reside. You have his full and undivided attention.

An impressively dangerous thing to have.

“What more do you want from me, Homelander? I practically live with you without any of the benefits that usually includes! You’re really going to stand here and berate me like I haven’t given you fucking everything you’ve ever asked me for? Because I made one mistake? I gave up my entire world, which I know doesn’t mean shit to you. But it does to me.”

You fold your arms over your chest. Nothing covers it. You have to know before you lose all dignity. So you ask once more, hoping it won’t get lost in this bizarre mess.

“What do you want from me?”

Nothing. He can’t stop staring at you. You aren’t aware enough to be ashamed, but you are aware enough to be upset.

His infuriating silence compels you to bend down and gather what was a barrier between the two of you. You are no longer needed if he can’t do what he does best, which is spout off, leaking bottled words everywhere like a broken faucet. It’s a pretty simple question, you think.

That’s when the glass behind you shatters.

You flinch, pause what you’re doing and slowly stand. Cautious in whatever your next approach will be.

Surveying the aftermath, you’re relieved to find that you’re far enough away from the mirror so no injuries were inflicted.

When you finally lock eyes with the source, you see red. The atmosphere surrounding you heaves like the distended belly of a rotting corpse; hisses like an overflowing tea kettle; pierces you like lightning.

Homelander’s expression is rigid. His jaw quivers. Irises are a bright, shining scarlet. If you try anything rash, you might be next. But, having been around him for so long, you’re more inclined to believe he’s having trouble processing his own emotions. And that might have been one of the only ways to release them.

You drop the top and pants you managed to reclaim. Your brain hasn’t fully recovered from the constant devastating hit it’s taken, so you don’t want to put a name to what’s pushing you forward. You don’t stop until you’re directly in his line of vision.

Swallowing, you carefully extend your hand. The ruby color begins to crumble and give way to the vast ocean you might have drowned in one too many times. You lost track, blocking what you could out. Too real and intimate to accept for a realm that thrives off of inauthenticity and misfortune.

Homelander inhales harshly and you retreat, pupils hooking themselves to his. Searching for any sign you shouldn’t be right where you are.

Of course there are several; unfortunately, you are currently blind to them. Blind to everything but him.

That’s how it’s been for awhile, hasn’t it?

He has a habit of not granting you the luxury of time.

Quickly, he snatches your wrist and brings your palm flat against his cheek. He exhales, eyelids fluttering, nuzzling into you.

It’s so simple, yet it disarms you in ways you aren’t accustomed to.

Homelander basks in this chaste display of affection, and so do you, in awe of how enraptured he appears. Soaking you inside of his pores.

In turn, your cognizance reappears. You nearly topple over, realization infiltrating every part of you.

You’re not wearing a stitch.

A knock at the door startles you both. You glance over in that general direction and hear from the other side, “You’re on in fifteen, Homelander, sir!”

Gazing back up at him, you witness that same fire expand at a rapid rate. You use your other hand to bring him back down to reality, to ground him. It rests against his chest, delving into and cracking his ribs, flaying him open.

What strikes you is how vigorously his heart is beating. How you can feel it through his uniform.

This is how much you affect him. (Can you fathom that you’re only privy to a fraction?) Having evidence of the tiniest reciprocation drains you of any unwanted discomfort.

His fury subsides. You breathe out. He does, too.

“Go sit in your chair. I came here to do my job, after all.” The tenderness with which you speak seems to ease him further, his shoulders deflating with each word.

That aside, you’re playing with a lit match. You’re unsure who’s going to set who ablaze, but you’re willing to go down with this entire building to find out.

He does as he’s told, watching you the whole way like a mutilated mixture of a snarling cornered animal and a man fervently in love. He almost trips into his seat, not an ounce of grace in his gait.

Sacrificing his entire image just to get a glimpse of you.

Whipping his cape to the side, he sinks into the cushion. You get things ready as you typically do, your movements a bit jittery from the adrenaline sending haphazard jolts to your limbs. Despite this, you’re focused. You are more focused than you remember ever being.

You work efficiently, keeping in mind the limit that’s been put on your time.

Homelander bores holes through you. He doesn’t need lasers for that. You’re exposed and vulnerable and he pries what he fostered apart until it’s distinguishable by no one else but him.

You relearn his perfectly manufactured features. Different lights shape shadows you either haven’t seen before or feigned ignorance of. You commit to memory how he looks, smells, feels, the side of your hand grazing his cheek and hanging on.

He’s invigorating, your excitement building to a crescendo you can’t neglect. The heat in your core disperses, most of it congregating low in your belly and behind your expanding rib cage. His pupils drink you in, urgently and violently.

Your arousal is heady. He licks his lips. A hint of a whine caresses your ears and it makes you dizzy.

How could you have ever denied yourself?

You decide to take further control, testing the waters to a greater extent.

It’s your turn to watch him the whole way down. You straddle him, easing yourself atop his taut thighs.

After a few moments of humoring yourself, of pretending to concentrate on your work, dusting his nose with powder, you straighten. Eye contact has not been severed.

You motion toward his hands, balled into tense, repressed fists at his sides.

“Take off your gloves.”

Initially, it feels like maybe you said the wrong thing, or said it the wrong way. He doesn’t budge. You’re patient, however, so you wait like you’ve always done, the warmth from your cunt mingling with the hardness beneath you. Your mouth waters.

At last, Homelander nods and removes his gloves, tugging on the index of each. He places them on the armrests and transfixes himself to you once more.

“Do you want to touch me?” you ask, voice and body staying impossibly still in spite of your nerves.

Immediately, he shakes his head, “Yes,” the first time he’s spoken since your outburst, and without hesitation, reaches for your chest. You close your eyes, falling into his snooping lifts and tugs and squeezes, giving yourself permission to become possessed by the inhibited imaginations of how selfish, how rapacious his touches might be. How smooth his bare hands are, how ardent each digit is.

Leaning into you, he sucks one nipple into his mouth and palms the other, moaning and vibrating against your flesh. He digs his fingers into the pliant softness of your hip, steadying you with disciplined pressure. You squirm, attuned to every minuscule shift.

The lit match is tilted toward you now, swift and stunning. Your fingers release the brush you’ve been holding. It aligns with the slit of the cushion, forgotten and purposeless.

You wrap your digits around the hand on your curves and guide him toward your throbbing center. He doesn’t fight you. Doesn’t stop your movements. Doesn’t scold or challenge you. Instead, he curls his fingers in a way that makes you unabashedly moan, cupping your folds and pinning his thumb to your clit, adapting to your anatomy.

Your wants.

It seems like breaking away from you is a daunting task, but he does for a moment, brow furrowed, more engrossed and invested than you’ve ever witnessed.

“Fuck.” The curse sounds downright edible, your new favorite flavor. Your name tumbles from his lips like he’s been practicing, a sweet, rich icing on top. You gasp, his tongue adhering to you again, swirling around your peak before lightly biting it.

Rocking your hips back and forth, side-to-side, you grind hard into his palm. He strokes you like he’s studied what pace you prefer, how much friction you crave. You’re so wet, even you’re thrown off by it.

Once he’s finished with your chest, he’s back against the seat, unable to peel his gaze from you. Your full, swollen, glistening breasts.

His mouth hangs open, obscene, desperate whimpers slipping from it. Pupils are like whirlpools that drive you under. Drive you mad.

Homelander adeptly slips two, three digits inside your sopping cunt, unrelenting in his intentions to make up for lost time. The voracity of his actions propels you forward, balancing against his chest. He grasps and pulls at your other hip, groaning loudly in your ear, confirming his approval of how close you are to him.

It’s still not enough.

Pulling you even tighter to his blinding sun of a body, he encloses his free arm around you and desperately bucks his waist. “I want… I want… I want…” he chants. Your nails drag up his neck and along his scalp, overwhelmed by his warmth, his scent, him. Your lips ghost the sliver of skin above his collar, making him growl.

You anticipate and dread and yearn for what’s been building for so long. You clench and release, clench and release, clench and release, body chanting with him.

You’re intuitively thankful for the chair’s sturdiness; however, if it would have collapsed, you’re honestly not sure you would have noticed. Or cared.

You hear him come first. Feel the temperature rise temporarily. It’s so sudden and all-consuming that you naturally follow, his name an instinct you can’t help but divulge. You haven’t come down from the turbulent emotions rushing through you earlier, and that combination catapults you over the edge.

Your orgasm draws more deliberate, vehement grunts and sighs of satisfaction from him, as if your pleasure is inexplicably the same or worth more than his.

You can’t crumple into a boneless heap like you want to. You just can’t. You have to look at him. Look at his bliss; the glazed, barren-yet-so-full-of-you expression, of what these months of working in close quarters have done to him.

What you uncover is not what you were picturing. There’s a mixture of that haze with something almost apologetic below the teeming surface. Clouds of red to skies of blue. Destructive in and of themselves.

Sliding his fingers from your wetness, he wraps his lips around each one that was inside of you and spreads them apart. Your slick sticks to his glossy skin and stretches between digits, a generous amount. You whimper at the loss- the emptying, hollow feeling- and watch, mesmerized and delirious as he savors you.

Swallowing you whole, Homelander sweeps his knuckles across the apple of your cheek and presses his lips hard against yours. He wastes no time inhaling your gasps and moans, licking your mouth and the faint taste of mint, stealing it from you. You ingest what you can of him as well, exploring what was open to you longer than you realized.

He then seizes your wrists. It’s a rough gesture that evaporates into gentle circles along your pulse points. Still, you know you’re going to bruise where he turned the key and locked you into place: wherever he is.

A visible sheen coats his lips.

“I want you to tell me I’m good. Great. The best.”

His breathing is labored. So is yours.

He kisses the inside of the wrist smeared with perfume, your fluids, his saliva; ends with your hand and rests his cheek against the slope of it.

“I want you to be mine. All mine. Mine alone.”

You’re shaking. He moves forward and pets your hair, twirls it; grabs your nape and holds his thumb to the front of your throat. Securing you. Keeping you there.

“You have to stay. Be mine and stay.”

You thrum with an ache he forced upon you. He’ll claim you were starving and he was the only one who could satiate.

You nod. You were never going to leave to begin with.

Homelander made you his. And you thanked him for it.

[ameliathornromance]

Hot summer evenings are your worst nightmare.

With the relentless heat, your hair suffered greatly. Having curls was one thing in the winter, it was easier to maintain then, it meant that there was no need to use as many potions you needed for hair care.

Sometimes, you just felt like you couldn’t be bothered with your hair. It was too much hassle, too much work. But your Orc Boyfriend adored them and that’s why you kept up the routine.

You didn’t do it just for him of course, you loved having shiny and healthy ringlets… but on hot summer evenings, the last thing you wanted to do was all the hair care that it took to keep them looking nice.

Orcs naturally have straight, jet black hair and although they do style it in braids and updo’s none of them ever have it curly, so it’s not like any of them have some fast track way to keeping their hair in check that you could use.

A part of you was jealous that all they had to do was lie down in a river, rinse their hair through once and leave it to air dry. Lucky bastards.

After coming back from a nearby spring, you sat on the floor and stared at yourself in the mirror. Your tired expression stared back, your damp hair dripping water onto the carpeted rug below you.

In front of you, on the little table you’d set up, were all the potions you used on your hair. One a bright aqua blue for locking in moisture and another, a soft lilac to help the curls keep their form.

You wanted to get started… really you did. But looking at the two bottles in front of you, you found that your arms would not move.

“Need a hand?”

Looking around, your saw your Orc sitting up from his place on the bed. You’d thought he was asleep.

“Oh, no hun you go back to sleep.” You told him.

“I don’t mind helping.” Throwing the covers off the bed, he came over and sat behind you. “I’ve seen you do this routine hundreds of times and you look exhausted.”

When you went to protest again, your Orc shushed you, “let me help, love.” He kissed your cheek and leaned over your shoulder to reach for the potion bottles.

Realising that there was no way to talk him out of this, you stayed quiet and watched as he took the towel you had slung over you shoulder and began to towel your hair dry.

It was a pleasant surprise to see him work so meticulously. To feel his hands comb through your hair with such care, gently separating it into sections and working on them one by one.

The stress and build up to actually doing your hair melted away as his hands massaged your scalp. You nearly fell asleep then and there.

“I didn’t think you ever paid much attention to me when I did my hair.” You admitted as he scrunched your hair in his fists.

Your Orc Boyfriend let out a chuckle, “how could I not? You look so gorgeous when you’re concentrating.”

Pursing your lips, you look away from him and look at your lap, hiding an abashed smile. Once he was finished, he got up and tossed a satin cloth to you. “For when you sleep.”

Catching it, you looked down at it, then back at your Orc, who smiled at you. “Yeah, I even pay attention to that.”

Your heart fluttered as he pulled you into bed alongside himself, and kissed your forehead.

“Thank you,” you whispered, snuggling into his body.

“Anytime my love.”

Patreon

[luxbub]

rafe would never admit it but those short videos you keep sending him with the slides and photos, with the caption “us”over them—hello kitty and batman. “every batman boy needs his hello kitty girl” secretly has him folding his insides ready to lay at your feet. and the little shit won’t even admit it. “Rafey, look at us.” hello hello kitty and batman again, this time at least he can see your grin from beside the phone, looking up at him and shit when he just grunts in response, but you can’t tell me there no butterflies kicking the shit out of his stomach in the moment. shit maybe rafe even giggles when he sees them. kicking his feet and squealing like a little girl with a crush, on the inside tho, batman never cracks up after all. he is so not a little girl with a cursh.

never.

[brightnote]

*gets to the chapter of the fanfic I have been most excited to write and have been setting up through countless chapters*

Me: *stares at blank screen*

Me: *starts a totally different fic*

[catfern]

she will destroy you.

pairing: abby anderson x afab!reader

music: crack baby or bag of bones ( or anything from puberty 2 ) - mitski

word count: 3.3k (i'm exhausted)

summary: rumours are swirling, fighting their way through your front door. you hope to keep your work and private life separate, but your proximity with your boss threatens to catch up with you.

warnings: mean!toxic!abby, cheating, porn with a LOT of plot, swearing, tipsy sex, fingering, oral (r!receiving), zero ( i mean ZERO ) aftercare, angst-ish

an: a quick intermission from cowboy!ellie because LORD. i read one page from one book abt a butch teacher yearning for the headmaster's wife and suddenly I NEED AFFAIRS!! I NEED YEARNING!! I NEED SECRECY!! and who better to do that with than a rlly mean ceo!abby who has a PhD in fucking bitches.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“Shit.”

A line of scarlet trickles onto the warm printer paper and settles. You drop your paperwork on an unknown desk and suck your finger, hissing through your teeth at the sting. Your phone buzzes impatiently in the back pocket of your work pants, and you fumble with your non-bleeding fingers to pull it out.

we’ll talk abt this when u get home

see u after ur party i guess

A shit fucking day.

You hall back to your desk, defeat slumping heavy on your shoulders. The Office makes an effort not to stare as you walk by, low whispers hot on your feet like coals in a firewalk. You pretend very poorly not to see the half-lidded, secretive looks shared between your old work friends by the water cooler. Water off a duck’s back, your mom used to say in a nonchalant way when you cried to her about mean girls at school. Not that you ever really knew what that meant.

You were never really thankful to be shut off from the rest of the cubicles, until now. A fortress of frosted glass and a heavy door, your desk was the secluded gateway to a place dreaded. Just you and The Boss, which you guess didn’t help the flying tongues of the old, bored fucks in accounting, but it kept people away. Away from you, with their knowing looks and unknowing laughs.

You huff, settling into your uncomfortable desk chair and digging out a small first aid kit your dad bought you when you first started. Pulling the seal off the small tin, you eye its contents. Disinfectant, thermometer, some loose aspirin and bandaids. You whine lightly as you wrap one tightly around your ring finger, feeling it throb and pulse, like a complaint. Get over yourself, you tell your body.

A sharp - ahem - breaks through your mumbling silence. She’s never sick, she never coughs. It’s a bodiless beckoning, a call into the wild, it’s the wordless agreement you have with her. You pick up your notebook, and the nearest working pen, and shuffle quickly through the open door into her office.

The opaque shades are drawn, the natural light greying and dying on the dark, decaying herringbone floor. 

Abby is bathed in the orange light of her desk lamp. With impeccable, almost effortless posture, she’s resting her forearms on her desk, one hand scratching notes into her diary, the other distractedly tapping on the leather top. You follow the shadows that the folds in her dress shirt create, your eyes falling on the contour of her body. 

You know she frequents a few gyms. You’re the one who schedules late night international calls around her evening runs, and her weights sessions, and her triweekly spin class. But now, the results of her efforts are on display, tightly wrapped in expensive cotton, perfectly tailored, down to the very last stitch, to her existence. You swallow an uncomfortable feeling when she deigns to meet your eye.

She looks you over in the way she always does, an uncaring, but judgemental once-over, like an army sergeant inspecting a uniform. she hones in on the bandaid,

“Workplace injury?”

Her voice has the warmth of a dying cigarette, rolling like well-spoken honey off her lips. You almost feel ashamed, your finger so offensive to her you could chop it off. You almost feel like you wouldn’t even mind. You start picking at the ends of the bandaid with your thumb.

“Paper cut.” Your voice is always so out of place here. An echo of something that does not belong. She nods her head, ever so slightly, as if she understood.

“Don’t think you can go claiming compensation for that.” It’s a joke you’re not allowed to laugh at. You smile lightly instead. It’s short-lived, “I need you to correct some seating arrangements for tonight.”

Yes, of course. No problem. In wordless agreement, Abby starts listing off adjustments, complaints and warnings from guests about not being seated next to their five ex-husbands, or their whining step-children, or ex-business partners fallen from grace. your pen fingers begin to ache as the whole process draws out.

“And I’m going to need you seated at my table, to keep track of my evening itinerary.”

Uncertainty quickly sows its seeds in your stomach. The unopened messages from your girlfriend burn their way through pocket, searing at your legs like a brand on cattle. Everyone knows, everyone will know. Every detail of your life will be laid bare, and you’ll be tried publicly and without mercy. Your bandaid begins to unravel as you rub anxiously at the glue underneath.

You need to do something, something to get things back under control.

“Actually,” You start, unsure. Abby meets your eye quickly, without hesitation, “I don’t think I’ll be able to make it tonight.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” It’s quick, and condescending. Undercutting any sudden courage you may have had, she meets your eye and stares you down, pinning you under ice, almost imploring you to feel terrified. And then she looks away, busy packing away the seating chart, and you wonder if she even looked at you at all.

She stands, and you try to meet her, your hands clutching your notebook.

“Your attendance tonight is mandatory.” She says it slowly, harshly, like it’s hard for you to understand. Her eyes chase quickly over your outfit, “It’s a black tie event.”

You’re left alone in a dark office, hyperventilating.

The apartment is empty and cold when you arrive home. 7 unanswered texts to your girlfriend tell you she doesn’t want you near her, but she isn’t packed. You expect her to come home, hopefully in the hour you have before you have to go again, and you contemplate just blowing the gala off to wait.

Abby’s voice is sharp in your head, a familiar dedication wringing your body. You can’t leave her. She needs you there.

You put off the conversation with your girlfriend into the furthest parts of your mind, allowing yourself to be swallowed in the minor decisions of clothes and hair and accessories. It’s not until you’re throwing your shoes on, and three times you think you hear her keys in the door, that you give up.

The phone rings 5 times before going to voicemail.

Hey. Listen. I know we said we weren’t going to talk until we were face to face but..

Whatever Maria told you wasn’t true, okay? I promise-I fucking promise you, nothings happened. Baby, okay? People are fucking bored, and I love you, so so much. I’ve gotta go to this one thing tonight - i tried to get out of it i swear -, and i’ll come home and we can talk, and we can fix this. Okay? Jus-Just, gimme some time to explain. Okay. I love you. Bye.

Echoes of quiet chatter uncomfortably ebb and flow off the walls of the ballroom. Too many people. Shoes scuff the cheap marble as the rich make their rounds, with light touches and reused laughter. They all hate each other.

Abby is a familiar sight. Wearing the same thing she has all day, she looks staggering. Hands just breaching her suit pockets, comfortably falling at her side, her hair in a calculated braid, designed to make her look approachable. 

 The air here agrees with her, her smile wide and effortless. You know she’s come straight from a meeting, and you suppose that adds to her charm. The Working Woman, a success story. Her rich friends, who spend their inheritances on shares and indoor tennis courts, lap it up. She’s a foreign object, something unfamiliar and wild.

You don’t interrupt, skimming the sidelines to get to your table. You can feel her glance, without substance, before returning to her conversation. Your event planner ( a shitty flip notebook that fits in every small clutch you own ) sits on the tablecloth at your seat, and you wait. Eyeing the glasses at the placemats next you, you can tell a few drinks has been shared, raking your eyes over Abby’s looser disposition.

She’s happy, and charming. She’s been drinking bourbon. Mint, with ice and syrup, the way you serve it to her in her office, when the occasion calls for celebration. 

Her conversation finishes, her soft hands bidding gentle, kind goodbyes to the couple as they move on. She’s a friend to the people that matter.

“I expected you here before me.”

She doesn’t bother to look at you as she sits, instead fixing her napkin to her lap. You watch as the veins in her neck rise and fall as she talks, “Doesn’t matter now. Run me through everything.”

Right, fuck. You open your notebook and run your fingers over the scratchy writing. Your days leading up to this were spent copying details from obscure emails, tidbits you thought Abby needed to remember. Late nights at the office, life abandoned, deciphering biographies and 2 hour youtube deep dives. You can watch yourself fall asleep from the future, your handwriting slipping, long and longer strokes, spelling dissolving, long words abandoned. your pen fell to the floor, and you slept at your desk. Twenty missed calls. You argued when you came home in the morning.

“The Ambassador is arriving around 8:00pm with his new wife, also named Rebecca. Oh, Old Rebecca emailed asking why she didn’t receive an invitation.”

She’s slowly sipping at another whiskey, a different cocktail she ordered just as you’d arrived. The orange peel brushes her nose as she tilts the glass, her jaw tightens as she swallows, “Tell her the venue was at capacity. Send some flowers.”

It continues like this for a bit. Quiet and attentive, she listens to what you have to say, as her eyes follow the crowd. You too, spy people that you know, a few slimy execs that share a whisper and a boisterous laugh as they look your way. You order gin.

Soon enough, Abby checks her watch. An inexpensive, vintage piece of leather and quartz. She excuses herself with a measure of politeness. It’s time for an hour of speeches that don’t matter, before you’re finally allowed to eat. You sigh.

A quiet buzz rips through the growing silence. You open your clutch and hide your phone under the silk tablecloth, away from the disapproving elderly eyes.

i told u to leave me alone

jesus christ

A pit in your stomach. Dark, pressing, ever present. Your saliva is heavy in your mouth, and you feel like shrinking away. Luckily, the waiter isn’t far. Drinks are discounted for the company staff.

Finally, speeches finish. Abby looked nice on the stage, effervescent under the lights. Her hair catches warm light nicely in the strands.

The food comes, but people disregard it for shallow conversations. Plates are taken away full, apart from slim, polite pickings. Your table orders more drinks, and syrupy laughter echoes as anecdotes about private schools and hedge funds are shared. You don’t belong here. Your body becomes unsteady, restless. Your legs shaking, a hand finds you thigh in the veiled secrecy of the table cloth.

Abby’s not looking at you, too engaged in tipsy conversation to draw attention. A nice gesture, but it’s not. It’s wordless agreement. Her thumb traces the outside of your thigh mindlessly, her jaw clenching as she feels your gaze.

You hesitate.

What else did you have to do? Apart from go home and wait for an argument.

You let her touch you a little longer, soft, ghostly. It’s kind, unmistakably. You let yourself revel in it, in her uncommon affection, before excusing yourself to the bathroom.

Abby follows not long after. She’s confident, her position charismatic, not unlike the other times she finds a drink, and then goes to find you. She doesn’t stop, so sure that you’ll follow her trail as you’ve done so often before. But you hesitate, again.

She turns back to you, a look on her face that’s hard to decipher. You stumble in your reasoning.

“It’s just-, my girlfrien-“

“Are you coming? Or not?”

Your palms itch, you swallow.

What kind of sick sacrifice. Unfair to have both, some would say, but some don’t know you. How wicked it is to taste both fruit and have to choose the sweeter. Fuck. The drinks settle in your stomach.

Your girlfriend wasn’t coming home tonight anyway, not really.

She’s leading you up the stairs, hands flush to her body. You grip the cold handrail to hold you steady. She’s already steps ahead, the appropriate distance. 

A quiet corner doesn’t need to be found. She’s been here before. You’ve been here before. The holy emptiness of the second floor is an accustomed comfort.

She’s quick and calculated, despite the mix of drinks on her breath. One hand pushing you to the wall, the other finding the zipper for your dress. It falls off you like it never belonged to you, kicked away and piled into a corner, forgotten.

Gripping you like you’d run away, she palms your tits and presses crescent moons into your hips. She holds her head away from you, watching you down her nose as you squirm. Abby has always remained detached, carefully groomed a distance between you that now feels too sacred to break. You long to feel her kiss you, to feel her intimately, to run your hands along her arms and feel every curve, every outline. You’ve needed to touch her since the moment you met her. Craved it.

Abby is disrespectful, impatient. She cups your pussy, still hidden in slick panties, letting the rough ball of her palm grind against your clit. It sets you on fire, and she chases it with a hand on your mouth to keep you quiet.

“Get rid of them.”

You strip fast, in a very unflattering way, you’re certain, and throw your underwear close to the ghost of your dress. She moves against you again, her hand softer as it wraps around your lips and cheeks. You look at her, hoping to see that softness echoed on her face, but her eyes are elsewhere, too focused on the movement your tits make as she holds you against the wall. 

Painstakingly, her fingers slide inside you, her hand pressing down on your mouth as you moan around the feeling of her, the intoxication. Your hands lock and unlock, your nails digging at scratching at the wood boards on the wall as you try to balance yourself.

Merciless. She rocks into you, letting you fall into step with her, find her pace, a relentless one. You feel her melting into your core, her fingers curling and stretching your walls as she pounds into you, again, again, again. You sound pathetic, behind the mask of her hand, whining as she leaves, and nearly screaming when she returns.

Abby watches as your face contorts around her fingers, feels you wrap around her. If she feels even a fraction of what she gives you, you wouldn't know. Her eyes remain unkind, left at a distance, but her breathing is staggered. short, laboured. she looks over you, you feel it, feel as her eyelashes rise as she rakes over your body.

You need it to be desire in her eyes. You need her to starve. To crave, like you do. Desperation.

Her hand moves from your mouth, your whimpering breath filling the room fast, the quiet broken. Her pace slows, and you almost rest on her fingers, left to wonder what she’s playing at. Instead, it comes down on your shoulder, still warm and wet with your breath, and she pushes you down onto her fingers, deep, deep. you feel her at the very centre of yourself, your eyes wide as the pressure builds inside you, her fingernails leaving a trail, evidence of her in your walls. She lets your ragged moans echo, hurt and pleasure. It’s an unkind end to things.

You don’t want to let it to end. You can’t.

The distance is broken. You reach out and grasp flesh, firm under your nails. You’re still riding the ecstasy pulse, the heat in your pussy, and Abby lets you stay, holding onto her as if you would fade otherwise. Your cheeks are almost touching, her breath hot on your ear, you hear her for the first time, raspy groans as you squeeze around her. She’s been holding back.

Damn it all.

“Everybody knows. Please. Please, fuck me like you know you should.”

You meet her gaze. Everything is foreign now. Her skin feels different to how you had imagined it. Softer. Her eyes are more uncertain, more than you’d ever seen before. Hesitance.

“Fuck it.”

Whiskey, and a sip of your gin, and tobacco. You didn’t even know she smoked, but you taste it on her like its the only thing she ever did. The smell of pine came in a wave as she moved, hooking her hands under your legs and hoisting you up. For months, you’ve yearned for her to kiss you, begged for it even. And now, her lips are rough, and bloody, and everywhere. Ghosts tracing your neck, unkind, stinging, exhilarating. 

She moves you to the floor without fuss, holding herself over you, your legs spread around her. She’s smiling, and you become so sure that there’s something not quite right with this side of Abby. You’re quickly aware that you’ve landed in hostile territory, vulnerable, needy.

She usually didn’t like it when you begged.

Her tongue is like the rapture on your clit, spitting fire through your veins, in your nerves. You feel it creep up in your body, twisting and tightening through you like something invasive, moans and prayers dripping from your lips that only push her. her name a curse, fallen on your body. You feel her laugh against your slick walls and it jolts you.

Abby, suddenly so aware of you, so kind, so attentive, shifts her posture, “Oh, you’re so needy.” A hand grabs your face, pulling it up from the floor in a dead lull. Her name rolls off your pretty lips once more, “What? You beg for me, and now you can’t take me?” Her tone is mocking, “Which is it? Hm?”

A cacophony. You, you, you. Your head foggy, unsure of what she wants to hear, you beg for again, telling her you can it take it. I can, please, abby.

Her laugh is cruel, mocking as her mouth finds you again, sending cold vibrations up your legs. Slut echoes against your clit.

Inside of you, she feels like a god. Her fingers stretching your walls, pressing deep against your centre at an excruciating pace, and her tongue lazily laps up all that you give her. 

“Fuck! Fu-uck, fuck!”

It’s clear to Abby that the caution she so carefully designed was useless now. People knew, and fuck it if they knew. Fuck it if they heard you dripping on her fingers, calling out her name. Fuck it if they stop the music, and turn to listen - fucking perverts - because it’s her. And you’re the one begging for her.

Stars creep in through the haze in your vision, and Abby’s trying to ask you something harsh, but you don’t hear it. You’re tethered to the feeling of her fingers, your whole body knotting around her like a planet in orbit of the sun. 

You’d burn if she wanted you to, happily.

You’re so fucking tight around her fingers, your legs shaking and a vicious call ripping through your body. Her Name.

The warmth from your body is too much, and the cool of the floor is lulling, soothing, as you collapse. Abby’s fingers leave you empty, incomplete. You whine as she leaves you, your walls tightening around the absence of her. She wipes your cotton slick on your leg.

She stands, and rolls her shoulders. Fixes the few hairs that fall out of place. Guiltless.

“Get dressed, before someone sees you.”

[akicult]

contains ; domesticity. bf!suguru. suggestive themes. modern / college au. geto wants you to be his housewife basically. just a short drabble. mostly fluff.

just thinking about college bf!suguru that didn’t realize he was a domestic person until he met you.

he’s still young, only in his third year at university and he’s still deciding on what his near future will look like. he’s had his fair share of girlfriends, and little hookups, and to be quite frank—he didn’t think he was done either.

how was he supposed to know the first night he met you, bent over his backseat, was about to be the start of the most serious relationship he’d ever have.

that night started the first of many, slowly realizing he was only asking to hookup just because he wanted to see you. how he’d send a pickup text, with a frown on his cheeks because he thought you were only in it for that reason.

and when he finally swallowed his stubbornness, he was met with the most amazing two years of his life, stuck with you by his side.

college bf!suguru who, until he met you, hardly even dreamt about a future where the love of his life would carry his child in her arms, kissing his cheek and brewing a cup of coffee for the two of them to share in the morning.

he didn’t even care to imagine what that future would be like, what the woman would look like. it didn’t feel achievable, or even desirable until he fell in love with you.

and it was a random realization, but looking back on it—it was building. slowly.

weeks and weeks spent of you just pampering him, praising him, for even the most average things. like, getting an amazing score on an exam, and all you had to do was say, “aw! good job, baby!” before he was putty in your fingertips.

his room is all messy, deep dark circles under his eyes. it was procrastination’s fault—his fingers hurt from typing on his computer all day thanks to waiting until hours before a huge essay was due.

you offered to leave his apartment, to give him the concentration he needs to get it finished, but he was ushering a “no, no stay,” because he honestly didn’t want you to leave. so you stayed, situating yourself in the other room, occasionally popping in to check up on him—and eventually lay on his bed after he insists you to.

it’s only when he finally finishes—8 hours later and it’s already nighttime. his shoulders are slouched, his back is stiff and he’s walking out of his room with his closed computer weighing by his side.

and you’re still there.

not only are you still there, but you’re washing his dishes.

hair clipped back, sweatshirt engulfing your body and sweats tightly tied around your waist. you’re humming along to some music that plays over a speaker—quiet but loud enough to know what song is playing.

you look so utterly homey.

so…domestic.

like you’ve settled into your personal home after a long day at work, just blissfully scrubbing away on glossy white dishes that were previously eaten on. your clothes acknowledge that you’re comfortable, uncaring of what he sees you in.

although it’s not just the fact that you’re dressed like that—it’s the fact that you’re cleaning his things.

cleaning a mess you didn’t even make, just out of the kindness in your heart that’s making geto’s throat close and his palms sweaty. he’s in absolute awe that he doesn’t realize you’ve noticed his presence until you’re turning to face him.

“oh! did you finish?” you ask, turning the water off and rushing towards him.

he’s blinking, nodding slowly. “yeah—just submitted it.”

“yay! ‘m so proud of you!” you grin, lacing your fingers behind the back of his neck and pulling him in for a chaste kiss like you always do—but it feels so much different this time.

like you’re congratulating him on a big promotion, tugging on his work tie and kissing him until he’s forgetting his own name.

he feels like his ring finger is so cold, and there’s a missing heavy weight that’s never even been there in the first place.

like he’s an idiot for not tying you down on the spot—wrapping vows and vows around the two of you until you’re barely mobile.

and he wants to be your doting husband for the rest of his life. he wants to walk through his front door every evening with an awaiting kiss to his cheek, and a home-cooked meal fresh in his senses.

he wants to go to sleep with you in his arms every night, mumbling sweet ‘i love you’’s after flickering off the bedside lamp.

and maybe, just maybe one day, he wants to hear the gentle pitter patter of two little feet charging down the hallway.

this is accidentally freud coded (emphasis on accidentally)

[enluv]

— just a thought.

the excessive amount of hate writers have been getting lately is actually terrible?? it blows my mind that people can be so bold and mean on anon but if that anon button was not available they’d NEVER think to send that hate. it’s actually crazy to think that people believe writers owe them anything, yes we’re thankful that you support and read our stories but we are also human, we have feelings and lives too!! please remember that and remember to be kind to your favorite writers (all writers at that) because they work hard to provide you with amazing stories and writings everyday!!

[sugarpasteltmnt]

trying to work on this chapter when i just want to get to the REALLY FUN CHAPTER

[aroui]

for you

it’s crowded in the cafe but at least a pretty boy approached you, right?

a lyney and reader meet-cute :)

“uh, mind if i sit here?”

in a jam-packed cafe, lyney had no other choice but to sit on the chair opposite of yours. as much as you wanted to protect your peace, you had no choice but to give it up for the attractive stranger in front of you.

“sure,” you replied. it’s impossible anyways, peace was never an option on friday afternoons. you shift your attention back to your laptop, opting to continue your work. as much as you wanted to stare at the pale-haired fellow.

sitting right next to a window wasn’t that great of an idea either. the gazes of passersby are starting to linger a few seconds longer on the person in front of you, it’s almost like he’s putting up a show.

though, you couldn’t blame them. he was pretty, clad in formal clothes that complement his lithe form so well, with hair so bright and eyes so colorful you could get lost in them–

but, you wanted to know what his plans are after this. after all, you never know when you’ll meet another individual as interesting as the one in front of you right now.

“are you going somewhere?” you speak.

“it’s my outfit, isn’t it?” he asks sheepishly. you curtly nod.

“ah, well, i’m a performer of sorts,”

“really?”

“really,”

“wow,”

the conversation quickly ends in awkward silence. he hasn’t finished his drink, your paperwork isn’t even nearly done.

well–

“would you like to see a magic trick?”

“so, you’re a magician?” you raise an eyebrow, suddenly even more interested.

“you answered my question with another?”

“you just did what i did,” you point at him, although it’s without malice. you just wanted to learn about what interests him, that’s all.

“just,” he sighs, “‘yes’ or ‘no’?”

a pause.

“ok,” you breathe out. there’s no harm, right?

he pulls out a deck of cards, spreading it out on the table with the back of the cards facing up. he pulls one out with an image of a flower on it. it looks familiar, though you can’t remember its name.

he flips it, the back of the card now facing you. then, he flips it again.

but instead of an image, it’s an actual one.

a flower.

“woah!” you laugh heartily. it was no funny joke or trick, but something about his actions made you feel so giddy and full inside that you couldn’t help but let a smile take over your face.

“for you,” he reaches for your hand and you let him. you let him put the flower in your grasp.

you can’t help but eye the multitude of pigments that the flower is showing. blink and the color you’re looking at is gone, as if the flower was aware of your watchful eyes.

“thank you, um,”

“lyney,” he smiles and your heart skips a beat.

“it’s nice to meet you, lyney,”

“likewise,” he says your name, the letters softly rolling out of his tongue.

[keyotos]

i'm yours tonight

summary ⎯ late nights w/ dan heng. inspired by my sleepover hcs.

tana's words ⎯ having HELLA dan heng brainrot rn. also i'm getting through everyone's requests ASAP!! i just wrote this bc im having major writers block rn.

tags ⎯ fluff. unestablished relationship but the feels are there. oblivious idiot (you). reading together (real).

"psst. dan heng, are you awake?" you whispered. you were crouching down next to him on the floor, head circling his figure as you tried to find out if he was awake or not. it was the early hours of the morning and you felt slightly guilty for waking him up.

"now i am," dan heng shuffled around until he faced you. "what is it?"

"i can't sleep," you laughed dryly, "again. do you have a book i could borrow?" you stood up. dan heng wanted to pull you down by your hand so you could be back on his level. he reached out slightly and then shot his hand down.

dan heng stumbled out of his floor mattress. charming, he thought to himself. he moved towards his bookshelf as you followed him. you stood so close to dan heng that he started feeling goosebumps on his neck; the warmth of your breath making him shiver.

"what are you in the mood for today?" dan heng asked as he started browsing his shelf.

"anything, really," you sighed. "something boring? i've been having trouble sleeping for the past few days," you rubbed a hand over your temples.

"have you been alright?" dan heng swiftly turned to face you, all thoughts about the book forgotten.

"yeah," you rubbed your eyes, "i've been fine. you don't have to worry about me," you beamed through your drowsiness.

i always worry about you, he wanted to say.

"dictionary?" dan heng pulled out the book, emphasizing its thickness.

"words. perfect," you wiggled your eyebrows. you grabbed the book and flipped through a few pages. it's condition was pristine, as always.

"thanks, dan heng," you looked at the book and then looked back up to him, "hopefully i'll be able to sleep soon," you held onto the book tighter. for some reason, you wanted to stay in this room; stay with dan heng.

dan heng parted his lips, in awe of how you still look gorgeous even when you're exhausted, "no problem," he gulped, "if you need another way to sleep faster, i know a good herbal tea recipe."

"i might have to take you up on that offer one time," you smirked, "if you hear three knocks on your door, just know it's me."

dan heng laughed, "noted."

you waved goodbye and started walking out the door. you intentionally started walking slower than usual, in hopes dan heng would offer you tea right now. you didn't feel like going back to sleep, especially going back to sleep alone.

you stopped in your tracks. dan heng didn't move; he examined you, wondering if you forgot something or not.

"is it okay if i stay in here?" you turn back around, walking slightly closer to him, "i don't feel like falling asleep alone tonight."

dan heng raised his eyebrows in shock, facial expression slightly contorted, "i⎯uh. are you sure?"

hearing his reaction made you want to shrivel into your body. his confused tone made you worry, "um. yeah," you looked down at the floor, "unless you don't want me here. that's fine!" you looked back up at dan heng.

dan heng blushed at your disconcerted state, "no. you're welcome to stay if you'd like," you're welcome to stay all the time, "but my bed is uncomfortable. do you really want to stay in the archives?" he raised his eyebrows as a way to affirm your answer.

"oh!" your entire figure stood up, "i'll stay wherever you are, to be honest," you had no idea of the affect one sentence had on dan heng. while he was trying to hide his blush, you continued, "but if your bed is a problem, we'll just stay in my room."

"are you sure⎯" dan heng was cut off.

"yes," you vigorously nodded your head. "why else would i offer?" you wrapped your arm around his neck, "okay! let's move!"

dan heng keep rubbing his neck on the way to your room. when did it get so hot? luckily for him, he felt his warmth drain when he reached your room. it was freezing: definitely below (at least) 67 degrees. and then he noticed the heap of blankets lying on your bed, which explained so much.

"make yourself at home!" you waved your arms around, as if you were showing a grand prize. you flopped onto the bed and proceeded to wrap yourself in the blankets.

dan heng, on the other hand, chose to lay on top of the covers for two reasons. the first reason being, if he had gotten under the covers with you, he feared that he'd be too flustered to even face you. the second reason was he may burn up.

"are you gonna get under here?" you asked, shuffling around your mountain of blankets, "it gets really cold at night."

"i'll be fine. don't worry about me," he shrugged. as he tried to light the lamp on your nightstand, you grabbed his hand before he could turn it on.

"quoting me now?" you teased.

"i⎯" he paused. "i assure you, yn. i'll be fine," trying to hide his gaze from your eyes. your hand on his feels so blissful. your grip, so light and calming.

"and i assure you," you hold on tighter, "you're gonna be cold tonight. like, freezing. i saw your body react to when we came in here. you were about to shiver," you recognized his body language? "don't be stubborn. c'mon."

hesitantly, dan heng made his way under the covers. he could feel you next to him, your body radiating heat the blankets could not. unknowingly, he gravitated towards you, so much so that the two of you were touching knees.

"feel better now?"

"slightly, yes."

"you do," you dragged on the syllables in a sing-song way. you opened up the dictionary and began to read inside your head. well, struggling to read. it was dark and you insisted to not turn on the lights (it disrupts REM sleep, you said).

"give me that," dan heng grabbed the book out of your hands. though you try to protest, he holds the book out of your grasp.

while you try to reach for it, you end up sprawling yourself all over dan heng's body. at some point, you went from simply pressing your chest up against his to practically straddling him.

dan heng tried to take his mind off of your position; he focused on keeping the dictionary out of your hands. it was fun, teasing you. if his arm was standing in one place it would've been easier to reach, however, dan heng possessed a sense of agility you knew nothing of until tonight.

when you exhausted yourself in your efforts, you crashed down on top of dan heng. for someone who was (apparently) adept on dan heng's body language, you didn't notice how his chest was rising unevenly, how is breaths were more shallow and hitched. you concluded that his warmth occured from how many blankets were on top of him, and not the fact that you were practically centimeters away from his lips.

"how else am i supposed to sleep if i can't read," you mumbled in his ear, too worn out to talk at a normal volume.

dan heng tilted his face away from yours, scared that something would happen if he had gotten too close, "i'll read for you."

this time, you hauled yourself off of dan heng's body, now opting for leaning into his side, "how? you can't read in the dark either?" you leaned your head on your hand so you could look at dan heng. dan heng was grateful for the dark, otherwise, if not for the dark, you'd be able to see how red he was in the moment.

"i actually can," he opened the book, flipping through the pages to find the most boring words. you shook your head in disbelief; there was no way he could actually read in the dark (he could).

you shuffled through the blankets once more, trying to find the cold spot on the bed. the cold spot was nice, but it wasn't satisfactory, for you could not hear the sounds of dan heng's voice. so you leaned closer, resting your head on his shoulder yet again.

"quintessence: the most perfect or typical example of a quality or class," dan heng read out. you found that his voice started lulling you to sleep already.

"do you think people just make these words up and they just appear in the dictionary?" you slur out, consciousness slowly fading away.

dan heng softly chuckled, "maybe," he flipped through more pages, "tintinnabulation: a ringing or tinkling sound."

you laughed into his bicep, "are you sure you're not the person making these words up?"

dan heng wanted to sear your laughter into his skin, "i'm not. are you about to sleep yet?"

"i'm sleeping now," you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, "mimimimi⎯"

dan heng delicately smacked the dictionary on your face, "sleep," he stressed. when you moved yourself closer to dan heng, he couldn't help but pull you slightly closer. maybe it was the facade of exhaustion donning on him, or maybe it was because he wanted you closer.

as he felt your breathing slow and listened to you get less chatty, he knew you fell asleep. he set the dictionary aside and tilted his head down to look at you. how could one look so enchanting while sleeping? he carefully stroked your eyebrow, an endearment he used only for you, and pulled you closer into him.

when you two woke up in the morning, none of you dared to discuss how you were practically entangled and intertwined together.

bonus:

"i think that was the best sleep i've ever gotten," you laid on dan heng's shoulder. "your voice put me to sleep."

dan heng, trying to avoid even closer contact, "so are you saying my voice bores you?" he teases.

"what!?" you take your head off of his shoulder. though dan heng avoided the encounter, he wished for your head to come back down; he missed how his heart began to race with you near.

"no! your voice is just⎯ really peaceful. and calming. and nice," you try to explain yourself. when you see a slight smirk threatening to show on his face, you scowled. "it's too early for this," you playfully shoved him away from you, missing his smile on the way.

[girlcalledwhatsername]

🍂This user is always happy to see ao3 surpass their donation goals btw.🍂

This user is glad to see publically-funded archives of all kinds and especially those with a history of standing against censorship, especially fully volunteer-run ones with artists generously sharing their works for free, especially well organised ones that I respect the hell out of.

[lordsukunas]

vampire!choso who likes watching humans bc he thinks their lives r interesting, but he finds u especially beautiful :3

he doesn't hide his vampire side from anyone, but it's not like he could if he wanted to. he's pale asf, dark eyeshadow around his eyes, dark stringy hair, and has fangs. it's pretty obvious lol

despite that, he doesn't wanna scare u away. so he makes sure to try and hide his fangs, to look a little more alive and less corpse-y, and he does his absolute best not to stare at your throat. he really, really does. he can't help a little glance every once in a while tho bc it just looks so yummy n enticing, kind of like the pastries he watches u take bites out of

n its rlly awkward bc u can tell he's trying not to smile w his teeth but u don't really get why. vampires r kinda like myth n nobody takes them too srsly bc theyre never out and about. thankfully for choso u find his awkward smiles and absolutely dead, pale complexion a little endearing

u also notice him staring super hard at ur neck sometimes and u have to go "???" before he snaps out of it with a buncha apologies. kinda weird dude but ok!

anyway hes just a silly little vampire guy who has a crush on u pls give him a chance. pls.