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libraryofgage · 4 months

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Addams Family B-Side (3)

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually Debbie and Fester Addams One | Two | Three (you're here!) Rick and Evelyn O'Connell One | Two (on the way!) Harley Quinn One 10th Doctor and Rose One | Two (on the way!) Scooby Gang (there are plans for this one lmao, so plz be patient with me orz)

Did I already post today? Yes. Did I also post two chapters of Modern Steve in 80s Hawkins today? Yes. I am just incredibly productive today, who knows when it's gonna happen again lol

Anyway, finally! The next B-Side! This bitch has been stewing my guys, so I hope you enjoy it lol

There are two memes at the very end of this one, so definitely stick around

As always, if you see any typos, no you didn't 😘

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For four weeks, Eddie feels himself losing his mind. He finds gifts in his locker every other day, and he's convinced they're from Steve Harrington. He now has a taxidermied bat, a fancy-looking vial with a skull and crossbones embossed in the glass and filled with mysterious liquid, an actual human skull that Eddie immediately incorporates into his next campaign, and a spider. An actual spider. A live spider that, after a little research, he learns is a fucking Black Widow that seems unnaturally friendly.

Eddie can't stress that part enough. Multiple people have mistaken the spider for an intricate vest patch because it just sits perfectly still over his chest pocket. It only moves to rub its head against Eddie's fingers whenever his hand passes over it, and even then it's careful to avoid hurting him with its pincers.

He names her Nox.

Those aren't the only gifts he's received, but they're the most notable, and Eddie is overwhelmed and flustered by the positive attention he's suddenly receiving.

The other thing driving him crazy is Pubert Addams, a guy Eddie had never paid much attention to before but now considers his mortal enemy. He's convinced Pubert is, at worst, potentially abusive or, at best, delusional and taking advantage of Steve's kindness and inability to brutally turn him down. Or maybe Eddie is the crazy one; he doesn't actually know. Whichever it is, Eddie is ready to take the very nice dagger he now has (gift number 15; yes, Eddie has been counting) and stab him with it.

Because he can't get more than two minutes alone with Steve before Pubert appears out of nowhere. Eddie runs into Steve in the hall while everyone else is in class? Pubert shows up with a hall pass two seconds later and literally waltzes Steve away from him. Eddie finds Steve camped out in the library during study hall? Pubert materializes in the chair next to Steve before Eddie can sit down, leaning far too close as he asks Steve to explain something from their shared Gothic Literature class. Eddie, by some miracle, is behind Steve in the lunch line (and he calls this a miracle because Steve always brings his lunch in a pink box with black skulls, which Eddie considers incredibly brave of him to carry around like it's nothing)? Before Eddie can do more than say hi and get a blinding smile in return, Pubert fucking Addams shows up and drags Steve away while promising to share his lunch.

Eddie is just about to lose the last shred of patience he's struggling to maintain when Steve finds him. Ironically, it's the same bathroom where they first talked, the one with mysterious mold growing in the corner that Eddie is convinced is some new species. It's the only bathroom with a busted smoke detector, and Eddie goes there to get high during his free period.

He's halfway through a joint, smoke curling around him as he sits on the sink counter and tries not to think about what else has been there, when the door swings open, Steve walks in, and Eddie chokes on his inhale.

"Don't die like this," Steve says, stepping closer and patting Eddie's back like they know each other, "It's no fun."

Eddie finally gets himself under control, taking a deep breath and wincing at the way his lungs burn. "No worries," he croaks out, regretting the departure of Steve's hand on his back. "What are you doing here? Please don't tell me you plan to use this bathroom."

"As curious as I am about the bacteria teeming on these toilet seats, no." Steve sounds genuine, like he really does want to swab the toilet seats and see what grows. Instead, he places his bag on the sink and pulls out a familiar vial with a familiar skull and crossbones. "I just came to drink."

"Oh?" Eddie says, leaning forward with a grin. He looks Steve up and down, taking in the pale blue sweater vest and immaculately pressed jeans. "You don't look the drinking type, Stevie."

Steve hums, popping the cork out of the vial and taking a swig from it. "This isn't exactly hard stuff," he says after he swallows, distracted enough that Eddie thinks he misses his eyes lingering on Steve's throat as it bobs.

"Just beer then?"

"What?" Steve asks, looking at Eddie like he's delusional. "No, it's cyanide and vinegar."

He says it with such conviction that Eddie believes him despite knowing cyanide is poison. "Metal," he says, looking away to take another drag of his joint as he struggles to break through his own awkwardness and hold a conversation that will somehow sweep Steve off his feet and make him forget all about Pubert Addams.

Before he can think of something clever and smooth and funny, Steve leans close and raises a hand to his chest. Eddie is about to warn him that Nox is, in fact, real when the spider scuttles onto Steve's fingers and settles in his palm. She does a little up-and-down motion, circles in his hand twice, and rubs her head against his wrist. "You've been taking good care of her," Steve says.

"Uh, yeah. How is she not biting you right now?" Eddie asks, remembering all the times Nox has warningly snapped at others who tried to touch her.

Steve snorts and allows Nox to return to her spot on Eddie's vest. "I raised her," he says, his tone casual like he isn't admitting to showering Eddie with inexplicable gifts for the past four weeks, "of course, she won't bite me."

"So, it has been you," Eddie replies, wanting to hear it from Steve himself.

With a soft hum, Steve takes another sip from his bottle. "Who else would it have been?"

Eddie licks his lips, takes another drag of his joint to brace himself, and hops off the counter. "So, uh, does that mean you li--"

Before the rest of the question can be asked, the bathroom door swings open again, and Eddie feels his eye twitch as Pubert Addams frowns at them. "So, this is where you were," he says, walking over to Steve and putting an arm around his shoulders.

"I told you I was going to the bathroom," Steve says, rolling his eyes as he stuffs the vial back into his bag.

Pubert looks Eddie over, a derisive huff escaping him as he dismisses Eddie and looks at Steve. "On the other side of the school? Really?" he asks, and Eddie would be overthinking what that means if he weren't sure his veins were about to burst.

"We were talking, you know," Eddie says, gaining Pubert's attention again. Steve looks at him, too, his eyes a little brighter.

"I'm sure," Pubert replies, rolling his eyes as he takes Steve's bag. "And now we're leaving." With that, he leads Steve out of the bathroom, the door swinging shut before Steve can do more than smile apologetically and wave.

Anger surges through Eddie, and the shaky drag he takes to finish off his joint does absolutely nothing to soothe it.

He's going to kill Pubert Addams.

--------

Funnily enough, Steve's mother doesn't learn about his crush until he's five weeks into it. When Debbie finally does discover the crush, it's because she walks in on Fester and Steve decorating homemade cookies shaped like anatomically correct hearts. She pauses in the doorway, looking between the two covered in flour and raspberry jam, and asks, "What on earth is going on here?"

Steve looks up, sees this as his chance to finally tell Debbie, and smiles brightly at her. "I'm in love, Mother. He's allergic to raspberry, and Father agreed to help me make him cookies with raspberry filling, so he can feel the same breathlessness I do when I see him," he explains, using his thumb to wipe raspberry jam off his cheek.

Debbie stares at him for a few seconds before looking at Fester. "How long have you known?" she asks.

"Five weeks," Fester admits, looking apologetic. "I wanted to tell you, Pumpkin! But Steve asked me not to so he could tell you himself."

She sighs and walks over to the island, sitting on the edge of a stool and taking one of the cookies for herself. She bites off a pulmonary vein, looking thoughtful as she chews. "I must admit, these are damn good cookies," she finally says, taking one more bite before passing it to Fester to finish. "Tell me about him."

And Steve does. He gushes about Eddie for a solid hour without taking a single breath, spilling everything he's seen Eddie do and how he's reacted to all of Steve's gifts and how he gets so obviously jealous when Pubert butts into their conversations. He tells Debbie about Eddie not screaming when he saw Nox, about him selling drugs, and about his interest in music. Steve laments his hair but eagerly describes the treatment routine he already has in mind.

By the time he's done, the cookies are decorated and his mother's expression has grown a little pained. "Steve, darling, come with me," she says, getting up from the chair and leading him out of the kitchen while Fester starts to clean up.

Steve waits until Debbie has brought him to her spare room to ask, "Did I do something wrong?"

"Well, did you remember my rules about crushes?"

"Yeah. I've talked to him a lot."

Debbie smiles and brings Steve over to the bed, sitting him down and straightening his hair before perching next to him. "Then, you're not in trouble, but you've been going about this all wrong, dear."

"Should I tell Pubert to stop making Eddie jealous?"

"Absolutely not," Debbie says, shaking her head firmly. "In fact, he could try harder. Nothing gets to a man like someone he can't have, especially if he thinks they're in distress."

Steve blinks, frowning slightly as he tries to figure out where, exactly, he's gone wrong. Eddie seems perfectly enamored with him, after all, and Pubert's goading is encouraging his affections, which is the only reason Steve has allowed it to continue. "Did I give him a live spider too soon?" Steve asks, figuring that's the problem here.

"No, that's not...," Debbie trails off, mutters something about Fester being an idiot, and clears her throat. "Steve, your father is the last person you should approach for love advice."

"But...you agreed to marry him, so he must have done something right," Steve says.

Debbie barks a laugh, waving her hand dismissively. "I married your father for his money. I attempted to kill his entire family and only stopped when he promised to give me everything I asked for. I would hardly call him a casanova."

Steve nods along, smiling a little as she speaks. He's heard their great love affair many times, but he doesn't get tired of it. "But you actually love him anyway, right? Father says it's because he showered you with gifts. So, that's what I'm doing."

"I...do love your father," Debbie admits, sighing as though she doesn't know how that happened either. "But it's less because of his gifts and more because...he gave me the devotion I wanted. Anyway, if you learn anything from us, it should be that love comes second."

"What comes first?"

Debbie smiles, the expression positively devious, and Steve can't help returning it. "Obsession," she says, her shoulders rolling back some as pride fills her. "Occupy his every waking thought. Make yourself irresistible. Make him dream of you at night. Overwhelm him with desire until he simply must act on it."

"Oh," Steve says, thinking of how his father acts around Debbie and realizing that obsession never quite went away. But it's worked out well for them, and he knows his mother has experience with luring men into her arms. He nods once and asks, "So, what should I do?"

"I'm so glad you asked," Debbie says, her smile bright and her eyes filled with excitement. "You'll have Eddie falling to his knees before you in no time."

--------

Eddie didn't think it could get worse. He was already attracted to Steve, already distracted by every little movement.

He was wrong. So incredibly wrong.

Because here he is, his mouth dry and his palms sweaty and his cheeks warm because of Steve. He's not even doing anything. Well, that's not true. Steve is curling his tongue around a lollipop before sucking it into his mouth like he'll die without it. But it's more than that. It's the painted-on jeans that hug his legs; it's the pastel pink hoodie (with little bats on the cuffs) that rides up whenever Steve moves to show off a strip of skin just above his waistband; it's the way he finishes the lollipop and pulls out lipgloss, casually telling Pubert it's raspberry flavored as he puts it on.

Eddie swallows around the dryness in his mouth, gripping his locker door so tight that his knuckles turn white as he looks inside it. Sitting innocently on top of everything is a Tupperware container of cookies with raspberry filling (according to the label), and Eddie is ready to eat one just so he can die knowing what Steve's lips taste like.

That's not even the worst of it. The worst is that Steve transfers into Eddie's Music Theory class, smiling innocently while the teacher introduces him and then directs him to sit at the empty desk next to Eddie. When he's close, Eddie realizes Steve smells like cookies and cream ice cream, and he's tempted to ask if Steve smells like his favorite flavor on purpose.

The teacher saves him from the embarrassment of blurting out the question by announcing a project. The teacher then dooms him by telling everyone they're required to work with their desk neighbor. Eddie grips his pen tightly when the teacher tells them to spend the rest of their class time discussing the project.

"So," Steve says, getting Eddie's attention. When he looks over, Steve is leaning forward on his desk, chin propped in his hand as he looks at Eddie. "Want to come over to my place after school? To work on the project, I mean."

Eddie stares at Steve for a few seconds, his tongue stuck in his throat. To his credit, Steve doesn't say anything or call Eddie out for staring at him. He just waits patiently with a little smile curling his lips. Eddie finally clears his throat, his voice coming out a little strained when he says, "Yeah, sure, sounds good. After school. Your place. Project."

Smooth. Real smooth.

When Steve just smiles wider and stretches his arms above his head, pulling his hoodie up, while suggesting they do the project on the evolution of heavy metal music, Eddie realizes he's probably going to die after school.

He can't wait.

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Tag List (I think there's still room for a few more people ^_^)

@estrellami-1, @itsall-taken, @mugloversonly, @fandomcartographer, @hippielittlemetalhead, @agree2disagre-kicks, @ledleaf, @just-a-tiny-void, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @ink1177, @maya-custodios-dionach, @littlebluejane, @steddieonbigboy, @ravenpainter, @read-write-thrive, @deadontheinside20, @yeahhhh-suga, @nectandra, @mogami13, @mx-jinxous, @thoughtfulbreadpolice, @anne-bennett-cosplayer, @xoxoladyclara

@zaddipax, @dycte, @breealtair, @geekymagicalpotato, @janea-grill, @juliasthename-adhdismygame, @yikes-a-bee, @wayward-people, @st-fics, @disrespectedgoatman, @bipusssy, @cottagecorebutnaturescaresme, @nightowl14028018, @that-binchh, @your-confused-friend, @irethsune, @goosesister, @strawberryyyenthusiast, @irregular-child, @theverywest

And, finally, a two-for-one meme special because I couldn't decide which was funnier:

#steddie #steddie fic #addams family b side #addams! steve harrington #steve harrington #eddie munson #pubert addams #fester addams #debbie jellinsky #steve deserves good parents actually #my writing #sorry it's been so long the inspiration took a while to hit for this one hfdjks

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rogueddie · 2 years

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Steve loves giving people things.

It's one of the rare things he misses about Tommy and Carol- even when he'd just give them the food he didn't want, they'd light up and look so pleased. They were encouraging too- probably just because they wanted things from him, he knows that, but it still makes him feel all warm and happy just remembering it.

No one lets him give them stuff anymore.

Jonathon had accepted the replacement camera reluctantly and when Steve tried to give him other things for said camera, he got a door slammed in his face.

Nancy, drunk and repeatedly calling him 'bullshit', slips in a little dig at how Steve needs to buy peoples love.

Not even Dustin accepts anything from him. The only thing Steve could really offer him is a new walkie, or batteries, or food- but Dustin already has those things and dismisses any attempts Steve makes to learn what else he could get him. Jokes that he doesn't need to be bought.

By the time they save Eddie, turn the narrative on it's head and save the day- he's back on his parents payroll. Something about him being a hero in the newspapers (at Eddies insistence). Something about him being a good influence on the Harrington name. Something about him deserving some sort of reward.

That doesn't matter though, itt means he can start giving people actual gifts again!

But, he quickly bursts his own bubble. Because no one he knows wants any gifts from him. No one seems to understand. It makes him, for the first time in a long time, miss Tommy and Carol again.

He gets Eddie a new guitar though. It's not cheap, but he can afford it and... well, Eddies old one got destroyed in the Upside Down. It's the perfect excuse, right? It'd be like Jonathons camera- even if he's reluctant, he'll still accept it.

But it's not like Jonathon at all. Eddie is thrilled before he even opens the box, thrilled that Steve got him something. When he does open it and finds a new guitar, he screams (and scares his uncle, but even he seems to be understanding when he sees the guitar).

Eddie wants gifts. He jokes about it but, when Steve points out that he will if Eddie lets him, he looks genuinely excited at the idea. Tries to tell Steve that he doesn't have to, but he looks reluctant when he says that. Looks more upset that Steve might think he's greedy or using him.

So Steve starts getting him things. Usually just... little things. At first, it was a perfect excuse to start spending time with him, to become better friends.

He isn't sure when it started to mean something else. He isn't sure when he started to swap out little things he thinks will make Eddie laugh for... romantic things. For roses and chocolate. For things that will flatter Eddie and make him blush, make him pull some of his hair in front of his mouth and give Steve looks that can only be described as 'demure'.

It's when Steve gets him a little skull ring he'd seen in passing, something he'd seen and immediately thought of Eddie, that he finally gets the response he'd started secretly hoping for.

"How about... instead of a thing... next time, we go out?" Eddie shifts, hesitant. "Like... see a movie, get dinner?"

Steve had to bite his lip, trying to make his grin a little less goofy. "Yeah. You, uh... mean, like, a date, right?"

"Do you want it to be like a, uh, date?"

Steve can't quite get himself to say it, nodding instead.

Eddie gives him a little smile, looks painfully understanding. "A date then. I'm free this Saturday? I hear there's something cute and family friendly in cinemas that we could watch."

"Yeah, ok, Saturday. Um... you wanna get some food too?"

"Food sounds good. Dinner and a movie, very romantic. Pick me up at 6?"

"Yeah. Yeah, ok, 6. It's a date."

#stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steve x eddie #steddie fic #ficlet #hurtcomfort

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intheshadowsbehindyou · 6 months

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Mercs proposing hc?? So basic but Im literally one corny mf

The TF2 Mercs proposing to their partners

WARNING: Mild gore gifts because this is the Mercs we’re talking about here.

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Scout:

- Biggest panic attack of his fucking life. Has no idea how to function like a normal human being anymore. It was that feeling of being in love with somebody all over again and needing to tell them. What’s worse about this though is that marriage is a huge commitment. One that many aren’t ready for yet. What if you reject him and he messes this relationship up?

- Goes to Spy for comfort. In all honesty he’s just a very damaged little boy on the inside and scared that he is incapable of receiving unconditional love. The other Mercs catch him behind the base crying into Spy’s shoulder on the curb while Spy holds him. He’s telling Spy how much he loves you; and how terrified he is that you cannot return that same vow. Spy knows the feeling. “Shh, mon lapin.” Boy howdy Spy’s certainly grateful that Scout’s mom didn’t teach him a word of french.

- Spy has to shove Scout into your room to actually finally get him to do it. “Your idiot boyfriend has a few words for you, and apparently I have to be present or i’m certain he’ll break down crying again.” He says to you. While poor Scout curls up into a ball on the floor.

————————————————————————-

Soldier:

- First of all, why him? Second of all, this is the type of guy to go all out and spend half the money he earned in mercenary work to get one of those “will you marry me Y/N?” banners hooked up to a plane. Complete with the pilot being ejected and the plane crashing nose first into a rock formation. Apparently that was 100% intentional because a bunch of confetti came out of the explosion. You don’t know if you should be horrified at the audacity, or head over heels.

- Brings you an entire necklace of ears. But that’s not all! For limited time only you can get one of soldiers’ severed heads that was purposely boiled and skull cut into the shape of a helmet! Great, right? “Wow, what type of animal is this?” You ask. “A DOG. PACKAGED WITH PURE, NO ARTIFICIAL FLAVOR, PASTEURIZED AMERICAN GLORY!” well that’s not reassuring. “OOOHH SAAAAY CAAAAN YOU SEEE—“ Soldier immediately gets hit over the head by Heavy and knocked unconscious.

- After the initial silliness dies down you see adoration as you tend to his awful head wound. Maybe Heavy knocked the stupidity out of him? No. He’s still insane. Soldier grabs your wrist as you apply alcohol to his wound and squeezes your hand. “Somebody like me doesn’t deserve somebody like you.” He says. “Bullshit, Soldier.” You say, leaning in for a kiss.

—————————————————————————

Demoman:

- He can only achieve this when drunk off his mind. Not to mention it arrives in the most unromantic way possible. But it doesn’t make you love him any less. He holds you close to him after a New Years party at the base and pats your back. “Jus’ so you know, you’d look mighty fine with a ring on your finger.” He flirts, getting incredibly physically affectionate. He makes sure never to cross your boundaries.

- “Me mum would kill me but fuck all. y’know? Old wench’s days are numbered anywae. We could live ina nice cottage by the sea.. If ya want wee lil’ bastards I’ll actually take care of em. I’d have to stop me drinkin tho.” He says, pecking your neck. His remaining eye is pleading with you to say yes. “Pleaaase?”

- Has no recollection of these events in the morning so imagine his dumbfounded expression when one of the Mercs asks about his new fiancé. Cue the embarrassment mixed with pride and excitement.

—————————————————————————

Engineer:

- Will 100% go to your window in the dead of night and sing a song for you on his guitar. Particularly I imagine this would be the contender. You have no idea this is even a marriage proposal. You just think he’s being incredibly sappy. Imagine the surprise while mid song he pulls out a small box and throws it up and down recklessly like a baseball. You’re slowly beginning to catch on as he opens it with his free fingers after finishing the song.

- Complete overconfident show off. He pep-talked himself before all this and rehearsed his performance repeatedly. By using the wrangler and effortlessly throwing the box up in the air and propelling it forward with a single bullet, the sentry successfully aided in getting the box up to you. You don’t even know how you managed to catch it, to be honest.

- Tips his hardhat to you. “Whadda say? Marry me?” He can barely contain his smile. Both excited and somewhat relieved he pulled that off.

—————————————————————————

Heavy:

- “Heavy made you dead person crown..” He walks into your room one day and puts it on your head. It’s a bunch of severed ears meant to resemble a flower crown. “Hey, thanks big guy.” You’re grateful for the gift, being a crazed Merc yourself is it really any surprise? You give him a huge kiss on the cheek. Heavy looks thrilled that you accepted his gift. Which is very much unlike him. Usually he’s reserved. Maybe he’s just having a good day?

- Well.. you eventually find out why. That was apparently his way of proposing to you. Soldier nudges you the next morning and teases you for being engaged to Heavy. You’re horrified to say the least. You had no idea this meant marriage. Not that you wouldn’t marry him. But what about his gun Sasha? Wouldn’t she feel jealous? You’ve been with Heavy so long you keep referring to that damn thing as a person.

- Immediately upon seeing you; goes up to you and gives you a list of stuff he wants at this wedding. There’s even a blank page for you to write your own needs. He seems oddly motivated to plan this out months before it actually happens. There is countless mentions of Russian authors he wants to attend the wedding. As if they’d ever consider going to a stranger’s wedding. “If they won’t come then Heavy will crush them..” He says. Same goes for your guests.

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Pyro:

- Wow.. Kind of the most normal out of all of them. For the most part. If TF2 took place in modern day they’d propose with a ringpop but all they have is a bag of candy and an actual ring (That they may or may not have stolen from someone in Tuefort.)

- They get on their knees and offer the ring to you in an extremely professional manner. It’s quite surreal to see Pyro pull off something so domestic and normal when he’s always destroying stuff with fire. In fact this is a little too normal.. This is Team Fortress we’re talking about here. Shouldn’t something be wacky happening right about now? It’s like the perfect opening for slapstick. Through your cries of love and laughter you begin to feel anxious at the back of your head.

- Yup.. There it is. Pyro tells you that Scout offered to be the ‘Ring bear’ for the wedding. There’s Scout dressed up in a cutesy teddy bear costume. You’re certain that’s not how it works. “Just for the record, if you tell anybody about this, I’ll fuckin’ saw off both your knees boston sandwich style. Capeesh?” He says. You have no idea what that means so you quickly agree.

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Sniper:

- Afraid he’s going to mess it up, much like Scout. Gets incredibly physically ill as a result from stress and isolates himself in his camper van. You’re convinced he wants to tell you something but you have no idea what it is. One day on the frontlines an arrow narrowly misses your face and embeds itself into the wall next to you. You were about to turn around and bombard Sniper until you saw the note attached to it. “Pardon, Will you marry me? -Sniper.” With a very worried sad face drawn next to the note. He even bothered to draw his hat on it.

- Disbelief clouds your face at first. Sniper? Marry another Merc? You’re in shock. This isn’t something you’d ever suspect from a guy like him. But your initial thought makes way for an uncontrollable smile.

- He literally will not approach you first after this. You have to knock on his camper van because god knows he won’t be even able to face his team for months. As you jump into his arms and kiss him he immediately pulls you inside to love on you in private.

———————————————————————-

Medic:

- WOULD RATHER SHOOT HIMSELF

- Just kidding. But he wishes he were dead right now. How could he do something so… Un-mad-sciencey? Marriage is just a concept brought upon by money hungry people. It only exists within the mind… Yet, that’s how he feels. An eternal vow to you is something he wishes to do. He’s already planned to make you a god alongside him once the time came so you could be his beloved consort forever. It reminded him of the greek story of soulmates.

- Gets a little fruitier than usual. The most feminine moan you ever heard left this man’s body as you brushed against him while trying to help him grab a syringe he dropped. This man gets unusually hornier and that’s how you know something’s up.. “Looking up my skirt, I see!” He says, as you glance up his long lab coat. There isn’t anything there but his pants so you roll your eyes. “Ah yes.. “ You respond. You decide he’s just clingy and horny as usual and carry about your assistance. You’re not in the mood for that. He never even bottoms so he’s feigning it anyway.

- “Err—Uh— Ho! Wouldn’t it be just shameful if I knew what was going on inside your head?” He asks. “Alright, i’ll bite. What are you saying, Doc?” You sigh. He fixes his glasses back up on his face thoughtfully. “One body, one mind. That would be quite intriguing don’t you think? If we were to.. Become one.” He placed an odd amount of emphasis on that, as if the thought was simply music to his ears. Lord he’s creepy. Medic grabs you and holds you close to him. “Think of the possibilities. We’d never be lonely again. I could stitch our bodies together and we could feel each other’s essence. Forever.”

- “Medic, you good?” You ask. Although his words were strangely flattering nonetheless in their own way. You smile at him. He seems to be lost in the idea. Fantasies of being with you for eternity flood his head. Particularly ones where you’re both a weird hybrid god. Weirdest marriage proposal world record goes to Medic.

—————————————————————————-

Spy:

- No, no no no no no. He can’t do this again. Marriage never worked out for him. After losing Scout’s mom and many partners that followed, he couldn’t bare hurting somebody like that again. His job always got in the way of what he truly desired but he had to live with it. This life chose him after all. His hand was forced into this position. Seeing your bright smile for the rest of his days was all he ever wanted. His urges to get up and say something to you were too strong.

- Has to metaphorically slap himself in the face and remind himself to act like a fucking adult. He wasn’t a little rambunctious teenager in Paris anymore. Yet he felt like one whenever he saw you. Such boyish feelings for an old put together gentleman like him. Spy decided to trust you and himself. But if something went wrong he wouldn’t hesitate to jump off a fucking cliff. Spy would stare at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for hours and contemplate his decision before making it.

- He proposes to you under a starry moonlit night. Not even bothering to kneel down, he slides the box across the balcony to you. “Well?” he asks, taking a long drag of his cigarette. His eyes fixated on the horizon. “Do I have to say it?” He asks. “Yes..” You tell him. Your eyes gleaming with joy. You never felt happier in your entire life. “Fine.. Will you marry m—“ He couldn’t even finish before you jump on him, ultimately knocking you both down.

#team fortress 2 #tf2 #demoman x reader #heavy x reader #medic x reader #spy x reader #tf2 x reader #tf2 x you #pyro x reader #sniper x reader

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shoyoist · 1 year

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𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 — hanma shuji.

hanma doesn't know why he's so nervous about giving you chocolate on valentine's day. for fuck's sake.

he checks himself out for the seventh time in the reflection of the candy shop's display window, running a hand through the gelled locks of his dyed hair, fixing a strand that had fallen loose. chill the fuck out. he leans back against his motorcycle, hoping to god that he doesn't look awkward as he stands there, holding a heart-shaped box and a bouquet of flowers— starting to feel cold as the sun goes down in the distance, his leather jacket and skinny jeans doing little to protect him from the late winter chill.

like, who cares if this is the first time he's spending a valentine's day with someone? he stares into the lidded, dusty gold eyes of his reflection. and who gives a shit that you're the first girlfriend he's ever had? the first person to ever sway his devil heart, to pull him down from the top of the world and dethrone him of the title of the lone reaper? … and who cares if he was over twenty whole fucking years old when you gave him the first kiss of his whole life?

“shut up,” he'd hissed at hanemiya, who laughed at him while he was hunched over shelves of confectionery, unable to pick something for you. “shut the fuck up, b’fore i knock the teeth outta your fuckin' skull.”

“ooh, would ya really do that, now?” usually, anyone would cower and tremble in their pissy little shoes if the hanma shuji had threatened them like that. but hanemiya hadn't even flinched.

“your little girlfriend might run from you, shuji honey,” kazutora had mocked, using the petname you always called him by. “can't risk that, man. not when she’s the first girl that's ever wanted your flat ass in your life.”

“can it, tora.” hanma had warned, voice low. “for a kid that sat in the class corner and got his shit beat in by every other kid in school, you sure have a sharp fuckin' tongue.”

“ouch.” hanemiya's wince was only fake. “hey, man. we're friends.”

to be fair, hanma had never thought much about love or first kisses or valentine's days, or even relationships in general. he was plenty amused and invested by kisaki's endeavours, sidelining his efforts to win over the woman of his dreams like it was a soap opera.

it was new, unwalked territory, and it made him nervous, made his heart flutter, goddamnit— to be in love with someone himself. and god he's fucking sweating despite the cold, as he stands there as patiently as he can and waits—

“shuji!” your voice calls him from behind, and he ignores the way his face and ears heat up as he turns around to find you. “shuji honey! i'm sorry i'm late!”

you wave at him as you rush over, your shoes clacking over the frosty sidewalk and your scarf fluttering in the breeze. the first thing hanma thinks is oh, fuck— because you're damn pretty, and also because your hands are full. of shopping bags that contain what he can only assume are valentine's day gifts for him.

suddenly, he feels embarrassed. the box of chocolates he spent so much time choosing for you, and the bouquet of roses (one of each colour to signify every kind and stage of love) feel suddenly empty. not good enough.

“hi baby,” he says, voice going rough as he softens it for you. leaning down so you don't have to get on your toes, he allows you to capture his lips in a kiss, parting his lips to give himself a sliver of your taste. “don't worry your pretty little head. i didn't wait long.”

“i went shopping.” you tell him, hanging some of your bags on the handlebar of his motorcycle, trifling through one of them for something. “shuji i knew you'd never dress correctly for the weather, so i made some last minute additions to my gift list and bought you these.”

you pull out a checkered scarf, very long in your hands — and you get on your toes anyway, slinging it around his neck and patting his chest before nodding in satisfaction and going back to the bag for something else. “that, and these gloves!”

you take out a pair of thick, black leather gloves and wait for hanma to finish wrapping his new scarf around his neck, before taking his large hands in yours and pulling the gloves on them for him. “aren't they nice?” you smile proudly, squeezing his gloved hands. “look at the silver buttons! you fasten them like this, and see! they're fitted perfectly.”

“i—” his voice cracks, and he blinks down at you in silence for a moment, feeling warm and fuzzy as you hold his hands in yours. “thank you, pretty doll. i love them.”

“and you better use them.” you huff. “i know you're freezing even now. it's a cold evening. you never learn, shuji.”

“i will, baby.” he has to grin at you then, because you're so fucking cute when you turn your nose up and frown at him, bossing him around like that. “promise.”

“kiss.” you pout, then, and his heart melts. he'd already put his flowers and chocolate down on the back of his motorcycle, so he wraps his hands and arms around your waist, pulling you in and enjoying the warmth you offer as he kisses you, his touch so gentle and tender even to himself. “love you, baby.” he says into your mouth, blushing again when he feels you hum happily against his lips. “i love you so much.”

when you pull away, your gaze wanders off to his motorcycle — and you look up at him, eyes somehow so adorable, sparkly and full of innocent joy. “are those for me?”

“who else would they be for?” hanma chuckles, snatching up the bouquet and chocolate, handing them to you. “happy valentine's day.” the words feel foreign, an inexperienced rasp to them as they leave his tongue.

he watches you hug the flowers to your chest, reading the label on the chocolate box, giggling as you notice your name carefully written in black marker on the pink ribbon tied around it. “it's not much,” he starts, but you don't let him continue.

“i love them, shuji! these are my favourite kind of chocolate— and how did you know to pick these specific colours of roses, hm?” you raise an eyebrow, giggling even as you try to appear skeptical. “i bet kisaki taught you. you wouldn't know a thing about flower meanings.”

it's true — he didn't know. he'd asked kisaki for help himself. his little plant-loving genius of a friend had been delighted to oblige. “hey, don't be mean t’me now.”

“i love them, honey.” you smile, and hanma's heart flutters with the softness of your tone.

he knows you love him. you call him your honey, your sweetheart, your baby — as if he wasn't 6’4, tatted up and famous on the streets for being an on-and-off member of multiple gangs, a wild card and a lone reaper of souls that's never been defeated in a fight.

as if he wasn't quite terrible at giving you his love back. he stares again at his flowers and his measly box of chocolates, before glancing as discreetly as he could at all the bags you'd hung on his motorcycle's handlebar. “so, what's our plan?” he licks his lips. “we can go anywhere you want— name a place, i'll drive us there.”

“aren't you sweet,” you reach up to pinch his cheek. “hm, let's go to my favourite restaurant! you know the one. and after that we can drive around and head to the park you like. we can open the rest of your gifts there.”

fuck. “these all’re really for me?” he frowns at the bags — there are six of them, all tote bags in pretty pastel pinks and yellows.

“mhm.” you nod, utterly unaware of what you do to his heart. “i got you twenty presents!”

“the hell?” he mutters under his breath, running a hand through his hair and rubbing the nape of his neck, puzzled. “why the fuck would ya do that, now?”

“buy you twenty presents?” you blink. “well, i was trying to get you something really meaningful, you know? something special. that's practical but also mmm, sexy — because that's the kind of thing you like.”

“and you had to buy twenty of these … practical and sexy presents.” hanma isn't convinced.

you put the flowers and chocolate into one of the bags and climb onto the back of his motorcycle, rolling your eyes at him. “listen, shuji— i got a little carried away, alright? i'm nervous!”

nervous? you? he walks the few steps required to close the distance between you two once again. “hah?”

“mhm.” you grab at his stomach through his shirt and pinch, earning yourself from him a hiss of pain and a swat from his hand. “i'm nervous, because…” you smile, leaning in like you're telling him a secret. “i have to show you a good time—a little birdie told me this is your very first valentine's day date.”

hanma's embarrassment is evident as he tugs the scarf up his chin and turns his back to you, leaping onto the motorcycle and making it jolt, your panicked squeak and the way you grab at his jacket to steady yourself making him chuckle despite himself.

“hey!” you slap his shoulder, and he ignores you, twisting the keys into the ignition and revving his vehicle up instead. “shuji! you're mean.”

“‘m not.” he scoffs, backing up off the side of the rode and to the yellow line. “you're mean.”

he peeks at one of the mirrors and sees your pretty face twisted into a scowl, and his own face cracks into a smile. “you'd be a real sweetie if you told me the rest of the stuff you got f’me, though.”

“those are surprises.” your scowl lifts, as he pushes off the road with one foot and drives out into the street. you wrap your arms around his waist and press your body to his back, cheek against his shoulder as you let the wind into your hair and relax as he speeds up. “you can guess, though. so funny when you guess.”

“cause i never get anything fuckin' right?” he laughs, and then you laugh too, and hanma feels all warm and fuzzy again. god, he loves you. he loves you so much.

people would assume about a man like hanma, that he wouldn't settle for a first love. he would want experiences! he would want to taste love, passion, regret, heartbreak, unadulterated lust, the poisons and ambrosias of other people— but really, he thinks he can do just fine with just you.

he can do just fine with only your love, your presence, your warmth and your kisses from your lips his whole life. if he wants experiences, he'll have them with you.

“hey.” he says, half hoping his words get lost in the wind— but you hum in response anyway, so he continues. “i know i haven't even opened those presents yet, but thank you. alright? i really do appreciate it, baby.”

he laughs at the end, a little awkward, because fuck— he sounds so stupid when he tries to be serious and express something that isn't a joke.

then you kiss his shoulder, and he feels that warmth and fuzziness all over again. “of course. anything for you, shuji. i'll make sure you feel just how much i love you.”

and god, hanma just might fucking cry. his eyes sting, and he blinks the sensation away before it can build — but he still takes a little too long to reply, takes too long to swallow down the lump in his throat. “i love ya too.”

“shuji,” your voice is teasing, and he feels you tilt your face on his shoulder to look at him better. “you're tearing up, aren't you?”

“baby, respectfully, shut the fuck up.” he smiles anyway, because your laugh is beautiful, and when you push yourself up just a bit to place a quick kiss on his cheek, he turns his head just in time to make it a kiss on his lips. ”now stay put.”

note: inspired by an ask left to me by @vivianette. thank you for the idea, beloved<3 interactions, reblogs & feedback are much appreciated!

#₊˚ପ⊹ REKHA™.#₊˚ପ⊹ IMERA.#hanma x reader #hanma fluff #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo revengers fluff #tr x reader #tr fluff #hanma shuji x reader #hanma shuji fluff #hanma drabbles #hanma headcanons #tr drabbles #tr headcanons

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angelonasher · 10 months

Text

Everything so far about the season 9 Egg War

(in case anyone wants this lol)

Edit: please read the reblog with the corrections because I did make some mistakes/miss details :D

[you're here], Part 2

The links to the other parts are at the bottom of the reblog!

Grian steals The dragon egg from Pearl, dupes it, and returns it. (This will be important later)

Grian and Scar accidentally blow up Doc's tunnel bore as a way to procrastinate from finishing the back of Grian's base.

They make an apology pile with many gifts including diamonds, Scarland merch, and a dragon egg.

Doc retaliates by doing funky chunk repressor stuff to make Grian's nether portal one block and puts a load of wither skull projectiles in Scarland's sky.

Zedaph wants one of Grian's duped eggs for the Hall of All, and completes an egg quest Grian sent him on to get it. Part of the quest was blowing up a small section of Doc's base. (Without fixing it afterwards.)

Doc retaliates by making Grian blow up Mumbo's vault door in order to get a purple crown. (Which Grian wants because he claims it will make him "Mumbo's best friend.")

Grian leaves a sign saying he does not know how to "physically, emotionally, or spiritually fix this."

Mumbo pays Scar 64 diamonds to blow up a large part of his base because he didn't like it anymore. He then makes Grian think that it blew up along with the vault door, therefore making it Grian's fault. That causes Grian to burn (what they think is?) the one and only purple crown so far due to guilt.

Grian and Scar retaliate by creating a machine to fill Doc's perimeter with chickens. However, due to the Scar and Grian are banned sign in the perimeter, they go as their alter egos Poultry Man and Hotguy.

Doc cleans up the chickens with the help of Ren (who pledges his alliance to him), Zedaph (who he seems to be a bit on the fence about since he didn't fix his base), and some foxes.

Doc leads a bunch of the chickens Grian and Scar made into Grian's base. (With Zedaph's help.)

Grian, Scar, and Mumbo form the Buttercup alliance against Doc, because, according to Grian's research, buttercups are toxic to goats.

The Buttercup alliance makes a cute little tent area in the middle of Doc's path, raise a sniffer called "Xx_GoAtEaTeR_xX", and build their eyes overlooking the perimeter so Doc knows "they're always watching." (They also discover that falling blocks make Grian's game crash.)

The buttercups learn that Doc has a robot (the Goat Walker) that faces the path. They decide to build (let Mumbo build) a robot to fight it in a cool mech battle thing.

Doc uses the dragon egg Grian had given him as an apology to dupe a bunch more, then build an insane egg duping machine that makes a whole lotta dragon eggs.

Doc and Ren put these eggs in Scarland, Grian's base, the bridge connecting Grian's and Mumbo's bases, and Mumbo's vault. Ren encourages Doc to also put them inside Scarland's castle. (With loads of shulker boxes to spare.)

Pearl, as the server's resident cleaner lady, gets hired by Scar for a salary of 32 diamonds a week to clean up all the eggs in Scarland. (He also kind of throws Grian under the bus concerning the illegal eggs and logs off when asked to give her his stock of eggs.)

Doc calls Pearl to snitch- AhEm I mean inform Pearl of his neighbors' messiness. From him she learns that Grian's base also has eggs in it, that Doc was the one that duped all these eggs, Ren was the one to put them in the bases (although he did too), and that he had thought Grian had the original egg. (He also gives her almost two barrels full of shulker boxes full of dragon eggs. He does not tell her about the machine or the eggs still in it that he could easily use to make more.)

Pearl says something about Grian facing the cleaning lady's wrath idk i think she's gonna end up entering this whole fiasco too lol

Doc builds two butterflies flying above the perimeter in order to "kill them with kindness." The one facing directly towards Scarland is for him, and the one facing directly towards Grian's base is for Ren.

The butterflies are actually tnt-duping flying machines.

Doc tells Ren about and shows him the butterflies. Ren (apparently) thinks they are just flying machines, and Doc does not tell him about the tnt. (Doc's pov only)

Doc and Ren discover a beacon in the perimeter and that someone had been mining there. They conclude no one respects the Goat anymore, and Doc determines to find out who it was. (Idk if this is gonna be relevant but I've added it just in case.)

Ren tells Doc about his super awesome spy plans, which involves the cave right under the Buttercups's camp. (It's not elaborated on very much in Doc's episode.)

wooh. That is all I know so far :D

#hermitcraft #the egg war #hermitcraft s9 #hermitcraft season 9 #docm77 #grian #goodtimeswithscar #mumbo jumbo #rendog #renthedog #pearlescentmoon #zedaph #zedaphplays #the buttercups #buttercup alliance #summary #list #egg war summary

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gremlingottoosilly · 4 months

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Would Monster König bring trophies back with him, I can imagine him bringing back skulls or little things like that and he’ll decorate the place with them, even just to show his girl she wouldn’t stand a chance if she tried to join any of the human retaliation groups

- 🪼

Yes! He loves dragging trophies, especially gory ones. When this bastard first saw you getting so jumpy and scared after the first skull, he kinda just hauled on his back and forgot about it, he got on a mission to scare you as much as possible. He drops the whole bodies in front of you now, laughing as he tells you exactly how they died - how he was eating half of the flesh he was ripping off, dropped the other half and then ripped away a few presents just for you. When he drags you a box, you can never know if it would have a whole fucking head inside or just something nice he picked of for you. The problem is - sometimes these trophies are really something nice. Cute a shiny like an interesting rock, for example - or a gift that he got from a ruined store. You have to open the damn thing and see what he has in store - and then you would get on your knees like a good girl and smile as he pushes his cock in your mouth. You have to thank him for being so generous, after all - he come through all of this trouble to get you a nice trophy!

#cod #konig x reader #konig #yandere konig #monster!konig #cod x reader

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mlmxreader · 7 months

Text

Not My Simon | Simon Ghost Riley x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ i need “you’re not coming home, are you?” “i doubt it.” with ghost. gn, male, nb reader, literally any I JUST NEED THE ANGST - @mockerycrow ❞

: ̗̀➛ it's not your Simon. It's not how you remember him. Whatever it is, that's not your Simon.

: ̗̀➛ body horror, major character death, swearing, smoking, graphic depictions of fatal injuries

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

The last conversation kept playing in your head as you stared at the photograph in your trembling hands; you knew that you had to make the call, that you had to pick up the phone and talk to Price.

He was sorry about what had happened, he had done his best to protect Simon. He asked you to call. You couldn't.

Every time you looked at your phone, you could only ever hear that last conversation. You weren't going to take it from the drawer. You couldn't.

The glass on the frame was stained and streaked, smudged with wet fingerprints. You licked your lips as you swallowed thickly and took in a shaky breath. The last picture.

You and your Simon, at a heavy metal concert, seeing a band that you adored who did songs based on historical individuals and events. He had bought you a zip up hoodie. You never wore it after that last conversation. It was collecting dust in the wardrobe.

Along with the bin bags full of his clothes, packed up by Johnny and Kyle.

You could hear his voice so clearly as you replayed the conversation.

"You're not coming home, are you?"

"I doubt it." His voice had shaken slightly. "It doesn't look good…"

"At least make sure there's something they can bring back," your voice had broken, squeaking. "I don't want to bury an empty box."

"I'll give Johnny my discs," he had told you. "He'll make sure that you get them. Keep them with you."

The line had cut off abruptly after that, you could still hear the monotone beep of the phone ringing in your ears. You put the photograph aside on the bed, shaking your head as you stood up.

It had gotten cold suddenly, you weren't sure why; you figured it was just the winter air creeping in, and grabbed a hoodie. It was red, stained with curry sauce.

You could still remember when Simon had spilled it, how profusely he had apologised. How you laughed and told him not to worry - it was just curry sauce. It didn't matter much.

Your vision was blurry, something hot and wet trickling down your cheeks. Something blocking your throat and your nose as you trudged to the kitchen.

The kitchen was even colder, and the smell of pineapple and pepper clung to the air. You didn't think much of it. The window was open, and it wouldn't surprise you if one of your neighbours had had a barbeque earlier.

But then an unease washed over you, the hairs at the back of your neck standing up and your heart banging against your ribs; you were being watched. In the darkness, something was lurking in a corner. You could see a shadow moving from the corner of your eyes.

You figured you were just tired as you stood with your back against the counter and lit up a cigarette, taking a long drag. Your hands didn't stop shaking. You could feel the chill getting worse. The patio light flickered, drawing your attention.

You could have sworn you saw something move from the corner of your eye. You tensed up, clenching your jaw. You were just tired, that was all. Just tired.

A shadow stood, motionless and towering over the vase of dead and wilted daffodils. Simon's last gift.

You pressed your back against the counter a little more. Shaking your head. You were just tired. Seeing things. That was it. You were just tired. Slowly, the shadow moved, and the lights flickered slightly.

Exposing an all black SAS uniform, but it didn't look right.

Something was… off about it.

The shadow got closer, and the lights flickered again, settling on staying on, although dulled. A pale grey light filled the kitchen as you glared at the exposed shadow.

It wore a broken skull mask, the tactical vest was ripped and torn and exposing what was beneath it. The trousers were frayed and falling apart at the calf and knee. The helmet was broken, exposing dull grey flesh beneath it that throbbed.

Then you got a really good look, and you nearly dropped your cigarette.

The jaw of the shadow was broken, shattered and hanging on by sheer spite. Something black and gooey oozed from the open mouth. The movements were jerky, bones crunching and grinding where they had been broken. The elbow stuck out from the flesh, poking against long and thin sleeves.

You froze, meeting lifeless white eyes. But you knew him. It was Simon, but it wasn't your Simon; it wasn't how you remembered him.

Soft and short, neat, brown hair. Deep and wide facial scars. Those deep brown eyes you could get lost in, so dark that they could look black in the right lighting. A towering frame, chub that hung over the edge of his trousers.

What you were looking at wasn't your Simon.

It might have looked like him, but it wasn't him. No. That wasn't your Simon. That wasn't how you remembered him. You shook your head, sinking down and covering your face with your hands, screaming.

That wasn't your Simon.

You screamed and screamed, sobbing and weeping. That wasn't your Simon. It was not your Simon. It wasn't how you remembered him.

But it moved forward, and with a grinding and crunching thud, sat down opposite you. It reached its charred and burned, blistered and leaking, hand out and rested it on your calf gently. Grunting and gargling on its own blood. Choking on it.

It garbled and growled softly, spitting ooze on the floor. Desperate to speak as the flesh in its open skull pushed up and down against the jagged cracks of the broken helmet. It nudged your leg. You screamed again.

So it withdrew its hand, and turned its white gaze to the floor. Ashamed.

He never meant to scare you. He never meant to hurt you. He just wanted to see you one last time before he had to go again. He wanted to tell you that he loved you, that he was sorry. That he never meant to hurt you, and he would always watch over you. He would always be there.

He shied away, standing up and taking one last hesitant look at you. A grunting garble sounded from his mouth as he choked on the ooze, desperate to speak. To apologise for not being your Simon. To apologise for his appearance and tell you that he was sorry.

He knew that that wasn't how you remembered him.

One last look, and he was gone.

The lights flickered, and returned to being off. The smell died away and the air seemed to warm up slightly. But you stayed there, screaming and sobbing.

That wasn't your Simon.

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sensei-venus · 7 months

Note

What if Robby ended up giving a whole bunch of his rings to Reader? And one day he finds out he has a set of matching ones, so he gives one to Reader and keeps one for himself.

So they now wear matching punk rings✨✨✨

That is so Robby-coded, I can't explain it exactly but I know he would do that.

He probably has all of his rings in a little box. He stopped wearing them a while ago not long after he started doing karate. They started to get in the way after a while, even hurting his fingers when he trained. So he tucked them away in a tiny little box he keeps in one of his dresser drawers tucked under some clothes.

One day he's looking for a specific shirt. He wants to wear it to go out with Reader for a little date. He planned it over a week ago and he wanted to look good going out with her. His hand bumps into the wooden box and he pulls it out.

He thinks, why not take a look at some of his old rings? Opening it up he rummages through all of his old accessories. A few are gone as he had already given them to Reader to wear, which she did all the time. One of his skull rings he gifted her ended up on a silver necklace that she wear all the time.

It was kinda hot to see her wearing it, tucked into her cleavage. Dangling down when ever she bent over.

His mind his pulled away from the nice memories when his fingers find two oddly simpler pieces of metal. Looking them over he finds they are basically duplicates.

He wonders where he got them but is quick to shake it off.

They would be perfect! He could keep on and Reader could wear the other one. A great couples gift.

He ends up giving the ring to Reader while on their date. She thinks it's so sweet and won't stop telling Robby about it. She thinks he's so adorable for giving her such a thoughtful gift, even if he had already given her rings in the past.

But then he pulls out the second ring and shows her it before putting it on his own finger.

Cue Reader tearing up and kissing the poor shocked boy all over. His face is covred in kisses, his thick little girlfriend in his lap. She's giggling like a made man as she keeps kissing him. He can't help the huge smile that ends up on his lips.

Best idea for a gift ever.

#sensei venus speaks #cobra kai #cobra kai blog #cobra kai ask blog #cobra kai headcanons #cobra kai imagine #robby keene headcanons #cobra kai robby #robby keene fluff #robby keene imagine #robby keene #robby kernel headcanon #robby keene x chubby reader #robby keene x reader #cobra kai x reader #cobra kai x chubby reader #chubby!reader #chubby reader

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marvelnatr · 6 months

Text

Still mine

Warnings: dom!Natasha, Sub!Reader, choking, degrading, mocking, fingering, smut, cheating, angst, fluff. 18+ MINORS DNI

Summary: you were dating Maria hill. She was a good girlfriend, you had finally moved on from Nat after your fall out. Or have you?

Feel free to join my 18+ Discord in my pinned masterlist based off marvel and my writing!!! I don’t bite at all I promise you!!!

Your POV:

Maria walked behind me, wrapping her arms around my waist and kissing my neck as she whispered “hello beautiful”. I tilted my neck and smiled “hi babe, you ready for the party?” She nodded and pulled out a box, opening it up and showing a gorgeous necklace. Blushing I whispered “oh babe it’s beautiful” Maria smiled “I thought it would look beautiful with your dress”. Maria gently put it around my neck. From the corner of my eye I saw Nat roll her eyes, she always hated it when Maria interacted with me. Natasha would always white knuckle grip the table and storm out of the room anytime Maria talked to or touched me. I turned and smiled at Maria, making eye contact with my ex girlfriend before I let my lips meet Maria’s. Kissing her gently. Natasha grumbled as she walked by me and headed to a different room.

Natasha and I broke up a little under a year ago. It was a stupid fight and she refuses to admit she was wrong. So I moved on and started dating Maria two months ago. She was nice to me and was gentle. We’d go on cute little dates and she’d get me all of these gifts I never thought I deserved. She was good to me. Sometimes I thought about Natasha……only sometimes…..

Maria snapped me out of my thoughts by rubbing my lower back “lets get to this party shall we?” smiling I nodded and followed her to the main room. Walking around with her and conversing with people. I could feel Natashas eyes piercing the back of my skull from across the room as Maria snaked her hand around my waist. Maria gently looked at me “can you get me my normal drink please my love?” Nodding she kissed me and said a gentle thank you as I made my way over to the bar. Natasha looked up at me and grabbed a glass, keeping her eyes trained on me as she made me my drink. I didn’t even have to ask for it, she knew my go to drink, knew exactly how to make it. I looked at her, finally breaking the silence “you’ve gotta stop looking at me like that Natasha” sliding my drink to me she watched me “anything else?” rolling my eyes I spoke, ignoring the fact she just blew off my comment like a child “Maria wants a cosmo”. Nat nodded and pulled out the cocktail glass and started making that drink. I watched her, stating it again “seriously tho Nat quit looking at me like that” she scoffed and looked at me “like what Y/N? Stop looking at you like what?” I laughed at her, she was playing stupid, looking in her eyes I watched her “like you own me” Natasha looked at me again, her green eyes piercing mine, yet she still spoke cool and collected. Her cockiness lacing her tone “I do”. Glaring at her I grit my teeth “you don’t, you lost that privilege when you fucking walked out” Natasha handed me the other drink, still maintaining that same cockiness “yeah sure, whatever helps you sleep at night” taking the drink I spat “fuck you Natasha”

Heading back over to Maria I tried to calm the burning sensation on my skin. I sat down next to my girlfriend and handed her cosmo to her. Maria gave me a kiss on the cheek “thank you love” I nodded and stared at my drink, my mind wandering to Natasha. Maria gently placed her hand on my thigh “are you okay baby? You look frustrated and you’ve barely touched your drink” I shook my head “I’m okay babe” Maria’s eyebrow raised “are you sure darling?” I nodded and got up “I’ll be right back love”

Heading back over to the bar I felt Natasha watching me. Looking up at her I poured the drink down the sink, watching her as it emptied. Natasha rolled her eyes and kept making her drinks. I knew that would piss her off. Natasha always liked to see me take a sip of the drink she made me. She enjoyed the satisfaction of me liking a drink she made. Not anymore. She doesn’t get shit from me. Putting the glass to the side I grabbed a fresh one and reached for the bottle of vodka. Before I could Natasha beat me to the bottle, making eye contact with me “sorry did you need this?” looking at her I rolled my eyes “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me, can you please just stop acting so childish Natasha? Just give me the damn bottle” laughing Nat held it back closer to her shoulder “ask nicely and you can have it” folding my arms I watched her “please can I have the vodka Natasha?” Smirking she watched me “begging now are we?” Glaring at her I walked away. She was just so incredibly fucking cocky and it pissed me off.

I stayed next to Maria the rest of the night. By the time the crowd dwindled to the team I looked at my girlfriend who was obviously drunk. Whispering in her ear I kissed her temple “I think it’s time for you to go to bed, come on love lets go” pouting she nodded and watched me, I laughed a little “don’t give me those puppy dog eyes love, come on, up you get”. Helping her to her feet I said goodnight to the team. Nat rolling her eyes as she sipped her beer. Making our way up to our shared room I helped Maria get undressed and into bed. She pulled me into her, gently kissing my lips. I moaned a little, I had been horny all night and needed a release bad. Quickly getting up I squeaked “lemme get a towel”. Maria nodded and I disappeared into the bathroom. Within the short time I was gone Maria had managed to fall asleep. Guess I’d be taking care of myself tonight.

Natasha’s POV:

I sat beside Wanda and listened to the team ramble. I love the way I can get under Y/N’s skin so easily. How I fluster her so much. Eventually everyone went to bed. I had looked at the time. It was two in the morning. Heading over to the kitchen I grabbed a bowl and some fruit, gently cutting the strawberries. Hearing footsteps I glanced over to see Y/N, her hair in a messy bun and a big shirt with short shorts. She looked at me and ignored me. Getting on her tippy toes she tried to get a glass from the cabinet. After watching her struggle I sighed and reached over her, grabbing her the glass and holding it out for her. Y/N watched me and refused to take it from me. Setting it down on the counter I watched her grab it when I walked away. Passing by me and getting herself water. I turned and leaned against the island “are you ever going to stop hating me Y/N?”. Y/N kept focused on filling her water “I don’t” cocking my eyebrow at her I cut another strawberry “you do, you won’t even take a glass from my hand”. I watched as she took a swig of her water and looked at me “I don’t hate you Natasha, you walked away from us. I’m just trying to get over you” I watched her “but you don’t have too” shaking her head she poured the water down the sink “I-I love Maria now Nat”. Folding my arms over my chest I tilted my head “that didn’t sound very convincing. If you ask me I know you haven’t cum properly in months” Y/N choked a little and watched me “w-what?” I laughed at her and put the knife down on the counter, walking up to her and cornering her “tell me darling when did you last really cum?”

Y/N clenched her thighs together, her cheeks flushing that unmistakable red. Smirking I watched her “are all your needs not being met pretty thing?” Y/N whimpered and shook her head no, nodding I tutted “oh baby, I can help with that. Just say the word and I’ll fix that little problem for you”. A whine fell from her lips, her eyes needy and pleading for me to fuck her. I traced her jawline “I’m waiting detka”, her eyes met mine as she whimpered “p-please fuck me I can’t take this anymore”. Smirking I grabbed her ass and mocked “there’s my girl. I knew it darling. You might like all the pretty gifts she gets you, but you’re still running back here to let me fuck you…..how pathetic”

A moan fell from her lips as I grabbed her jaw “lets see if you remember how to follow orders. I know Maria has definitely been slacking in that area given your audacity to speak to me the way you have been. Get your ass upstairs and go to my room and strip”. Y/N ran upstairs, smirking I brought my strawberries with me as I followed her. I opened up my bedroom door to see Y/N kneeling in the middle of the floor, her hands flat on her lap. I placed the strawberries on my desk and walked right up to her and mocked “oh look at you baby, you remember” I lifted her chin gently with my index finger “so pretty kneeling for me. Stand up and lay down on the bed detka, let me remind you how good I made you feel”

Y/N quickly got up and laid down on the bed, her legs falling open. My hand made its way to her cunt, gently trailing my finger around but never giving her what she craved. You could feel the heat radiating off her pussy. Y/N bucked her hips “p-please Nat” I smirked and tutted “oh come on baby, you can beg better then that” a little cry fell from her lips “N-Nat please just fuck me. I-I need you. I need your fingers again”. Trying to hide a groan I slipped my two fingers in her cunt. Her walls wrapping around my fingers. I curled my fingers up into her and tutted “oh baby, so fucking tight. I’m struggling to work my fingers into your pretty little cunt right now”. A moan fell from her lips as she bucked her hips “f-fuck Nat” I began fucking her faster, leaning my body over her “such a good girl, letting your cunt swallow my fingers so well”

I felt her walls tighten around my fingers, her breathing began to quicken, I smirked at her and mocked “what? You wanna cum? Does my fucking slut want to cum?” Y/N moaned “p-please I need too. I-I please” looking in her eyes I watched her “then what’s my name?” Her hips bucked “Natasha come on” I shook my head and put my thumb on her clit “that’s not my name detka, come on you know it” arching her back she whined “m-mommy” groaning I curled my fingers up into her and wrapped my hand around her throat, choking her “such a good fucking girl, go ahead and cum for me”. Y/N fisted the sheets and came hard. Her legs shaking as she moaned “f-fuck thank you”. Pulling my fingers out I put them in my mouth, sucking my fingers clean of her sweet sweet taste “mmmm I missed you baby”

Y/N blushed and looked up at me “I-I’ve missed you too” I laughed a little and laid beside her “what I just had to fuck the attitude out of you this whole time?”, she pushed me a little and cuddled “don’t get cocky with this, you were still in the wrong” sitting up on my arm I gently ran my hand along her body, gently touching her “I know baby and I’m really sorry. I fucked up and I was being stubborn. I am really sorry love, I fucked up”. She teared up a little “t-thats all I’ve wanted you to say” kissing her head I rubbed her back. Holding her close to me “it’s okay beautiful”. After a few minutes of silence she looked at me “what do we do about Maria?” I looked at her “did you love her?”. Y/N thought for a second and shook her head “no, I-I thought I did but she’d ignore my needs and wants….I kinda just followed her around and she bought me stuff”. Nodding I held her close to me, rubbing her arms “we can take care of that in the morning love, for now you need some cuddles and aftercare”

#marvel #marvel fanfiction #mdlgkink #marvelnatr #mommy dom little girl #dom mommy #natasha x reader #marvel smut #natasha fluff #natasha fanfic #natahsa romanoff #natasha x y/n #natasha smut #romanoff smut #wlw ns/fw #wlw smut #wlw

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theredofoctober · 1 month

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MANNA- CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TEA

Dark!Hannibal Lecter x Reader x Dark!Will Graham AU fic

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink, implied child abuse and more

Read after the cut...

For a near week your deceptive submission endures, the hours newly tightened by a schedule your host has contrived to divert you from your anti-appetite.

Days rise from the borderless veil of time like castles from a dawn mist. Made a school child again, you sit before documentaries and foreign art films, take up a journal whose pages bear but glances of your internal woe.

You find yourself wishing that you could write with any particular talent.

As a girl you’d yearned to be an author, never daring to materialise the urge with any substantial effort. Now you can’t imagine you’ll ever be allowed so loose-penned a profession, if any at all, kept covetously home and infantilised until you cannot think beyond a fraction of words.

Why, then, does Hannibal go to such arduous lengths to educate you? Surely it is only so that—before the eyes of peers—you'll be the cultured averment of triumph through therapy.

In the soirees of your doctor's hopes you cleave, willing, to his side, bewitching the throng with smirking witticisms before sucking his cock with that same clever mouth when the last guest steps, merry and ignorant, into the night.

Already Hannibal aspires to materialise that abstraction. You find proof enough of it in the wardrobe he’s amassed for you, which expands as the days progress.

Some of his choices are attractive to you, reluctant though you are to consider this— long velvet gowns in puce, umber, black, blouse and skirt co-ordinations plucked from the runway, some still in boxes emblazoned with designer names.

Others of the selection offend you, however, in their bald intent for closed-door wear. Girlish dresses in light chiffon, corseted silk in flowering lace. Short necks and hemlines, some of them scarcely reaching the knee. Then there are sheer nightclothes stored in perfumed sheets, no practicality but for the sort of sleeping in which no slumber is to be had.

You’re to dress like some obscure young celebrity, a whimsical echo of an era thirty years passed. Still, there is an attempt in this incredible closet to appease you as well as to change, adapting your preferences to a style acceptable to Hannibal’s eye.

It’s of particular note to you that the garments are each the same size, implying that you haven’t gained significant weight since your last awareness of its value. Conceivably the labels might have been replaced, but it’s so unlikely a trick that the theory is quickly thrown out.

Hannibal is inviting you to trust his process with a peace offering of equilibrium, the second-best prize to starvation.

You are not such a fool as to take it yet, though in action you may appear to have done so.

When in the presence of your keepers you remain in unwavering character, an amplified, changeling copy of the child you'd once been. In this way you're allowed your little misbehaviours—pulling a face at food you do not like, or the shrugging rejection of an idle caress.

So long as you sit at meals, and don’t speak in any manner that threatens the illusion of family you are unharmed, and laden with unending gifts. It would be a winning childhood, had you been born into it through a far less insidious violence than that which brought you here.

Still, the awareness that you must simper and lisp for another month before you venture an escape soon wears upon your tolerance.

One Saturday morning, alone in your room, the silence of that cushioned cell amplifies your every thought to a piqued tenor.

You miss when hunger bled like smoke through your skull, ridding its halls of all but its fey shape. With a scalding clarity you behold what you are now: a homunculus, the issue of diablerie, cut small by men’s black magic.

You cast yourself amidst a tide of cushions and mimic your own words upon them in a bitter snarl.

“‘Yes, Daddy’”, ‘no, Daddy’. ‘Little one’. Oh God! It’s all so stupid. Stupid!”

An involuntary laugh chatters through you like a coin thieved from a beggar’s cup, hateful and maniacal. Yet you perform this anger as you do the docile coquette, the bounds between that self and your own a gradient that softens by the day.

It’s become rather easier to be a monster’s daughter than a woman, this you cannot deny. The longer you are extracted from the world the less you’ll remember of how to live within it, if you ever knew, before.

The misery of this thought proves too much to bear.

You cry until your head is as hot about the brow as a horseshoe turned white from the forge. The sobs wrench the muscles of your stomach in two pained halves, and still you weep until you laugh again, thinking how deranged you’d sound to any eavesdropper in the rooms below.

Afterwards you sit very quietly, like an ailing bride in a Victorian novel; you are, after all, very ill, and it suits you well to behave so.

Having nothing better to do, you switch on the television and skim through the channels with neither aim nor interest.

Thin, beautiful women populate the screen, their waists like darner flies, their wrists as narrow as your thumb. Even the history programmes feature experts with trim figures in sensible interview dresses.

Perturbed, you flick on and on until you find something on eighteenth century Paris, hosted by a grandfatherly old professor marked safe from scrutiny in the absence of compare.

You watch until your lids fall, thinking of catacombs full of monk bones, the cloying scent of ancient death, each as forgotten under dust as you are by all those who once loved you, and revered by those who never have.

In the afternoon Hannibal wakes you gently by turning the television off at the set.

“Are you feeling alright, little one?” he asks. “It’s unusual for you to sleep in so late.”

You hum in a noncommittal fashion, scarcely bothering to open your eyes.

Perhaps he’ll let you drowse the day away; you’d dream through all horrors like this, should your insomnia give you reprieve. A week, a month, a year sold to the sandman in exchange for peace— yet the dark would follow you there, also, antlered men in imagined night.

“You’ve been in bed long enough,” says Hannibal, peeling back your sheets with a brisk tug. “Up you get. Alana is visiting us this evening. She’ll have some questions for you.”

Weakly attempting to thieve back the blanket, you say, “I really don’t feel like talking to her. Can’t you do it? Please?”

“Jack won’t be satisfied with a second-hand report. Alana must see that you’re comfortable here. Not a particular incentive for you, but I can provide others.”

You open one eyelid, enticed by this readiness to bargain.

“So what do I get if I say yes?”

“A light dinner,” says Hannibal. “And—depending on your behaviour—perhaps another reward we’ll negotiate later tonight.”

At this you sit up; starving is a precious contraband in the doctor’s abode, worth more to you than every decadent thing under its rafters.

“Feeling better already, I see,” says Hannibal, through one of his charitable smiles. “Please stand by the mirror and allow me to dress you.”

Unbidden there comes the thought of his hand under your skirts, pressing inwards like a starfish sucking at a stone.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” you say, in flustered haste. "Really?”

“There’s a certain picture I’d like to create for Alana’s benefit,” he insists. “One of wellness and serenity. Your selections tend to imply something far more brooding and morose.”

With a testy little sigh you slip out of bed, rubbing your arms free of rising gooseflesh.

“You bought me those ‘brooding and morose’ outfits, remember, Dad? What does that say about you?”

“That I seek to please you,” says Hannibal, touching your mouth with playful thumb. “Today I hope that you’ll return the gesture.”

He holds aloft a pastel blue dress in transparent lace, a beaded line of detailing pointing downwards at the hips in a suggestive v.

“I don’t know,” you say, far more sharply than intended. “It’s short. And I don’t like the colour.”

“The shade will suit you,” Hannibal replies. “And you’ll wear a shift underneath for modesty, if that’s your concern.”

You don’t bother with reproof; he’s guiding you out of your nap-rumpled clothes and into the dress before you can think of an excuse he’ll entertain.

Unresisting, you only glance aside, breathing shallowly so as not to brush your chest against him as he adjusts your collar.

That Hannibal hasn’t made love to you since you shared a bed makes you think that he’s waiting for something, a moment fermented to sweeten the sex. He is, you warrant, as driven by pleasure as any man, being only of a tighter and more methodical restraint.

You can’t decide whether you’re glad of the wait or if you’d prefer he throw you down on your bed and ravish you now to have done with it.

Doubtless Hannibal considers an identical dilemma, turning you before him like a ballerina in a mirrored jewellery box.

“Even the greats couldn’t hope to replicate this image of you,” he says, as he inspects his work. “To attempt it would have them rending the canvas to pieces rather take credit for their failure.”

The compliment is long forgotten when, later, Alana breaches the house, her pretty face above her mulberry blouse like a lily in a violet bouquet.

Her casual manner in kissing Hannibal’s cheek at the door suggests a social visit, as does the gift of white wine under one thin arm. Still, she remembers her duty, taking you aside with a subtle professionalism within two minutes of having greeted her host.

Her kindness is a shingle in a cyclone, dashed away by the futility of its own existence.

“Dr Lecter told me you’re doing a lot better than when I last saw you,” says Alana, placing one of her graceful hands atop your own without comment as to its frigidity. “Are you feeling more positive now, or would you disagree with that?”

Slipping your fingers out from under hers, you say, “Well, I have a TV now. I’m allowed to do a lot more things I’m actually interested in. That helps. Thanks for that, by the way. I know you talked Dr Lecter into it.”

Smiling, Alana says, “I can’t take credit for that. He was already making preparations when I brought it up. He's racked up quite the shopping bill.”

The notion of Hannibal navigating the catalogues of online stores is ridiculous, somehow anachronistic, but then again you’ve witnessed him tapping at a sleek iPad, a jarring sight, on every occasion.

“How about mealtimes?” asks Alana. “I understand you’re working towards a plan that’s easier for you.”

“It’s still hard,” you mumble. “Tough. You know.”

Your eyes are on Alana’s patent court shoes, picturing a blandly organised rack of identical heels in alternate shades. Perhaps ankle boots for the colder days. Simple. Nothing flash.

Alana pauses, quickly assessing your disinterest in the exchange.

“Hannibal says he’d like you to agree to more therapy sessions,” she says. “He feels you’re opening up. I think we both know that’s probably wishful thinking on his side, but don’t shoot him down just yet.”

“I won’t,” you say. “Couldn’t anyway, right?”

Alana rearranges her discomfort into another closed-lipped smile. You can’t envision that lipstick ever moving, striped across her face as yours has been by both of the friends that she holds dear.

“So how are things between you and Will now?” enquires Alana, quite on cue. “Rumour has it you’re getting along like a house on fire.”

Truthfully Will has rather cooled since the night of the seizure, his envy retreating to the black of some inner primordial cave. He seems both caustically amused by your recent performance and cynical of its longevity, yet neither judgement is as severe as before.

The thought of your kindness sits with him, has been taken up with the cagy hunger of an orphan to a heel of bread. Piece by piece you’ve given him more of it in flirting words, but these he’s yet to take, turning each away with a smirk.

“Don’t try so hard,” he’d said, only a day ago, but when you’d thrown an idle foot across his lap as you read a book beside him he hadn’t removed it, only pretended to ignore the intrusion.

“Me and Will are okay,” you say to Alana. “That’s all.”

You must give away something of your successes in your expression, for Alana’s mouth twitches into a coy grin.

“Just okay?”

At that moment Hannibal knocks on the open door, a merciful trespass, setting you free of her.

As promised, you’re offered a modest salad while Hannibal and Alana make their way through numberless courses over the gifted wine.

At first you’re too absorbed in the mortification of eating in front of the other woman to pay attention to their mounting chemistry, dragging the same tattered leaf through streams of congealing oil.

It’s only as you’re making a fortress of cutlery across a lump of uneaten meat that you take full stock of the flirting at work before you.

Though attempts are made by both parties to fold you into the conversation they are mild at best, almost neglectful.

Alana glances up into Hannibal’s eyes in frequent, laughing enjoyment, touching his shoulder or forearm lightly; he, for his part, looks upon her lips and the curves of her form and speaks fondly to her, his voice hushed with a want of sex.

You’ve heard it often enough to know it, and should be glad to have his attentions otherwise distracted.

Yet your hands creep under the table, squeezing your thighs and stomach as though to claw out the matter you've ingested through your meat.

"I'm done," you blurt out, cutting across Hannibal's opinion of a recent classical performance he’s attended. "Can I go upstairs?"

It's with difficulty that you bite off the habitual 'Dad' that has replaced 'doctor' in your vocabulary.

Hannibal offers you a near invisible look of disgruntlement at the interruption, quickly mollified by Alana's fingers at his elbow.

"I'm sure we're boring you," she says. "Go on up and relax. You don't have to stick around just to be polite."

You glance at Hannibal, seeking his approval before you stand. His eyes, within so static a face, are black glass in their suspicion.

"I'll come up to speak to you later on," he says, at last. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask for it."

Rather than go immediately to your den above you linger to watch as the couple drink in the parlour, so close as to almost be in one another’s arms.

You see from Hannibal's relaxed posture that he is not ablaze with a fascinated love for Alana as he is for Will; he holds her merely with the affection of an old friend, and, too, with an uncomplicated desire.

He would never rape Alana Bloom; such violence, to Hannibal, is an entry into a cabal of which she has no part. Her value to him is as representation of his treasured comforts, and all that which Hannibal would not willingly change.

Alana is as used for her parts as you are, in her way, and oblivious to it, like some grinning scarecrow blind to the birds that snicker and creep at its back.

Yet as you watch her lean, murmuring, into Hannibal’s neck you feel a tooth of ice grind through your heart and turn away, feeling numbly for the bannisters behind you.

Almost on hands and knees you climb the steps to your bed, brought low by that astonishing cold.

Pausing at the bathroom you prostrate yourself at the toilet’s mercy, still unable to empty yourself of the pain and bile you'd evict to be naked of your jealousy.

In surrender you rest your head on the cool floor and remain there even after the compulsion to vomit subsides.

If you cannot flog yourself for your sins as the saints did then this will do, sprawled before the porcelain God of another degredation.

Presently the bathroom door creaks open, striking an unwanted rod of light across your face.

“Go away,” you mutter, wiping your face with an angry scrub of your knuckles. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Hannibal looks at you with a minister’s pious severity.

"I see. So I was correct. You object to Alana and I having a sexual relationship. Any other father would sternly inform you that it’s none of your business, and as your therapist it’s even less so.”

Raising your head, you snap at him as fiercely as you dare.

“What about me?”

“My friendship with Alana is very different to what you and I share,” says Hannibal, and you snort, wiping a stream of clear mucus across your lips.

“I’ll bet.”

Hannibal turns his head at a quizzical angle, and you perceive the very second of his understanding like the unveiling of some trick.

“You must explain yourself, darling,” he says. “What is it about this that has upset you?”

The logical answer should be that you wish to save Alana from him, that you cannot watch her beaming, black-haired head roll out from under the axe.

Instead, you blurt out, “Don’t you get it, Dad? How it makes me feel? You’re supposed to understand me, and I’m pretty sure you do. You knew that it would hurt me. You did this on purpose the way you wave me around in front of Will.”

Using the sink to right yourself you get to your feet, standing on pathetic, defiant tiptoe so that you might gaze into the devil’s face directly.

“If you have to do this, then please, just me. Just me. I can’t stand it. It makes me feel sick to think about you and her together. Knowing you’ll touch me afterwards. Don’t do this to me. Please."

“I see,” says Hannibal.

He speaks with such calm that you deflate from your anger at once.

“Very well,” he says. “I can make an excuse for Alana to leave. Would that please you, little one?”

This time you don’t answer, only stare at him with huge and terrible eyes until he retreats to the stairway.

“Oh, god,” you say, under your breath. “Amy, you’d really hate me right now, wouldn’t you?”

You hear Hannibal and Alana talking in low undertones, the female voice a coo of thoughtful sympathy. In time Alana collects herself to leave, but only when her car propels itself quietly from the driveway does Hannibal come to you again.

By now you’re sitting at your dresser, making a humiliated attempt to recollect your dignity with cosmetics. You know that Hannibal will not like what you’d made of your face—the eyes painted black, your lips the colour of your heart, a sinking, well-bound stone.

Yet all he says as he stands behind you is, “Look at me, little one.”

Your hand shakes, blotting your eyelid with an errant apostrophe of mascara.

“Don’t want to.”

“I know. I’d like you to, even so.”

The gentleness of Hannibal’s voice is an agony to you. You’ve never hated nor been more drawn to him than you are now, this impossible spirit in the vessel of a man.

Stiffly you turn on your chair, meeting his gaze to find it truly repentant.

“I won’t make love to Alana again,” says Hannibal, and you know as you do the reality of elements that he does not lie. “I see that this triggers your fear of abandonment too greatly. But it might not be possible for me to avoid all romantic advances.

“There are rumours abound as to our arrangement already, and it will seem suspicious if I don’t take a lover. But I’ll do my best to be faithful to our family.”

He pauses, watching you battle to suppress your disgust for him, for yourself, for all things in the bracken of his design.

“For now, I’d like you to relax,” says Hannibal. “This level of distress will make you ill. I’m concerned that it already has.”

Taking you by a hand as clammy as mermaid skin he leads you down to the living room to serve you from a pot of fragrant tea.

Though its calorific value is likely near to air you catastrophize with immediacy, unable to touch the cup, let alone drink.

“I’m not doing it on purpose this time,” you babble. “I’m not, Dad, please, you’ve got to believe me.”

Hannibal raises a hand to caress you— that, and only that, and yet you shrink against the couch in expectancy of a blow.

An appalled look tightens Hannibal’s expression, a hypocrisy of which he seems endlessly capable.

“There, now,” he says. “I can tell the difference between unruliness and genuine struggle. You and I both know that tea is only leaves and water— why do you believe against logic that it will affect your weight?”

“I don’t know,” you say, with a helpless shake of the head. “I feel like if I drink it I won’t be able to stop myself. I’ll eat and eat until I’m... big, and then I won’t be able to go back to the way I was. Everyone will see me differently. Treat me like they used to. People can be cruel.”

“And none crueller than you are to yourself,” says Hannibal, and he eases the cup between your hands so that you must take it or scald yourself raw. “There is nothing shameful in having a body of any kind, and any who judge you for that would wear their foolishness like a flag for all to see. Nevertheless, I’ve balanced your weight here, and will continue to do so if that is what’s needed for you to believe in my intentions.”

He aids you to drink, lifting the cup to your mouth over and over until the last drop. From the bitter taste you know it altered by some drug.

For once you do not care.

The night has left you so ashamed of your bearing that you’re half joyful to be done with it, sinking back as euphoria transforms all things that touch you into nirvana.

Your fingers drape across your body in aimless exploration, stopping only as Will enters the room with Hannibal at his side.

The younger man’s eyebrows jump as you giggle and hide your hands behind your back.

“You’re smiling,” says Will. “And I’m not sure how I feel about the circumstances.”

“Our girl is relieved to see you, Will,” says Hannibal. “A familiar face is a balm for even the most taxing day.”

Will looks from you to Hannibal ponderously.

“Alana was here earlier,” he states.

“She was, much to our little one’s chagrin.”

“Do you have to talk about her?” you interrupt, in loose-tongued irritation.

Hannibal chuckles.

“We do not. There are other topics I’d find far more engaging.”

You watch from under heavy lids as the men discuss the Lover’s case in low, library murmurs.

“Tanya Marrow was found washed up by the Patapsco River this morning,” says Will, with a grim regret. “Her wounds were fresh, meaning the Lover only mutilated Tanya and placed her into the doll when he was ready to throw her away. He was content with how closely she resembled the woman he’s desperate to make, for a while.

“But she wasn’t close enough. In the end he had to remind her that she was just a toy to him, and punish her for her lacking.”

The contrast of these dreary horrors with the rainbow light of feeling through your needy cunt should sicken you, but your mind is in disorder, barely one thought akin to the next.

“We’ve made a breakthrough in regards to the dolls,” Will continues. “The well-made ones are expensive; for one person to have so many implies that the Lover is either a wealthy collector, or that he’s able to access them at a considerable discount. Possibly for free.”

“I’m assuming the factory producing these dolls has been identified,” says Hannibal.

Will swallows a mouthful of whiskey.

“There are only four vendors known to produce the style of doll the Lover uses. Jack’s got someone looking into their customers, narrowing down the suspects to buyers in Virginia. Considering how specialised these clients are that shouldn't take long.”

The older man listens with a solemn intensity, scarcely drinking from his own glass.

“I see the Lover almost exactly now,” says Will. “He knows he has to take his bride eventually; he’s circling her, choosing women that are closer and closer to her physical proximity. The next target will be someone she knows.

“It’s a dangerous move, but by now the Lover wants someone that’s stood so close to this woman that he can taste her. Imagine her beneath him when he defiles the inferior victim.”

Fear swims, crocodilian, within you, disturbing your narcotic stupor.

Seeming to sense it, Hannibal says, “Let’s continue this line of conversation later on. I wouldn’t want to give our surrogate daughter bad dreams.”

Will glances at you, watching you fumble idly with the hem of your dress.

“You don’t plan to cast her as our daughter in tonight’s play, do you?” he asks, plainly.

“That would unnecessarily chasten the evening,” says Hannibal. “She’s the woman for whom we are legally responsible, and what we deem fit for her continued health is ours to determine.”

You recline across the couch like an empress, watching the firelight glance shadows across your skin like a garment in a dream. Hannibal slips a hand from your shoulder to your breast, teasing the tiffany lace across your nipple, and the warmth and delicacy of the touch breathes through you a shiver of ermine delight.

Only vaguely do you acknowledge your revulsion, a whisper at a keyhole on the other side of the house.

“What did you give her for her to let you touch her like that?” asks Will, curiously.

His hands play upon the sides of his whiskey glass, and the thought of them upon your thighs or between them drives your lower lip between your teeth with unbeckoned desire.

“I’ve offered her release from her spirited rebellion,” says Hannibal. “Even having promised us fealty, this act she wouldn’t easily endure. I wish for her to experience intimacy unhindered by her mental bounds.”

His fingers glance beneath the neckline of your dress and cross your bare skin as a swan's wing meets the sky, rushing a moan from you more akin to a sob in its juddering resonance.

“Besides,” Hannibal continues, “she’s had a trying afternoon. Her body welcomes this.”

Will’s face, washed honey bronze by firelight, is so neutral that even if you were not high you’d fail to extract the mechanisms of thought behind it.

“We’ve both succeeded in bringing her to climax,” says Hannibal, as his other hand folds your skirt against your pelvis. “But never her consent. Tonight, perhaps we will.”

“In this state she has no real autonomy,” Will argues. “We’re witnessing an illusion.”

Hannibal pauses, his face like that of an antiques dealer slyly unveiling some stolen wares.

“Not exactly,” he says. “Little one: you’ve described me as handsome. Do think that Will is good-looking?”

Your concentration wavers as two digits inscribe an ouroboros in your arousal. The wrongness of it all only enhances the sensation, the thought of being a lovely toy for older men to play with.

Your name on Dr Lecter’s lips recalls his question.

“Yes,” you say. “I— I do.”

You don’t know why you’re honest. Even a child, embarrassed, could lie.

Will smiles, and for a moment there is something almost sweet in his expression.

Then the dark of him slithers behind it again with predatory ease, and he leans forward, knees apart, possessed of a revelation of self-assurance.

This is the self he becomes when challenging Dr Lecter, the arrogant observer of all living things.

“I already knew that,” says Will. “I don’t mind hearing it clarified, though.”

You can’t imagine him ever admitting that you’re beautiful in return. Hannibal would, has done so already in such a succulence of language that your mouth could water with it, but not Will, not in so many words.

All that he will allow thus far is that you are not ugly. Blearily you vow to unwind from him his obsession.

“Puppy love,” says Hannibal, looking into your face with a gentle irony. “You’d like him to touch you, wouldn’t you, little one?”

This you don’t answer, and rather than press you again Hannibal makes you come with three fingers inside you, patient as you cry out and roll your head aside in conflict and delirium.

You cannot decide if he means to reward you for your participation with Will or to humiliate you for that same eagerness. It is bewildering and erotic, this envy they have for one another; to quell it you must kneel to the hierarchy, submissive always to your covetous masters.

“Join us, Will,” says Hannibal, at last.

Briefly you think that he won’t, a scoffing lord, above it all.

Then he crosses the room, sets down his whiskey and kisses you, first your mouth, then your neck, leaving the taste of smoke and almonds wherever his lips meet.

Whimpering, you kick your feet on the couch as each petal of ecstasy comes loose from a branch within you.

Sometimes Will’s teeth push against your flesh, not quite biting; Hannibal, on the other side of your neck, gently does, as though inheriting the expected assault from his would-be lover.

His fingers form a cylinder of delight in you, the pad of his thumb undoing another orgasm in a trio of strokes.

“How gifted we are to receive such delights,” says Hannibal, and as you groan he docks his arousal in your own, filling you so entirely with his cock that you think and feel only the fucking and nothing more, a witless hole.

Will brings your hand to his erection, and there is no uncertainty in that motion, nor in his lips about your breast. His rough tongue, the saliva like a paste jewel on your nipple—

Writhing, panting, you stir through pleasure upon pleasure like the layers of the earth, soft, dark, deep.

Your palm tightens on Will’s cock like a night sea about the lighthouse it yearns to bring down, working him with a knowing purpose. As Hannibal continues his pelvic rolls against you Will draws back, avoiding the early release that your cunning fist would bring.

Not once do the men make contact in a sexual manner with each other, and you don’t understand it, this avoidance of the ultimate lust. Yet perhaps it is that they fuck through you, for when Hannibal achieves his orgasm and moves away Will pushes into you without caution of the other man’s seed still warm in that same place.

He looks up into Hannibal’s eyes as he does it, watching his response as he weaves pleasure from a loom of servile flesh.

But then you make some shapeless sound of need, one hand extended, not quite touching him, and Will's eyes return to you with such intensity that you forget that brief, lost woe.

He mimics Hannibal’s command of your body, hands moving, unrushed, from breast to hip as he opens you further to him. His violence is a mage’s dance, something once done around fire, and charged now through the vessel of a young and studious man.

No wonder, then, that you have neither strength nor will to repel him. You roil, loose-limbed as the dead, only your noise and perspiring response to sensation to evidence your ongoing life.

Hannibal’s arms go loosely around you, holding your head in his lap as Will makes love to you with a brooding fervour. Every touch is like the discovery of a new and indescribable existence, having traversed to some frontier of feeling only sects of pleasure have previously founded.

You know yourself wanted by both men, now, feel it through their mutterings of ecstasy, the unending pressure of mouths and hands upon your skin. They crave your wanting of them in return, lap up your slightest sign of it, tainted as it is by Hannibal’s poison.

Will pours in you his ending, his breath a kiss against your eardrum.

You come again with both men gazing upon you, their faces as close and beautiful together as stringed pearls.

Dimly you fear that they will succeed in their work with you, no matter how fiercely you defy their twofold will.

“Hey,” says the younger man, nudging your shoulder lightly. “Snap out of it. You’re bleeding. Did we hurt you?”

Your first thought is, “yes, of course you did.”

The next, having looked down at the red dart through the milk of semen on your thigh, is the same nip of terror you know from an unexpectedly high number on the scale.

The final cognition—and one almost certainly true—is that this carnival of sex has brought that crimson forth like the incitation of bacchanalian madness.

The shock of it wrings you near dry of the doctor’s drug, a bald winter sobriety.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “It’s my period. I haven’t had one in years.”

#manna fic #hannibal fic #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #tw noncon #tw eating disorders #tw bulimia #tw anorexia #tw dubious consent #tw nonconsensual drug use #tw fatphobia

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certifiedfreec · 4 months

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neighbor!simon, the man that you are…

(reader is a baker… just for these few minutes 😭🙏)

🏘️ you’re finally settled into your new home, located in a quaint neighborhood not terribly far from your old one. it’s got a huge kitchen- exactly what you need for your small baking business! with all your supplies in their proper place, you’re finally ready to tackle all those orders after temporarily halting your services while you moved. you start prepping for a client’s son’s birthday cake, gathering all your ingredients, and you plug in your mixer…

🏘️ bright sparks fly for a second, making you fear for a house fire, and in seconds your mixer is deemed inoperable. must’ve gotten banged up during the move, or maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been using it for years :/ this puts you in a tight situation, as the lady’s supposed to pick the cake up this evening! there’s not enough time to go out and get a new one- but it’s not like you could afford one anyway with the lack of business over the past few weeks. sigh. you don’t even know any of your neighbors yet, but at this point they’re your only option.

🏘️ you set your ingredients aside before you reluctantly venture out of your house, starting with your neighbor to the left. a friendly old woman answers, but after asking for help you learn that she mixes “the ol’-fashioned way.” well, she’s not making a complicated triple-layer cake for some grimy kid, so that’s not exactly an option, judith. you thank her anyway and head over to the house across from yours, only to get no answer. must not be home. shit. you’re losing your last glimmer of hope as you trudge over to the house to your right, knocking on the door and already feeling a wave of regret crash into you. however, the tide changes when the door opens after a moment…

🏘️ you’re met by a hulking, broad man who barely fits in his doorframe, dressed in a black hoodie and blue jeans. he’s got some sort of balaclava covering his face- unconventional for sure, but that doesn’t dissuade you from nearly ogling at his size. he’s at least 6 feet tall, and all you can see are his eyes. shiny, warm, and honey-brown, but they watch you with some sort of guarded interest. almost like he’s staring through you. you can’t tell if you’ve already pissed him off, but then you hear his voice.

🏘️ “‘ello?” he’s not just british, he’s super british, with a voice so low and throaty that you want him to read you bedtime stories. you’re a little dumbfounded at the haunting beauty of the man whose doorstep you’re invading, but you’re so desperate to finish that goddamn birthday cake that you nervously blurt out some meek elevator pitch: hi, i’m a new neighbor next door, i have a baking business from home and my mixer just exploded on me. i have to make an annoyingly elaborate cake by tonight, would you by chance happen to have a mixer?

🏘️ the man chuckles. like, actually chuckles, and it’s the most beautiful sound ever. he must be used to having that effect on people; you hope he can’t hear your heartbeat skyrocketing. you see a faint smile through that skull-printed mask thing, and he gives you a quick nod before suddenly disappearing into his home. from the halfway-open door, it looks like it’s minimally decorated. you see some ambient lighting and hear some rock music playing somewhere-why are you paying attention to these things right now??

🏘️ the massive man emerges again, handling a beautiful high-end mixer that’s still in the box, and it makes your heart still. you’re fucking kidding. it was nicer than the one you were previously using before it combusted. that wave of regret from earlier ebbs into one of relief as he clutches it in his bear-paw-like hands, telling you briefly that he’s “been tryna get rid of the bloody thing” since he doesn’t bake much anyway. says he got it as a white elephant gift and was pissed about it, because he’d originally gotten some great bottles of bourbon that were inevitably stolen from him. he seems to warm up the slightest bit when he tells you, “keep it. it’s been collectin’ dust here.”

🏘️ you can’t get clear a read from him through all this, maybe because of his menacing appearance and stoic expression... yet he’s fairly relaxed when he talks to you. it’s actually kind of endearing! he’s giving you major “scary dog privilege” vibes, and you’ve always liked an intimidating- looking man who turns out to be a softie <3 you tell him you’d be happy to pay him for the gorgeous mixer he’s bestowing upon you, and he only shakes his head, as he has something else in mind. “i got one condition.” yeah, he’s not letting you go that easily. he’d be silly to, he thinks.

🏘️ you wait for this huge stranger’s request with bated breath, hoping he doesn’t say anything off-kilter though you’d probably do anything he asked since he’s so freakin’ attractive even without seeing at his face. you notice that faint smile again through the mask fabric before he says simply, “a lil’ bit of whatever you’re bakin’.”

🏘️ that’s all? you laugh, which to him is more pleasing to the ear than the music he’s playing throughout his house. it’s a surprisingly lighthearted ask and you happily oblige. an excuse to see this hunk again? sign me up!! he introduces himself as simon, and you assure him you’ll save him a little piece of your project because he just saved your whole damn business. pretty sweet deal. you thank him again with the expensive mixer in your grasp, feeling like the universe is entirely on your side today as you walk back to your house just 50 feet away. he’s feeling the exact same, and this man has never trusted the universe before.

🏘️ no surprise here, but the mixer works like a charm! it’s almost happy to no longer be sitting in the purgatory of simon’s kitchen cabinet. what was supposed to be a one-time deal turns into a routine of bringing over various cookies, pies, and cake slices to neighbor!simon, which is also the perfect excuse to see him without his face covering on <3 he’s hesitant about this at first, but now that gorgeous face is always on display so he can try whatever you’re fixing. oh, and you’re surprised to find that he’s more than comfortable with critiquing your baking, the cocky bastard. one time you brought over a wedge of lemon meringue pie, and upon biting into it he immediately told you “there’s not enough lemon zest.” you told him you thought he never baked; his self assured reply was “said i couldn’t bake, not couldn’t taste.”

🏘️ from that point on, you trust neighbor!simon’s judgment. he’s brutally honest, no sugarcoating (though he thought your peanut butter cookies could’ve used some of that). the only logical thing to do was appoint him as your official taste-tester, which he of course accepted! someone’s gotta do it, right? soon after his “promotion,” he’s sat in your kitchen to sample little bits of your work, letting you know what he thinks is missing and trying his hardest not to imagine dragging you back to your bedroom. he actually thinks you’re an incredible baker- he just likes to get all the portions that are reserved for him only!! if only he could sample you sometime :( he has this insatiable need to be even closer, so now he’s up helping you reach things in your higher cabinets and putting away used ingredients so your space is kept tidy. this makes your heart and something else swoon- yeah, you could definitely get used to having him as a business partner :’)

🏘️ neighbor!simon likes to study you whenever he’s over “on the clock”- his steady gaze picks up on all the details you don’t even notice about yourself. how tightly you hold your spatula when you’re stirring ingredients, how your tongue darts out when you’re reading through a recipe, how your cute little cheeks flush red when you vent about high-maintenance clients. you’re just so passionate that it’s almost maddening! a darker part of him can’t help but want to disrupt you, break your focus (and your back too hehe) and make you forget about your job for a little. you’re just so overworked, so eager to please your clientele, poor thing :( if only he could help you relieve your stress!!

🏘️ eventually he gets called in for an operation with his job, and he tells you he’s gonna be on assignment for a little over a month. you’re surprised at how sad you are when he’s not around to pull your cakes out of the oven and make his snarky comments about your demanding clients :/ he admittedly can’t stop thinking about you while he’s gone, how pretty you look when you’re concentrating on your pastry art, how he wants to rip that apron right off of you. he tries to distance himself with his work, reasoning that you’ll forget about him eventually since you’re just neighbors anyway. however, this is all thrown out the window when he returns home and sees that you’ve made him a huge banoffee pie, a favorite treat of his that he mentioned offhandedly one afternoon <3

🏘️ neighbor!simon has no words that can convey his appreciation- you really are the sweetest thing that’s happened to him! he immediately takes a bite, and it’s something he wants for every single occasion now. the combination of the kind gesture and the extensive time spent away from you inspires him to show you how grateful he is- in other words, he’s got you perched on your counter beside all your baking supplies, holding your legs over his shoulders while he devours your pussy like it’s one of your famed desserts. he laps and sucks at your oversensitive clit while you’re left to tug on his dark blond hair, and he thinks that your sweet slick is so much better than anything you’ve baked (no offense!! <3).

🏘️ and the best part? you feel just as good as you taste! after making you cum on his warm tongue and long fingers too many times to count, he’s mercilessly pounding into your cunt, holding your thighs up as he fills you with his ridiculously thick cock :’) one of his massive hands is cradling the back of your head, making you watch his length repeatedly sink into you and cause that bulge in your lower tummy. if that wasn’t enough to have you singing his praises, he’s telling you everything you’d ever wanted to hear from him with that low, husky voice of his: “y’look so pretty all split open for me,” “see that? takin’ me so good, angel,” “lemme have it, wanna feel you cum…”

🏘️ you’re sure the rest of your neighbors can hear you as your voice grows hoarse from crying out neighbor!simon’s name so much, but your brain is so fried from all the intense orgasms that you really don’t care!! with few more hard thrusts he finally pumps his hot load of cum into you, rendering you too sexed out to finish the rest of your clients’ orders that day. good thing he’s watched you so closely since he started coming over, because now he knows exactly what to do to get them prepped while you nap. he carries you to your bed, and all you can focus on as you drift to sleep is what else you can bake for him to get him to fuck you like that again. really though, he’d do it absolutely anytime- you’re his new favorite dessert anyway <3

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty smut #call of duty #mdni #call of duty imagine #simon riley imagine #i always end up writing about baking WOOPS #this man is so scrumptious #neighbor au

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yaut-jaknowit · 8 months

Text

Tailored To Fit

Pairing: We'ar-ow (Female Yautja) x Reader

Word Count: 4308

Summary: We'ar-ow drags you back to her room forces you to take another bath. With a fleeting glance in a nearby mirror, you see what she done to you. You asked her what the symbol is. Hers. Dwainet didn’t mark you, another mistake on his part. Now, you are hers forever. After said bath, you are next pulled along to another place on the ship. How many times will this occur before you lose it?!

Author Note: I promise yall I'm not dead, just went on a trip then got covid afterwards. So… sort of dead but not fully, yet. Thank you for all your wonderful comments! I love reading them. I do promise We'ar-ow will lighten up, but you'll have to wait and see!

Masterlist

Ao3

The metal elevator doors whooshed open before you, snapping you from your scattered thoughts. Physically, you jumped with your shoulders scrunched but had to relax. Pain spiked up from the new wound on the back of your neck. A hiss pushed passed clenched teeth.

Yesterday was shit. Today was shit. Tomorrow’s forecast looks to be heading in the same direction. A pained sigh had most of your muscles relaxing. You finally took the first step out of the metal box to join We’ar-ow. Said alien was heading straight towards the door of her apartment like dwelling. Her tall height helped her long strides. We’ar-ow was already at the door and inputting a code for it unlock. Something you noticed this time. Hm.

More metal slid out of the way to reveal the Monarch’s courters. You’ll never get used to the sight. This place dwarfed what Dwainet had. It made sense. Royalty got everything. Lower-class got nothing. The Monarch gets what she wants. That unfortunately had you stuck in this mess of a new life.

We’ar-ow wasted no time stepping into the room. On the opposite hand, you had paused until taking the unnecessary movements to pass the threshold. Behind the duo, the door closed with a soft hissed. The noise making you jump again.

Yet, there was a sight before you that held your full attention. We’ar-ow’s body completely relaxed after the privacy of her room was completed. Your head tilted slightly, brows furrowed for only a moment. The next, the Monarch huffed and marched towards her room. You were back to be tense all over again.

Flashes of what lies beyond appear each time you blinked. Skulls. Skulls of your own kind mounted on her wall. Decorations and prizes she’s been either gifted or collected herself. You didn’t know anything about her. Is she more of a hunter or are most of the bones in the collection are gifts? If so, then most of those came from during the… mating season. You were about to shiver at the reminder when a harsh voice tore you from your thoughts.

“Pet! Follow.”

Instinctively, you felt yourself ready to turn back around and head out the door, tail between your legs. Steeling your frantic nerves, you stayed facing the predator all the way on the other side of her living room. Even with that much space between both of you, there was not a chance you would make it to the elevator before she caught. Like a little game of cat and mouse. A game so easily won before it even started.

The thick lump in your throat made it hard to swallow, throat bobbing with the action. One foot, slowly after another, had you losing the safe distance you had unintentionally created earlier. Before you knew it, now you stood before the Yautja you felt uneasy about. Her gaze reveal nothing of what she felt. She guarded everything about herself, not letting a single drop be seen. A mask well worn. A mask well crafted.

Once you were back in arm’s length, her hand shot out and grasped your wrist. Without further ado, she pulled you into the nightmare that was her room. Immediately, your eyes find the five skulls hanging in the same spot as before. Maybe a minute part of yourself hoped she would’ve taken them down. Never. Not for you. She wasn’t like anything that had made up Dwainet.

Maybe that was a good thing? Seeing this in your new home for the time being.

You were promptly dragged through the room and over to the bathroom once more. She let go after passing the threshold and marched over to the in ground bathtub. Oh god, not again!

To save yourself some trouble, you find your voice, even as small as it is. “I-I don’t need, need another bath.” In all honesty, it sounded like a squeak in your eyes.

As the Monarch messed with the dials and tested the temperature, you saw her mandibles twitch. It was minuscule but nothing she could hide. She finished up with the tub and stood back to her full height, forever towering over you. Her feet barely made a sound as she marched over to you. Another scoff leaving her alien mouth.

“Yes, you do, pet. You still stink of that male. Your branding needs to be clean. Oomans get infections easily.” Wait. Hold up. Back up. Rewind. ‘Branding’? What did she do?!

Anger prickled uncomfortably up the length of your spine, but you did not act on it. The fear still crawling around like a cold, frozen bath put out the fire. You bite your tongue to hold it back. Instead, you found a question to take it’s place. “Can I get some privacy this time?” Something simple. Something any-

“No.” Just no. No explanation. Nothing but a single word to answer your question. “Strip.” Gods, not again! You’ve been humiliated enough today out in public. Especially when she just simply pinned you to the dirt mats and carved something into your flesh.

Two days! It’s only been two days. Already, you could feel this wasn’t going to last long. There was only a certain point you could wait to until harsh words were lashed at her. The Monarch would return fire with probably snapping your neck. Nothing but a pet. That’s all what you were to her. Meaning nothing more. How much could you endure before your lid popped off?

Again, you swallowed and found a spot on the ground more interesting. The clothes given to you by We’ar-ow were stripped from your frail body and held in your hands. A snarky remark sitting like a hot coal on the tip of your tongue. So close to touching the air and spewing burning fire at the person who owns you. Like a good pet, you kept your head bowed and listened.

We’ar-ow stalked around to the back of you and disappeared from your sight. Your body far too tense to turn around and find out what she was doing. She stayed a foot away from you, body heat rolling off of her like a dragon’s fiery breath.

Warm, calloused pads rested on the spot where your neck meets your shoulder. Like prey, you tensed, ready for a finishing blow to wipe you from her presence. The hit never came. Just the softest of strokes over the clotting mark. You hissed from the pain. We’ar-ow did not react, ignoring your movements and sounds.

All you do was glance over to a nearby mirror. A chance to see what the mark looked like. Red, anger, a spitting image of how you feel reflected in the glass. The symbol was strange. Nothing you’ve seen before or heard about from Dwainet. Part of you wants to reach back and run your fingers against it. To see if it was truly there or a part of your imagination.

When We’ar-ow stroked it once more, the newly clotted blood was brushed off. More of the red, hot liquid poured from the wound. She had gone deep. Deep enough to scar. Shit. It was a mark of ownership over you. “What is it?” you had asked, needing confirmation of your suspicion. If she would reveal her hand, you would take it.

“My Monarch symbol. That male never marked you. Another mistake he’ll pay for. Yet, it works out in my favor. No mark on you makes you free rein. I warned him cycles ago to do it… but he never did. His loss is my gain.” The desperate need to ask her why she wants you sits on your tongue again. Her original answer of her being the Monarch didn’t sit right. There was more beyond the façade she put on. Something that you wanted to peel back and reveal, to learn what made We’ar-ow, We’ar-ow.

What was itching in your throat more was the need to yell. To scream at her you aren’t hers or her pet, no matter what mark she put on you, no matter what she called you. Dwainet may have abandoned you, but you aren’t free rein.

Human or not, they’ll learn you aren’t some weak-minded creature.

Heated hands slipped from your body and almost left you cold and shivering. The tub was close to full at this point. No steam rolled off the surface. We’ar-ow stepped around to stand at your side. “Enter. Keep scrubbing at your skin until that wretched male smell is gone from you. I don’t want to catch another whiff of him again,” she spoke, eyes on the water.

About an inch before the water touched the edge, We’ar-ow sat down on her haunches and turned the dials off. You observed the way she stood up. A touch of grace, a hint of caution, most importantly, the ferocity in knowing you could die so quickly to her. Before you would’ve probably know it, your neck could be snapped.

She didn’t turn back to you as she walked over to the bathroom sink. The words from before echoed in your mind. You carefully entered the tub before anything damning could escape your feeble lips. Your barrowed clothing set right the edge. The small piece of jewelry given to you was set on top of the pile.

You took her order seriously, nervous of what she might do if she did smell him again. Your skin scrubbed with just your bare hands till you believed it was good enough. Once more, you kept everything hidden below the water line.

Throughout the whole process, We’ar-ow stood at the counter, both hands resting on the edge. For the life of you, you couldn’t figure out what she was doing or thinking. But if she stayed over there, eyes off of you, there was not much to complain out. You continued to scrub with your hands until you felt ready to exit.

After finishing up, you waded through the water towards the edge closest to her. Your chin peacefully resting on your crossed arms relaxing on the metal that made up her bathroom floor. From this new spot, you observed the mighty Monarch be in her own world. It seemed strange to see her like this, her guard more lowered than you’ve ever seen it before. You wondered if there was a big enough chance to kill her where she stood.

Where would you go from there though? Her clan would be infuriated with you. Fuck that, they would be a thousand times worse than just that. You would probably not be even killed right away. No, they most likely would torture you for however long they feel like it. That’s a quick death you’d beg for like the pathetic prey you are.

Truly, this life offered no escape. Surrounded by a species born to hunt and kill. Is death better? Is death the only escape than being a pet to the Monarch?

Yet, the Monarch has nothing but been fair to you. Excluding the branding. Before that, not a wrongful paw or claw had been laid upon you. Clothes, food, a roof over your head, and your own room. Though, a room that is decorated for a pet than an actual person. It was something better than what Dwainet has ever given to you.

Maybe you were blinded by love the entire time. Here you were, a young adult. The first whiff of love and now you’re stuck on an alien ship, god only knows how many miles away from home. Your lungs quivered with a huge intake. Then, you realized a large, pink form crouched down before you. You squeaked and pushed back from the body.

Water splashed about, licking up the sides of the tub and over the edge. Your arms instinctively curl in to cover up yourself as you stared wide eyed at We’ar-ow. How in the world did she just appear there?!

Similar to a cat, her eyes slowly blink as she observed you. A hand reached down and tapped the ledge, her talons making a clicking sound. The move in your mind was instantly reminding as an owner calling their dog. It was hard to steel your expression from turning sour. This. This was ridiculous. This was humiliating!

And, you listened. No other choice but to listen. Punishment was something you didn’t want to learn about from her. Dwainet never harmed you but that was because you believed he loved you. Maybe he fell as quickly in love with you just as quickly as he fell out of love. You pushed through the water, arms crossed firmly over your chest, and stopped before her crouched frame.

We’ar-ow simply offered a hand in your direction. Surprise morphed your face before you gently rested your hand in hers. The strength of a freight train drove her to pull you up, out of the water, and deposit you on bathroom floor. You stood before her, in shock on how quickly that occurred then shook your head. Water was flung side to side with the motion. Whoops.

Crystal clear water ran rivers down your exposed skin, creating a small pool at your feet. Said pool soon rolled down back to the tub. We’ar-ow used a toe to press a button next to the dials. The water is now retreating from the bath.

A curled finger used your chin to guide your face back to face the creature in front of you. We’ar-ow bent down slightly, pink tongue flickering between her mandibles and tasting the air. Like a predator, she slowly moved her head to scan you over. A content grunt sounded. She stood back at her full height and grasped your bicep in her hold.

Like before, you were dragged over to a familiar spot and blasted with warm air. Your skin dried within seconds. We’ar-ow movements were swift, demanding, and left you no room for a word. No chances were offered before she had you dressed and trotting after her through the halls. Every one of her steps light, feet bare on the metal, clanship floors. Just like you. But your feet made small slaps no matter how hard you tried. It was either her skin or the way she just stepped.

The pink Yautja stopped before a door and inputted a code. The movements of something you found familiar, just like back at her own door.

A beep sounded and the metal slid out of the way. What was revealed to you was something out of a book or movie. We’ar-ow stepped forward, completely ignoring the way you just stood there, eyes sparkling.

It had a strange appeal to it. Clothes, armor, and anything of the sort were everywhere. Organized but everywhere. On mannequins or hangars. From tall ceilings to floor, the place was filled with all sort of different fabrics and clothing. You were enamored and felt like a child in a candy store. This was all knew and boy was it cool!

“Pet.” Shit. You snapped out of your joy, eyes finding We’ar-ow’s back to you. How did she know? You took the necessary steps to walk over to her, behind her but more to her side.

That’s when you saw a new Yautja. Instinctively, you wanted to take a step to the side and hide behind the Monarch. Yet, you stayed rooted in the same spot and gazed upon this male Yautja.

Cliché enough, a monocle sat on his left eye. The other was gone, a deep, ugly scar replacing it. You could only cringe on the inside of the pain he had to endure from that. He wore something unusual for Yautjas. More of a suit or uniform adorn his brown/bronze body. He was a beautiful color. He messed with his gauntlet device on his arm before picking up his head.

In slow motion, you watched as his laxed body tensed under the sight of We’ar-ow’s new presences. Then, he bowed his head, eyes going towards the floor. Respect instantly given to her. “Monarch! On time, like always,” he spoke, voice sounding a higher pitch in the Yautja he used. The translator in your ear almost drowning him out.

She stayed where she was without moving a single inch. “Ruach,” she greeted the now nervous Yautja before reaching over to you. A massive paw landed on your shoulder and guided you forward.

Ruach’s eyes were on you the moment you were pushed into the spotlight. There was indifference in your eyes. Good. At least, he didn’t have a hatred or disgust for your kind. “Ah, the ooman.” He took a step towards you. The hand on you twitched, fingers slightly digging into your flesh now. A sight he caught on quickly and reframed from taking anymore steps. “I will need to touch it for measurements.”

Your face twitched, anger flashing in your eyes at his jab. It? These spineless pricks! You breathed carefully through your nose and just watched the Yautja pull out a measuring tape.

The hand slipped from your shoulder, brushing down your back. In its wake, goosebumps sprouted to life. You had to stop yourself from shivering.

“The clothes must be removed as well,” he spoke as matter-of-factly. Your head jerked back, mouth falling open. One threatening step was taken in his direction. A finger pointed straight at him as you glared deadly daggers at him.

“Now, wait a fucking minute! You-“ a hand engulfed your mouth and yanked you flush to a boiling body. You stiffened, knowing who did it without having to look. The grip on your face was firm but not anywhere near hurting you. Just a warning.

Heat flashed in the male eyes, mandibles twitching. Now disgust pooled in those once gorgeous eyes of his. “My pet is still learning their place.” Is all she does to deviate the issue away from you. That hurt as well. You were half tempted to bite viciously at the hand covering your mouth. The rational side of your brain was quick to snuff out of that thought. Nothing good would come of it. All you had to do was bide your time currently and hope to survive.

Your hot breath fanned over the hand cupping the lower part of your face. All you could do in this moment was pray she doesn’t just snap your neck for the sudden outburst. Yet, you were still seething at the fact he wanted you to strip naked. Over your dead body.

The male grunted and tried to keep an indifferent look on his face, but he failed. On the other hand, you were full blown glaring this alien down.

We’ar-ow yanked your head tighter against her, officially drawing your attention away from him. Your throat bobbed as you looked up at her. All you could see was the bottom of her jaw and lower mandibles. Her eyes probably on the male.

“The clothing can be removed,” We’ar-ow said, dismissing your disapproval. If you weren’t in front of others, you would’ve cried. This was just downright shameful.

From the angle We’ar0ow held your head and pressure on your throat, speaking was next to impossible. There was no room to voice how embarrassing stripping naked in front of her, let alone him was. You didn’t know him! At least, you’ve been around We’ar-ow for two days. Not much but still something! Your hand balled into fists at your side as you burned holes into the underside of We’ar-ow’s jaw. Not that she was paying you any attention.

He looked at you with a glint in his eye. “It won’t try to bite, right?” Inside of you head, you thought ‘the fuck I won’t’. Your confidence went down the drain though.

The hand around a soft, vulnerable area slipped away. Sharp, lethal claws dragging across your skin, a warning to be on your best behavior. She nudged you forward towards the other Yautja. “Strip, pet.” The bone of your jaw creaked as you did everything in your power to not react aggressively.

“Why? Can’t he measure me with my clothes on? I’m not getting naked in front of some random person!” I yelled and whipped around to face We’ar-ow. The Yautja looked at with a mostly indifferent look in her bright eyes. But there were specks of something else floating around.

All she did was bend a little at the waist to get closer to your face. The look in her eye told you everything needed to know. Either you did it willingly or she’ll do it for you. With tight lips and anger flashing across your face, you harshly tore your clothes off and threw them next to you. “I hope you’re fucking happy for continuously embarrassing me,” you snarled, fists shaking at your sides.

Nothing was said as Ruach got to work and began to measure all different parts of your body. During this time, you found the floor to be far more entertaining. Thankfully, he worked quick and efficiently. His hands rarely even skimmed against my skin. Once it was all done, he stepped back and inputted the new information on the screen on his gauntlet.

“I’ve recorded all that is necessary. If you need something, Monarch, let me know.” With that, he turned around and sat down at his desk to begin working on my new clothing.

Part of you is jittery at the fact We’ar-ow is getting you new clothes, somewhat spoiling you. On the other hand, this Yautja has constantly disrespected your boundaries constantly. You could care less about it being her culture or what not or the fact she’s top dog. All you were was a pet to her. Nothing more.

The loss of body heat close by drew your attention away from Ruach. We’ar-ow was making her way back to the door. Your feet slapped against the ground as you retreated after her form like a lost puppy. But before you could take a step out, you realized you had no clothes on.

Still in your hand, you were swift to pull on the fabric back into place. We’ar-ow waited long enough for you to finish. The place gave you an uncomfortable feeling, so you were quick to race after her once more. Away from this embarrassing place and that infuriating male. Your body trembled for the last time in the hallway outside of the room.

We’ar-ow you straight back to the safety of her suite. No stops or letting anyone talk to her. Not that anyone would. A Monarch is a busy person. She had no time to pause and chitchat.

The threshold of her room started to offer relief. We’ar-ow wasn’t someone you trusted but having your guard up all the time wasn’t good. Your mind already starting to lag after the last two days of action and agony. A broken heart isn’t something to brush off. Blindly, you followed We’ar-ow to a room you’ve seen before.

Before you know it, you’re sitting down on the human sized dog pet. Your legs are crossed as you peered up at the big hunk of muscle in front of you. A look of indifference on her pink face. The Yautja leaned down and softly grasped your chin. Her mandibles twitched in thought. A mind you wished to eavesdrop on. Whatever was rolling around in there had to have important.

A left her mouth, eyes slowly closing. “Adapt to this new life, pet. Quickly or else I cannot save you.” Your first reaction was to tilt your head but her hold stopped that. What did she mean about the saving part? You held your tongue and watched as she stared into your eyes. It was like she was trying to find something, whatever that might be.

Either she did or didn’t, We’ar-ow returned to her full height, hand slipping away. “Stay,” she ordered and motioned with her hand in a universal sign to ‘wait’. And you did.

The Yautja left for a few long moments but returned quickly with a red, wooden bowl. From your angle on the floor, you couldn’t see what the contents were until she handed it to you.

Fruit. Exotic fruit from what would like Pandora. A hidden smile graced your face, one she spotted. You timidly accepted her offer. Before a taking a bite, you gazed back up at her. She quirked a brow down at you. “What is it?” The harsh voice added with the rudeness of her words made you flinch, clutching the bowl tightly. Like she would rip it from your hands and yell at you.

“N-nothing,” you stuttered and bowed your head, refusing to find her bright eyes on you. You chewed on your bottom lip and gazed at the fruit.

The Yautja ‘hmpf’ed. “We need to work on that.” You don’t know what she was referring to but went along with it. Anything to get to leave quickly. Today was already a disaster. The last thing you wanted was her anger to be directed strictly on you.

Two stiff pats to your head and she was leaving. The sight of her feet facing in the other direction had you picking up your chin to watch her go. You observed her powerful walk. Each step firm and calculating. A powerhouse of strictly muscle and will to survive made up this woman.

Your new bedroom door slid shut. When it did, your body slumped as you did everything in your power not to just sob into the bowl of fruit. Half of you wanted to chuck the damn thing away from you in a fit of rage. The logical side thought of waste it would be to toss it away. Food gave strength. You need strength to survive, let alone escape. You needed to take everything she gave you to keep living on.

One day, you’ll return home.

#yautja #predator #yautja x reader #yautja x you #alien vs predator #predator x reader #yautja x human #predator x you #predator x human #x reader #We'ar-ow #Monarch

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