#what is a coverlet

[cassieuncaged]

Comforting Touch (Astarion x Reader)

NSFW/MATURE/18+/MDNI

Summary: You bring a new definition to a ‘good morning’ for a certain vampire spawn.

TW: explicit sexual content, oral sex (male receiving), hand jobs, language, etc.

WC: 1.7 K

A/N: Haven’t done a smutty reader insert in awhile so here ya go!

The windows are safely shuttered come morning, only the tiniest tendrils of sun sneaking through the cracks. Your shared chambers may be humble though they are rather cozy, stuffed to the brim with furs and a meager stone mantle. Astarion had pouted when you’d balked at a mansion nestled in Manor Born, telling the Grand Duke a cottage on the outskirts of the city would be preferred. Raised from elven nobility, he’d thought an opportunity had been squandered for a mere pittance. Though the vampire didn’t complain now, curled into your side as he tranced.

Organic warmth soothed him these days especially, no longer having the luxury of the sun beating down upon icy skin. Though he’d settled for the heat that his lover radiated, the moon coming to love the sun for all she offered. It was poetic, despite the pangs of frustration at losing something else. What had his last two centuries been but filled with loss?

Dashing the intrusive thought from a groggy mind, bleary eyes fell upon the prim man. One arm was slung across your torso, rising and falling with your every breath. Limp curls had bled out the rest of their pomade, laying messily atop his head and across a pallid brow. You giggled, knowing how he preferred to keep them so neat and tidy, practically styling every damned curl with his fingers. It was as frustrating as it was adorable. Now he didn’t care, nestled between your bosoms. Cold air escaped his mouth, fangs twitching as he remained blissfully unaware of the world around him.

Fingers gently muss silken curls, enjoying the locks of spun silver tickling the tips of your fingers. They were so lovely and soft, malleable as they wound around sure digits again and again. It kept you busy, refusing to move until your lover stirred. A long time had passed where Astarion had known no such comforts and hells you wanted to hoist them all upon him now. Of course there were adventures to be had, research to be done, companions to write to. But that could wait a bit longer. At least until those liquid ruby eyes fluttered open, as delicate as the wings of a butterfly.

Pads of cool fingers pressed into the fleshy curve of your thigh, flexing softly before even colder lips were pressing gently across your chest. He lingered for a moment, enjoying that steady heartbeat that ruminated beneath his touch.  A delighted chuckle vibrated against a warm plane of skin, resulting in goose flesh that spread from your scalp down to the tips of ten toes.

“Morning, darling.” He murmured between kisses peppered up to one clavicle then the hollow of your throat, “Have you been awake long?”

“Not especially,” you sighed, enjoying his ministrations as soft touches migrated from thigh to navel, drifting down to trace the curve of one hip bone, “Just enjoying you.”

“Seems to defeat the purpose when I’m lost in a trance,” he cooed before rolling onto his side. Your mouth was agape, scraping across the sight of him, skin lustrous beneath the low light, groin delicately draped with the coverlet. “There’s more fun to be had when I’m awake, my dear.”

Propping yourself on one elbow, you studied him silently as a barrage of thoughts crept through your mind. One word and you’d be a fly trapped in the spider’s web, the hare bloody and twitching in the wolf’s maw. And as much as you enjoyed submitting to him, something more appealing came to mind.

“What is it, love?” his head cocked to one side, curls lolling as he did. Gods he was lovely, and you wanted nothing more than to remind him of that. “You’ve a mischievous glint in your eyes; what’re you thinking?”

“Oh, nothing…” You inched closer until your nose practically nestled beneath his chin, lips pressing against knot bobbing in his throat. One hand pressed against the flat of a lean chest, fingers drifting down the ridges of hard muscles, “It’s just that you always take care of me. Let me take care of you.”

“That’s, erm, a very nice thought.” His voice trembles as his fingers wrap around a slender wrist, stopping the descent to the apex of muscular thighs. “But this is all still very new to me.”

“We can just lay like this,” you whisper against icy skin, nuzzling into the column of his neck, “I won’t force you into anything.”

“I didn’t say stop,” burgundy eyes roll, unseen as warm lips continue soft ministrations. Carefully, he drags your fingers to the hem of the coverlet, urging you to uncover his cock. The silken bedclothes began to tent as he slowly hardened. “I often imagine your hands on me.”

You hesitate, chewing the inside of your cheek. As much as you want to caress him, there’s a small request that hangs at the back of your throat. Eyes shutter at the thought of teeth slotting into those fading scars, feeding until warmth envelopes the icy marble of his body. How you swear it ignites a pulse within in his chest, how the veins in his cock become tight ridges along his shaft, skin dusky and warm…

“Whatever you’re thinking has you smelling absolutely delectable.” He inhales your arousal as it tickles his nostrils, filling his heightened senses. “Do tell, lover.”

“I’d like you to bite me. First.” You pull back, so your gaze can fall upon those shimmering rubies. An ashen brow arches upward at this revelation, corners of lush lips quirking upwards. “I want to feel your warmth beneath the tips of my fingers, against my tongue…

“How absolutely debauched of you,” he reaches out to stroke your hair, genuinely adoring such a suggestion despite the aching inside him. The spawn wishes he could provide such a natural warmth but appreciates your loving offer. “Let me sup from you.”

Then he curls into the curve of your neck, suckling and lapping at scars that have never healed completely, preparing you for the icy sting. You hiss at the initial insertion, the ice that shoots through your veins slowly dissipating into a thrum that invigorates as life blood is supped upon. And you feel it, the heat begins to pool beneath his skin, inviting as you finally pulled the sheet from his hips.

Astarion laps at the droplets oozing from your wound as lithe fingers drift down his length. He peels his lips away, mouth bloody as he looks upon you. Eyes drift down to see your own gaze glued to his now straining and rosy cock. Feeding upon you always stiffened him completely, leading to a pleasurable grind against your thigh while he shrouded you like a shadow.

But now, shallow breathing was parsed through gritted teeth as you finger gently traced a dusky vein from base to tip, enjoying how the blunt head was flushed and bulging. He twitched beneath such a gentle touch, enjoying how you used a fat bead of pre spend to lubricate the length of his slit. The muscles in his neck tightened at that familiar tug behind his navel, the one that demanded more. So your fingers splayed around him, enjoying how he felt like velvet wrapped around steel as you gave a firm squeeze. Slender hips thrust involuntarily, needing more friction as you suddenly removed that warm hand.

“What are you doing?” his voice came out in a strangled whimper, eyes widening as you lapped at his salty seed coating your thumb. It was still a mystery to the vampire how his body delighted you so, though he wasn’t about to complain. Awkwardly, you craned your neck upward to dribble a healthy amount of drool upon an upturned palm before slinking back to where he most needed such attention.

“Relax, my love.” You pressed a kiss to his chin before focusing on that task literally at hand. “Let me take care of you.”

And he did, savoring the rhythmic pump as your knuckle slid down his length, careful to stroke from head to base. His hips began to meet your jerks, imagining the tight heat of your cunt wrapped around him so pleasantly. Actually focusing on his own sexual pleasure was still so foreign, chasing his own release without worrying about another’s climax. Gods, it was delicious. Almost as much as the blood still staining his lips.

“On your back,” you demanded softly, removing a soaked palm to topple him onto the broad back, “I want to taste you.”

“If you do that, I’m afraid I won’t last.” His breathing was coming out in ragged pants as you slid between his spread thighs. Astarion watched with rapt attention, enjoying how your breasts swayed as you moved to lay flat on your belly.

“That’s alright,” you assured, tongue darting out to lap at the seam beneath the head. And he moaned, such glorious music cutting straight to your core. What a symphony every groan and whimper was, even as you continued to tease with short licks and kisses. “I want you to come undone in my mouth.”

“Get on with it, please.” His hips thrust upwards, tip pressing past the barrier of your lips before you complied with his wishes. Hollowing your cheeks, you sank upon all that could be fit into your mouth as a warm fist enveloped the rest. His heady musk invaded your senses, cock twitching on your tongue, practically begging you to move. “Hells below.”

Astarion’s deep bellow had been enough to spur you into a fervor, bobbing hungrily as his back arched off the mattress. Lithe fingers knotted in your hair, holding you still as he began to frantically fuck your throat. He could count on one hand how many times he’d enjoy such a pleasure over the past two centuries while he craved to lose track of how many times he absolutely lost himself in you. Pumping, striving, chasing that release while he imagined you bouncing atop him. Your blood warmed him but he felt like he was on fire.

“So good,” he muttered between ragged breathing as you struggled to breathe out of your nose. “So, so good.”

Then the dam broke as he came down your throat, twitching and spasming until he was still against your tongue. Swallowing all of the seed that was earned, you broke away and began to clean his softening length before snaking up to curl upon that delightfully broad chest.

“How do you feel?” your voice was a welcome whisper that buzzed in his ears, messy curls digging back into a down pillow as long arms cinched at the small of your back.

“Like I know what it is to feel true pleasure,” he groaned sleepily, nuzzling into your own nest of messy hair. “True love.”

“You’re drunk on ecstasy,” you giggled, eyes watching as his expression softened, any masks long melted away. “It’ll pass.”

“The feeling won’t,” he argued softly, “No, you’ve gifted me so much that I never thought I’d have. Taking care of me so sweetly. I’m eternally indebted to you, darling.”

“There’s no debtors in love,” you reminded him warmly before resting an ear above his dormant heart. “There’s only equals.”

“If this is your way of reminding me, I may need your help remembering more often.”

#astarion smut #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x ofc #astarion x you #smut #oneshot #reader insert

[juneknight]

•.Be Lost.• 1

Chapter 1 | Chapter 1.5 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 2.5

Summary: after a series of failures to find a dominant, your long time best friend Marc offers to give topping you a shot.

About this: Marc Spector/f!reader, mentions of kink, dominance and submission, kneeling, orgasm control

Immersivity: reader is a non-physically described cisgender woman. She works with animals and spends months out of the year in a place where it is cold—but this is the extent of her description. If there are other details which need mentioned because they hinder your immersive experience, please feel free to point them out.

*

“Give up. Give In. in the end It would be better to surrender before you begin. be lost. Be lost—And then you will not care if you are ever found.”—Victoria Schwab

*

Marc sends the message one night after the two of you have hung up from a lengthy venting session about your latest dating failures. A simple, without context: 

You could do better

I know, you type back, squinting at the screen of your phone in the darkness. Outside, the wind howls—another snowstorm which you hope will either amount to nothing or be bad enough that you won’t have to traverse the icy roads to work in the morning. You roll onto your side, adjusting the pillow beneath you. You’re covered nose to toes beneath the coverlet and still shivering, but Marc always has a way of making you feel warm. That’s why I told that guy off, isn’t it? I know I can do better. 

You watch as he types, no hesitation: 

You could do me

*

In the morning, you text him with one hand, spooning Cheerios into your mouth with the other. 

What, are you offering? There. You’re giving him an out. His message had confused you, left you spending half the night awake wondering about its context. You could do me. You could do me. You could do me? However he had meant it, you knew you had to offer him an easy way out. A fire escape. Maybe one of those seats on the plane that are right by the emergency exits. There’s a parachute beneath your seat, Marc, you think to yourself, drinking the remnants of milk from your bowl. Take it. 

Yes. Give me a chance to help you feel better

Your face flushes. God, how embarrassing is it that Marc knows how bad you need fucked? Not just that—Marc knows how bad you need submitted. That was the caveat of having him as a best friend: he was more likely to listen than to speak, and as such, you told him everything. All your struggles with the kink scene up here in your little frozen section of the States. All the things every guy before him had done wrong…

You aren’t into that stuff, you text back. 

And at the end of your work day, toes frozen in your boots, cheeks dry and chapped from the wind, you finally pull out your phone to see his response: 

Says who?

*

I’m at a disadvantage here, you type to him while cooking dinner. The tiny kitchen of the sublet you rent during the winter months smells of pesto. You’re just glad it’s warm, wiggling your bare toes by the heat of the stove. You know all my kinks, I don’t know yours. 

Marc sends a voice chat. It’s just over a minute long. Your heart is in your throat while your finger hovers over the play button. God, what the fuck could he be saying? Is he listing them all out for you, in alphabetical order or something? It will be the first time you’ve heard his voice since his text (“You could do me”, the phrase haunted your dreams now). 

Pressing the button, you quickly hold the phone up to your ear. There’s no one else in the sublet with you, but you still imagine that his words will be scandalous enough to curl the nails in the floorboards. 

There is rustling—Marc’s voice in the background, bright and laughing and calling out to someone, and then obviously speaking lowly into the phone to you: “You know what my kink is? Three years ago when I tried to take you hiking on that backpacking-for-beginners trail and got us lost, you remember? We spent half the fucking day—literally six hours or something—finding our way out, and after we did, I felt so bad I took you out to dinner. We didn’t even go home first, we were so hungry. We went to that fancy Italian place in town, both of us smelling like sweat and covered in dirt and at least ten pounds lighter from all the energy we burned out there in the woods, and when the waiter finally set that plate of food in front of you, you took a bite and you made this sound, this sound like you’d been dying of thirst but now you were lapping water right out of God’s palm. It was pleasure, and, and relief all in one—hearing you make that noise, and getting you to make it over and over again? That’s my kink. Do with that what you will.”

The voice message ends.

You drop your pesto spoon in the pot of boiling noodles. 

*

You call him that night. You have to. 

You and Marc have been friends for years, meeting in your early days of adulthood. It had been a fast friendship, both of you complimenting each other well. Marc was so easy to love, it had only made sense that you’d fallen in love with him. He was handsome and gentle and sometimes scathing and often hilarious. The only thing standing between him and a long term relationship was what Marc considered his ‘baggage’: the terrible abuse he had suffered as a boy, and the ramifications of it which he was still actively working to overcome after all these years. Marc didn’t think himself fit for marriage or even long-term dating. It was a shame for all the single women out there. 

A blessing for you, though. 

“Is this weird?” you ask as soon as he picks up the phone. “I don’t want things to be weird, Marc.” 

“You spent half your day FaceTiming a horse,” says Marc dryly. “I don’t think your life can get any weirder.” 

It was true—you had had to walk out to the barn three separate times today through the sleet to let an owner FaceTime with her horse who was sick and under your care. It had felt a little strange, being the third wheel in that conversation, but you understood her anxiety. 

“I just—Marc, I don’t want to lose you. As a friend.” 

You hear the phone shift as he shuffles it from one ear to another. He says: “The only way you could lose me would be if you told me to get lost. So can we figure this out?”

“Are you even attracted to me?” Maybe it’s desperate, but you’ve asked it. Marc has always taken efforts to compliment your appearance (resulting in heart palpitations all afternoon for yourself), but he’s never explicitly said that he finds you attractive. 

On the other end, Marc lets out a breath which sounds a little like a laugh. Or a sigh? “Yes. Are you attracted to me?” 

Marc clearly has never looked in a mirror as long as he has been alive. Tan skin that turns golden in the right lighting, dark curls that you wouldn’t mind trying to manage with your fingers, brown eyes that hint at the color of whiskey, a jaw to die for…

You clear your throat. “I mean—sure.” 

“Sure.” You can hear his smile on the other end. It makes you want to die, just a little. 

“Kind of.” 

“Understandable.” 

“You’re passable.”

“I’ll take it.” 

*

One time, he texts while you brush your teeth. And if I’m no good at it, you can keep going to all those kink clubs up in the arctic circle 

And if you are good at it? you wonder, because Marc has never been bad at anything in his life. Because ever since he suggested it, it’s all you’ve been able to think about, the feelings that you’ve had for Marc surging forward from the dusty shelf in the back of your brain where you had stored them all these years. Marc could just give you a look and you’re pretty sure it would melt you. There’s no way he’s going to be bad at topping you. 

Then I’ll take care of you

Yes. Yes, melting already. You spit in the sink and rinse.

*

“Tell me again how it went with this last guy,” Marc says during your next phonecall. The two of you call each other every other night religiously when you are away (“up in the arctic circle” as he would say) for the coldest three months of the year. His voice is warm and low, quiet. 

Even though you have already told him once, it is different now, isn’t it? The thought of relaying again everything that happened makes your face heat, makes you tug the blankets over your head until it is dark all around you. 

“Do I have to?” you wonder. 

“Do I have to make you?” he wonders back, voice lowering a fraction.

Your heart stutters. Your breaths begin to come at a faster rate. 

“No,” you say, breathy and obviously on the verge of being devastated. “I’ll tell—we met on fetlife. He seemed nice and his picture was cute. Our interests lined up, so we met up at one of the clubs in town, but even though our interests had matched up on paper, we weren’t, like, meshing in real life. 

“Like—,” you have to pause to clear your throat, voice dropping down low enough to almost be considered a whisper. God, you couldn’t believe you were telling Marc this again. “He…he called me a slut. I had marked that I wasn’t into degradation like that, but I think he thought it was an exception.” 

“Why did he think that?” Marc asks. You’ve heard it said before that a lawyer never asks a witness a question that they don’t already know the answer to. In this moment, it seems like Marc is the same way. 

“Because he called me his slut,” you admit. “He thought that would like, negate…I don’t know.” 

“Are you?” Marc asks. “A slut, I mean.” 

It rolls off your tongue before you can stop it: “Not his.” 

There comes a breathy little exhale from Marc’s end of the line. It couldn’t be you—not when you’re holding your breath, eyes wide at your own audacity, at the mere suggestion that you would be okay being Marc’s slut, but not this stranger’s. Marc’s voice rasps from the other end: “I know, honey. I know.

“Tell me what happened next.” 

*

I’ve been thinking, you text the next morning (which is true, there is a single moment spent outside of work that you aren’t spent thinking about this). Maybe this is where I’m going wrong with every guy, but—maybe we should practice. On the phone, you know? 

Over text? he asks. 

Sure, you say, aiming for nonchalant. 

I want to hear your voice, he texts, effectively ruining any hope you had for nonchalance. It’s the last thing you want though. You’re terrified that hearing Marc’s voice croon such dangerous, sinful things to you will destroy you. You will be irrevocably changed. There will be the Before Marc times and the After Marc times.

Compromise? Start like this, and if we’re clicking, then we can do it over call. 

It, he teases. Can you say it? Can you tell me what you want? 

Jesus, Marc. You know what I want. 

Use your words. 

You whine, an honest-to-God audible whine beneath your blankets. He’s already slipping into the role so well. Or is he? Is he truly made to be dominant, some prodigious Dom, or are you simply made to melt at everything he does? But it also brings to light the question: what do you want? 

Can I think about it? 

Always, he says. 

*

It takes time for you to gather your thoughts. Everything to think about the fact that this is Marc you’re talking about, your brain gets fuzzy and you lose your words. Finally, you devote yourself to writing it out longhand and thinking in general terms. What would you have wanted from Mr. My-Slut if he had asked you the same question? 

When you’re finished, you text it to him before you can second guess yourself. 

I want to feel owned. I want to feel small but safe. I want to feel consumed, like nothing else matters but you and what you do to me and what I do for you. I want my head to feel empty of anything that isn’t good for me or doesn’t feel good. 

You bury your face in your pillow, but aren’t even there long enough to suffocate before your phone buzzes with a reply. 

I can do that. 

*

For a while, you don’t text Marc. You even miss one of your ritualistic calls. The thought of speaking to him when he knows what you want from a Dom is too much. Before, it had been easy to brush off your kinks to him. So much about wanting to be submitted had become akin to pop culture. Yeah, I want someone to tie me up and spank me and call me a slut, tee-hee! 

It had always gone so much deeper for you, and for so many others, you could imagine. You were a hard worker even as a child. You became someone that people could rely on—and too often, they did. It only made sense that you would crave a way to be useful to someone, crave a way to shut your mind off. Crave a way to feel loved. 

You throw yourself into your work, marking off days on a calendar. The first day of March, you will drive south back to the city. Back to Marc. Your contract here will be up, until next winter. God, you can’t wait to see him again. He always meets you outside the door to your building, chewing gum and pacing, like he’s nervous. Though only God knows what he would have to be nervous about. 

Marc doesn’t text or call you either. He must have picked up on the vibes. Instead, he gives you space. 

The next time you are due for your nightly vent sessions, Marc calls you. If you are worried you’ll get a talking to (or at least questions: why you hadn’t called, whether or not you were mad at him or other absurdities), you don’t get one. You slip back into the warm easiness that is your friendship, swapping stories about your days, talking about current events. Sometimes you don’t say anything, just sit in silence knowing the other person is there or listen to the quiet sounds of the other doing some mundane task: folding laundry, pouring a glass of water. 

You exchange your customary ‘Love you’s at the end of the call, but the words reverberate in your throat. You love him. You really do. 

*

Okay, show me what you got. 

? 

Come on, you know what I mean. I’m ready. Let me have it. 

Oh is that how this goes? 

You blink at the question. …yeah?

I don’t think so, he texts. You know how to ask for something you want. 

Your heart leaps to your throat. Thumbs shaking a little, you ask: How’s that? 

You say please. 

You take a deep, soothing breath. Please? 

That’s the word, yeah. Then he sends the thumb’s up emoji—monster. 

Marc, I’m ready. Can we try, please? Your nerves are shot, stomach in your throat as you wait for a response. As soon as you see him start typing, you lose your nerve and turn off your phone screen. It’s like a horror movie. You can’t watch. When he finally sends a response and you open it, your mouth drops. 

You can do better than that, can’t you? And a moment later: Beg me.

Fuck you, you text, laughing brightly at his audacity. 

Not with that attitude, he types. I only fuck good girls. 

“Jesus, Marc,” you mutter to yourself, breaths coming fast and short. How can he just say stuff like that? Single sentences that are hotter than any of the dirty talk men have given you during sex over the years. For a while, you are torn on what to answer. You want to quip, to say something bratty and whitty that will make him give one of his quiet exhales of laughter, the kind you are so familiar with hearing from the other end of your sofa while you both scroll through your phones. But, deep down—

What if I’m not a good girl? Maybe he’ll consider it just mindless sexy talk. Yeah, I’m not a good girl, I’m a bad girl. Maybe you’ve even said something like this before to one of those other guys. You can almost hear in some generic male voice the response: yeah, you’re such a bad girl. 

Which is why Marc’s answer is so striking: She’s in there. Do I need to help you? 

You have no idea what it could mean, but your fingers answer without any hesitation: Yes please

And your phone rings. 

You answer it. Holding the phone to your ear, you become aware of how you are holding your breath, not letting a single word or sound pass through your lips. 

On the other end, you can hear Marc’s steady, soft breathing. 

“You there, baby?” 

You hum in affirmation, but it comes out as a choked whine that makes your face turn hot. 

“You’re going to have to use your words,” he warns. “But I’ll help you. Alright? The only thing I need you to do is this: if I say something that isn’t true, don’t say it. Otherwise, just repeat after me. Can you do that?” 

“Uh-huh.”

“Good girl,” he says, voice dipping into a silky, pleased octave from his side of the phone. Your thighs clench together. Holy fuck. He’s going to destroy you. “Here we go: Marc Spector.”

“Marc Spector,” you sigh shakily. Easy enough. 

“I trust you.”

“I trust you.”

“I trust you so-o much.”

You snort. “I trust you so-o-o much.”

“That I trust you to know what I need.” Mouth dry, you repeat the words. He adds: “And I trust you to be able to give it to me.”

“Marc,” you whisper, though you don’t know why. 

“I love the way you sound when you say my name,” Marc admits to you. “Especially when you sound half-wrecked, and I’m five hundred miles away, not even able to touch you. But I need you to be a good girl and follow my directions. Repeat after me, or say nothing. Can you do that? Say, Yes.”

“Yes.”

“Good girl,” he says again. “I don’t know how anyone could mistake you for anything else. Now keep repeating, okay?: I trust you to be able to give me what I need.” 

“I trust you to be able to give me what I need,” you repeat. As you say it, the words strike you in the chest. They’re true. You really do. All the people in the world, and maybe you love Marc more than any of them. And he is the sort of man who keeps his word—always. 

“And I want it.”

“I want it,” you breathe. 

“Real bad, Marc.” 

“Really bad, Marc.” 

“Are you in bed?”

“Are you in—wait—“ Marc laughs. “Yes? I’m—“

“I want you to get out of bed and get on your knees,” he says—just casually. Oh, lovely evening, now get down on your knees for me. Like being on your knees for Marc wasn’t on your mind constantly these days. 

Without higher thought, you throw the blanket off, the cold air chilling your body. Sitting up, you let your legs dangle off the edge of the bed, holding the phone to your ear with your shoulder. Your socked-toes skim the floor. 

“What’s it matter if I go down there?” you whisper. “I’m in a different state. It’s not as if you can see me.”

“It matters to me,” he says. “If it’s too cold, put down a blanket. I don’t want you to hurt yourself. Go on.” 

You don’t bother with the blanket, appreciating the chilly floors against your bare knees and shins. You sit on your heels, thighs squeezed tightly together. 

“What if I just lie?” you wonder. “Say I did it, but I’m still under the covers.” 

“You wouldn’t do that. Are you down there?”

“Uh-huh.” 

“Fuck. ‘What does it matter’, as if I need to see you. Like I can’t picture you clear as day in my head. Like it doesn’t mean more to me to know you’re on your knees a hundred-hundred miles away, just because I told you to.” Marc sounds strangely wrecked, and the knowledge that this menial action really has affected him so deeply has your shoulders going lax, bowing over to rest the top half of your frame against the soft mattress. Your cunt aches. 

“Marc,” you whine. 

“Yes?”

“Please,” you groan, turning to muffle your face into the mattress. Your further words are just inarticulate mumbles. He laughs, soft and warm. 

“Spread your knees apart,” he says. “Far apart, as wide as you can.” 

It is the last thing you want to do, but you do it. The brief sparks of pleasure that lit you up every time you clenched your thighs together are gone now, the cool air brushing against your heated sex through your underwear. It only emphasizes how much you ache, how little you’ve been satisfying yourself lately because every time your hand dips between your legs, Marc comes to mind, and you’re too flustered to give in and rub one out thinking of him. But oh god, that’s going to change. You can tell. 

“Are you wet right now?” he wonders lowly. 

You make a sound that is the vaguest affirmation you can give. 

He exhales, the sound shaky through the speaker. “You’re so fucking good. I don’t know how you could ever think otherwise. Absolutely perfect. That’s how I know you’re going to be good and follow this next rule of mine.” 

“Wha’s that?” you slur, head fuzzy where it rests against your sheets.

“You can touch yourself as often as you like,” he says, making your face burn hot again. “Use those toys I know you have—but absolutely no one else. Not in person, not over the phone. If we do this, you rely on me and I do the same for you. Deal?”

“Deal,” you sigh, relieved that his condition goes both ways. You aren’t necessarily strict on monogamy, but you are strict on devotion. The last thing you could ever do would be to go behind your partner’s back—and it’s something that could be liable to shatter your heart if it happened to you. 

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he says. “But this next part is just as important okay, so make sure you’re listening, yeah?” 

“I’m listenin’.” 

“If you want to cum, you get permission from me, first.”

#marc spector x reader

[oumaheroes]

[8] + fruk? idk, it sounds like something they'd hardly tell each other but I figured it's a challenge you could enjoy solving. :) i love your writing btw. Thank you for sharing it with the world. <3

[8] 'I love you'

Both of these asks are so so old but I enjoy a challenge, Anons! Took me a while but I got there in the end. Hope you like!

Characters: France, England, FrUK

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Love Is...

'You're not entirely intolerable.'

England says this to him in warm candlelight, yellows and orange hues dancing gently on his cheek and across his nose. On his back, no less, looking up at France with wine soft eyes amongst expensive coverlets and pillows of a borrowed palace bed.

France's hands are busy, one supporting him, one not, and thus he knows there is some bias to England’s words.

If it were darker, less candlelight and more masking cover, maybe they would be more true. England had always been gentler in the shadows, safer when he feels he can't be seen.

'Shame the same cannot be said for you.' France says in reply, and bites him hard on the shoulder.

-------------

'You can be useful.'

France sounds surprised.

England clenches his jaw. 'Fuck you.'

'I'm serious.' France twirls the pointed end of his share knife into England thick wooden table. 'There may yet be hope in regards to you being anything of value.'

It is France's own knife, at least, that he is blunting. Gilded- overly so, so it's almost more decorative than usable. Almost. France does so like to find those lines and tease them.

The remains of a meal are pushed aside, a map open and curling long between them instead like a dried up sea. England wants to grab the knife out of France’s hand and jab it in his eye but he doesn’t. He needs France, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, needs his help sweet talking the French nobility and keeping his King in check and so refrains from lunging across the table. Swallows bitterness down and looks from the maimed table to the map.

The French coastline looks alien upside-down but England doesn’t ask France to turn it around.

‘So.’ France’s voice is silky and low, ‘Can you deliver on your end?’

England thinks of his own King, thinks of his endless envy that is great enough to engulf his nation’s pride. He nods.

France clicks his tongue, ‘What a surprise.’

-------------

‘Where have you been?’ A nation who will one day be England pouts and crosses his arms across his chest, ‘I’ve been waiting here for hours’.

‘It wasn’t hours.’ A nation who will one day be France looks about the bank of the tree where England is sat in distain, ‘The ground is wet.’

‘You’re late.’ England insists, ‘You said you would be here by noon. And wet ground is better to write in.’

‘It’s still noon. Couldn’t you have picked somewhere sunnier? The ground hasn’t dried here; where will I sit.’

‘Are you stupid?’ England holds out an arm and gestures to the shadow it makes upon the floor with another. It is slightly longer than noon would provide, ‘Does that look like noon?’

‘Do you want me to help, or not.’

‘No.’

France sighs, ‘Fine. Do you want me to do this the easy way or the hard way.’

England kicks at a small stone and it bumps a little ways down the small pathway along the edge of the wheat field he’s been biding his time in. This France knows, because there’s chaff caught in his hair and dusting amongst the mud of the dampened hem of his cloak.

‘I already know how to write letters,’ England grumbles, ‘Rome made me learn his, and they’re exactly the same as your ones. Why do I have to do this all again.’

‘Because after Rome, you learnt some barbarian ones, and now I want to make you presentable. These are things any decent, proper nation should know.’ France dusts down England’s hair, ‘And it’s very hard to bring you up to par when you keep avoiding my visits and moving from castle to castle.’

England shakes his head and looks away.

‘You should stay with the King,’ France says pointedly, ‘Not move about the strongholds like a vagabond. You shouldn’t show your earls too much favour.’

France sees England hold himself back from speaking. He knows what England wants to say and is relieved when he keeps the several possible and difficult arguments to himself. An improvement, but maybe only because there’s no one else to hear.

‘Move.’ England says suddenly. He picks up a stick that France had failed to notice, propped up ready to go against a thick root, and waves him out of the way and off the flat dirt road. He begins scrawling in the ground in rigid, sharp strokes. ‘If I write “go fuck yourself” in Latin, Norman, and French, will you do so?’

-------------

‘I don't always hate you.’

France says this so quietly that England almost didn’t hear him. He wouldn’t have done, if he didn’t know France’s voice and his habits so well. He halts, the quiet palace yawning open unseen down the darkened passage ahead.

From the corner of his eye, England sees France shift where he leans in the archway. He was so still that England hadn’t noticed him as he walked, his dark shape held like a statue in shadows. Now that he knows he’s there, England can almost see the glint of silver threads in the moonlight, fine clothes on a man made just as much from the dirt as he.

A shift of fabric as France moves again. England stares ahead and does not look at him.

‘You may not believe that, but it’s true.’ France offers quietly. ‘I don’t like to think that you believe otherwise.’

‘I don’t like that you make me believe so.’

A pause. England can hear the sounds of the evening: distant footsteps on flagstones, the rustle of trees in the orchard beyond the stone courtyard walls. The smells of thousands of past summers on the warm breeze, blurring the edges of the era and turning the night endless.

The moment stretches, full and expectant. Then, a sigh.

It passes.

France does not reply, and England walks away.

-------------

‘Are you coming with me?’

France snorts. ‘I am offended that you would ever think that I would.’

‘Oh fuck off. Come on.’ England’s eyes are dangerously captivating, ‘You’re just as bored as I am.’

‘Unlike yourself, I am able to find joy in the finer things.’

‘Francis, this is the worst fucking ball we’ve been to in centuries.’

France winces, ‘Yes, but the food is at least good. And the people here are-‘

‘All over fifty.’

‘We are over fifty. And they’re-’

‘Boring.’

‘Important.’ France corrects, ‘They are important, my dear.’

England scoffs and looks across the lacklustre and lethargic dancefloor, couples with outdated clothes and dour expressions stiffly moving in their formations. He swirls his wine in his glass and points with it shamelessly, ‘Important for what, exactly.’

‘To be seen by. To talk politics with. To encourage away from silly decisions that will ruin my skin for the next decade.’

‘And the younger important people? Or heaven forbid, any fun ones? Where are they?’

France shrugs with one shoulder helplessly, ‘The Viscount is... particular.’

England raises and eyebrow and France shrugs, ‘Fine. It is dull. He is dull, and these are all his dull friends. What do you want me to say, the money is here but the life is gone. I’m not blind, Arthur.’

England adjusts the lace of France’s collar, straightening it from where a point has curled under itself, ‘Well, I’m going to the inn on Perry street. That’s where the kitchen boy told me-‘

‘The one with the hair, or the one with the funny leg?’

‘The one with the teeth.’

France shakes his head, ‘Poor boy. Sugar is a terrible thing, I wonder when people will pick up on that.’

England rolls his eyes and downs his wine. France winces, ‘That was expensive.’

‘Good. I’m off.’ England kisses his cheek quickly, the powdered hairs of his wig tickling France’s neck, ‘Have fun somehow being the most interesting thing in the room for a change.’

‘Ha ha.’

France watches England carelessly drop his very expensive glass onto a passing waiter’s tray and tuts at him, ‘You’re too over-dressed for a common inn, you’ll get mugged.’

‘I’ll manage.’

‘I’m sure you will. When I find your naked corpse in a hedge tomorrow, don’t tell me I didn’t tell you so.’

‘I tell you your make-up makes you look like sun bleached fish every day, and yet you still wear it.’

France huffs and turns away. He hears the clip of England’s shoes as he slips behind a curtain until his steps soften, sights fixed on the dancers. The crowds in the edges of the hall, in the dark corners where candles cannot find them, have a low murmuring buzz that heaves itself above the orchestra enough to give life to the odd word of two. None of them give France any hope.

Once he is sure no one noticed England leave, France downs his own wine and pushes himself away from the wall to join him.

------------

‘Be careful.’

England blinks, confused.

It is dark, moonlight all they have to go by, and they are watching British soldiers pour out from and over French beaches into hungry, waiting boats. Months of planning, countless sleepless nights and hours held stressed and tense in the wait for scraps of coded information has lead them here, to this. To men running through waves, to home so close and yet so far, and a flight through the dark to get stranded soldiers home before France falls.

England feels hollow. His chest feels concaved, an empty feeling of something like relief rotting and curdling there at the thought that this momentous victory is in the grand scheme of things, nothing at all. A huge success merely only for how difficult any small victory is. And still a failure because... because-

France’s hand brushes his. England swallows and entwines their fingers together.

‘You’re the one who should be careful.’ He says.

France squeezes his fingers. ‘If-‘

‘Don’t.’

‘-If.’ France’s grip tightens, ‘If, Arthur. Just be careful. I’ll be fine. It’s you who-‘

France breaks off.

‘I won’t.’ England says. He takes a deep breath in. ‘Not me. Not yet.’

‘I would be deeply embarrassed for you, if you do. It’s shameful. To a child, and one raised by Gilbert, no less.’

England snorts and smooths his thumb over France’s knuckle before he breaks them apart. He tugs down his uniform, wishing for gold trimming and a deep red coat, and smooth wood of a longbow.

D-Day unfolds in the muddied, darkened shallows of Dunkirk beach, and two empires watch the world turn over and into something new.

------------

‘Move over.’

France wakes to a knee in the small of his back. ‘A.. Arthur?’

‘Francis, move.’

Bewildered, France obediently shuffles over and there’s a gasp of cold air as England lifts the covers to climb inside. ‘What are...?’

‘Shh!’

France hears the heavy drapes around his bed being rearranged, then gets another knee in his back as England burrows down next to him.

France turns over. In the darkened room and behind thick curtains, England is nothing more than a source of warmth and the feeling of being watched. ‘What are you doing here.’

‘This is my castle, isn’t it?’

‘It’s one of your King’s castles, yes.’

‘Well then.’

‘But you weren’t here.’ France whispers, When we arrived. ‘He is very upset. He says you shame him.’

‘He shames me.’ England’s cool hands find themselves under France’s back, ‘The grandson of a usurper has nothing to do with me.’

‘Arthur.’ France cautions, but then stops. It is not the time, nor place. Nor, he knows, his place, really, to say anything at all. He places his hand on the cool skin of England’s arm and squeezes it, ‘I’m happy you’re here now. Apart from all the dirt you’ve likely tracked into the bed.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘I can smell it. You smell like outside.’

‘Outside doesn't have a smell.’

It does. Brought in to a human space where it doesn’t belong, the night air that clings to England’s hair and skin is earthy and cool. Fresh and foreign amongst wood fires and the fresh thresh on the floors.

‘I changed.’ England insists, seemingly having taken France’s lack of answer as an argument, ‘I do have nightclothes, you know. I’m not a savage.’

‘Hmm.’

England wriggles his fingers under France’s back to the soft parts of his sides and France can’t help but yelp as they tickle.

‘I was in York but heard you were leaving.’ England says, ‘Did you want to go riding before you go?’

‘We go Tuesday.’ France whispers, conscious of the servants littered about the room asleep. How England crept past them all or even got into the castle so quietly in the first place, he’ll never know. ‘We’re almost ready.’

‘So, do you want to go riding, or not.’

It is Sunday. There will be a lot to do before he goes back to his own lands, lots of packing and planning and then talking to people and France is exhausted just thinking about how much of it he will be needed for, let alone the voyage back across likely windy seas.

‘I don’t want to share. I want my own horse.’

‘Fine.’

------------

‘Here.’

England looks up from his laptop to find a cup of what might be soup held aloft before him.

France waggles it, evidently deeming England too slow on the uptake, ‘Take it.’

England does, cautiously, and moves his laptop aside to safety. ‘What’s this for.’

‘You.’

‘I could infer that.’

‘Could you? I never want to assume.’ Before England can tell him not to, France settles himself in the seat opposite. The booth England has hidden himself in has a wide table down the middle which takes up most of the room, but France moves himself into the tight space far more dramatically than is needed.

The soup is hot. England pops the lid off- carrot and coriander. His stomach clenches at the smell, he hadn’t realised how hungry he was. ‘Where on earth did you get it? They stopped serving dinner hours ago.’

‘I know. You missed it.’ France shoots him a pointed look, ‘I went to a café down the road.’

England looks down and swirls the soup around the Styrofoam. It’s thick, good quality. ‘I’m not paying you for it.’

‘Ah yes, because that is why I went.’

England glances at his laptop. France shuts it. ‘Now, whilst you’re eating, listen to me. I have a story for you.’

England takes the spoon that France offers and stirs. He wonders if France has any chocolates in his pockets, ‘Is it about the look Antonio gave-‘

‘Yes.’ France leans forwards eagerly, ‘But shut up. Let me talk.’

-------------

‘It’s... it’s large.’ The scientist at the front of the room looks shrunken, weighed down and wizened. He runs a hand through his hair, glasses glinting in sterile, overheads lights. ‘It’s large.’

France looks up and catches England’s eye. He looks tired, old.

Scared.

Question lights flash on around the room, every national and political delegation with something to say or ask. The scientist seems to freeze, overwhelmed by where or who to turn to first, and then people start shouting all over each other, nations and their politicians alike.

‘What the fuck is this?’ France’s president holds her hands to her mouth and shakes her head slowly from side to side, ‘This cannot be happening.’

‘There is nothing we can do!’ France hears the scientist say over the braying clamour, ‘It’s too late, it’s-‘

‘Francis.’ England is there, at his shoulder. ‘Come on.’

-------------

‘What the fuck have you done to yourself?’

France sniffs and turns away, ‘That’s none of your business.’

England snorts and hangs his hat and coat on the stand, ‘You look like you’ve fallen off a horse.’

‘You look like an unkempt vagabond.’

England looks down at his finely pressed suit and trousers and then back to France. He is on his sofa, studiously reading a book and not looking at England making himself comfortable in France’s livingroom. His leg is before him on a padded stool, swollen at least twice the size, and there is a purple bruise blossoming upon one cheek.

England comes around the back of him and brushes soft golden hair away from France’s shoulder. ‘I could do better.’ he says, gently thumbing the fragile scabbing of France’s bottom lip.

France swats at him, ‘Go away. I don’t want you here.’

‘Wrong place wrong time? Or did you try to speak sense again to someone who actually has some.’

‘Arthur, stop.’ France catches England’s wrist and kisses the inside, ‘You’re too unsympathetic to understand.’

‘Hmm.’ England kneads at France’s shoulder and then heads to the kitchen, ‘Would it help you to know I’m planning on telling everyone you fell ice skating?’

France lets out a bark of laughter, ‘Oh? And who on earth would you tell.’

‘Anyone who will listen.’ He collects a glass and a bottle of wine, along with some bread and some of the expensive cheese that he knows France always squirrels away in his pantry whenever he can, and takes them back to the living room.

-------------

‘If you could be anywhere, where would you be.’

Soft music from a Spanish restaurant down the road, warm ocean breeze. Anywhere and everywhere, all at once.

Besides him, England sips warm ale from a can he smuggled through customs and shrugs, ‘Home.’

‘That’s a boring answer.’

‘That’s the truest answer.’

‘And where again would Arthur go, if he could leave England behind.’ Francis watches Arthur from the corner of his eye, sees the fragments of him outside of all else that they always are.

‘I can’t leave England behind.’ England says, ‘So there’s not much point entertaining it.’

‘I’m trying to have a serious conversation.’

‘Then don’t ask a hypothetical question.’

Francis sighs, and retreats. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette and watches the smoke drift away into the dark.

‘But if you’re asking time.’ England tilts his head, considering. Behind them on the seafront, students between bright club front lights in loud, drunken clusters, ‘Now, I think. Maybe a hundred years ago, at most.’

‘Really?’ France is surprised, ‘I would have thought-‘

‘Boring answer,’ Arthur says, and the rest remains unfinished.

-------------

‘Don’t you fucking die on me.’

Of all the places England expected to die, this was actually what he’d considered the least likely. In Calais, oft contested, right by the sea, and entirely calm. No war or battle to take him, no disease or crop failure to push him along. He can see Dover in the distance, his white cliffs so close he can almost feel them in the bones they represent.

But above them, burning and close, the sky roils.

France lies in his lap on the grass of his garden, eyes wet and smiling. ‘That’s not fair, you can’t say that to me. That’s what I was going to say to you.’

‘I’m serious.’ England swallows down something bitter and painful in his throat, and brushes the hair from France’s face, ‘You’re not allowed to go first unless I’m given that honour. Keep yourself awake.’

France freezes, eyes wide, ‘What-‘

‘I know you too well,’ England says, and dips his head to kiss him. There is a golden chain around France’s neck, old and reliable. On it hangs a much-used pendant, once again filled and ready. Still full, he hopes.

England fiddles with it in the hollow of France’s neck and sees the burning heavens reflected in his eyes. ‘We’ll go together.’

-------------

‘I love you.’

On a nameless bit of a terraformed Earth that might have once been a small kingdom in the northern sea, a man called Francis pauses at the hydro sink, half washed cup in his hands. A man called Arthur stands next to him with a dish cloth and when Francis turns to him, Arthur stares back, face inscrutable.

Arthur does not mince words. He has always spoken his mind frankly, regardless of how offensive or tactless his thoughts may be. He has never tailored himself to a situation, never presented himself as anything he is not. But softness and open vulnerability is not a texture he can wear upon himself. Not because he doesn’t have any, Francis knows, but because he expects that Arthur doesn’t know how. Some core part of his personality that gets lost from his heart to his tongue, or given spikes along the way.

Maybe that was what caught Francis’ attention in the first place, all those years ago on the transport ship to Earth. The parts Arthur kept to himself more than the parts he did not. Arthur spoke kindness and care in actions, not words, and words were what Francis had heard far too much of.

Francis looks away and makes sure to keep his face just as blank, just as unconcerned.

‘I love you too.’

#fruk #aph england #aph france #hws england #hws france #hws #hetalia #aph #aph fruk #hws fruk #arthur kirkland #francis bonnefoy #It has been far #far too long #since i wrote fruk #and i know i have so many other things i should be wwriting but! #I don't care #this called to me #and i will be editing this at least ten more god damn times because it can still be better #heroes writes

[bluejay757]

"I'm dying of boredom," Howl said pathetically. "Or maybe just dying."

He was lying propped on dirty gray pillows, look- ing quite poorly, with what might have been a patch- work coverlet over him, except that it was all one color with dust. The spiders he seemed to like so much were spinning busily in the canopy above him.

Sophie felt his forehead. "You do have a bit of a fever," she admitted.

"I'm delirious," said Howl. "Spots are crawling before my eyes."

"Those are spiders," said Sophie.

I will forever remain that the book version of Howls Moving Castle is 10000× funnier than the movie.

#howls moving castle book #howls moving castle #howl pendragon #sophie hatter #diana wynne jones

[unsoundedcomic]

Well, Duane's light goes out, buried under a pile of eels, and I cry with Sette. Want your family?! Have it. ... It - what? I could see people assuming Sette would cut something out of him with his claws. Instead, seems he gets something he didn't know about a reason of his griefs. I like your mercy, lady Florida Lioness.

Duane caught on her claws like a heavy coverlet, pulling her forward with him and nearly off the soft, slimy eel-covered bed that had formed beneath their feet to witness the execution. Sette didn't understand how he could be so heavy; so tendinous and gelatinous in her hands. Wasn't he a ghost? She flexed her fingers. A frisson of horror thickened her tail as he slid with a slurp off her pinioning grasp, and she was free to catch herself.

He fell away from her, a shed thing. A dead thing. Then a wet plop in the blackness below. She convulsed forward as if to jump after him, catch him, but stopped instead and stared off the edge.

There he lay in the bruise-red mire, face tilted to the void of the evil khert sky. Though he loved a good sky, none had come to tell him good-bye. Instead in a drunk frenzy the eels danced around him, blocked his vision, threaded their bodies into his hood, parted the shirt from his waist to curl under the idea of his clothing, lie flush with his dead clay chest.

Sette couldn't look away. She waited for him to sit up, to try and keep running, to yell at her, anything! The eels snapped at his face. Get away from him! she wanted to scream, but her throat was all stopped up with snot and crying. They didn't get away from him. He belonged to them now, forever. She watched his golden eyes bloom an ugly bronze, then tarnish to black. She watched him sink unblinking beneath the blood swarm, leaving behind only a single word - a final prayer, bobbing like a cork - to mark the site where Duane Adelier fell into Hell.

#prose

[theredofoctober]

MANNA- CHAPTER FIVE: OATS

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

TW for eating disorders, noncon, abuse, drugging, Daddy kink

This is chronologically the fifth chapter in the series

---

The day after the failed feast Dr Lecter enters your unhappy chamber to find you already awake, greasily feverish in the maelstrom of narcotic hangover. Moaning under the dripping cloth of your bedsheet, you wince from the light that punctures the room as Hannibal draws back the curtains with a determined flourish.

"This is what happens when you do not eat and drink enough, I'm afraid," he says, putting a lusciously cool hand to your brow. "The excitement around the table certainly didn't help matters. Had you been receptive, then you would have been hydrated, full-bellied, and ready for the day ahead. Alas, your mulish nature is the portcullis that refuses you entry into better health. I cannot raise it for you."

You haven't the life in you to retaliate to such sanctimonious jibes, and he well knows it.

Humming a strand of Vide Cor Meum, Hannibal glides about you, first plumping your pillow, then holding a glass of water to your lips until you must either drink, or drown. In fractured gulps you salve your chapped throat with it, then part your lips again for a spoon of porridge; to your surprise, the portion spilled from cutlery to tongue is slim, a suggestion of treaty, of a temporary kind.

"I will never make you eat more than is reasonable, little one," says Hannibal, meeting your narrowed stare so frankly that you are almost abashed by the look. "It would do you no good to upset your stomach any further. I will minimise your intake for a few days, at least."

The suggestion is so unbelievable that you search his plain expression for the merest taint of trickery.

"You're not... angry with me," you observe, at last.

Dr Lecter's head inclines.

"Any ill feelings between us were settled at dinner, were they not?"

He helps you to the bathroom, stepping politely outside the door as you list at a sloppy port-wise angle, gripping either side of the bowl with preventative force; you may fall should you let go, humiliate yourself in the necessity of further care.

That Hannibal reverts to a veneer of nurturing aid after an episode of violence with such undisturbed ease frightens you, as does your instinct to accept that profferred assistance. Too many years span from here to the last time you allowed yourself to do so, and though you know well Dr Lecter's malign in having manufactured such frailty, you may never regain the position to resist it without him.

As with Will, your way out of this house is to drive yourself further in.

"I'll return home early today," says Hannibal, as he eases you back into bed in stops and starts to accomodate each shimmer of nausea. "I can reschedule my afternoon appointments for another time."

"Don't bother," you mutter, against your pillow. "I want to be on my own."

"I'm aware of that. Nevertheless, I will be here to monitor you. If you're feeling better tonight, then I will conduct your next therapy session."

Fear flowers at your core, all thorn tipped leaves.

"I won't be better," you say, your lips still crushed to starched cotton. "That promise I made to you about trying— I can't stick to that. I can't be the person you need. And I can't eat. It's too hard for me."

Hannibal lays a hand on your back, soothing you as he might an infant with colic.

"I know," he says, simply. "Relapses are to be expected. Neither Will or I will admonish you for that. What I will not tolerate is rudeness. I have demonstrated what will occur if you do not keep your tongue in check."

At this your head snaps upright against the pull of sickness.

"Aren't you rude?" you ask, sharply. "And Will?"

Hannibal pats down your coverlet, quite unoffended.

"One might argue that is down to interpretation. I pride myself on cultivating elegance, which includes manners, as a matter of course. Will, however, is— unique. I overlook his cruder moments for the complexity layered beneath them. As for what we have done to you, it is unfortunate that you cannot observe the act through our eyes, and perceive its beauty, as well as your own."

To this, you have no answer. You can think only of snaring hands, of Will's stubble scarring your cheek, and the blood broken like bottled wine across your inner thighs, so much ugliness paraded as glory.

"Please drink the water I've left out for you," says Hannibal.

You do, for he will know, if you do not.

*

There was something in that glass, or the oats, you comprehend, for when you are next conscious you are propped upright in a leather chair, only part returned from witless repose.

A metronome clicks at your ear, back and forth.

Lights flash and cease, white and black their blinking through the timeless night in which Dr Lecter has you drown. You sit, or swim in it; you cannot tell. The fungal spell of Hannibal's cooking robs you of both voice and tether to the earth. You could be foam in a Homerean ocean, where men become pigs on its alien isles.

You too might be such a beast, or a child, or some sylph of amorphous matter trapped in such hampering skin.

The sound of your breath comes, shuttered and sharp.

A warm hand cups your chest, and your lungs seem to open to its gesture as though by unknown magic.

Then a voice murmurs from a face before you, its shape without edge, an orb.

"You are safe. You are cared for. You belong."

Like a switchblade across your eye the light comes again, and you are part of it, an impulse that is all life, all one.

Hannibal speaks your name, grounding you to him, as to a stack in some wild sea.

"I'm going to ask you some questions now," he tells you. "They may be difficult. Try to answer them honestly."

There is only a man here, there is only light; you cannot refuse them.

"Okay," you mumble.

Hannibal's pleasure in your answer is a current timed to the swishing metronome.

"How did your eating disorder begin?" he asks. "What did it look like, then?"

"Just a diet, at first," you say. "The meals got smaller and smaller. Then a lot of food scared me. I started counting calories. Throwing food out. Being around anyone eating was like I was being tortured. That's when I knew that something was really wrong with me."

You hear the scratch of a pen on an unseen pad.

"I see. And how did that realisation make you feel?"

"Nothing. I didn't care. Then I started to like it. Challenging myself. The compliments— feeling like I had something nobody else did, that I was so good at— It became everything I was. My identity, kind of."

How easy it is to speak, when you cannot see the expression of the listener before you.

"Trauma frequently shapes us in our formative years," Hannibal comments. "It is a natural response to build oneself in its image. So, let us retreat to older memories. Tell me of a time that you recall being afraid."

The flashing light numbs to an ebbing glow.

"There was this guy," you say. "A guy that my dad was friends with. Still is. His name is Leland Frost. He used to come over to our house all the time. He was always so friendly, but I knew that there was something wrong with him. There was something in his eyes, the way he laughed too much, or stood too close to me. Like he was putting on a rubber Hallowe'en mask of a regular guy, and everyone was just pretending it was fine, but they really weren't pretending."

"Elaborate."

You gnaw at your lower lip until you taste warm iron, and consider spitting out the calories.

"I tried to tell people about it," you say. "But Dad could never see it. He'd just say, 'oh, that's just Lee. Silly old Uncle Lee. That's just how he is.' But I knew. I saw him. I smelled the cheap rubber mask."

"Did this Uncle Lee ever hurt you?" asks Hannibal, softly. "Touch you in an inappropriate manner?"

This memory is dusky, a cobwebbed photograph.

"I don't know," you admit, at last. "I always thought he wanted to, though. I always thought the minute my parents left me alone with him something bad would happen. The waiting was always the worst part."

A pause, in which you sense rather than see Dr Lecter watching you through the dark-light-darkness.

"But maybe it wasn't Uncle Lee that I was waiting for," you say, at last. "Maybe it was you and Will."

The gloom becomes further marred by tears, and you feel a box of tissues being pressed into your loose hand.

"That's enough for today," says Hannibal, rising from his seat. "You've done well for me. This calls for a reward."

He crosses the room to pick up a telephone, glancing at you with an unintelligible heat in his eyes.

"Good evening," he says, into the receiver. "I hope this is a convenient time for you. Yes, that is correct; I'm calling about your daughter's progress. I am very satisfied with her cooperation today. We are approaching some early milestones."

Hearing the tinny, distant voices of your parents, you struggle towards a lucidity that feels so desperately out of touch.

Hannibal crosses the room towards you again and turns the phone away from his mouth to murmur, "I will allow you a few words to them, if you will be sensible."

By this he means: if you do not give the game away.

You nod your head jerkily and extend a fist as Dr Lecter introduces you into the conversation.

"She is here, now. Somewhat tired, but all is well."

You clenched the receiver to your ear, tears coming in such a quick patter that, at first, you can only sit in hyperventilating silence as your parents babble at you, their voices sharp with an underlying guilt.

"How are you, honey? It's so good to hear from you! We love you! Is everything okay?"

Each day you've been parted from them you've missed them as you would your most vital structures, with a sore and deathly strength, yet your love is not so stark as your disappointment in being so abandoned by them.

"No," you say, at last. "I'm not okay, Mom. Dad. How could you send me away and not even warn me?"

The babbling rises, panic in male and female iteration.

"We had no other choice. It was all we could think to do! We tried everything. But Dr Lecter's helping you, isn't he?"

Hannibal's stare is, itself, a warning.

Pressing your knuckles to your anguished mouth, you pass the telephone back to him, not trusting yourself not to scream for help and damn yourself to the harshest punishment that such an executioner of free will might hand to you.

"She is overwrought," says Dr Lecter, apologetically. "I'll call again next week."

He hangs up, and leans across to clean the tears from your face himself, ensuring the tissue is discarded in a wastpaper basket; even in this he must be perfect, organised and pristine. You hate him for it, this performance he makes of his life, preserving such details as no one would be likely to notice but him.

"I wish you hadn't let me talk to them," you whisper. "Now I feel even worse."

"Of course you do," says Hannibal. "Your family betrayed you. It would be much more unusual if you held no resentment towards them at all."

You squint up at him in accusation.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?"

"Leaving a wound open may sometimes allow it to dry, and subsequently heal. You will not advance without acknowledging the harm your parents have done to you, whether through dispatching you to me without consent, or by ignoring your justifiable fear of Leland Frost. The map to your mental injury is unfurling before us: the continents take shape, as do the names that mark each turn in your unhappy life. In time, I will know them all."

Weeping, you slip down in your chair, not wanting to see the truth that thrusts itself up from the outcrop of evil.

"I will help you to your room," says Dr Lecter. "More sleep is in order, I think."

*

Will Graham enters the house some time in the night; you hear his low voice through the floorboards as you lie in swaying wakefulness, wondering what brings the professor here at so late an hour. He stays for so long that he accepts an invite into one of Hannibal's spare rooms, a fact that you discern from the voices passing your door in the hallway.

Again you sleep, though not pleasantly, your psyche disturbed by the third presence in the building, and by the lasting bruise of Dr Lecter's relentless torments.

In this sleep you dream of an antlered thing burying you in a terracotta wood, its face so darkly passive as soil smothers your airways that you might well be a bone, stored there to be gnawed at some late and starving hour.

When you emerge from this haunted slumber you still feel the threads of it still noosed around you; dream-sick, drug-thick, you stagger across your bedroom and, finding the door unlocked, tumble on into the hallway beyond.

By chance you find Will's room, letting yourself into quarters that smell of night-sweat, and pine, and male musk. You scarcely know what you do as you climb into bed with him against his salty heat, nor why it is he, of your abusers, that you seek.

Will starts awake, wild-haired and horrified as he senses your body beside him. Your name bolts from his lips, scarcely recognisable, the utterance of an animal groomed to speak a human tongue.

"What are you doing here? You should be in your own room."

Keeping your back to him, you drowsily reply.

"Had a bad dream."

Will breathes an ironic laugh.

"And you think you'll sleep any better in my bed? I destroyed you, remember?"

Self-blame, self-loathing, all jagged and tail-swallowing teeth.

"No," you mumble. "He did. Not you, Daddy."

You feel Will sit up behind you, scratching a hand through his unruly curls.

"You're not in your right mind," he announces, gruffly. "I'd better tell Dr Lecter to stop giving you whatever medication you're on. It's not good for you. No wonder you're having nightmares."

Still, he doesn't attempt to turn you out of bed, or to call Hannibal to eject you on his behalf. He only slouches, gazing at you, until you turn on your side to look back at his pretty, troubled face in its nest of brindled shadow.

Will's shoulders still droop in a mode of shame, yet the black of the room deepens the blue of his eyes into a yearning colour through which many a woman would gladly fall. He wants you here, you realise, perhaps likes the power he holds in having you soft and needful beside him, in his lair, after all he's done.

You should detest him for feeling it, and you do.

But recognising that craving within him reawakens the understanding of that power you may yet hold over him, in return, the mistress of a cur that bites all but those that direct the leash.

It is a long way off, this control, but the taste of it will do, for now.

"Let me stay," you implore, fluttering sodden eyelashes in a coquettish attempt to convince him. "Please? Just for tonight? I don't want that dream to come back."

You'll loathe yourself for this, in the morning, but now all you care for is the night. Will seems to be having the same thought, for he lies back down on the mattress again, taking care to leave ample space between you.

How does he compartmentalise his violence—his taste for it—from his revulsion towards you, and further still from the empathy that stirs in him like a stamped out fire?

"Just one night," says Will, sternly. "I don't know what Hannibal is going to say about this."

You pull the quilt up under your chin, almost giddy with your achievement, and with it the comfort that pours over you like a September afternoon. This strange happiness you will remember, and wonder at, when all you should have known were the tatters of despair.

"Dr Lecter left my door unlocked," you say, as Will moves in restless, settling motions at your back, still refusing to make contact with your skin. "So it's really his fault I'm here, you know."

At this Will half-rises again, but whatever question or comment he murmurs is lost to your abrupt slumber.

By morning he is gone, and you are alone again, only the scent of the monster remaining about you to mark out your miserable self-treachery.

He is not there to see you thrust the sheets against your face and inhale their bitter stink, if only to claw back the triumph of having made vulnerable a man so very closed to contact of the most human kind.

He is not there, and he is everywhere.

Will is as part of this house as Dr Lecter, now.

#ao3 writer #manna fic #yandere will graham #yandere hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader x will graham #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x reader #tw darkfic #tw eating disorders #tw anorexia #tw abuse #tw drugs #tw noncon #dead dove do not eat #hannibal lecter fic

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

and im over here in my version of this stupid au like-

it's not skin contact

Vaggie tries that first- she'd wear gloves for the rest of ETERNITY if that's all it took to keep her kid from crying, turtle necks and leggings / long skirts, fuck her personal style if she could just HOLD THEM-

but magic... soul stuff.... it goes deeper than the skin, it's the worst expression of exact words and it doesn't care HOW Vaggie is holding her kid, just that she is, with her own body that was a weapon too (still is) just like this baby was

(her old spear, with her her whole life, alive and wailing in her arms whenever she tries-) (until she stops trying)

thank fuck her new wings don't count

(thank hell Charlie found her before she could take those last few needed lives and end up with one depending on her like this)

wings aren't the same and aren't ENOUGH but the kid learns how to sidle up without touching, asking for a wing snuggle, learns their mom doesn't flinch away as long as they only reach up for the soft fluff of her wings, will let them hide in and hang off them, teething small fangs on the strong muscles under coverlets until Vaggie's wings look like a pack of rats gnawed on them and it takes hours to get them sorta sorted out again, all of this the kid learns their mom will do for them with a small smile that's the safest, calmest place in the world-

(she still won't hold them the way she does their other mom)

But. no matter how hard Charlie believes the "being born from weapons" thing Doesn't Matter, for the person their kid will grow into OR for who Vaggie is now

Vaggie, miss "misses stabbing people like she means it", knows different

she knows the real reason the baby cries when she holds them isn't fear. it isn't horror or disgust at all the death they were used for. it's not them wailing for the visions and sensations of blood to stop

it's that urge- the same one she has- to feel it again

and frustration when they can't make it happen

not yet

Vaggie swore to herself she'd keep no more secrets from Charlie, not after that first big one rocked them to the core. she also swore to be Charlie's armor. she also loves this kid now- like Charlie clearly loves them- she loves them more than anything

she can't- wont- tell Charlie how scared of them she is

how much will they hate her when they realize what kind of life she's given them?

an Exorcist's life, even if their wings are grey like her new ones instead of banded black and white like the ones she used to kill with. Her fear-

what if... what if they don't hate it at all?

(Lute up in heaven, smiling and sharpening her sword. Waiting)

#hazbin hotel #chaggie spear child au thing #vaggie #charlie morningstar #chaggie #angst #AGAIN #oc kid #this is such a bummer au whenever i have thoughts on it #sigh

[justwritedreams]

Does your nephew have a bias? | Wooyoung

Idol Wooyoung x Reader

Word count: 1730

Genre: pure fluff

Author: maari

Warnings: Wooyoung a little jealous.

Note: I was going to do a Jongho scenario but then I remembered Wooyoung is my bias and I only have ONE imagine of him and also fluff with him is never enough so that's it.

Summary: Being your nephew's babysitter made Wooyoung ask something very important.

⩥ Ateez Masterlist

"Wow, you look lovely."

Y/N theatrically rolled her eyes upon hearing Wooyoung's laugh after speaking in a joking tone.

She was a complete mess. Sweaty, her clothes crooked while his nephew was in his arms struggling to play on the floor and the hair tied up in a way that was messier than his living room with toys scattered on the floor.

"Glad you made it." she sighed and handed her nephew to Wooyoung before he even entered her house.

"What?" he asked confusedly and reached out to hold the baby who happily went into his arms.

"Hold him, I have to pee!" she replied in a hurry and ran to the bathroom while Wooyoung laughed, taking off his shoes, closing the door.

"Hey buddy." he smiled at the baby who rubbed his eyes and laid his head on his shoulder.

It was Saturday and Y/N's day to babysit her nephew.

Her sister and the husband were working and she had already made sure she stayed with her nephew since she had the weekend off and she loved the baby.

He was about to turn a year and a half old, spending the day with him was the best thing in the world, but he was learning to walk. Which meant Y/N had to help him get around the house, always holding his tiny hand as he wanted to almost run.

It didn't look like it but it was extremely tiring and as it approached the time for him to take his nap after lunch, it was even more so.

When she returned, Wooyoung was swaying him in an almost imperceptible dance, making her smile at the scene.

"Am I at the wrong time?" he asked quietly, resting his chin on the baby's head who was almost asleep.

"Just in time." she replied in the same tone and took the bottle that was on top of the sofa. "I'll make his milk if he complains-"

"I know how to make children sleep, you know?" he interrupted and she smiled ruefully.

Of course he knew, in addition to having experience with his brother, Wooyoung was also great with kids and her nephew adored him.

She raised her arms, surrendered and went to the kitchen at the same time that her nephew started to complain.

She laughed but hearing Wooyoung talk to him, she continued on her way, he knew what to do. 

While she prepared the bottle in the kitchen, Wooyoung arranged the baby in his arms, laying him down to cuddle him better at the same time that he reached for the remote control.

Y/N's nephew loved music and he had the perfect one in mind to put him to sleep, but he stopped when he saw that the tv was on with Jongho's cover more specifically Don't Go Today.

The baby raised his head to face the tv, clearly familiar with that version and Wooyoung saw him smile before lying back in his arms, practically surrendering to sleep as Jongho's soft voice filled the room.

Wooyoung tried to contain his face of shock as he rocked the baby to sleep, looking at the TV in disbelief.

As soon as Y/N returned to the room with the bottle already warm, her nephew was already sleeping, breathing heavily with his mouth open.

"The Jongho cover? Really?" he spoke quietly, turning to face her as she placed the bottle on top of the couch.

She laughed discreetly, turning her back to Wooyoung, arranging the sofa for her nephew to stay there.

"I had to play hard, I've been trying to get him to sleep for 40 minutes." she explained as she spread out the coverlet.

And when she came back to face Wooyoung, he had a funny face like he wanted to get mad.

"I also have a cover and a very good one by the way, it has 392,000 views." he muttered, pouting.

"Put him on the couch." she laughed softly, pointing to her nephew's seat.

He complained but did so, being careful not to hurt the baby or make him wake up, and covered him with the blanket next.

Y/N took the opportunity to sit on the other end, stretching her legs that made a noise and felt her back hurt, Wooyoung sat next to her, getting in the middle between the baby and her.

Automatically Y/N's head sought Wooyoung's shoulder, leaning against it as he crossed his arms, she didn't even need to look at him to know he still had his pout.

"So your nephew has a bias."

"I think it's too early for that." she laughed softly, closing her eyes with the intention of resting for five minutes.

"Hm, I mean, he always turns his face to look at Yeosang when he appears and now he falls asleep listening to Jongho sing?" he sounded disbelieved. "In a moment you'll tell me he likes other groups too."

She just laughed and Wooyoung knew that sound well.

"What? You're not even going to deny it?"

"You know YouTube suggests other videos of the same genre, I just leave it on."

"Yes, based on what you watch often." he glanced at the tv as another video started. He knew the face that was on tv but not because it was him or the members. "NCT? Have you been listening to NCT?"

He eased the back of the sofa, making Y/N move too and she stared at him.

Wooyoung had an expression of someone who had been…betrayed.

"When you met me, you knew I liked their music." she defended herself and Wooyoung just looked at her, he didn't seem to know what to say.

And actually he didn't, because Y/N was right but seeing Jaehyun's cover playing made him feel a little jealous.

That's why he didn't say anything, he just turned off the tv since he was still holding the remote control.

She laughed tiredly and he left the remote on the couch as he eased back into the couch and Y/N followed him, feeling him wrap his arm around her shoulder.

They were silent for a while, Wooyoung trying to find an argument good enough to win that dispute but he stopped thinking about it when he felt Y/N's body give way and heard her breathing get heavier.

He moved his head enough to see that she was sleeping against him, making him sigh heavily. Now it didn't even matter which cover she listened to or not.

He stayed in that position for a while, making circular movements on her arm and when he realized that she was sleeping as soundly as her nephew, he settled her on the couch and got up, going to the kitchen to make something to eat.

While he was cooking, he thought of a way to make Y/N hear only his voice before going to sleep, after all his pride didn't accept losing to his members.

Jaehyun is fine, but Jongho? No, that was unacceptable. The youngest had an angelic voice, it was true, but he wasn't going to allow his girlfriend and her nephew to sleep listening to Jongho's cover instead of his.

As soon as he finished, he went back to the living room and, being careful not to wake the baby, he approached Y/N and put his hand on her shoulder.

"Y/N, hey." he woke her up, seeing her open her eyes slowly. "Come eat, you must be hungry."

Y/N stretched slowly, looking at her nephew and seeing that he was still sleeping, Wooyoung took the opportunity to hug her and lifted her off the couch when he saw that she was lazy. 

She got a kiss on the cheek as she got up and smiled at Wooyoung who hugged her around the waist, the two went to the kitchen, to get the food and go back to the living room.

That done, they sat down on the floor after placing the food on the coffee table in the room, Y/N's stomach rumbled so loudly that Wooyoung laughed, serving her.

She looked at him tenderly as he set the food for her.

"Thanks." she reached over to kiss his cheek. "And thanks for coming today, I know you're tired."

He shook his head, smiling as he handed her the food.

"Although I was betrayed in this house, I still do everything for you." he responded dramatically and Y/N took the food, looking at him in amusement.

"You're such a drama queen." she spoke before starting to eat, closing her eyes for a few seconds to enjoy the taste. "But you cook like nobody else."

"It is good?" he asked curiously and she nodded, eating more.

"Great, but I still feel betrayed." he shrugged and started to eat too.

"Fine, what do you want me to do to change that?" she asked, looking at Wooyoung.

He looked up thoughtfully.

"A kiss." he replied, smiling sideways and she contained her smile.

She reached over to place a quick kiss on his lips, which he'd been waiting for eagerly, and when she pulled away too quickly he complained.

"You call that a kiss?" he asked in disbelief.

"You didn't specify!" she replied and Wooyoung let go of everything he was holding to grab her by the back of her neck and truly kiss her.

His lips captured hers thirstily and she sighed, closing her eyes as she let go of what she held to grip his shoulder.

The kiss was fast and hot, the kind that stole all the air out of her in a matter of seconds.

Y/N squeezed Wooyoung's shoulder to indicate that she needed to breathe and gained a light bite on her bottom lip, making her want more but he pulled away.

She was ready to go back to kissing him but Wooyoung turned his attention back to the food, it was her turn to pout.

"We're not done yet." he winked mischievously and she laughed.

"Well, that definitely woke me up." she stated, making him put a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound of loud laughter.

"But I really have to ask you." he spoke after swallowing the food.

"What?" she looked at him, curious, he had a serious face.

"Does your nephew have a bias?"

"Wooyoung!"

#wooyoung fanfic #wooyoung imagines #wooyoung scenarios #wooyoung fluff #wooyoung x y/n #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung x you #ateez fic #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez fluff #ateez x reader #ateez x y/n #ateez x you #ateez fanfic #ateez scenario #ateez soft hours #kpop scenarios #kpop imagines #kpop fluff #kpop fanfic #kpop x reader #kpop x you #kpop x y/n #maari

[blossomwritesthings]

𝐝𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞

pairing: minho x fem!reader (afab)

genre: sick!fic. idol!minho. sick!reader. hurt/comfort. angst. fluff. reader pov. established relationship.

content & warnings: explicit & strong language. mild thematic elements. angst galore. reader is sick. minho is a soft and doting bf. reader has a fainting scare/high temp/migraine. slight possessive behavior from minho (but in a cute and soft way, i promise!!). pet names (affectionately). cuteness overload.

word count: 8.3k

summary: it's the dead of winter when you suddenly come down with a bad case of the flu. and your doting boyfriend minho is more than happy and willing to help you through the pain.

a/n: yes, i am fully on the brainwashing and brainrotting train that is writing minho out to be a soft, caring bf. don't come for me, it's one of the only pleasures in my life rn!! i wrote this in one sitting (and yes, most of the content in here is based off of my own experience with the flu this past year), so it might be horrible or really amazing. lmk what ya'll think and if you'd like more of this content from me! :))

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ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ sɪᴛᴇs (ᴛʜɪs ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs). © ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

The first symptom of the flu to come upon you was a sore throat. It happened just after you and Minho had finished eating dinner - since it was a Wednesday night, Chinese takeout had been on the menu. 

 You were laying in bed, already cozied up in your pajamas and snuggled under the thick coverlets, reading one of the winter-themed books that you had recently checked out at your local library. When, all of a sudden, your throat started to feel scratchy. Every few minutes, you kept reaching over to your nightstand table to take a sip from the glass of water that you always kept there. 

 Just then Minho came out of the master bedroom’s adjoining bathroom, clad in the black sweatpants that he always wore to bed. He was shirtless since his hot-blooded self could never fall asleep if he had too many clothes on. You got a clear view of his chiseled chest muscles and sinewy biceps as he padded over to you with his slippers on and gave your forehead a gentle kiss. 

 When he pulled away from you and saw the discomfort that was evident in the way your brows were furrowed together, he frowned slightly. “Baby, what’s wrong?” He asked, tucking a few strands of your loose hair behind your ear as he peered down at you with those sparkly, expressive doe-eyes of his. 

 “I don’t know, my throat hurts all of a sudden.” You said, swallowing over the painful scratch in your mouth. 

 “Did you drink some water?” 

 “Yeah, but it’s not helping…” 

 “Let me make you some warm tea, then,” your boyfriend reached down and tenderly squeezed your forearm with a tiny smile stretching across his lips. “Surely that will help you feel better.” 

 “But- Min, it’s too late, you worked so much today… it’s okay, I can make it,” you protested, catching hold of his wrist and stopping him from leaving your side. You looked up at him with pleading eyes, even as your throat was screaming at you for something warm. 

 “It’s okay, kitten. Making the tea will only take a few minutes, and then I’ll be right back in bed with you.” Just then he bent into you, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before pulling away and ruffling some of your hair with a wide grin on his face. “Wanna help you, baby, hmm?” 

 And how could you deny that face? Those words? So, you released your grasp over him and watched him flood from the bedroom. Not a minute later you heard rummaging in the kitchen, as your loving boyfriend began to prepare a cup of tea for you. 

 In his absence, you tried - and failed - to get comfortable in bed again. Your book was long forgotten on your nightstand, and your throat had gotten so progressively worse over a few minutes that swallowing was starting to hurt. 

 Just when you thought you couldn’t take waiting any longer, Minho walked through your bedroom door with a huge, steaming mug in his hands. “It’s lemon-chamomile flavour… I added some honey for extra comfort, too.” He said as he placed it into your outstretched palms. 

 “Thank you, baby- don’t deserve you.” You mumbled in a quiet voice, offering him a tiny smile. 

 “Does it hurt to talk?” He asked as he turned off the lamp on your nightstand before rounding the bed and joining you on his side. He got comfortable underneath the thick duvet before switching off the last remaining light in the bedroom. 

 Everything was thrown into darkness around you, and for a moment, you were disoriented. But then you felt a familiar hand reach over to you and grasp one of your free hands, squeezing slightly, and you relaxed into your pillows. 

 “Yeah, kinda…” Your voice trailed off into the night as you took a sip of the tea. It was piping hot, but even still, felt amazing as it went down. You could already feel the chamomile and honey concoction soothing your discomfort away. “This tastes amazing, Min. Thank you.” 

 Minho snuggled deeper into the covers, shivering a few times from the chill in the air. It was the dead of winter and even with the heat blasting throughout your shared apartment, your place always seemed to have a cold draft traveling between the few rooms. “I’m glad you like it.” Your boyfriend’s voice was heavy, indicating that he was truly exhausted. 

 You leaned over to him and carded a few fingers through his dark, chestnut-brown hair. “Now, go to sleep, you workaholic. You’ve got a jam-packed schedule for the rest of the week.” You said into the quiet that had suddenly fallen over the bedroom. 

 Your words suddenly had Minho groaning into his pillow, “Don’t even fucking remind me about tomorrow’s schedule- it’s gonna be hell, for sure,” he began in that deep voice of his that would always come out late at night. You had told him many times in the past that you loved the sound of it, to which he cockily said that he’d try to stay up later with you so that way you could hear it more and gush over how sexy he sounded. Secretly, he loved the praise… a little too much, if you were truly honest with yourself. “You’ll be okay to go to bed?” He suddenly asked, bringing you out of your reverie of thought on his sultry ‘night voice.’

 “Just fine,” you whispered, snuggling down under the sheets. You could already feel the heat that was radiating off of Minho’s body, as he slowly warmed the two of you up just with his hot-blooded self alone. 

 “Okay, then… goodnight, my baby. Feel better in the morning, yeah?” 

 “Goodnight Min. And sure, I’ll try to.” You replied in a quiet voice. 

 And then there was no reply from your boyfriend, as he swiftly drifted off to dreamland. After you had finished your tea, you snuggled up against him, wrapping one of his arms around your waist and pressing your back against his inviting, bare chest. The chamomile had helped immensely to take the ache in your throat away, and in no time at all, you were joining Minho in dreamland.

 When you woke up the next day, your throat hurt like a bitch. You had thought that the night before had been bad, but nothing compared to how dry and scratchy it felt so early in the morning. 

 Turning over on your side with a groan, you cracked your eyes open against the bright light shining through from the bedroom’s large bay window. You noticed how Minho’s space was already empty. You shifted a palm across his pillow, noting the coldness of the satin fabric. 

 Stumbling out of bed a few minutes later, you realized how quiet the apartment was. With a glance at the nearby clock on your nightstand, the time read just past seven in the morning. Minho was already long gone.

 Since your sore throat had only gotten worse overnight, you deemed yourself unfit to go to work that day. So after having called up your manager and telling her that you had to take a sick day, you slowly got ready for the day. The hot shower worked somewhat in relieving your throat pain, but not by much. And by the time you had dried your hair, brushed your teeth, and thrown on some comfy sweats and one of the many hoodies that you had stolen from Minho throughout your relationship, a spilling migraine had begun to bloom across your temples. 

 “Just my luck…” You mumbled to yourself as you made your way into the kitchen. With a glance around the adjacent living room/dining room, you noticed how the apartment looked more tidy than usual. Your boyfriend must’ve cleaned the place before he left early that morning. The thought of him picking up because you didn’t feel well left a wide smile on your face as your trudged to the fridge. 

 Having opened the thing, you noticed a huge soup pot that was covered with a lit, sitting on the middle shelf. A note was attached to the top of it, and it read, 

 Baby, 

 Made some rice porridge for you this morning. Didn’t have time to wake you up to tell you, so only kissed you goodbye. Text me after you’re finished eating- I haven’t made the recipe in a while and want to know how I did. 

 Love you, and hope you feel better, 

 - Min XX 

 You felt the emotions rising inside of you as you read the small note again, and soon, your eyes were turning watery from unshed tears. He truly was the best boyfriend ever. Minho was the type of guy who liked to share his love for you in actions. He loved cooking for you and cleaning for you. But over time, since you two had started dating, he had slowly become more expressive with his feelings through words as well. It was a nice change that you gladly welcomed and it made your heart all fuzzy to know that he was trying to be a better lover for you alone. 

 In no time at all, you had heated a portion of rice porridge for yourself. It was chock full of tender, flavourful chicken, and tons of veggies - like carrots, mushrooms, and even zucchini. You drizzled some fish sauce and soy sauce on top of it and used the chopped-up scallions that Minho had left for you to garnish the porridge. 

 You took a picture to send to your boyfriend before you dug into the meal. And instantly, you felt so much better. The heat of the porridge slid down your throat and coated your insides with a fuzzy, comforting feeling. It was so very delectable and you finished it in just a few minutes. After you were done eating, you made sure to take some ibuprofen that you had on hand to try and combat the splitting migraine that was upon you. 

 Sending the picture you had taken earlier of your meal, you quickly texted Minho.

Min Today 10:03

Me: Just had the porridge… WHY have you never made this for me before?! It was amazing!! 

 Within a minute, he texted back. 

Min: Wow, I had no idea you’d like it that much, I’ll have to make it again. It makes me happy to hear that you enjoyed it. :) Did it help with your sore throat? You looked to be in discomfort when I left this morning… 

Me: Yes! The porridge really soothed me, I feel better already! 

Min: Ok, I’m glad then :) You took off work today, right? 

Me: I mean, yeah, since I can barely talk :( 

Min: Awe baby :( I’m so sorry. Just rest today, I’ll try to be home earlier than I was last night. 

Me: I’ll just be laying in bed all day haha… and ok, have a good day at work! Love you &lt;3

Min: Love you too &lt;;33

 Staring at the bright screen of your phone was only making your headache worse, so you turned it off and trekked back to your bed. The exhaustion hit you as soon as your back hit the soft mattress, and halfway through the comfort movie you had turned on on the tv, you were already drifting off to sleep. 

 Late that same night, the fever started. At first, your cheeks were just flushed, which could happen from time to time. But then, the back of your neck started to feel warm too. And soon, it felt like your entire body had been doused in a scorching hot pit of lava. 

 Keeping to his word, Minho arrived home an entire hour earlier than the night before. When he walked through the apartment’s front door at eleven with both hands full of groceries, you immediately stood up from the living room couch to help him unpack. 

 “No, no- I’ve got it. Go sit back down,” he insisted, trying to shoo you away with his hand as he placed the many bags atop the kitchen counter. 

 You peeked into one of them and saw a huge box of multi-flavoured popsicles. “What’s all this for?” You mumbled in a weak voice. 

 “You, my dear… want to cook some good meals to help you feel better,” Minho said, turning you towards him so that he could get a good look at your face. When he noticed the deep crimson flush that stretched across your cheeks and traveled down to the part of your next that was exposed from your - formerly his - baggy hoodie, his brows furrowed. “Baby, do you feel warm?” The light in his eyes flashed with concern as he gently pressed a hand against your cheek and forehead. 

 “Y-yeah, a little…” 

 “You’re burning up,” Minho said, voice a little panicked as he led you back over to the living room couch, the groceries suddenly forgotten. You had only ever gotten a fever once before in all the time that you two had been dating, and it hadn’t been all that bad, to begin with. And it sure as hell hadn’t made you feel as hot as you did just then. “Here, let me get the thermometer.” 

 Then he was gone from your side and rushing into your bedroom, in search of the only thermometer you kept on hand. Resting against the couch, you tried to focus on anything else but the soreness in your throat and the heat that flooded through your veins just then. The headache had come back with a vengeance a little earlier that night, the ibuprofen wearing off fairly quickly. Much to your demise.  

 Minho was beside you again a few minutes later, thermometer in hand. “Baby, open for me,” he instructed, and you opened your mouth slightly so that he could slide the small thing under your tongue. The metal felt cold against your teeth, and time seemed to pass by agonizingly slowly, as you two sat there on the couch and waited for the reading. When it finally beeped loudly, Minho took it out and inspected it. “Nighty-nine-point-eight. You’ve definitely got a fever.” 

 You closed your eyes then, resting an arm across your eyes and groaning into the crook of your elbow. Even your eyelids felt hot. “Fuck- I’ll have to take off more sick days from work. I really can’t afford to do that-”

 “Kitten, I think that’s the least of your worries right now,” your boyfriend said softly just beside you. You felt his hand wrap around your knee and squeeze the skin there gently. “I’m going to get some cold rags, okay? Just- stay here.” By the way that his voice had turned a little high-pitched, you could tell how he was slowly starting to get stressed out about the whole thing. Which was saying a lot, since there wasn’t much in the world that could stress him out. 

 The two of you rarely fell ill, and when you did, it was always a mild case of the cold. So for you to have so many symptoms all at once, must’ve been very overwhelming for your boyfriend. But, what could you do? The sickness was here, and it was here to stay… 

 You felt something cold press against your forehead amid your thoughts, and you cracked your tired eyes open to glimpse Minho leaning towards you on the couch, two other wet washcloths in hand. 

 “These will help to cool you down,” he explained, as he helped move you forward a little bit so that he could place the second cloth behind your neck. Then you let him guide you so that you were fully laying down on the couch, limbs sprawled out. You were too sapped of energy to even ask what he was doing as he gingerly lifted your oversized hoodie. When you felt the coldness of a third, and final washcloth press against your stomach, you understood his sudden actions. “You should take some ibuprofen, that’ll help bring your fever down.” 

 “I can’t take it without first eating something.” 

 “Then I’ll make you some food- did you have dinner?” 

 You shook your head no, the motion only making your pounding headache worse. You winced and grabbed at your head, massaging one of your temples. 

 “How about I heat some of the rice porridge from earlier?” Minho offered before standing up from his kneeling position on the ground.

 But just as he was about to leave your side, you stopped him by grasping at the fabric of his dark-blue sweatpants by his knees. He was still sweaty from the apparent dance practice that he had been doing in the studio just before he came home. “No- I- I’m too nauseous to eat anything right now.” You mumbled, voice cracking a little bit from the pain that was solidly rooted in your throat. Your cheeks were so hot, it felt like you had gotten a sunburn while laying out on the beach, when in reality- you had been lying around your apartment all day, not even catching a single glimpse of the sun through the hazy January clouds outside. 

 “Okay, well, maybe you can take the medicine later when you feel a little better,” Minho said. He was squatting down at your side then, brushing back your hair from your forehead. “Just rest on the couch here while I put the groceries away, and then we can go to bed.” 

 You nodded in understanding, too tired to say anything else as he kissed your hot cheek and finally pulled away from your side.

 That night turned out to be absolutely horrendous. 

 You tossed and turned throughout it, not being able to get comfortable. The cold washcloths had done little to help bring your fever down, and the throat lozenges that Minho had gotten for you at the grocery store earlier merely coated your throat in this weird aftertaste that left you coughing for half of the night. 

 Not to mention the headache. 

 Which had turned into a full-blown migraine. 

 The ache wrapped around your entire head, and it felt like someone had your skull in a vice-like grip, squeezing and squeezing the very life out of it. 

 Your boyfriend, who stayed up with you for the entirety of the night, was a literal fucking saint. He made trips into the bathroom every hour to dampen your washcloths with cold water again and regularly made you tea to try and help relieve your throat. 

 “Min- baby- you need to stop helping me now,” you whispered through the daze of tiredness. Because if you were drained, you couldn’t imagine how your boyfriend had to feel - what with having worked for the better half of sixteen hours that day. “You have so much on your plate right now, I can’t expect you to stay up all night just because I’m feeling like shit.” 

 “S’okay, I’m not sleepy…” But the way his quiet voice drifted off at the end of his words proved differently to you. 

 You turned on your side in bed, catching a glimpse of your boyfriend’s slumped form through the faint moonlight that shined through the bedroom window’s curtains. His shoulders were hunched over, his head hanging low, as he massaged languid circles into the palm of your closest hand. 

 “Yes, you are. Now, go to sleep.” You said firmly, pushing on his shoulders so that his head hit his pillow. 

 At your forceful movement, his eyes shot open. “I can’t leave you like this- baby, you’re in so much fucking pain right now. I-I feel horrible that I can’t help you more.” He said, his tone desperate. He threaded his fingers through yours then, squeezing a little desperately, trying to convey how strongly he felt about staying up with you and helping you practically survive the night. 

 “I know babe, I know…” You pushed away a few locks of his dark, chestnut-brown hair that had fallen in front of his face, giving him a soft smile. “But you need to sleep now, okay? That’s how you can help me feel better- by going to bed. I’ll be fine, so don’t worry about me.” 

 Minho was silent for a few beats, as you stared into each other's eyes. You were both incredibly stubborn when you wanted to be, but on this topic- you wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t jeopardize his packed schedule while also letting the boys down just because you weren’t feeling well. 

 “Alright,” he finally surrendered in a defeated-sounding voice. “But, you’ll wake me up if anything happens, right?” 

 “Of course.” You leaned down into him and gave the crown of his head a soft kiss. “Love you, Min.” 

 “Love you too…” He said, his eyes already closed. And just like that, you watched his face relax, body melting into the soft downy mattress, as he finally drifted off to sleep. 

 And hopefully, you’d soon join him in blissful sleep as well. 

 Turns out that you didn’t get a wink of shut-eye that night, tossing and turning underneath your thin sheet - you had thrown off the thick duvet coverlet that had been laid on top of you early on in the night. A thick coating of sweat covered your entire body, even with the cold washcloths still placed on you. Your boyfriend, on the other hand, had been out like a light. 

 In your sleepless, frail daze, you hadn’t managed to catch him as he left for work early the next morning. But as soon as your eyes opened, your head throbbed from the bright light flooding through your bedroom’s curtains, and a strong wave of nausea overtook you. 

 You shot from your bed and barely made it to the bathroom. You leaned over the toilet bowl and hurled up the little contents that were left inside of you. The only thing you had eaten the day before was the rice porridge that Minho had made for you in the morning and two strawberry-mango-flavoured popsicles to try and ease your throat. 

 It still hurt like hell, and your head was pounding from your migraine. When you leaned back from the toilet, a loud groan escaped past your lips from the distress that you were in. You sat there on the cold, tiled bathroom floor for a few minutes, just taking in deep breaths and trying to persuade yourself to get up when all you felt like doing was tipping over and passing out from exhaustion. 

 In the end, you managed to get up from the hard ground and brush your teeth before making your way back to your nightstand, where you had glimpsed a small piece of paper placed just atop your latest pick from your local library. The nightstand’s clock read just half-past ten o’clock in the morning. 

 You probably didn’t get much sleep last night. Try to take a nap sometime today when you can. 

 You need to eat something, but, if you’re too nauseous, at least drink lots of water. There’s some Pocari Sweat in the fridge, so drink plenty of that. 

 And please, try to take some ibuprofen if you can. It will help bring down your fever. Checked it before I left, temp is now at 102.8. It should’ve broken in the night.  

 Call/text me whenever you want to, I’ll be available all day and will be home even earlier than yesterday. 

Love you, Minho XX

 Even through your confused state of pain and weariness, a smile graced your lips at your boyfriend’s thoughtfulness. Since you rarely got sick, it was uncommon for you to experience this exact side of him. It was a whole kind of new Lee Minho, and to be honest, you quite liked it. And although the doting could be a little excessive and suffocating, it was the thought that counted, right? 

 Somehow, you found enough energy inside of you to get up from your comfy bed and into the shower. The hot water felt amazing on your skin, and did wonders for your bad migraine. You stood under the spout for at least twenty minutes - maybe even more than that. And when you were too tired to keep standing, you sat down on the cold tile of the stall. The steam that the scalding water emitted all around you also helped to calm your inflamed throat down, and you basked in the comforting feeling for quite a while. 

 It was only after you stepped out of the shower, legs slightly wobbly, that you realized your mistake. 

 You had a fucking fever, for God’s sake- 

 It should’ve been very obvious to you- 

 Not to take a scalding hot shower for that long. 

 Even still, there was no turning back. And almost immediately, you felt the repercussions of your actions. As you wrapped a fluffy white towel around your body and grabbed for the blow dryer, you suddenly felt very lightheaded. 

 And not the kind of lightheaded that you would sometimes get if you stood up from a sitting position too quickly. 

 No, this kind of lightheadedness was the kind where you felt like you were about to fucking pass out. 

 Just then, you realized how hot your entire body felt. You thought that it had been bad before- but nothing compared to the sheer heat that radiated off of your body. 

 With a racing heart and shaking limbs, you slowly shuffled out of the bathroom, clutching onto the wall for support. Your vision was going in and out, turning so blurry that you could barely see in front of you. 

 You fumbled around your nightstand for your phone, and with quaking fingers, you dialed Minho’s number as fast as you could. You were standing just beside your bed, legs feeling like they were about to give out on you. You were so weary and confused and felt like you were about to fall over, so half of what you were doing didn’t even make sense to you. But you knew that you had to get ahold of your boyfriend- in that scary moment, that was the most important thing to you. 

 The phone rang once, 

 Twice, 

 Three times. 

 Please, just fucking pick up- 

 Please don’t be in a meeting or at practice or- 

 “Baby? I’m so glad you called, how are you-” His gentle, serene voice rang out across your phone’s speaker that was pressed to your ear. 

 You let out a sob of relief, the tears finally flowing down your cheeks. “M-Min, I-I can’t-“ It was hard for you to speak over the dizziness and confusion. 

 “Y/N? What’s wrong? What happened?” Minho’s voice immediately turned frantic at your mumblings. 

 “S-So dizzy- got out of the shower and- and gonna pass out- help me, Min, please-” It felt like your knees were about to buckle just then, but Minho’s voice cut through your heated stupor. 

 “Lie down right now, baby. You close to the bed?” 

 “Y-yeah-”

 “Lie down, completely stretch out your body. Can you do that for me?” 

 You said nothing more, shifting towards your bed and collapsing on top of it with a tiny gasp of exhaustion. “I-I’m on it-”

 “I’m leaving the company right now,” Minho’s exclamation broke through your daze of fatigue. 

 “W-What? Baby- no, don’t- you have an important recording today and-”

 “To hell with the schedule!” He was suddenly shouting through the phone, making you pull it away from your ear from the loudness. It only made your headache worse. When he heard your whimper of pain, he began speaking again but in a quieter voice. “I’m sorry for yelling, baby- it’s just that, the company can’t expect me to go to work when the fucking love of my life is about to pass out from the flu that she has.” His voice was much calmer this time and helped to soothe your racing heart a little bit. Your limbs were still shaking though, your vision going in and out. 

 There was silence on both your ends, as your slow mind processed his words. You heard shuffling on his line and muffled voices. Then he was talking to someone - it sounded like Chan - their whispers were hard to hear over the static of the phone. 

 “Baby?” Minho’s voice cut through your tiredness. You opened your eyes weakly, trying to focus your attention on the painting that hung on the wall just beside your flatscreen tv. It was of a single, pink tulip positioned in a grassy field. The piece was something that Hyunjin had gifted you for your birthday in the past year. “I want you to stay on the phone with me until I get home, okay? Just keep talking to me - about anything - just don’t close your eyes, alright?” 

 His instructions seemed like absolute torture to you right then, because all you wanted to do was close your eyes and let go - let your mind drift off into wonderland for even a few blissful seconds. “I’ll try,” you started, voice quiet as you nuzzled into the bed’s thick duvet that was still messed up from the night before. You hadn’t found the energy to make it yet. “I-I threw up this morning.” 

 “Oh, darling- I’m so sorry I wasn’t there… but, I’ll be there soon, yeah? I’ll take care of you, so don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.” His tone was laced with concern, and a tiny smile spread across your lips at how attentive he was being toward you. 

 The entire thirty-minute commute that he took every day from your apartment to the company, you stayed on the line with your boyfriend, talking about whatever came to your mind. You were still nauseous, so food was never brought up, mainly just the changing weather and what you wanted to do that weekend since he’d have a break from schedules that Saturday, which was quite a rare occurrence for him. 

 Laying down on the bed had helped your dizziness somewhat, but every time you shifted just a little bit, your vision would go blurry again. It was annoying as fuck, to add yet another symptom to your myriad of other problems. 

 “I’m pulling up to the apartment right now, so I’ll hang up. Wait for me, baby.” Minho finally said after what felt like an eternity of him traveling home from the company. You mumbled an incoherent ‘yes’ before he hung up the call. 

 True to your promise, you kept your eyes open, laying as still as a statue on the bed. You were back to studying Hyunjin’s flower painting just as you heard the front door’s keypad being used. A breath of relief left you as shuffling echoed throughout the one-bedroom apartment, and in no time at all, there your boyfriend was- rushing into your bedroom with a wild look in his eyes and flushed cheeks, his dark brows furrowed.  

 “Kitten-“ he breathed out in a sight of relief at the sight of your still-awake form, “C’mere.” He dropped his backpack on the floor next to the door before he was bounding towards you. In one swift movement, he was lifting you off the bed, taking you up into his arms, and cradling your head against his chest as he sat back down on the bed’s plush mattress. 

 The tears started again almost as soon as he had you in his arms. Your sobs wracked through your body, as he brushed soothing fingers through your hair. You knew that crying would only make your migraine worse, but you couldn’t give a flying fuck about anything just then. You were just so happy to see your boyfriend, after such a disastrous morning. 

 “Y-You came back for me,” you sniffled after a long bout of silence that was filled with only your cries. You pulled away from his chest, looking up at him through blurry vision. “I-I was so scared, Min.”

 Minho swiped his thumbs underneath your eyes, gently catching your falling tears with the pads of his soft fingers. “Of course I did, baby. I love you… and it kills me to see you this way. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to help you.” 

 “Just glad you’re here now,” you whispered, clutching onto his waist a little harder. “I’ll feel better now with just your presence alone… but, how long are you staying for?” 

 He tucked a few strands of your still-sopping wet hair behind your ear. In your dizziness, you hadn’t found the time to dry it yet. “Not leaving you again, darling. The company gave me the day off, Chan helped me persuade them.” 

 “B-But you’re gonna miss such an important day of schedules and-”

 Your boyfriend shushed you with a slender finger to your lips. “It’s already done now, Y/N. So let’s just focus on helping you feel better, alright? By firstly, getting you dressed.” 

 You looked down and realized that you were still only clad in your soaked towel. “Wow, I didn’t even realize I was still in this…” Your voice trailed off, as Minho placed you back down on the bed and made for your walk-in closet. 

 “Is it a sweatpants and hoodie kinda day again?” He asked as he poked his head into the closet. 

 “A-Actually, I’m too hot to wear anything thick,” you managed to stutter out, perched at the edge of the bed. And soon enough, your loving, doting boyfriend emerged from the closet with a pair of soft, black cotton shorts and a thin, maroon-colored camisole. 

 “Will this do?” He questioned, holding up the items for you to inspect them from across the room.

 Wordlessly, you nodded your approval. And soon enough, he was shifting his way toward you. In no time at all, he had helped slip the shorts up your bare legs, the loose waistband resting gently against your hips. Then, he guided the camisole over your head, gently pulling the thin spaghetti straps over your shoulders. 

 “All good?” Leaning forward, he tucked a piece of your wet hair that had fallen into the front of your face behind your ear. 

 “Mhm- but my hair’s still wet from the shower,” you mumbled, staring up into his dark pupils that were dancing with a myriad of emotions - but especially, concern. “Carry me?” You asked, reaching out your arms to him, supple and waiting, like a small baby that wanted to be carried by someone they trusted. 

 “Always, kitten.” He whispered, just as he pulled you up into his hold. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he charged for the bathroom. And soon, you were sitting atop the granite counter, as he ran his fingers through your hair. 

 The blow dryer was loud in your ears, and the heat from it only seemed to raise your temperature even more. You still had your legs wound around Minho’s torso as he worked with nimble fingers to dry your hair. You tipped your head towards his hand every time he ran a brush through your locks. 

 When he was finished, he pressed a palm against your forehead for what felt like the millionth time that day. “You’re still burning up, baby…” His voice trailed off, as he leaned across the counter, grabbing a stray hair bobble. He pulled your hair away from your face and fitted it into a loose ponytail at the back of your head. Immediately upon the feeling of your thick locks being out of your face, a content sigh of relief escaped past your lips. “I really need you to take that ibuprofen, honey.” A deep frown bloomed across his lips, turning his mouth downwards in a displeased kind of way. 

 “My migraine isn’t as bad as it was earlier, so I think I can choke something down now.” You said. Your eyes were still closed, as you breathed in the familiar scent - of warm, dark roasted coffee and cinnamon sticks - of your boyfriend. 

 And in no time at all, he had you seated on the living room couch, your eyes trailing over the food that he prepared for lunch. There was a bowl of the porridge that he had made the day before, a piece of plain, white buttered toast, and a yellowed banana. Not to mention the medicine set off to the side with a tall glass of water. 

 “Eat, baby.” Your boyfriend took hold of the tray that the food was on and positioned it on your lap. 

 He was sitting beside you on the couch, gaze locked on your form with a certain kind of intensity that would make you anxious if you didn’t know him so well. The intensity he had was only borne out of concern. He so desperately wanted you to get better, that’s all. 

 “Thank you, Min… it looks delicious.” You pecked his cheek gently, watching as a soft smile cracked across his lips before you delved into the lunch. 

 You had to admit, the food was exceptionally good. The porridge helped to alleviate your throat, and the bread filled your stomach comfortably. You hadn’t realized how hungry you had truly been until you started eating. But halfway through the meal, you stopped when you noticed how your boyfriend hadn’t moved from his spot of watching you. 

 “Aren’t you going to join me?” You asked, motioning towards your spoon that was laden with porridge. 

 He shook his head slowly, “Want to take care of you first, that’s all.” 

 You gave him a deep frown. “Min, you're already taking care of me. Just making this meal is enough for me.” 

 “I know, but I wasn’t here earlier- don’t want to take my eyes off you for even a second, in case something happens.” 

 “I’m not going to pass out, baby. I’m fine now. So please, eat some lunch, yeah?” 

 “You still have the flu, Y/N. Just because you haven’t passed out yet doesn’t mean you won’t in the future,” Minho crossed his arms in front of his chest, canting his head to the side, eyes trailing on your red-cheeked face. “And I want to be sure I’m here to catch you if that happens.” 

 “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence…” You grumbled softly, turning your attention back to your cooling porridge. There was no use fighting him on the matter anyway. He was a stubborn mule when he wanted to be, and apparently, Minho would run himself ragged before he ever looked away from you again. 

 It was only after you had finished your lunch, and had downed four ibuprofen pills and a glass of water with it, that Minho finally got up from the couch to put your dishes away and make something for himself. He rounded the couch a few minutes later, pressing a cold washcloth against your head. The sudden coolness surprised you, and you slightly sat up from your laying position on the couch to catch a glimpse of your boyfriend. 

 Minho took a seat at the end of the couch, near your feet, a plate of food in his hands. For his meal, he was having a rather bland-looking sandwich, with a green apple sliced thin set off to the side. 

 “That’s all you’re having to eat?” You raised an eyebrow at him, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a good look at him. 

 His gaze was already on you even before you met his stare, as he bit into his sandwich. “Don’t pass judgment on my habits when you hadn’t eaten anything until just now.” 

 “But I’m the one who’s sick here…” You protested, shaking your head in disapproval at the lack of food on his plate. He was a growing guy, always in the gym, always straining his body for work. He needed to eat enough to fuel himself properly. Changbin was always harping about such things to the boys, but especially, your boyfriend. Since, as Changbin put it, ‘he never seems to get enough macros in for his height and weight range.’ Whatever the hell that meant. 

 To that, Minho said nothing, merely biting into his sandwich once more. His silence only made you more agitated with him, and that, coupled with your slightly-pounding migraine and your drowsiness only helped to add fuel to the fire. 

 “I”m worried about you, Min… you need to eat more if you want-”

 “You’re worried?” He suddenly let out a dry, humorless scoff. And instantly, you recognized his tone. In the blink of an eye, his entire demeanor shifted. It changed from the intensity he had from caring for you, to the intensity that he always got whenever he was worked up. Whenever he was worked up about you, and your safety. “I’m the one who’s fucking worried here, Y/N!” He practically burst out in a loud voice, throwing his plate down on the nearby coffee table in his sudden exclamation. 

 “Minho-” You began in a soft voice but you were quickly cut off by his raising voice once more. 

 “Do you have any fucking idea how scary it was to get a call from you this morning and have you practically fighting for your very life to not pass out right then and there?” He ran a few frantic fingers through his hair, clutching at the roots, slightly bending over, and resting his elbows against his knees. “Because damn it- I was practically shaking from all the worry. And then I come home and find you literally naked and sopping wet and crying and-” Just then, his voice cracked, his words fading off into the distance. 

 And in the next beat, you were moving. Towards him, so that you were right up in his personal space. You took hold of one of his hands, pulling it away from tugging at his locks of brown hair. Squeezing your fingers between his own, you pressed a soft kiss to the top of his hand. 

 “Baby, I’m so sorry… it’s my fault that everything became such a big mess. I didn’t have to take such a long, hot shower.” You admitted, giving his skin another kiss. 

 Minho pulled his head up just then, as it had dropped between his hunched shoulders in his distress. His eyes slid over to yours instantly. “Don’t apologize, none of this is your fault. You were only trying to relieve your symptoms, I get it.” He held onto your hand a little tighter, like in that moment, he needed to be grounded in the reality of you. That you were still there with him, still living and breathing, albeit tired as hell and ill to the bone. But still, there nonetheless. “And please, just... don’t leave me, okay? I can’t lose you, baby… I can’t…” His voice became a tiny whisper at the end of his words, misery flashing across his face, radiating deep in the way that his eyes softened at the sight of you, his brows creasing with the tears that he could never seem to shed. 

 “Min, I have the flu… not the damn plague.” You laughed, lips grazing his hand again as you placed another peck against his skin. “And of course, I’m not going to leave you.” 

 “Good, because I’m never going to leave you either.” And suddenly, he was taking hold of you, pulling you onto his lap and burrowing his face into the crook of your exposed neck. He blew raspberry kisses against your heated skin, making you burst out into a fit of giggles. You kicked your feet up into the air, trying to escape him as his nimble fingers tickled you at your sides. 

 And all at once, just for a few minutes, he helped you forget about everything - about your sickness, the discomfort, and the fatigue. All of it. Helping by kissing away the swarthy thoughts and tension-filled temples. 

 Later that day, your fever finally broke. The medicine seemed to kick in just in time and helped to completely take away your headache. Your throat still felt dry and scratchy, but continually downing warm cups of tea was slowly helping that. You and Minho spent the day lounging around the apartment, watching random reality shows that were playing on the tv, and indulging in a whole pint of chocolate ice cream an hour before bed. 

 But despite having all that sugar and caffeine right before laying down, you found that sleep threatened to take over you as soon as your head hit the pillow. 

 “Will you go in to work tomorrow?” You asked, laying on your side and facing your boyfriend as he sprawled out in the bed just a little ways away from you. 

 “I don’t know… I hope not.” 

 “The boys will need you, baby. I think you should.” 

 After all, he was an integral part of the team. He couldn’t simply disappear from Stray Kids for even a few days and not have them feel the lasting effects of his absence. 

 “Let’s not worry about that and just focus on going to bed, okay?” He reached out to you, clutching onto your hip and pulling you towards him. 

 When your forehead was comfortably rested against his bare, muscled chest, you peered up at him with a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Thanks for taking care of me today, honey. I don’t deserve you…” 

 He pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead, his voice rumbling with sleep as he spoke, “I’ll do anything for you, kitten. And of course, you deserve me- I’m the one who doesn’t deserve you.” 

 Without another word said between the two of you, you closed your eyes and breathed in deeply. Your boyfriend's comforting scent washed over you, seeming to soothe a tender spot inside of you, and all at once, you were falling fast and hard into a deep slumber. 

 The first thing you noticed when you awoke the following morning was that for once in what felt like an eternity, the blinding morning light shining through the bedroom curtains didn’t automatically make you feel like shit. Instead, it helped to place a content feeling deep inside your heart. 

 And the second thing that you noticed when you awoke the following morning was the fact that your boyfriend was still in bed. 

 He had both arms wrapped around your waist, and when you dragged away from his chest, a muffled groan fled from his slightly-parted lips. 

 With a glance at your nearby clock, you noticed how it was well past the time that he usually got up for work. 

 Minho cracked an eye open from the shifting of your figure, a lazy smirk blooming across his mouth at the sight of your eyebrows raising on your forehead in surprise. “Guess I won’t be going in to work after all…” He said, voice husky with sleep. 

 You squirmed in his arms until you were loose enough to get a good look at him. His cheeks were slightly flushed, and suddenly, you thought that perhaps the huskiness of his voice wasn’t just from sleep. “Why are you staying home today? I thought you said you were going to go into the office.” 

 Shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly, that same smirk was still on his face. “The sore throat woke me up in the middle of the night.” 

 A loud groan bubbled up and out of you, as you scrubbed a frustrated hand across your face. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” 

 “Hey- well, at least you’re feeling somewhat better now… that way, you can take care of me when I nearly pass out after a hot shower.” 

 With that, you shoved at his shoulder gently, sending a glare his way. “This isn’t funny, Min. You shouldn’t have gotten so close to me- shouldn’t have kissed me! Now you can’t go to work for God knows how long because of this stupid flu!” 

 He waved a noncommittal hand in the air, batting away your worries like he didn’t have seven other boys who depended on him, like he didn’t have a whole company counting on his work, like he didn’t have millions of worldwide fans anticipating his presence. “Eh- to hell with it all, I was bored with work anyway. And besides, I cannot ever stop myself from kissing you, baby. At this point, I’m pretty sure it’s hardwired into my brain as a daily need to function.” He gave you a playful wink, and you rolled your eyes exasperatingly. 

 “You're so stupid,” you grumbled, hating the idea of seeing him go through the same pain you went through. You had survived the worst of it already, but you wouldn’t wish it on anyone - not even your worst enemy. “Well, you better promise that you won’t be a pain in my ass and actually accept my help when you need it.” 

 He shook his head noncommittally, “I shall make no such promises.” You felt a hand clutch at one of your sides, just as he was pulling you against his warm body once more. “Now, c’mere and give me a kiss.” 

 You smiled against his mouth, melting into his hold as he pressed kiss after soft kiss to your lips. 

 Because even though now you were both sick, 

 At least you had each other. 

 And at the end of the day, that’s all that mattered…

 That Minho had you, and you had him. 

 So even despite feeling like a literal ball of hot, steamy garbage baking in the summer heat, 

 You felt like, at that moment, you could whether anything in life - any storm coming your way, any curve ball thrown at you, any toxic person coming into your path, 

 Just as long as you had him by your side. 

 As long as you had Lee Minho, your beautiful, loving, eccentric, doting boyfriend, you’d be just fine. 

 Fin.

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© ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

#stray kids #stray kids minho #stray kids lee know #stray kids x reader #stray kids fic #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids angst #stray kids fluff #minho x reader #minho fic #minho imagines #minho scenarios #minho angst #minho fluff #lee know imagines #lee know scenarios #lee know angst #lee know fluff #lee know x reader #lee know x y/n #minho x y/n #lee know fanfic #minho fanfic #stray kids fanfic #fanfiction #no reposting #kpop imagines #skz minho angst #skz lee know angst

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

Could I please request some modern Thranduil smut? 🔥🔥 I don't care what about ❤ thank you so much

Hello! I hope you don't mind that I picked one of my prompts for this.

Pairing: Modern Thranduil x Fem. Reader (second person POV) | Prompt: Golden

Themes: Smut (lemon) | Soft

Warnings: Kissing | Explicit language | Use of nicknames | Early morning sex |Spanking | Dirty talk | Penetrative sex | Cream pie

Word count: 900+ words

Summary: What happens when curiosity gets the better of you, and Thranduil is woken up just after sunrise? 

Rating: 🔥🔥 | Minors DNI | 18+ | You are responsible for the media you consume.

The rising sun limned the world in shreds of pure gold. Towers great and small looked golden and glorious, as if they had been taken from a painting.

Thranduil paid no mind to it. His attention was on the more pleasurable diversion at hand. His hair spilled over his shoulders like golden silk. His arms shook from exertion. His eyes glittered in the rays of the rising sun. And he heaved over you, ripping a gasp out of you by smacking your thigh.

"Open your eyes," he orders icily. "I want you to look at my face while I fuck you."

You obeyed, letting out a soft moan when he snapped his hips against the insides of your thighs. "But it’s so hard," you protest, "and you feel so good. Can I please close my eyes a little?"

Thranduil responded with another sharp smack that sent electrifying jolts lickings up your spine. "Obey me in this. There," he coos when you open your eyes and look at him. "That’s it. Keep your eyes on me, my needy little kitten, and I will reward you."

He gave you no time to even breathe when he captured your lips with his. Thranduil groaned into your mouth when your nails raked down his shoulders and your heels dug into his back, as if you were urging him to go harder. The sheets had been thrown from the bed because they got in the way, as had the pillows. The bed itself creaked softly in time with his thrusts, and the sinful sounds of jagged breaths and skin slapping against skin rose to drown it out. Thranduil laughed when you fussed about having to keep your eyes open.

"It's your own fault," he retorted, "for waking me up so fucking early by playing with my cock. Now you must suffer the consequences."

Another sharp gasp ripped through you when he reddened your thigh with the flat of his palm. Upon your moan, Thranduil hissed, "Harder?" 

Yes. Yes. Yes. That was what you said, like a desperate chant, a plea for more. Thranduil let out a deep, otherworldly sound. 

"Look at you," he purrs against your ear, "yielding so easily to my touch and surrendering eagerly to my will." 

Thranduil smirked and rewarded you all the same, his hand working in time with his thrusts. Your flesh grew red and tender. You had brought it on yourself, letting your curiosity best you that morning. Having woken up before sunrise,  you ran your hand over Thranduil's exposed body, marveling at how perfect he looked even while he slept. Your hand glided over his soft lips and softer hair and hardened muscle, before sneaking under the coverlet and gliding over his cock. Thranduil had moaned and mumbled in his sleep. You grew bolder still, stroking his length slowly and gently, feeling smug when it swelled and hardened for the warmth of your palm. Thranduil whimpered and moved onto his back. You continued to stroke him, wondering if he would like being woken up like this, with you pleasuring him. You didn't stop until the room had grown eerily still and you turned to face him. He had woken up and was watching you, his eyes ablaze, his lips tugging at the corners. 

Now you were paying for being too curious for your own damn good. And you enjoyed it. White-hot jolts of ecstasy rippled through you every time he spanked a little harder and grabbed your thigh, your hip. His nails left little red indents in their wake. Every time you moaned, every time you arched your back or dug your nails into his skin. Thranduil would fuck you a little faster, go a little harder, a little deeper. And you were being pulled with the tide into a dark tunnel of desire, your velvety walls fluttering and tightening around his thick shaft. Wave after wave of bliss rippled through your body even as he kissed you, his tongue slipping past your parted lips to delve into the sinful warmth of your mouth. He sighed wistfully when your hands brushed through his hair. Sweet tension soon pooled in his belly. 

"I am close," he breathed, his voice thick and hoarse. The heat of his breath spread over the shell of your ear. Your body prickled, and fresh arousal seeped onto his cock. Thranduil moaned and swore lustily. 

"Fuck."

Your legs scrabbled for purchase against his hips. Heat bloomed and spread just beneath the expanse of your skin when your muscles tightened and coiled. 

"So am I!" You cried, sobbing his name, when he thrust deep and sent you over the edge. You kept your eyes on him, on the myriad of expressions that flashed in his blue ones. There was fire and greed and hunger, and even smug satisfaction. You feasted on it all,  even as your orgasm neared. Tranduil didn't stop. He kept up his torturous pace, thrusting as deep as he could go, his moans as desperate as yours. 

Now, you want to cry. Let it be now.

On the next breath, you shuddered and gasped, splintering and shattering when rapture crashed over you like a great wave. You cried out his name again, pleading for him not to stop. Thranduil kept rutting into you, his hips burning, dipping his head and nipping at your throat when that sweet tension within him erupted and he spilt a torrent of his spend in your slit. He moaned again and again, continuing to thrust until he was utterly spent. 

You barely remembered the next minute or two. Everything was a delicious blur. Thranduil gently eased himself off you, moving to his side and pulling you with him. The sun had risen higher in the sky. The bedroom filled with beautiful early morning light while Thranduil pressed tender kisses against your lips. He touched your hair,  your cheek. He traced delicate lines over your eyelids. 

"Do not hesitate to wake me up like that again," he smiled and said. 

#thranduil #modern thranduil #thranduil smut #thranduil imagine #thranduil x reader #x reader #reader insert #reader insert request #the hobbit #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit smut #the hobbit imagine #💫a world of whimsy writes

[be-my-ally]

Sobering Up

Honestly this has some p… uhhh wrong things in - like being told you’re being ‘softened up’ or ‘hysterical’ but it's all in somewhat good fun? Idk reader gets turned on by it, lets not look at the reasons why that is too hard yeah? 

This spiralled out of my control very quickly from a quick oh I’m gonna do a sweet little cuddly soft hungover fic to no. They are gonna argue. 

written for the prompt "Why are you doing this?"

warnings: 18+, arguing, kissing, discussions about alcohol, smut, reader refers to elvis as daddy twice but not actually while uhhh doing anything sexual.

in my head - 1972/3 elvis x fem!reader - I'm picturing blue suit msg elvis; not in the blue suit but that whole look :)

wc: 3.7k of silly little smut

hopefully, those on their deathbeds, cough @whositmcwhatsit cough survive to read this. for the girlies always @thatbanditqueen @ellie-24 @vintageshanny @missmaywemeetagain @from-memphis-with-love apologies it is, as always, late.

He’s in bed when you stumble in, giggling still about something the girls said in the car. You’d said you were just going out to dinner, meeting some of the friends you missed while you were in Vegas with him. Elvis had pouted, and sulked, but your agreement to move in with him permanently had been enough to make him reluctantly agree. Still, he’d rolled around on the bed, huffing and whining that he wanted to come too, and it wasn’t fair to be leaving him all on his lonesome, even as he’d watched you carefully apply your eyeliner, dark eye shadow weighing down your lids. He’d brushed a finger down your cheek when you’d leant over him to reach for something on the bedside table, and told you you looked beautiful before flopping back, lamenting the fact he was not coming with you. Muttering to himself that it wasn’t right for you to be going out looking like that without him. But you’d threatened him thoroughly enough that he’d sworn up down and sideways he would stay home with the boys, even if he made it clear he was regretting his agreement when the time came. 

It’s later than you’d expected now though. You’d all stayed late at the restaurant, putting your seemingly limitless wad of cash he’d handed to you on your way out to good use, before, drunk on the free-flowing cocktails and champagne it had been suggested you go out dancing. It had occurred to you to call, but honestly you figured there wasn’t much difference between one and three am if Elvis was, as you had expected him to be, knocked out asleep. You fall against his bedroom door as it swings open, throwing your bag and coat towards the chair in the corner. He flinches at the thump of them hitting the floor, feet away from where you were aiming. 

“You’re drunk.” He says flatly in greeting. You glance over at him, giggles catching in your throat at his tone. He’s sat up in the bed, book open on his lap, embroidered EP on the chest of his pyjamas just peeking out, he looks sleepy, and if you weren’t quite so tipsy you would have felt guilty about keeping him up waiting for you. As it was the image of him sat in bed waiting for you was enough to make you giggle even more, 

“No, El, no - I’ve only had,” You pause, getting the giggles all over again, “only had a couple.” He shakes his head, kicking the coverlet off of his knees and pulling back the sheets. You can’t catch your breath and you couldn’t tell anyone what it was you were finding so funny, just that you couldn’t stop laughing. 

“Not sure what’s so funny little girl.” His tone is enough to send you over the edge again, just as you were starting to calm down. You trip over your feet when you try to come closer to him and you’re annoyed enough at your ankle twisting in your shoes that it cuts through your laughter, 

“Fucking goddamn heels,”  You try to kick them off, suddenly furious when the strap catches on your ankle and you have to bend over on wobbly legs to fiddle with it enough to unclasp and come off. “Fuck - ow!” You don’t notice Elvis getting out of the bed until he’s grasping your arm, 

“ ‘Nough of that now - your momma would be washing your mouth out if she’d heard that.” You grimace a little - she would have, but still; it hurt! “C’mon now darlin’, let’s get you sobered up a little, get you to bed.” He’s got a firm grip on the top of your arm, and you can tell he’s not altogether pleased, but he’s got a hint of amusement in his tone still. He directs you into the adjoining bathroom, you try to pull back a little but all it results in is his fingers tightening their grip.

“No - wanna, daddy, wanna - thought we could….” Even drunk you’re shy, “…want you to touch me.” He looks at you coldly, and you flinch back, “We haven’t in, in ages.” If you’d been sober you never would have dared to bring it up. He huffs, puffing his chest up, as if about to argue you with you but then he seems to deflate, as if knowing he had no defence. 

“Well if you weren’t out all hours of the night we could have.” He leans forward to turn the taps in the circular shower, water immediately pulsing out; his water pressure was something you had only dreamed of. You pull away, already feeling that it’s nowhere near the temperature you would prefer but he just tuts at you, stripping you of the skimpy little dress you’d gone out in. You go dazedly where he tugs you, he rolls your eyes at your little lace underwear, 

“Who’d you put these on for?” He flicks the lace at your hip as he pulls them off of you, forcing you to lift your feet when he taps your leg. 

“Yo-ou! Who else?” He hums back at you, and you squirm, too drunk to really defend yourself and a little confused at what was going on. You’re normally still a little shy to be fully naked around him, but today you’re just trying to keep your eyes open, hands rubbing your eyes rather than wrapped around your middle. A moment later he’s practically shoving you under the shower head and he holds you there until your flush starts to come down a little and you’re blinking at him a little more together. The spray wasn’t cold, he wasn’t a monster, but it wasn’t hot either. 

“El, Elvis, ba-by, let me out- it’s cold, I’m fine now, I swear - I’m uh, uh, not even tipsy.” He frowns for a moment, as if considering, and you wrap an arm around yourself, he rolls his eyes. He hands you a washcloth, instructing you to wash your face, and you do as he says while doing the best you can to keep your hair from getting wet.

He pulls you out, pyjama arm rolled up to his elbow to stop it from getting damp and he grasps a monogrammed towel, roughly rubbing the soft cotton over your skin. He grasps each arm to dry it, manhandling you around as he brushes the towel over your body. You’ve sobered up enough not to say anything, catching on that his silence isn’t a good sign, although you’re definitely, despite your protestations, not of completely sound mind. He leaves you stood there, after draping a robe around you, to fetch your pyjamas, and in the time that he’s gone you’re rapidly sobering enough to be teary at the thought that he’s mad at you. 

He comes back, tutting at your tears, dressing you in a skimpy little babydoll set and pulling you over to the bed, pushing you under the covers. You can’t take the silence any longer, now that you’re aware of it. 

“Please - Elvis, daddy, I’m sorry,” He hushes you, louder than your words.

“I ain’t discussin’ it with you now darlin’,” He glances over at the clock on the nightstand, “It’s way past your bedtime.” You frown up at him, you might have been a little bit later than usual, but you weren’t a child; you weren’t out past your curfew or bedtime. Your eyebrows scrunch together and he tuts as he smooths out the crinkle in between with a finger, “Your face’ll stay that way.” You scowl for a brief second before smoothing out your expression. You change tacts - pleading at him with your eyes and pouting. He’s having none of it though, pulling the covers over you tight. You watch him pick up the robe and towel, throwing them into the bathroom and moving your shoes so they’re not a trip hazard in the night, before climbing into bed behind you. You hear him reach for his pill bottle, and you want to ask for one yourself but you can already feel your eyes closing, before he pulls you to him. You sniffle into the pillow as his arm tightens around your waist; 

“I don’t wanna hear you’ve got a headache in the morning.” He murmurs against your cheek as he leans over to press a kiss to your temple. He says it as a statement and you nod in reply even as your eyes start to tear at the tone. His hands belie such harsh words though, gently scooping you into him. Quickly you succumb to the darkness creeping around the edges of your vision and you’re fast asleep before you could even protest your innocence. 

———————

The world is spinning with each breath you take when you awaken in what you think is the morning, your heartbeat causing the edges of your vision to pulse. You feel dizzy enough that the idea of sitting up threatens vomit and you are, for once, more than a little glad that Elvis keeps his bedroom so dark and cold. You’re not alone in the bed, hangover waking you far earlier than you normally would be, Elvis still snuffling behind you. You’re in a bit of a daze as you try to wriggle out of his hold and swing your legs around, desperate for the bathroom. You go, blindly, with no concept of what time it might be not in your little oasis of dark. 

When you get back he’s half-awake, palm open and pill in his hand, sat propped up a little atop his mountain of pillows. You take a second to appreciate his open face and sleep-mussed hair, regretting that you feel too awful to even really initiate a kiss. He opens his eyes when he feels you climbing back into bed, smiling as they fall shut again; 

“Come on honey, here ya go, forgot to have it last night didn’t ya, wanna - need to go back to sleep for a few hours baby,” You shake your head, 

“El- I don’t think, I’m still pretty blitzed, I - I’m really not sure,” You push his hand away a little, “I don’t even know what’s in it,” He huffs, eyes closed but palm still outstretched, slurring his words slightly, 

“You don’t - you saying you don’t trust me hon-ey?” He frowns, “You should - should trust me, I - it’s all in, all in my PDR’s, in, in the supl’ment -I, baby, I wouldn’t risk ya.” His eyes blink blearily open before they slip closed again, shaking his hand out at you. 

“Of course I trust you but, I -“ He blinks his eyes open again, tone hardening even despite the way all of his words are running together, 

“Just take the damn pill. I ain’t gonna hurt you.” You look at him, before resigning yourself to it, taking and swallowing the pill, relieved that the quality of sleep might mean that when you wake up later you might be feeling better. You snuggle down into him and he wraps his arms back around you, a furnace amidst the cold bedding. 

———————

He’s grumpy in the afternoon when you finally wake up, your mini argument the night before not helping his mood from where he was already furious. He storms about the room and bathroom, flinging clothes and stomping around, but clearly having not been up for long - still in his pyjamas, hair fluffy and a mess. You come around to him talking to himself, 

“Fuckin’ woman, out all hours of the goddamn night with god-knows who, not listenin’ to me, not trustin’ me.” You’re immediately defensive, even as you try to deal with your dry mouth and throbbing headache. 

“I do, I do trust you.” You manage to croak out. He spins around to stare at you, 

“Oh, you trust me.” He laughs, and then pauses, “But you didn’t want me around last night!  You just too busy wanting to show off for everyone?” You choke back tears - your head is still pounding and you hate how unsympathetic he’s being, like he’s punishing you for a night out with your friends, how he’s making you feel like you’ve done something wrong. You push yourself to be sitting fully upright, still blinking away sleep. 

“Of course I’d want you there! I told you that! But, I just wanted one night, it’s tricky to go out - you know that.” You know he’ll need more reassurance later but for now you were hopeful that would be sufficient to quell his feelings for now - although as he scoffs in response you have to assume you were wrong. You quickly try to distract him again so you can concentrate on the part that was, no doubt, angering him the most. “But, I do trust you.” 

He stops in his tracks, stalking back over to perch on the bed, 

“You got-a funny way of showing it then little girl,”

“I just didn’t know if it was safe to mix!” He frowns, shaking his head, 

“Of course it was - I was givin' it to ya wasn’t I?” You nod, but still despite the warning bells in your ear, you can’t seem to let it go. 

“Well yeah - but I still didn’t know for sure it was safe.” 

“Well it is. Unless you’ve got…got… psychosis.” He laughs, a little meanly, shrugging, “Although maybe you do huh, it would ‘plain a lot.” You shove the covers off of yourself, furious, 

“You don’t hafta be so mean to me!” His eyes flash and the little thrill of fear it causes makes you stumble as you go to pull a dressing gown over your shoulders. He comes up behind you, his large hands resting on your shoulders, leaning over to brush his lips against your ear. 

“I ain’t bein’ mean to you honey. If anything it’s the opposite - I’m just tryna to tell you it’s not, not, becoming for a pretty little girl to be out behavin’ like this. Comin’ home in a state.”

“I wasn’t out behaving like, like, anything!” You’re indignant on this point, voice raising. 

“Shhh baby,” He strokes your hair, smoothing the back of it. “It’s ok now, c’mon calm down. There ain’t no need for the hysterics.” You cringe, as if that wasn’t your least favourite term to be called as a woman - you understood what it meant to call a woman hysterical, and the amount it annoys you is enough to make you see red, shrugging his hands off of you and spinning around to face him.

“Listen! If I wanna go out and have a few drinks I can, I’m a big girl and I don’t need you, or anyone else,” He frowns, “policing what I can or can’t do. I don’t know why you have such a problem with it!”

“I’ve just told ya why darlin’ - because it’s not right for a pretty little thing like yourself to be doing by yourself.” He smiles, like he’s finding your annoyance amusing now, making you screech back at him. 

“I wasn’t by myself! You just mean without you!” The rest of his sentence suddenly registers in your mind, and you step back in slight incredulity,  “So. If I wasn’t pretty I could get drunk whenever I wanted?” 

He shakes his head, “You’re twistin’ my words, that wasn’t what I was -“ A thought suddenly occurs to you, and you interrupt him to ask, 

“Anyway how’s it any different to your pills?” He splutters at you for a second, cheeks flushing red. 

“Goddamn it you silly - stupid girl.” He’s stepped even closer to you and you have to look up to maintain eye contact. “They’re prescribed.” He’s glaring at you, eyes ablaze, cheeks sucked in as he chews on the inside and gritting his teeth. It emphasises his cheekbones even more and you feel the anger in your stomach start to turn to fluttering butterflies of arousal. No. Oh god, his hair is so fluffy. Focus. You’re annoyed. You remind yourself. Tilting your chin up in an effort to not to get distracted by the peek of his chest heaving under the open collar of his pyjama shirt. 

“Why are you doing this E? Why are you being like this? You haven’t gotta treat me like this.” You go to push past him, he grunts as you shove his side. 

“Don’t.” His voice has gotten lower, in anger or annoyance or arousal you can’t tell, but it’s deliciously gravelly. “Just listen to me for chrissake.” He grabs your arm, turning you and pulling to practically fling you back on the bed.

You wriggle around, not able to stop yourself from wanting him to catch you. He does, crawling onto the bed, caging you within his arms. You roll over, little shorts and shirt riding up, and he catches you with his hand swinging down on your exposed ass. You flinch as he smacks it a second, and then a third time - you yelp and he laughs, as you feel a handprint raising on your skin. He rolls you back as you mewl at him, forgetting your earlier resolution to be as stand-offish as possible instead holding his arm as tightly as possible. Allowing yourself to be tugged into him and tucking yourself under. He noses at your cheek, whispering into your ear, 

“That’s it baby, just had to soften you up a little bit didn’t I,” You whine back at him, not wanting to agree but suddenly so turned on you couldn’t bring yourself to disagree. “That’s my good baby back now,” Elvis leans down, petting you gently, little sweeping strokes down your arm and stomach. “My little baby, huh,” He mouths at your neck and cheek and you can’t help but lean into him. 

“Uh-huh,” He huffs a laugh across your skin at your loss of words and attitude, 

“Gonna make it up to me? 'pologise for being so difficult earlier? For not trusting me.” It’s a question phrased like a statement and you frantically nod your agreement. He kisses down your throat and you struggle to put a hand out in an attempt to grasp at his chest, 

“Let me - I’ll - I’m sorry, sorry for earlier.” He bats your hand off of him though, tilting your head with a hand on your neck, the other coming to wrap around your torso, finally kissing you properly. He grips you just right, thumb moving in little firm circles right over your pressure point. 

You let yourself be devoured, hips pushed back down when they jump up in response to the actions of his tongue and lips. He pulls back, his pouty spit-slicked lips glowing in the lamplight of the bedroom. He moves his hand lower, brushing the little French knickers of your set up and to the side.

You feel your pulse jump as he barely rests his hand on your now exposed cunt, the anticipation almost too much to bear. “Let me show you all the tricks I’ve learnt as a gee-tar player honey.” You’re quick to agree, practically begging. His fingers slide over you and you can’t help but move your hips in time to his gentle roving circles. You continue to squirm when he leans back down to suck a bruise onto your collarbone, forcing a loud moan out of you. His fingers are long and slim and undoubtedly he knows exactly how to use them, teasing expertly over your clit to make your eyes fall closed. 

He has, for once, only got his little pinky ring on and in some ways it feels strange to be feeling his hands without the cold metal of his rings. But there’s no doubt of whose hands they are as he coos into your ear. He uses his fingers to spread you apart, pushing the little shorts even further to the side, fingers sliding in the slick in between. 

“Don’t - don’t tease me - s’not nice.” Your hips thrust closer to him as he laughs against the side of your face, breath huffing across your cheek. He lifts his hand away, hovering just over top of you. 

“Thought you were ‘pologisin’ to me - thought that meant you’d let me do what I like?” His voice is lyrical in your ears, sing-songing as he teases you. He’s circling almost painstakingly gently, moving closer and closer, dancing over your skin, 

“God - yes, you’re right - whatever you say - just god, Elvis. I need you.” 

Finally, he dips one of his nimble fingers down into you, a second rapidly joining when you moan in pure pleasure. He presses them into you, other hand still grasping your neck while he continues to circle your clit with his thumb. 

“Told you darling,” His fingers speed up, “see - now you’re seeing sense aren’t you.” Any argument has been truly fucked out of you. Your knees come up as he speeds up even more, your legs spreading further seemingly of their own accord. His hand comes down from your neck, trailing over your throat and you reach up to anchor yourself to it, clutching at his forearm - a lifeline amidst the sensations. 

He crooks his fingers just right and you feel yourself start to quiver as your potential orgasm builds. You have to close your eyes entirely, although the way his face looks - focussed with absurd concentration -  atop his flushed visible chest makes it harder to draw yourself away. 

His other hand trails down, stopping to affectionately squeeze a nipple on the way, the slight pinch sending more arousal flooding into your stomach. He finishes you off with seemingly minimal effort and you can tell he’s growing a little smug with it. You shudder around his hand, core muscles crunching as you try to blindly, desperately, tug him down for another kiss. He gently continues to pet you through your orgasm, only pulling out and away when you start to gasp at the sheer lack of breath. 

He lets you relax for a few moments, wiping his hand on your shorts and thigh. He draws you back in for another filthy kiss, open-mouthed and pressing his lips to any part of you they can reach. 

“Lord, gosh - El that was…” You don’t have the words to articulate what you mean so you settle with, “Sorry, again, - about last night.”  He sits up properly at those words and gestures down at himself, unbuttoning his shirt as he does. 

“Come on then, show me how sorry you are baby.” He waves a hand at the bulge clearly evident in his silk bottoms, “Give him a kiss, s’ok honey, want you to - to say sorry properly for leaving us at home.” 

#elvis fanfic #elvis smut #be-my-ally #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis x you #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #baby big daddy elvis #1972 supremacy #elvis presley smut #writing prompt game

[spectral-musette]

belatedly, for the obitine week prompt “armor”:

I’m not sure if there’s canon (or legends content) about this, but I’m pretty sure somewhere in Mandalorian culture there should be rituals involved in taking off your lover/spouse/partner’s armor...

(ficlet under the cut, ~800 words)

           Satine stretched for her bedside table, searching in the darkness for her comm unit to check the time.

           The viewport, just visible through the sheer curtains shrouding the bed, showed the otherworldly glow of hyperspace, where there was neither morning nor night. She squinted at the screen and quickly dimmed it as soon as it lit.

           Sundari time was early morning yet, about an hour before she was usually up to check messages and make tea. Coruscant time was the small hours, which explained why Obi-Wan was still deeply asleep next to her.

           She indulged in a long look at him. He’d pushed aside the coverlet at some point. One hand rested against his bare chest, the other was stretched towards her. She wanted to brush soft kisses against his eyelids, his freckled nose, the swell of his lower lip.

           Instead, she pushed herself up, swinging her feet to the floor and kicking through the jumble of clothing until she found her chemise.

           It was an enticing garment, silken, slightly sheer, and elegantly draping. She felt her cheeks heat at little, both in slight embarrassment at her own calculated purpose in choosing it, and at the memory of the enthusiastic response it had elicited. In addition to its other attractions, it was quite comfortable, soft and just the right weight for the comfortable warmth of her bedchamber on the Coronet.

           She knelt on the floor, still sorting through the discarded garments. At the bottom of the heap, her fingers met a cold, hard surface, and she couldn’t help making a disdainful face as she extracted and studied the armor piece.

           She pushed aside her feelings of self consciousness and the little knot of strange, primal dread that always accompanied her performance of her version of this ritual, and she splayed her palm flat against Obi-Wan’s breastplate.

             Sacred plate that shields the heart of my beloved, remain whole and strong until the next time I unfasten you to show him my love.

             She bent and kissed it, then turned it a little toward the dimmed wall sconce to check for any stray traces of her lip rouge (though she expected it was long since smudged off her mouth) on the bright white surface.

           “Satine.”

           Obi-Wan’s voice startled her, and she fumbled the breastplate, dropping it onto her lap.

           He had rolled over onto his side, his expression quizzical and his hair adorably tousled, falling over his forehead in thick, heavy waves.

           Caught in the act, she heaved a sigh and reluctantly confessed. “It’s an old Mandalorian custom, blessing the armor of a loved one.”

           He smiled a little, affectionate and gentle, and sat up, holding out a hand to her.

           She set aside the armor and went to him, climbing back onto the bed and stretching out next to him, only the cool, delicate silk of the chemise between them.

           “Thank you,” he said gravely.

           “You don’t have to pretend to believe in it,” she chided. “I’m not sure I believe in it.”

           “But you do it,” he pointed out, smoothing her hair tenderly off her forehead.

           “Well, it’s worked so far,” she said, smiling a little as she traced a fingertip lightly through his chest hair. “At this point, it doesn’t feel right to risk it.”

           “Do you give this blessing every time we’re together?”

           “Every time you have the nerve to wear that awful armor when you come to me,” she retorted, quirking a smile at him.

           He ran a hand over his beard thoughtfully. “Is that how it’s meant to be done? In secret, while your loved one sleeps?”

           She shook her head. “Nothing about what I have been doing is really what should be done.”

           The armor should be beskar.

           The lover should be a Mandalorian warrior, and most certainly not a Jedi.

           And the blessing should be bestowed when the armor is removed, each piece set aside with reverence, not the impatient way she peels him out of his, like a hungry seabird with a shellfish. Though that last part, she would expect, tended to be often modified, knowing Mandalorians.

           “Now that I know, can we do it properly?” He sounded eager to please her.

           She shook her head, smiling at him fondly. “If you like, I would love you to be part of it,” she said. “But it can’t ever be quite proper, I’m afraid.”

           He took her hand, kissing her fingertips and giving her a melancholy smile, acknowledging the difference in creed that had always been an impediment to their attempts to be part of each other’s lives.

           “My ancestors will never forgive me. Not when you wear that plastoid rubbish you choose to call armor.”

           He laughed, pulling her into a long kiss.

#Obi Wan Kenobi #Satine Kryze #Obi Wan/Satine #obitine #obitine week 2022 #Star Wars art #my art #pencil sketches #I wrote a thing #okay I thought that clone/jedi commander armor was made of plastisteel but turns out it's called plastoid #possibly I've gotten this wrong in the past lol #sometimes I just let my heart guide me on the Star Wars lingo because I've been cosuming EU content for so long it's generally in my bones #but apparently my heart is wrong sometimes

[sluttywoozi]

I. Jump Then Fall

Word Count: ~3.2k | Rating: T | F!Reader

Warnings: mentions of food and alcohol

It’s Nice To Have A Friend Prologue

Jeonghan holds his breath as he stands next to you at the foot of the bed, singular, praying you won’t yell at him.

“Jeonghan,” you begin placidly, “Why is there only one bed? I thought you were requesting two.”

Oh fuck, he’s in trouble.

“Umm, so, the thing is,” he starts, “the Honeymoon Suite only comes with one bed, and I thought it would be too suspicious to ask for a cot, so I thought we could just… share?”

You nod, biting your lips between your teeth and heaving your suitcase up onto the coverlet.

Jeonghan just stands there, unsure of what to do with your non-reaction, and waits for the scolding to start.

You glance at him, unzipping your suitcase and starting to unpack, seemingly confused as to why he’s not doing the same.

“Can I have the window side? And most of the closet?” you ask absentmindedly, sorting through your outfits and laying out what needs to be hung.

Jeonghan nods slowly, his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed as he tries to figure out your game. You’re already in the closet, grabbing hangers and trying to organize your clothes into day and nightwear so Jeonghan starts unpacking too, still suspicious of your lack of anger.

He really expected more of a reaction, considering you have a weird thing about being close to him. It’s not that you don’t like touching, because all of your friends are lovey-dovey with you, and it’s not that you don’t like him, because he’s your best friend. It’s just that you don’t like when he touches you, or stands close to you, or slings an arm around your shoulders, or weaves his arm through the loop yours makes when your hand is in your pocket.

It used to hurt his feelings, and it honestly still stings a bit, but maybe you’ve made some progress if you’re okay sharing a bed with him?

Jeonghan doesn’t know, but he does know that the dresses you’re hanging up are ones he’s never seen before, made of silk and velvet and satin, greens and purples and reds that will look beautiful with your complexion.

You’ve always dressed for yourself, but these are far from your usual style and he wonders where and when you got them, and why he’s never seen them on you before.

He’s not naive enough to think they’re for him, and figures you must have gone on a little spree after he told you of his plan.

You’d thought he was kidding when he brought it up, pretending to be newlyweds so you could get a room upgrade, but it seemed foolproof to him, and completely worth it. You took some warming up, nervous about how convincing you could be, and he fears you’re still not completely on board.

He can’t blame you, it’s a bit risky and slightly dishonest and you’ll have to pretend to be a couple in the hotel, but you’re best friends, how hard can it be?

Very hard, apparently.

Jeonghan’s not used to you being so touchy, so handsy, with him, and he has to hold in a shiver every time your hand brushes his arm at the concierge desk. You’re working out dinner reservations, beach bag leaning against the desk and skin smelling faintly of sunscreen, your melodic voice kindly asking for recommendations in town. Jeonghan practices deep breathing at your side, wondering why he’s suddenly so aware of you, and tries not to gasp when you lean your head into his shoulder and tell the employee that he has a few dietary issues the staff should be aware of.

Jeonghan’s shocked you’re taking charge like this, usually you let him make the decisions and do the talking, but it’s like you’re different here.

You look different too, radiant and glowing and stylish in your travel set, and when you tug him away from the desk, he realizes he’d zoned out staring at you.

He does that sometimes, looks at you and lets his mind run, so you don’t question it, just pull him by the hand through the lobby and stop in front of the beach trolley line.

It’s a beautiful day, and Jeonghan can’t wait to get to the water.

He doubts you’ll join him; you’ll probably stay under the umbrella and read your book like always, and he’ll go out to the waves for a while and come back to shake his hair out right next to you just to hear your squeal at the cold water hitting your skin. It’s a tradition he’s kept up since your first beach day, only then he’d brought a whole bucket of sea water to pour over you.

It didn’t go well, and he spent the rest of the day trying to get you to smile at him again.

Buying you ice cream was what did the trick, and ever since then it’s been his go to fix for whenever he fucks up.

The trolley pulls up and Jeonghan lets you board first, taking the bag from you and storing it overhead before plopping down next to you with a sigh.

He already feels a bit tired and considers for once staying with you under the umbrella, wonders if you’d be willing to read to him and maybe run your fingers through his hair like you do sometimes when he’s sad.

He’s not sad now, but it’s so soothing and it’s one of the few ways you let him get close to you, and he can’t think of anything better than your voice in his ears and your fingers in his hair with the sound of waves crashing in the background.

The trolley bounces over a pothole and he bumps sideways into you, noticing for the first time the lack of seatbelts and wrapping his arm around your shoulders to hold you secure to him. Oddly enough, you allow it and even lean into his side, resting your head in the crook of his neck and sighing.

Jeonghan can feel your eyelashes flutter against his skin and something else flutters in his stomach, something warm and unfamiliar. He doesn’t hate the feeling but he can’t say he loves it, and he would try to figure out the source if the trolley wasn’t currently pulling up to the beach club. The water looks so inviting, clear and blue and beautiful, and the beach is dotted with umbrellas and loungers, employees with drink trays weaving in and out of the clusters of guests.

Jeonghan shoots up out of his seat, jostling you, and apologizes with gentle hands and a grimace before lifting the bag from the overhead storage and grabbing your hand to tug you off the trolley.

You allow it, giggling at how he speeds up once his shoes touch sand, and that weird fluttering starts up again. Jeonghan ignores it, decides it’s just not important right now, and pulls you to what he deems the best lounger duo on all the beach.

You’re dozing under the umbrella when Jeonghan returns from the water. He considers waking you up with his traditional wet dog shake, but you look too peaceful, too content. Your head’s tilted to the side, open book resting on your chest, and your knees are pulled up like you’d tried to curl up on the lounger. He wonders if you’re cold, then sees your form shiver a bit when another ocean breeze brushes over your skin so he unrolls his towel and gently drapes it over you. A sigh escapes you and you turn to the side, your book starting to shift off your chest before Jeonghan catches it and slides your bookmark in, storing it safely in the beach bag for when you wake up. He knows he could go back out to the water, but for some reason he feels weird thinking about leaving you alone and asleep in an unfamiliar place, so he settles in for his own nap, letting his eyes fall closed and ignoring the way he can’t seem to turn his head away from you.

Jeonghan is starving when he wakes up, and suspiciously warm. He opens his eyes to find himself covered by the towel and you missing, and he frantically swivels his eyes over the shore, knowing he won’t find you in the water but fearing it nonetheless. You’re nowhere to be seen, and he stumbles off the chair and out from under the umbrella to search the beach, his hair blowing in the wind as he turns in a slow circle. He can’t seem to find you, and he’s starting to get worried.

It’s not like you to wander off, especially without him, and he knows nothing bad has happened to you, but what if it did? What if something bad did happen, and Jeonghan was asleep and he couldn’t protect you and now you’re hurt and alone and probably scared and there’s nothing he can do? He’s trying not to spiral, but it’s hard when you’ve disappeared like this, and it only gets worse when he rifles through the beach bag to get his phone and finds yours instead.

You take your phone everywhere, and it only increases his worry to know that you don’t have it now and that you have no way to contact him if you need help.

He’s wondering if he should call the police when you appear from behind the umbrella, your hands occupied with coconuts.

Jeonghan could throttle you, but he could also gather you up tight in his arms and never let you go, so he settles for a good scolding, just like you taught him.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? I woke up and you were gone, and you didn’t take your phone, and we’re on an island we’ve never been to, and I was so worried!”

Okay, so maybe not quite a scolding but he thinks he got his point across.

You raise an eyebrow, holding out his drink and waiting for him to take it before settling back down on the lounger, digging through the bag to find your book.

“Jeonghan,” you begin, and already he knows you’re going to admonish him, “You were asleep, I didn’t want to wake you up, and I’m an adult. I’m capable of going five minutes up the beach to get us drinks.”

He sighs, knowing you’re right but also knowing he can’t admit it, so he takes a sip of his drink instead and begrudgingly thanks you for going to get them.

You sit in silence for a while, slowly downing the cocktails and taking in the soothing sounds of the waves, until Jeonghan feels his stomach rumble and disturb the peace.

“Lunch?” he asks tentatively.

It had taken some walking but finally, you approach a streetside bistro that Jeonghan believes is worthy of you.

You’d been happy with the four you’d passed on the way here, but Jeonghan was starting to feel a bit bad he’d locked you into pretending to be married to him so he wanted to find the best for you. This one looks really authentic, blue and white awnings and lemons everywhere, signs in Italian boasting the best carbonara on the coast and a chef making pasta in the front window. He thinks he recognizes the name from the travel blogs he’d followed in preparation for the trip and gleefully informs the host you’d like a table for two in carefully practiced Italian, much to your obvious surprise.

Jeonghan may or may not have been secretly learning the basics of the language since you’d brought up this location, through videos, free textbooks, and a trial of Rosetta Stone that he canceled before the charge went through on his card. You’re walking ahead of him as you follow the host to your table so he can’t tell if you’re impressed, but he really hopes you are.

Lately there’s been a separation between you and him, different from the distance you’ve always kept. He’s not sure if he did something wrong or if you’re going through something and not ready to tell him, but he misses you.

Fuck, Jeonghan misses you and that’s why this trip needs to go perfectly.

The carbonara was incredible, as was the limoncello the server brought over after the meal, the both of you downing one shot and then sipping another before paying the bill and starting to meander about town.

There are small shops everywhere, filled with clothing and ceramics and knick knacks, and Jeonghan doesn’t even try to fake annoyance at you pulling him into every single one. You spend the afternoon excitedly pointing at things you think he’d like, begging him to buy at least one with puppy eyes and a quivering bottom lip. He settles on a tiny lemon pitcher, barely large enough to hold a shot of limoncello but so cute he just couldn’t resist. He also couldn’t resist buying you a matching one, clinking them together in a cheers motion before the employee wrapped them up in paper and handed them over in a small gift bag.

You seem more at ease and Jeonghan feels himself loosen up as well, his moods almost always reflecting your own. It’s not something he does on purpose, he just seems to unconsciously shift to match your wavelength. It feels like something in him is always reaching out to you, wanting to be close even as you keep your distance.

He tries not to think about it too much, how different you’ve been, but your behavior so far contrasts sharply with how you are at home. Here, you hold his gaze, laugh at his jokes, lean into his touch instead of flinching away.

Jeonghan almost doesn’t know what to do with himself, torn between the urge to find out what’s changed and the fear that if he says anything you’ll close up again. It takes little to no time for him to decide not to question it - he enjoys this version of you too much to risk disrupting the fragile ease you have with him now.

It’s easier to interact with you once the decision is made, easier to throw an arm around your shoulders and tug you back to the trolley, to hold your hand tight as you walk through the lobby, to pull you into his arms in the elevator when he notices the other occupant staring a bit too closely at you.

Even easier is falling into bed next to you for an afternoon nap, minds fuzzy from limoncello and bodies heavy from delicious food and a day spent in the sun. Your breathing evens out just as Jeonghan’s eyes flutter closed, the distant roar of waves crashing onto cliffs swallowing his sigh and settling his nerves enough for him to reach out across the sheets and link his pinky finger with yours, inching just a bit closer before letting sleep overtake him.

The sun is setting when Jeonghan jerks awake, the incessant buzzing of a phone making his face scrunch and an irritated groan bubble up in his chest. He'd been sleeping so soundly, dreaming of something beautiful enough to reignite the strange feeling in his stomach. He can't remember what it was but he wonders if it might have something to do with the way you're sprawled over him, your leg hooked around the inside of his and your head resting on his chest.

You haven't been this close to him in ages and he can feel his heart speeding up, feel it thumping against his ribs as you stir, your cheek rubbing against his pec and your fingers clenching in his shirt. He can't reach your phone without disturbing you but you'll wake up anyway if it keeps going off, and he remembers in the back of his mind that you'd made dinner reservations.

You'll be upset if you miss them, both because you think it's rude and because you're excited for the menu, so he gently nudges you off of his body and reaches over you to grab at your phone.

His eyes widen when he sees the time, not realizing just how long of an afternoon nap you'd taken. It's nearing 6:30 so you have just enough time to get ready and grab a cab, and Jeonghan brushes a hand over your head, letting his thumb trace your brow bone until your eyes blink open.

You look adorable, sleepy and confused and a bit annoyed at being woken up, but your face clears when he shows you the clock.

"I totally forgot about dinner," you laugh, your voice still a bit raspy with sleep and sending a shiver down Jeonghan's spine.

That was weird, he thinks, but the thought doesn't linger as he slides off the bed with you, walking over to the closet and waiting for you to pick out your outfit so he can coordinate his shirt.

Jeonghan joins you at the large mirror across from the bed, fixing his hair as you swipe on some mascara, and tries not to think about how good you look together.

He supposes it's beneficial for the plan, but that odd feeling is back and it only grows when you pull on your heels and reach a hand out to him. He's tangled his fingers with yours before the thought to do so even enters his mind, and he follows as you lead him from the suite and toward the elevator. He can feel how fondly he's staring at you as you excitedly babble about the different dishes the restaurant is known for, and Jeonghan wonders if he should worry about how easy it is to pretend to be in love with you.

Jeonghan's still holding your hand as you stumble back to the hotel, your lips tinged with red wine and drawing his gaze. You glow in the weak golden streetlights, your heels clicking on cobblestones and your sweet voice ringing out into the streets. The food was life-changing, linguine tossed in half a wheel of flaming parmesan and topped with freshly shaved truffle, and he pats his full stomach with his free hand, the look on your face as they lit the cheese on fire still at the forefront of his mind.

He hasn't seen you that giddy in months, hasn't felt the shine of your eyes on him or gotten to marvel at the way your cheeks push up the outer corners of your eyes in just as long, and Jeonghan is doing his best to soak it all in. He loves seeing you so happy, so carefree, and somewhere in the back of his alcohol addled mind, he realizes he wouldn't mind being married to you for real if it meant he could keep you like this.

Shaking his head, Jeonghan dislodges the thought and shoves it into a box in the dark corner of his brain, ignoring the way it rattles against the cardboard every time he looks at you. He needs to stop overanalyzing and start enjoying this trip for what it is: two best friends pretending to husband and wife in a completely platonic manner.

And if every step closer to the hotel makes his feelings a bit less platonic, he'll just keep that to himself.

AN: oof from the bottom of my heart, my bad for taking a month to release chapter one 😭😭 i’ve had some major writers block and also really fun things going on in my life and it’s been hard to sit down and write lately but today things were flowing so yay!!

on the taglist form, the poll is mostly split in half so im just going to post as i finish chapters and you can decide if you want to wait or not 💖

INTHAF Masterlist

It's Nice To Have A Friend Taglist

My Taglist

My Masterlist

Part Two

Taglist: @monamonay @marimossy @smalliechelle @pearlygraysky @dreamhannies @jihoonliker @seizethedaygodhatesus @dejavernon @sehyns @flrtsbin @lilactangerine @justasoftstan @run2bmgyu @siouxx13 @bvbblytea @rubyreduji @m1nghaos @sweetnsourhannie @marksflute @cheonsacakes @ateezworlds @listxn @asweeetdisposition @kussaaaaa @dxrlxb @gfksz @yongwonu @xuimhao @catwonwoo @hao-topia @1004luvangel @awkwardnesshabitat @jarjarabinx @jeanjacketjesus @nanamioo @cindyp19 @club-mom @stoobfoobnoob @samedreamsamemind @butterfliesintgenightsky @ohgeezitsbreadgenie @funyunmoon @scoupshawt @burningupp-replies @winterbeartaehyungbestboy @kt-my @baechannnss @greykageyama @rhoemantically @burning-maam @prismwon @ddaengpotate @raybans4 @drink-my-soul @denacey @ace-eee @seung-sungs @knife-scream @uwukook @wonweirdo @luveveryonewoo @itsscrystal @miuhao @a-venture @shimyshimykoko @starmight-charmer

#jeonghan fluff #yoon jeonghan x reader #jeonghan x you #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan x y/n #seventeen fluff #✨emily writes✨ #💍it's nice to have a friend💍

[wri0thesley]

i was working on ur request and got side tracked. thinking about yan diluc and how bad he wants his captive little darling.. jerking off to the thought of them, moaning their name, so so frustrated and he aches with want. and reader. reader hears it every time, sometimes is witness to it. how desperate he is, how obsessed he is. maybe reader is sometimes awoken by the sound of him while he sleeps next to them. maybe he does it in front of them because he won't hurt you but please, please let him look at you? holding you down while he jacks off, eyes clenched closed so he can pretend it's in you. steadily losing his resolve bit by bit. ohoho my mind is running rampant.

every day. EVERY DAY i think about yan diluc. i am so sorry to my followers but i see a pathetic aristocratic repressed man and i go AHJDVNJKFVDJNKFVkjn.

cw: kidnapping, non-consensual touching, yandere, reader wears a nightgown, diluc's saviour complex. (bondage and being fed in a Non Sexy way) dub-con/non-con.

He makes you sleep in his bed.

It's for precaution, he insists, his crimson gaze not quite meeting your own; to ensure that you're safe. He just feels more comfortable, more assured that you are sheltered from the dangers of the world, if you slumber beside him - if he slips in late at night after whatever business he attends to that has him come back smelling of blood and burning, and sees you peaceful beneath his own coverlets.

You hold your tongue; bite back the insistence that you would be safer if you were not a captive in the house of a madman, if you were permitted your freedom, if he wasn't so selfish and disgusting and monstrous. You have long since learnt such protestations mean nothing to Diluc; he simply bows his head, face anguished, and makes a quiet noise of agreement that he is a monster.

("It is worth it, though," he says, and you see the vision he wears at his hip glow for a moment, "to know that you are safe, beloved.")

One falls quickly into routine when routine is all that one is allowed to partake in. You are permitted only the smallest freedoms; most of your time is spent under Adelinde's watchful eye, trapped in the four walls of the winery, wishing you had appreciated the freedom of Monstadt when you were still able to partake in what the Anemo Archon blessed you with.

And your routine, now, includes . . . slipping on one of the expensive confections of frill and lace and chiffon that Diluc buys you to wear in bed. Spraying some of the perfume that he brings back from his trips, in the vain hope that it will drown out Diluc's own particular cedarwood and vintage wine and iron scent. Slipping beneath the covers and hoping that sleep will come easy to you, that you will not be woken by the inevitable--

You always are. The feel of the bed dipping down beside you; the soft sigh that escapes Diluc's mouth, as the covers are pulled down and you are revealed to his hungry eyes.

The nightgowns are modest; innocent, even. They are all frills and fanciful creams and ivories, georgette sleeves that drape over your shoulders, ruching and delicate lamp-grass embroidery and little ribbons in Diluc's favourite colour (red, it's always red). That just seems to rile him up more.

The feel of a hand, grazing atop of the fabric - his hand searing heat even when he does not fully touch you. The soft little groan of your name, so longing and wanting it almost makes you sick. And then . . . the sound of Diluc's own nightclothes, being displaced. The wet shlick of skin-on-skin, as he touches himself to the sight of your helpless body, whilst he thinks you're sleeping.

You have lost count of the number of times you have woken to the sounds of Diluc touching himself. Your name, gasped out through clenched teeth in heated hisses - praise for you, calling you his darling, so good for him, so beautiful and lovely . . . Calling you his. Mumbling to himself about how pretty you are, how soft and warm and tight he's certain you are as he imagines he is rutting his cock into something other than his fist.

You keep your eyes squeezed shut. You can take this; you can live with this. You can bear it, if all he is going to do is lie beside you and fantasise. You hear the whine when he comes, feel the way his back arches, the way he pants and pants and how the rhythm of his hand and the slick sounds change a little--

He always touches you with those hands, afterwards. Always pulls you against him spoon-fashion. Always drops hot kisses along your throat and drags you against him in such a tight hold you think he fears ever letting go, with his own come drying on the sheets and messing your nightgown.

(It doesn't bother him; he does not do his own laundry, and Adelinde looks at you in the mornings when she comes to strip the beds and gives you an encouraging smile. She had told you, once, when you had been new here and still railing against your imprisonment--

"Master Diluc is lonely," she'd said, sighing, "I have not seen him so happy as he is in your presence for many years."

As she had checked the tightness of your ropes, sharper eyes than one would expect of a maid had met yours.

"I don't need to tell you how much of Monstadt rely on Master Diluc," she says. "On the business of the Dawn Winery? Do you not think that a little unhappiness may be your responsibility to bear?"

"It's barbaric!" You'd snapped back. "He wants me to be . . . some imprisoned bird in a pretty cage!"

Adelinde's face sets like stone. Diluc was away that night; when she had brought up a tray for your dinner, the soup had been stone cold.

"Do you know how many natural predators birds have?" She'd asked you, a falsely polite smile on her face as she ladled the cold soup into your mouth and you had no choice but to swallow it. "Why, I've seen Master Diluc take several out with a single arrow. Perhaps a songbird ought to be glad it is ornamental enough to be spared that fate.")

You should have known that Diluc would not be satisfied with merely lying beside you, having you so close and yet not doing anything about it. The first time his other hand had crept to your thigh, pushing up the lacy hem, your eyes had snapped open.

"Diluc?" You had whispered, softly, into the night - hoping that your voice may be soft enough and persuasive enough to make him ashamed of it. "Wh-what are you doing?"

A ragged voice had answered you.

"I just . . . just let me look at you, darling. Just let me . . . touch you a little--"

Burning hands on bare skin. Diluc, shifting, so he lay on his side - big wine-dark eyes seeking you out in the moonlight filtered through the curtain as he groaned out your name.

"So pretty," he'd said, as he'd pushed the nightgown higher and higher. Bare thighs. bare stomach. The place between your thighs. A soft groan had escaped him at the sight. "Spread your legs for me. Please."

"Diluc--"

"I won't-- I won't hurt you--" He practically tripped over his tongue in his urges. "Please. I just want to look at you, darling, beloved, angel--"

. . . Just look. Just gaze on you. You sleep in the same bed, but you are - now at least - trusted to do such personal matters as bathe and undress on your own. Adelinde had helped, when you were still bound . . . but you had been good, and you had earnt your freedoms. A sob hiccups in your throat as you bare yourself to him. Your cheeks heat at how hungrily his gaze devours you.

"So beautiful," he whines, hand going to his cock - the first time you've seen it, properly. Pretty - thick, long, with a flushed ruddy tip and a gentle curve, soaking precome as his fingers wrap about it. "Please stay like that. Hnn-- Just . . . just let me think about how you feel, I won't hurt you, I promise I promise I promise--"

But just a little turns into more far quicker than people expect. At first it just just looking at you - and then--

"Just let me touch your thighs," Diluc whispers, his breath hot against your cheek as he lavishes the warmed skin with kisses. "Ahh-- hnn, they're so much softer than my hand . . . Is this what you'd feel like . . . inside?"

"Just let me settle between your legs," Diluc begs you. "Just . . . let me hold you by the hip, let me imagine I'm inside of you, darling, please, I need to--"

"Hold my other hand. Please."

"Just . . . against your thighs. Let me rut it against your thighs. I'm begging you, beloved, if you don't I think I shall simply die--"

"Kiss me--"

When he presses it against the cleft of your sex and whispers;

"Just the tip - I promise, my darling. I would never hurt you. Have I ever? Please . . . I simply need to feel every part of you--"

. . . What else can you do, a captive ornamental bird in a fine cage, but accept it? Spread your legs wider and welcome him in?

It was always going to come to this.

It is still a better fate, you suppose, than being shot down in flight.

#writing #drabble #yandere diluc #yandere genshin impact #not sfw text #dub con for ts #non con for ts #genshin impact posting #dark content for ts

[arch-obsessed]

Inside the Barbie Dreamhouse, a Fuchsia Fantasy Inspired by Palm Springs

Barbie’s Dreamhouse is no place for the bashful. “There are no walls and no doors,” says Greta Gerwig via email. “Dreamhouses assume that you never have anything you wish was private—there is no place to hide.” That layered domestic metaphor has proved rich fodder for the filmmaker, whose live-action homage to the iconic Mattel doll hits theaters July 21.

To translate this panopticon play world to the screen, Gerwig enlisted production designer Sarah Greenwood and set decorator Katie Spencer, the London-based team behind such period realms as Pride & Prejudice and Anna Karenina. The two took inspiration from Palm Springs midcentury modernism, including Richard Neutra’s 1946 Kaufmann House and other icons photographed by Slim Aarons. “Everything about that era was spot-on,” says Greenwood, who strove “to make Barbie real through this unreal world.”

Neither she nor Spencer had ever owned a Barbie before, so they ordered a Dreamhouse off Amazon to study. “The scale was quite strange,” recalls Spencer, explaining how they adjusted its rooms’ quirky proportions to 23 percent smaller than human size for the set. Says Gerwig: “The ceiling is actually quite close to one’s head, and it only takes a few paces to cross the room. It has the odd effect of making the actors seem big in the space but small overall.”

Erected at the Warner Bros. Studios lot outside London, Barbie’s cinematic home reinterprets Neutra’s work as a three-story fuchsia fantasy, with a slide that coils into a kidney-shaped pool. “I wanted to capture what was so ridiculously fun about the Dreamhouses,” says Gerwig, alluding to past incarnations like the bohemian 1970s model (outfitted with trompe l’oeil Tiffany lamps) and the 2000 Queen Anne Victorian manse, complete with Philippe Starck lounge chairs. “Why walk down stairs when you can slide into your pool? Why trudge up stairs when you take an elevator that matches your dress?” Her own references ranged from Pee-wee’s Big Adventure to Wayne Thiebaud’s paintings of pies to Gene Kelly’s tiny painter’s garret in An American in Paris.

For Barbie’s bedroom, the team paired a clamshell headboard upholstered in velvet with a sequined coverlet. Her closet, meanwhile, reveals coordinated outfits in toy-box vitrines. “It’s very definitely a house for a single woman,” says Greenwood, noting that when the first Dreamhouse (a cardboard foldout) was sold in 1962 it was rare for a woman to own her own home. Adds Spencer: “She is the ultimate feminist icon.”

In Barbie, as in previous films like Little Women and Lady Bird, Gerwig set out to realize a whole world. “We were literally creating the alternate universe of Barbie Land,” says the director, who aimed for “authentic artificiality” at every opportunity. As a case in point, she cites the use of a hand-painted backdrop rather than CGI to capture the sky and the San Jacinto Mountains. “Everything needed to be tactile, because toys are, above all, things you touch.”

Everything also needed to be pink. “Maintaining the ‘kid-ness’ was paramount,” Gerwig says. “I wanted the pinks to be very bright, and everything to be almost too much.” In other words, she continues, she didn’t want to “forget what made me love Barbie when I was a little girl.” Construction, Greenwood notes, caused an international run on the fluorescent shade of Rosco paint. “The world,” she laughs, “ran out of pink.”

#obsessed is an understatement #barbie #movie sets #set design #barbie 2023 #greta gerwig #architecture #interior design #interiors

[inlovewithquotes]

What they didn’t realize is this: yes they frighten me, but I have always been scared, since the day I got here. I was raised by the man who murdered my parents, reared in a land of monsters. I live with that fear, let it settle into my bones, and ignore it. If I didn’t pretend not to be scared, I would hide under my owl-down coverlets in Madoc’s estate forever. I would lie there and scream until there was nothing left of me. I refuse to do that. I will not do that.

Nicasia’s wrong about me. I don’t desire to do as well in the tournament as one of the fey. I want to win. I do not yearn to be their equal.

In my heart, I yearn to best them.

-Jude Duarte

#quotes #book quotes #literature #books & libraries #life quotes #holly black #the folk of the air #tfota #the cruel prince #jude duarte