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dogw1tch · 2 days

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Enclosed Within🌿

18+ Dryads x Gender Neutral Reader

(Tentacles, sex pollen, reader has afab anatomy)

DogWitch’s notes: I figured I would post some short stories while I work in a much larger project. I don’t think dryads get enough love so instead here’s a little story of them giving reader pLEANTY of it.

Summary: Lost and alone you stumble across a beautiful grove. There’s something in the air that seems to have you desperate and burning up from the inside. Perhaps grinding against the dew soaked moss might soothe you? I’m sure the vines starting to enclose your body are just regular plants.

It had been a long time now since you had found yourself cut off from the rest of your hunting party, and the dapple of gold on the moss covered ground told you that dusk was not far away. You paused again, listening, observing, searching for any sign that might help you get your bearings. Nobody ventured into the forest unless they were sure they could defend themselves against the creatures within and this was not the first time you had needed to navigate home from an unfamiliar place. It was, however, the first time you had done so alone. You grip your bow a little tighter. It was a warm evening and the cloying air had you sweating beneath your linen shirt that now clung to your chest. The cooing and flittering of birds was beginning to quiet now in the fading sun and beneath it you could hear exactly what you’d be waiting for. The gentle murmuring of running water.

Moving swiftly, bow at the ready, you follow the little stream down through the forest. Your village had been built in the valley and all the forest streams connected to the water mill there- therefore, so long as you followed the running water, you could never stray far from home. You had been walking for a few minutes, keeping a keen eye out for any familiar landmarks, when the brook you followed abruptly came to an end. Looking up you take in the strange scene. The brook had opened up into a large pool, spring green with duck weed and lilies, surrounded by moss-covered rocks. Nestled in every crevice of every boulder were fungi of every variety. Tiny white fairy caps to sprawling shelves of orange and brown gills. Some you recognise but most you do not. And above all of this there stretched the branches of a glorious willow tree. Its bows were thick and draped over the grove like a protective embrace.

A strange smell began to pull at your senses as you stood there; something sweet and heady that mingled with the petrichor. You noticed that a light, yellow dust seemed to be falling from the branches of the willow. Tiny particles that caught the light and danced through the air. You find the scent intoxicating, almost addictive, as you breathe deeply into it. It seems to coat your throat with sticky sweetness, like nectar from the most vibrant honeysuckle. As you take in this glorious new experience, you find yourself becoming increasingly uncomfortable in your dampening clothes. The material clung to you, restricting, making you feel hot and over sensitive. Perhaps it was your mind becoming dazed in the sweet air, but it seemed the only solution was to peel off your now drenched, clothing and sit, completely exposed, in the cool, damp moss. The water on your skin instantly soothed the heat that was building up in and around you, and you sighed contentedly, digging your fingers deeper into the mosses and leaves. Your mind had now become so clouded and vague, you struggled to remember how you got here. All you could think about was the cool moss soothing the sticky heat that now seemed to be coming from inside your body.

You began to buck your hips against the rock, hoping the cold surface that rubbed against your entrance might cool your insides. Little waves of pleasure began to radiate through your body as you moved your hips faster, grinding down on the rock beneath you. Your lips opened to gasp for fresh air but all that entered your lungs was that same sickly sweet that dulled your mind and set your nerves ablaze. You let out a whine of frustration and continue to rut against the moss, your own juices mixing with the dew. It was then, as you felt the heat would surly overtake you, that you felt a voice speak within the back of your mind.

‘So easy. So quick to submit. Poor thing.’

With that, the bows of the willow were suddenly upon you, twisting around your limbs and lifting you from the ground to hang, suspended above the lake. You couldn’t even find it within yourself to be alarmed as the loss of friction had you bucking desperately against the air.

‘So needy’

The voice came again, though now it seemed to be joined by a thousand others that echoed its words.

‘Worry not little one. We shall fill you up.’

The whole grove started to shift to life around you, mushrooms and ferns and flowers all shifting into new forms that stared up at you. The branches that bound you, held your arms behind your back and spread your legs wide, revealing your dripping entrance for all these creatures to see. For the first time, your mind began to attempt to shake off its fog and you struggled against your restraints. But they only tightened as the willow lowered you down into the crowd of waiting creatures bellow.

For a moment, they simply observed you. Each one looked different; with features humanoid enough to be recognisable as a face, but with knowing, pupal- less eyes and bodies that flowed into tangles of glistening, vine like tendrils. There was a moment of silence where you could hear nothing but your own racing heart before…

‘Come my children; drink your fill.’

The dryads swarmed around you, wanting to touch and fill every inch of your aching body. Thick tendrils flicked between your folds, coating you with thick nectar before pushing inside. The thin vines of smaller creatures forced their way in beside them and you could feel each of them curling inside you, pumping in and out, sending waves of pleasure through your desperate body. Finding your slick entrance to be full, a dryad that was clearly once a bright fairy cap mushroom, made its way behind you and began to push into your tight ass. You yelped in pain as the engorged head of one of its appendages suddenly filled you, stretching you out. If they heard, the creatures payed no mind as they begin to toy with this new hole, filling it just as achingly full. The pain dulled into overwhelming pleasure as the feeling of countless, slick tendrils fucking deep inside you overtook your fogged out mind. Your hips twitched uselessly and your mouth hung open in drooling, wanton moans.

As soon as your lips parted, you realised your mistake. Vines came curling up your body, encasing you completely and filling your open mouth. You gagged and spluttered but they t kept coming, writhing down your throat. They felt cool on your tongue and their slick was sweet as honey and you found yourself relaxing into the sensation as the lack of air just added to the heady state of your mind. You moaned around the tentacles, limp and pathetic as you could do nothing but feel pleasure.

‘That’s it.’ The voice came again. ‘Let go little one. Let us have you. Let us have every inch of you.’

You had no way of knowing how long you spent, bound up and being filled by countless creatures. Every time one seemed to finish, thrusting deep and releasing its thick, sweet nectar, another just curled its way around and inside you. Honey came leaking from every hole, coving your skin, your face, your hair. The dryads closed in around you and pressed you flush to their cool, damp skin. Perhaps you began to fade in and out of consciousness, waking up only to feel such overwhelming pleasure that you passed out again. But at some point, you realised as you took your first full gasp of air, they all retreated. You felt so empty, bound and dripping with nothing to fill you. The dryads still gathered around, their empty eyes seemed now to be softer, perhaps affectionate, as a few reached out their strange limbs to brush your hair from your eyes and gently caress your body. In your fucked out daze you leant into the touch, craving more, but you felt the willow begin to lift you up again. The tree twisted you around to face its trunk and revealed it to have become a creature of incredible size. Like the dryads below, it had an angular, almost insect like, face and huge, all knowing eyes. But this one had hands too, that reached out and cupped your tiny body within them. It bore a crown of sticks and leaves and it seemed to smile at you, though its face was hard to read.

‘You have done well, little one.’ It didn’t have a mouth to move but you knew now who had been addressing you. ‘So well, in fact, that I should like a taste of you myself.’ It’s gigantic hand wrapped around your waist and held you with ease. You looked down to see that, emerging from what was once the trunk of the great willow, there sat a single, thick, tentacle-like branch. It was thicker than any other that had filled you and seemed to be longer than you were tall. It glistened with nectar and twitched slightly as the dryad drew you close.

‘Fit… it won’t… too big..’ you tried to stutter out, struggling to form a coherent thought. A low laugh rumbled around you, shaking the earth.

‘Worry not little one. I shall not hurt you. You shall feel only pleasure.’

Before you could protest, that overwhelming fullness took you over once more and you cried out in ecstasy. The creature used your body like you weighed nothing, fucking all the nectar that had collected inside, deep into your stomach. You watched as your abdomen bulged against its ungodly size and pressed against every nerve, sending waves of delirious pleasure through you.

‘Such a pretty body, made to be filled. That’s it little one, give yourself to me.’

It moved you faster, your limbs limp and useless as your mind went blank. You were simply a toy to be used for this creature’s pleasure, it’s strange cock filling you completely, stretching you around it until it felt like the most natural thing in the world. You wanted it. You wanted to stay full and delirious forever.

‘I’m yours…’ you choked out a whisper as ropes of thick honey began to bubble inside you. The creature didn’t stop, pushing itself deeper as it emptied into you. You were so full you could taste it.

‘All mine’

The world went dark.

***

It was around three days later when your hunting party finally found you. They had located your clothes, stuck in a brook and feared you had been accosted by some brutish thieves or roaming orcs. Following the stream though, they came to the pool and saw you, leant up against a great willow. You were naked, hair sticking to your forehead but clearly breathing and without injury. They called out to you, relieved that you seemed unharmed. The only strange thing was that you seemed to be almost completely covered in plants. Moss was growing over your legs and vines enclosed around every inch of your body. It looked as though you had been here for years.

One hunter approached, calling your name to no response but a few feeble moans. They must be starved, she thought, as she knelt beside you. But looking closer, she realised your moan was not one of pain, but one of gentle pleasure. Between your legs there sat several mushrooms, seemingly taking turns to push their way inside your swollen entrance. A thin vine flicked, absent- mindedly, at your clit and more still seemed to be caressing your dew covered body. Your friend reached out a hand, trying to shake you awake when suddenly, the moss itself seemed to open its eyes and let out a viscous hiss. She stumbled back to find all of the plant life was seemingly staring at her with a hateful glare.

Perhaps they would just have to leave you here after all.

#monster nsft #monster imagine #monster smut #monster fucker #monster x reader #monster x human #nsft #tentacles #sex pollen

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loosescrewslefty · 2 years

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I've seen a few people misinterpreting this scene, and thinking that Willow is saying that she WOULD invade Luz's privacy if it were her, and it's frustrated me to the point where I feel the need to say something, because that is 100% NOT what this scene is about.

Willow is NOT telling Amity to snoop in Luz's phone, or saying she would if it were her. Willow is setting healthy boundaries with Amity.

Willow is concerned about Amity here. And she understand why Amity is worried, and why Amity is tempted to snoop (because she IS tempted. They would not be having this conversation if Amity wasn't) but while she might not intend to do so, Amity is trying to push Willow into being her moral compass, to make a difficult choice FOR Amity, so Amity doesn't have to.

And instead of just telling Amity what SHE would do in her shoes, and taking the burden of deciding if it's right or wrong to look through Luz's phone off of Amity's shoulders, Willow goes for the neural ground. Not judging, not deciding for, but listening to and talking with Amity, so Amity can make HER decision about HER relationship with HER girlfriend, without Willow getting dragged into it more than she is comfortable with. This is the best thing someone could do for Amity at this stage, as she is a recovering abuse victim who still isn't used to deciding things for herself instead of following a predetermined path. Setting a boundary here keeps Amity from slipping into a bad habit and putting an unhealthy expectation on Willow as her friend. Because this is NOT Willow's circus, and these are NOT her monkeys.

This isn't the only time we see them show Willow's character possessing a strong interpersonal intelligence, either. We also see a few examples of Willow showing a keen ability of knowing when it's necessary for her to step in and help because someone she cares about is over their heads and spiraling or bit off more than they could chew;

And when she needs to step back, either to give others space to deal with their emotions or to let them manage things on their own, even if she wants to jump in and help.

This is an extremely difficult balance to strike in a character, but they manage it really well with Willow, making her one of the most level headed characters in the show who is willing and capable of helping others without compromising her own happiness and well being or taking on burdens that she should not be expected to bare.

#the owl house #toh #willow park #amity blight #lumity #luz noceda #character analysis #relationship analysis #healthy boundaries #friendships #abuse tw

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thelastairsimblr · 1 year

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Family Pack #3

I’m happy to share some sims with you all today! In this post, you’ll find 10 households (40 sims total), each with their own stories and biographies. All of these sims have additional Everyday outfits, skills, bonus traits, Likes and Dislikes, sexual orientations, pronouns, family dynamics, and Lifestyles. You can find them all on the gallery under my Origin ID: TheLastAirSimmer or in the tray files linked under the cut! As always, feel free to tag me if you end up using them.

Guillroy-Jeong

Some families don’t survive a divorce. That wasn’t the case for the Guillory’s; in fact, it only brought Aston and Déon closer. Déon had never considered that the fisherman was experiencing a midlife crisis until he married Willow, a joyful artist half his age. Things were tense initially, but seeing how happy she made Aston was enough to diffuse the tension until Uriel arrived. Déon wants to support this new dynamic, but a needy toddler in the mix might force them to branch out of their bubble.

Carbone

For better or worse, Greta has always been one to stand by her choices. She’s had a song in her heart from a young age, but put her dreams of being a pianist to the side once Albie was born. She works as a teacher to support her family, but hopes one day to play again. However, it would be good enough to see Albie fulfill his own dreams of becoming a professional dancer, temperamental though he may be. Like her mother and brother, Beatrice too is unapologetically developing musical aspirations.

Duggal

When Bikram and Mia wed, they agreed their careers would come first before starting a family. Their first pregnancy surprised them, but Bikram pivoted to adjust to the new circumstances. Mia, however, was eager to get back to work after the birth. As a doctor, she provided enough for Bikram to cut back at the restaurant and care for Parker. There was a cost, though; today, Parker resents Mia. Wanting to avoid repeating that mistake, Mia is keen on loving her boys, the nerdy Antwan and wary Levi.

Salamé

Being raised by Adeline had a profoundly different effect on her kids. Dasia, the eldest, often butted heads with the stubborn matriarch and found comfort in her high school sweetheart Imman. Baqil, the obvious favorite, stayed on the set path and wants to make her proud (coffee is his best friend when it comes to staying on top of his classes). Having married and had kids too young, Dasia and Imman reluctantly moved in and Adeline has since been keen on taking control of the girls’ rearing.

Lavigne-Jarrah

Falling for an artist was not at all what Rahim had planned. As an engineer, he values structure and practicality, but Gabrielle offers him a new lens to see the world through. This interior designer also takes note from her husband and has adopted his attention to detail in her own work. Their daughter Francesca has her moms’ creative spirit and shows promise (even if she focuses more on boys in her class than her painting skills) and Xavier is more interested in gaming than being book smart.

Newkirk

Landon had made many futile attempts to woo his high school crush Johanna, but it wasn’t until he sang a song for her on his guitar that she noticed him. They remain together today, accepting of the others’ quirks. Johanna can often fly off the handle, but Landon is always there to ease her mind. They try to do their part to save the world and instill ecofriendly values in their kids; lessons that young Averie has taken in good spirits. The unpredictable Reagan, however, is a different story.

Tillman

Not long ago, Siobhan was living her dream; traveling and performing music with her friends. But creative differences led to a massive falling out and the band split up. Now directionless, she moved in with her older sister Bianca, who was happy to reconnect after years apart (and maybe get some help with her two boys) but Siobhan may as well be a third child. Desmond and Cale love having their aunt around though, and it’s nice at times to get a reprieve so Bianca can focus on her meditation.

Oertel

A woman of science with a lot of love to give, Sandra knew early on that she wanted to have a child and give them the warm upbringing that she never had. Despite not having a partner, she decided to undergo in-vitro fertilization. She certainly did a good job of instilling Jonas with a high level of confidence (almost to a point of arrogance) and even as a grown man, he has Sandra wrapped around his finger. He doesn’t take his studies seriously, but has a passion for all things outdoors.

Kwame-Zhang

Lily and Daphanie were ready to take on San Myshuno and on their way to becoming a power couple. Or so Lily thought, until Daphanie changed course. After adopting the girls, Daphanie drove a hard bargain on moving to a quieter part of town. She was able to adjust as a fashion designer, sending off submissions from the comfort of her home. Lily however finds herself commuting to the city, unwilling to forfeit her spot as an up-and-coming food critic, despite missing quality time with her family.

Silva-Ortiz

Gustavo takes his values seriously and expects others to do the same. Quite a negotiator, his wife Flavia is able to use her husbands’ political network to pass her green initiatives around town. Though cohesive as a pair, they differed in their parenting styles; Flavia always trusted her sons’ judgement while Gustavo often quarreled with their eldest Robbie, who only wants to party. Averse to conflict, Paolo does as he’s told, even forgoing his own wants to throw himself fully into his studies.

#the sims 4 #sims 4 #ts4 #sims 4 vanilla #sims 4 cc free #sims dump #sim dump #family dump

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coraniaid · 3 months

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The only thing more powerful than the Buffy writers' reluctance to give screentime to a woman over the age of thirty is the collective Buffy fandom's eagerness to seize on the slightest scrap of canon characterization as evidence that said thirty-plus-year old woman is some sort of monster.

The show: Willow Rosenberg likes spending time with her mother and does so willingly even after moving out (as we see, for example, in Forever) and her mother was keen to invite her high school boyfriend over for dinner to try to get to know him as soon as Willow admitted to her that he existed (at the end of Gingerbread) and her mother was fully accepting (literally "proud") of Willow when she came out as a lesbian (already implicit, but confirmed in The Killer In Me). Oh, but she has a full time job in academia and sometimes Willow wishes she paid her more attention (this despite the fact that Willow canonically does hide things from her all the time) and she doesn't always notice when Willow cuts her hair or properly remember her friends' names and she only met Willow's first girlfriend a few times.

The fandom: well, clearly Willow is as much a victim of parental abuse as Xander Harris or Amy Madison or Faith Lehane. This is a completely reasonable and proportionate conclusion to come to based on one on-screen appearance and some throwaway lines of dialogue.

I mean ... don't get me wrong. Shelia Rosenberg is not a good mother. She's not much more than a cardboard cutout, really. Less of a character than even Hank Summers, and that's saying something.

What she is, really, is the sort of lazy cliche you get in a lot of teen movies of the 1990s and 2000s (something which is true of Joyce Summers as well at times, only Sheila is permitted far less depth or screen presence or other redeeming features). She's a somewhat reactionary take on the idea of an adult woman who dares to have a professional career and therefore cannot "properly" attend to the needs of her children. A woman too busy focusing on the abstract (her academic study of "adolescent development") to care about the practical (the growing pains of her own teenage daughter).

(Get it? See, it's funny, because she's a woman with both a child and a career. What will those crazy feminists dream up next?)

As written, Willow's mother kind of sucks: not because she's a bad person but because she isn't written as a person at all. She's a joke, and not a good one.

But the weirdly popular idea On Here that Willow is somehow traumatized by having what is, by all accounts, a fairly ordinary and comfortable childhood is absurd. There is simply nothing in the text to support this.

#btvs #the one character on Buffy played by a woman over 30 who the fandom don't insist is an evil monster is Drusilla #which is pretty funny actually since she very much is one #like I love Drusilla and I think she should have been in the show much much more but she very much is capital E Evil #she cheerfully tried to end the world! twice! in one season! she literally eats children!#but she cannot be coded as a Bad Mother so she gets woobified to the role of loving and self-sacrificing innocent ex-girlfriend instead

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ataraxiaspainting · 6 months

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Animal Cannibal.

Yan Dottore x F Reader.

Synopsis: Violent individuals were frequently drawn to you, including your dear friend Willow, who shares your affinity for this destructive behavior. Your stalker, too, possesses a similar infatuation with you. The bond between the three of you lies in the intertwined emotions of violence and love.

Warnings: Yandere themes, violence/gore, stalking, cannibalism, minor character death, implied future kidnapping, manipulation, mentions of not SFW, and non-consensual human experimentation.

Word Count: 2.2k.

Ten Songs Like This Piece:

Goo Goo Muck by The Cramps

Killer Queen by Queen

Psycho Killer - 2005 Remaster by Talking Heads

I Want To Break Free by Queen

Tip Toe Thru’ the Tulips with Me by Tiny Tim

Exploration by Bruno Coulais

Take on Me by a-ha

You Are My Sunshine by Charles McDonald

Everybody Loves Somebody by Dean Martin

Dream A Little Dream Of Me - Single Version by Ella Fitgerald (feat. Louis Armstrong)

“But love shouldn’t cost an arm and a leg!” – Possibly in Michigan (1983)

*~*~*~*

i. “My own experiments have given me a deep understanding of the true nature of suffering… and I’m keen to share it with a willing guinea pig, hm?”

You found a strange man outside of your house.

He was taller than you–with hair the color of mint that covered his eyes, his beard long and poorly taken care of with split ends and some leaves and small sticks stuck to the thicker parts of it.

He waved at you when he saw you approaching. He did not scare you, not one bit.

He did not blend into his surroundings well because of how unique his appearance was. He wore an open black waistcoat with some of its buttons hanging on by a loose thread and nothing underneath. His pants were torn from the knee down. Grossly, you smelled him before you even saw him.

“Hello, sir,” You say, stepping a bit closer carefully, skillfully, being sure to not make a sound to startle or agitate him. You have become well-acquainted with unfamiliar gentlemen lurking around your residence as daylight fades, after all. “It’s getting late, isn’t it? Do you have a place to stay? There is an inn nearby I think if you don’t.” For better or for worse, stealth is something you are quite intimate with. “Sir? Are you alright? Sir?” The man did not respond, simply looking past you like you were not there.

He looked on into the brightwood trees, the wild, overgrown bushes dotted with purple Sumeru roses, and the rising, circular moon. You have a sudden flash of inspiration; since you have no weapon on you, you could bite him and claw at him if he tried anything. Your eyes go downcast, to his tattered, dirty leather shoes, as you dismiss the idea.

“Excuse me? Do you need something? Sir?”

“I don't,” The man finally said, his voice raspy. “What about you? Do you live somewhere?”

“Here, I live here.” You could not hear what he mumbled as a response because of how quiet he was. “I live here. This is my home. You are outside my door and I can’t get in. Please, if you don’t need assistance, take a few steps back from it.”

Instead of looking at him, you look at your door. That is when you saw it; a hairpin lodged into your lock.

The man took it out and ran into the forest.

Despite the slight dents on your front door's lock, your house remained in good condition. Its aged appearance stood in stark contrast to the lush greenery that thrived just a few meters away. The wood showed signs of decay, with splits and a distinct scent of dampness and decomposing fish. Attached to the house was a collection of neglected Sumeru rose bushes, stunted and infested with flies. A rockery filled the space with an abundance of rocks, while a fairy ring composed of squishy brown toadstools emitted a dreadful odor when mistakenly stepped upon.

ii. “There is a sickness inside of me. I feel it eating away at me, eroding my mind and body. But I do not care. If I have to suffer for knowledge, I gladly will.”

The well outside your house was, for lack of a better word, still decrepit. But still, it seems like the man did not do anything to it. On the first day you moved in, all alone, the old couple that lived a hundred or so meters away made a point of telling you how dangerous the well was, and they warned you to be sure you kept away from it.

You found it as soon as you stepped onto the property, it was in front of your house after all, smelling strongly of damp, dirty water, behind a clump of trees—a low brick circle almost hidden in the high grass. There were nests of drain flies that from afar looked like crushed pebbles. It made you step back a bit in complete disgust before you turned in the opposite direction to put your things down.

Like most Sumeru forests, there were plenty of types of animals. There were crystalflies that were sometimes the only light source you had, frogs that sometimes crept up your legs as you walked in tall, wet blades of grass and nearly made you scream every time and lizards that always somehow found a way inside and slithered across your floors.

There was also an orange cat, who sat on walls and tree stumps and watched you while meowing loudly but slipped away hissing if ever you went over to scare it off.

You spent the first two weeks after you moved in making adjustments to the rather old house. You hardly ate or slept, you just worked. There were days when you did not change clothes or drink water even, being so focused on your work that you hardly noticed anything else around you.

“This is my favorite!” exclaimed Willow, pointing at the Padisarah Pudding that was blocked off by a wall of glass.

“How much mora is it?” You asked, taking out your wallet. “I'll buy it for you. I am buying some Samosas here anyway, so it is no trouble. If you want, I can buy you some too, I recommend getting the potato and pea one.”

“No,” Willow answered, shaking her head while chuckling. “I'm fine. I have to use up some old vegetables and meat anyway at home before they go bad or my parents are going to kill me for real.”

“Alright, be sure to check the ingredients beforehand for any dirt or mold,” you said. “‘I do not want you getting sick.”

You stood by one of the bakery’s windows, observing the rain pouring down. This rain wasn't the type you could venture out into; it was the other kind, cascading from the sky and creating splashes upon impact. This rain was serious, and its current agenda was transforming the streets into a murky, soggy mixture.

There was nothing to do here other than talk to Willow and wait for your food. Not that that was a bad thing in your book.

You had met through a mutual stalker, to put it simply, and now are inseparable. Even though that man is currently rotting in a prison cell, the past still influenced both of your actions. You just thank Lesser Lord Kusanali for granting you good fortune. With every new stalker, Willow seemed to be connected to them somehow, making you two even closer than before. You bond over your shared reverence of violence and love.

So, you start talking.

You start talking with a tone akin to someone making small talk over the weather, but instead of dark clouds or how bright the sun is, you talk about the man you saw yesterday. Willow listens, nodding a bit from time to time while still looking both outside the window and to the glass wall where the desserts were placed for the viewership of the customers. From the way she smiles with every word you say, you know you have piqued her interest yet again.

“Interesting.” She finally says, her back turned to you as she looks out to the rainstorm.

iii. “I wondered, why does a man who has done nothing think he deserves everything? That is what this experiment is about.”

“Hello?” You say, opening your door. “You're back.”

“Yes,” The man answered, playing with the buttons on his torn clothing. “Only for you, beloved.”

“Should I be honored?” You asked. “Who are you? What are you?”

“Your prince, what else?”

“Who or what else are you?”

“Someone utterly in love with you, someone you love too.”

“How do you know that?”

"My mouth,” The man answers, leaning in closer to you with his tongue out. “Look—look at it. The better to eat you with, my dear. It hungers for you. I just know you are the one to finally satisfy it. It is in a wolf's nature to feed, after all.”

“I see.” You look down as he kisses you, showing no resistance. He has holes in his shoes. His big toes are sticking out like sore thumbs. You suppose that they are, in a way.

“You have two choices. One, I will eat you now; or two, I will cut your arms and legs off one by one and eat them in front of you slowly as you cry on the floor covered in filth.”

You considered this carefully as you thought of an answer, preparing to ask him why.

So, you do, because he does not stop you and you want to know, don't you? He does not stop you.

He says for love.

You ask again.

He once again says it is for love. You say that love isn’t something given as part of an exchange or contract, that what he is asking for is bitter and dry.

He simply laughs. “For love.”

“But do you love me?"

“You smell so good, like the finest rose in all of Sumeru, all of Teyvat, even all of Celestia.”

Struggling would be useless. “Have there been others?” You ask.

"You must be the seventh," he remarked, leaving you to grapple with this realization. Escape became an impossible feat as he denied you any chance to flee.

As if responding to his words, the door creaked open, followed by a gunshot.

iv. “I could have simply sliced her apart the moment I saw her and threw her to my patients, but I could not waste someone as fascinating as her. She is a treasure trove of knowledge, and it is rather rare to find someone as interesting as her, my assistant.”

The man fell to the floor grasping his shot through chest. Willow helped you up. Life quickly faded from the man's once concealed eyes, his red eyes.

“The plan worked,” Willow said. “Good job. He won't see you anymore. We make a good team I think.”

You agree.

“You should boil some water.” She said.

You then shrugged. “I'm getting tired of soup.” You responded. “I want sauce or something to go with the Samosas.”

Willow did not say anything for a moment.

It was dark outside now, with the rain still falling from the sky and making tiny splatters on the soil, making it hard to see out the window.

Perhaps making soup for dinner was not a bad idea after all. Days like this called for comfort. “Fine,” You say, and Willow smiles. “I’ll start prepping ingredients.”

“I’ll run to my home and get the leftovers I talked about.” She is already putting back on her coat before you can rebut.

You sighed as you heard the door close. It was time to get to work, you suppose.

“Come out, my friend.” You take the meat cleaver out from the kitchen drawer where you put the rest of your knives, the said cleaver still stained with blood from the month before. “You are unsightly if I am being perfectly honest with you.” You mutter, shaking your head.

…

Dinner went off without any problems. It was a lovely feast. However, heating the Samosas without breaking them was kind of difficult for you because you only had one small pan and one large pot.

Something creaks in the distance.

Creeeeeeeeak. The floorboards. You and Willow are too busy talking to notice. The sound came from your bedroom. A man with a mustache the color of rotting mint that covered his mouth and chin, his filthy brown hair long and dirty, and even some animal fur being laid about everywhere on his scalp.

He sneaks out your bedroom window.

His shadow was hardly seen by either of you because of how fast he ran.

He was like a spider. The comparison was sort of funny because he knew how much you hated them.

He has to eventually make his way to Port Ormos to catch his boat back to Snezhnaya.

But that can wait for later. You are so much better than business and any other projects he is currently doing or has discarded.

All he can think about is you. He thinks of what to tell the current him, of how many stalkers you and your friend have murdered in retribution for their harassment.

Would he be delighted?

Would he be angered?

There is no way to know for sure. After all, whenever someone tries to talk to him they have to tread the line between being too nice and being too rude unless they want to find themselves on the other side of the operations.

There is just one more thing he needs to check before he goes. Just one. It will only take a minute. It will be quick.

He steps on the old well’s edge and looks down into the murky water.

He sees one of the clones’ skulls floating on the surface, its disintegrating bone covered in flies fighting each other for the tiniest scraps of fat.

They buzzed and buzzed until he could not take it anymore and threw a large rock, breaking the cranium and scaring away the flying insects, though there is no doubt that maggots are being born where the eyes and tongue used to be.

You and Willow throw the bones down the well. Just what he thought.

Good.

v. “My work is the purest form of art there is. It requires painstaking detail and absolute perfection, all in the spirit of scientific advancement and understanding. As an example, the first part of this experiment in particular is a success.”

#yandere #author aya #yandere x reader #yandere dottore #dottore #fatui harbingers #yandere genshin #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin imagines #yandere dottore x reader #yandere fatui harbingers #yandere fatui #yandere genshin x you #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere il dottore #yandere il dottore x reader

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dramioneasks · 1 month

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HP FESTS: DramioneFanfictionForum (Part 6)

Deflower Draco 2024:

Off To The Races by anna_h_ofeliya - E, 8 chapters - Upon returning to Hogwarts for the eighth year, Hermione learns that some Slytherin students covertly slip out after dark to fly around the Whomping Willow, seeking to reignite the thrill of danger.

Where the Foxglove Grows by eggmett - E, WIP - My eyes move over each offering, passing from one face to the next. Some of them are familiar. But the last, the twenty-eighth face, causes my heart to skip. A gasp sticks in my throat as I struggle to maintain my composure. Draco Malfoy. Draco Malfoy is virgin number twenty-eight. [Draco x Hermione x Voldemort] [Warnings: Rape/Non-Con]

Like Warm Apple Pie by undercoverdrxco - E, 2 chapters - Draco, Theo, and Blaise are two months from leaving Hogwarts as virgins. That just won’t do. A bet is placed and targets are made… Draco is decidedly going to ‘woo’ Hermione Granger. - An ‘American Pie’ inspired story in which Hermione is swotty and talks a lot, Draco is an awkward virgin, and Theo and Blaise are rightful morons while ALSO being total virgins -

Draco, Are You Coming? by EternalOphelia - E, WIP - 8th year. Draco is a virgin and keen to not be after living 100-years-worth of adult lives during the war—he just wants to be, without expectation. While Draco has had experiences with girls, he’s behind his classmates/housemates since he had more pressing things on his mind, mainly staying alive. When his well-meaning friends (Blaise and Theo) try to help him by sicking an all too willing Pansy on him, Draco is unable and unwilling to sleep with her; humiliated, he leaves a naked Pansy on his bed. Days later, when Hermione Granger becomes involved and steps in on Draco's behalf, he begins to see her differently.

Disturbingly Capable by Zeebee3 - E, one-shot - She considers his hair again, giving him the taste of a pause, then meets his eye; holds it. “Fuck you.” It’s the first thing she’s said to him in a year that isn’t a spell, and it feels good that it’s still some form of a curse. Seeing him misunderstand it feels even better. He sighs, like he’d expected insolence. “You always were a stubborn little thing. This is your last chance, Granger. Tell me, or—” She interrupts him because she can, and even with years of war between them, he still lets her. “I’m sorry if that wasn’t clear,” she says, tone indicating she’s not sorry a bit. “For a moment, I’d forgotten how stupid you are. Let me spell it out for you: I choose option two. I’ll fuck you.” His shock freezes him for a breath, and then his brows twitch together. “What?” he says. --- Or, Draco barters with his virginity and Hermione is happy to unburden him of it for the promise of being released from Malfoy Manor.

Belong To Me by WillowingScribe - E, one-shot - On one of her rounds as prefect Hermione finds Draco Malfoy in front of the Mirror of Erised talking to none other than... her? ___ “Stop it! Stop lying! You wouldn’t want me even if none of this had happened. You wouldn’t want me even if I wasn’t Draco Malfoy.” And then he said something that shocked her enough that the Invisibility Cloak slipped from her fingers and pooled onto the floor. “As if, Granger. Find somebody else to deflower.”

Mine by Forgive_Me_Severus - E, WIP - Bitten by a werewolf while on the run, Hermione Granger has had to navigate transforming under the Moon, being Alpha to five other Wolves of Hogwarts, and every aspect in between the same way she always had before: through research. But when Draco Malfoy reappears at Hogwarts as part of his probation, nothing she's studied could prepare her for what would happen next.

Cake By The Ocean by The_Taco_Dragon - E, WIP - An arranged marriage that he hates. A Bachelor Party he never wanted. Champagne eyes that make him weak.

Breaking Draco by So_scarlett_maroon - E, WIP - "Apparently, those beasts from the other houses can't go even a month without touching themselves." Hermione heard the voices and realized she'd forgotten to cast her usual noise-blocking spell. She lifted her wand to do just that when the words she'd just heard hit her. Another voice spoke now. "Surely it's just the muggle-borns, right? Purebloods are taught from birth not to defile themselves with masturbation." "Nope," the first voice resumed. "MacMillian was there, Weasley too. They both seemed to think that going a whole month without coming was some monumental task. Weaklings. Try going 18 years, mate." Hermione was struggling not to laugh. She couldn't believe there were men at Hogwarts who were not only virgins but they'd never gotten off. "Draco, did you really join their little competition, though?" Hermione had to cover her mouth to stifle her gasp. "Of course I did, Theo. I will win easily and show them all how little control they have. Unlike all the other so-called 'men' in this school, Slytherin's know how to keep it in their pants."

The Stroke of Midnight by charingfae - E, WIP - Problem number one. He’s in love with Hermione Granger. Problem number two. He’s a twenty-four-year-old virgin. Problem number three. He can’t do anything about problems number one or two thanks to an irreversible, accidental chastity vow made during a drunken escapade in fifth year. -- Draco laughed—a real, deep, belly laugh—even as his heart twinged with longing. He wanted her to like him, to be with him, to love him. He wanted to tell her that he loved her hair, especially when it grew large enough to have its own postal code. He wanted to tell her that her laugh altered his brain chemistry, and that being the one to make her laugh made his stupid life worth living. Instead, he said— “Try the beetroot.”

Seven Minutes in Heaven by allofthelights11, AutumnWeen - M, 2 chapters - Draco's house arrest was finally over with the conclusion of his N.E.W.T.s, but the challenge he would face next was even more daunting: Hermione Granger wanted him. She had no idea he was a virgin. or The time Draco fainted at a house party.

Measure of a Flan by allofthelights11, winterwells - not rated, one-shot - In which Draco desperately wants to surprise Hermione by making her grandmother's iconic flan on a special holiday weekend away.

Malfoy Rites of Passage by allofthelights11 - E, one-shot - In which, thanks to Malfoy Manor being crammed with nosy portraits with entirely too many opinions on the prostate, Draco and Hermione retreat to the rose gardens to do a little fooling around. Deflower Draco 2024

I Love A Wedding by aCanadianMuggle - M, one-shot - Malfoy Manor has decided that the heir should be wed. Cue a line of possible suitors taken to the Manor quite against their will, an unspeakable visitor and a quite ingenious solution to all of Draco's problems.

Aeterna Amantes by SyrenGrey - E, WIP - Draco Malfoy must have been around sixteen years old when the painting was commissioned–and what a pity, too, as the young Malfoy stood holding a pale, bone-ivory mask in one hand while a black cloak dangled from his other arm. He was as thin as a skeleton, the area around his eyes gaunt and hollow, perfectly suiting the title of Death Eater which he’d accepted in his nascent, sixteenth year. This was how Hermione remembered him. Maybe not so thin, and not as pale as this portrait conveyed, but standing tall, despite the resignation buried within his silver eyes. She had very few fond memories of the spoiled bully, but it didn’t take much for Hermione to feel pity for any creature–and Draco Malfoy, heir to hatefulness and bigotry–boy who never stood a chance–was worthy of pity. It was impossible to know what exactly had happened to him. Even six years after the Battle of Hogwarts, his body was never found.

Keep Your Wand Up by malfoyesque (PearlBracelet) - E, 3 chapters - A prank looms on the horizon, one that will destroy Draco's already shredded reputation. The jokes already exist about him lowering his wand, and about whether or not he'll ever be able to get it up again. And if the entire school were to just so happen to find out he was still a virgin– Yeah. You see the problem. But he soon finds out that he's not the only one. And that might be the thing that saves him.

More Than a Mask by vannminner - E, WIP - Amidst the masquerade, masks are shed, passion blooms and Draco's cock is warmed by the one witch he's wanted to take his v card since fourth year.

Partners by EscapeInMyBookshelf - E, one-shot - Auror partners Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger have had a long day in the field and come back to the Ministry to deal with paperwork. She volunteers to help him with his workload.

Heads of Seduction by MarinaJune - E, 2 chapters - A pair of knickers and a pot full of mystery tea–what do these have in common? Draco is about to find out, along with just how much the newly-appointed Head Boy and Head Girl have changed since they all last walked Hogwarts. The swottiest Gryffindor and most stoic Slytherin have more to share than just class notes with him, as long as he leaves all expectations at the door. [Draco x Hermione x Blaise]

The Countdown by westxnorthwest - E, WIP - Malfoy, D. L. Determined match: Granger, H. J. Appointment: 5 June 2003, 10:00 AM - When the Wizarding Marriage Law passes, Draco and Hermione learn they have six months to consummate their marriage, and a year to produce an heir. What could go wrong?

A Traditional Malfoy Marriage Ceremony by Storycat9 - E, WIP - Draco and Hermione thought a quick Ministry elopement would help them avoid stuffy Pureblood weddings (and Lucius's schemes to break them up.) But Malfoy magic wants something a little more traditional. Newlyweds must learn to be flexible, right?

A Long Hard Wait by Iceemist - E, one-shot - Five times Draco nearly had sex, and the one time he actually did.

Purity by Storycat9 - E, one-shot - Draco comes back to Hogwarts to take his N.E.W.T.s, but he seems to have left some things out of his study guide.

This fest is ongoing.

#dramione fanfiction forum #fests/exchanges/challenges #dramione

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kurimiaki · 11 months

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Without a name, things tend to get lost. [III]

Heartslabyul’s terms of endearment

Octavinelle’s set is here!

Content warning: dark content, toxic relationships, manipulation, verbal and physical abuse, forced intimacy

Riddle Rosehearts

By his word, Riddle truly had tried to remain amicable and open-minded for this date.

Too-rigid, too-coddling, too-stuck for time, too-unbending. You had tried to impress upon him the importance of fluidity, fun for fun’s sake, and a sense of ease which he has yet to fully feel on these types of romantic excursions. It’s difficult to entirely will himself away from ironclad routine and tradition, the dating guides he poured himself over in the library, what to do and what to avoid, the formulaic manner in which he wants to pursue your hand.

It’s all in the effort to satisfy you. To guarantee your partnership, commitment, and adoration. But it’s a hearty struggle for Riddle to live easily— rules are foolproof and unshakable, and shan’t allow his unease and insecurity to slip through the cracks. The fluid, lackadaisical attitude you wish him to assume certainly will, though.

He’d suggested a scarcely-populated and unfrequented cafe for a reason, and you’d vetoed his vote without care, adamant on lugging him over to some sleek new burger shop that recently opened on Sage’s Island, flush with people.

People he’d wanted to avoid, for fear of them robbing him of your attention. The things he’d wanted to speak about were overshadowed by your gushing over inconsequential things— the quirkily named menu items, their gargantuan milkshakes, that girl’s crazy boots, and, hey, was that an RSA student? Menial things, of no conversational value, void of substance. Things that deviated too far from his idealized date, that left him unsure and output. He had complacently nodded along, feigned a smile, and chewed up as much of his order as he could manage; but of course, change takes time to adapt to, and Riddle was less than content.

On your way back to campus, following along an isolated path cloaked in brushes and weeping willows, you become familiar with the consequences of pushing your boyfriend too far. Your takeout bag strewn about graveled ground, slushed and ruined strawberry milkshake soaking into dirt mounds and rocks, Riddle goes as far as to stomp down on the remains of your burger. “Was that fun for you, darling?” He jabs, emphasizing the last bit with a sneer, digging a finger hard on your sternum. You gape, grappling as to what could’ve spurred on such a drastic shift in his mood, but Riddle speaks for you.

“You’re a selfish little thing, aren’t you? You don’t think. Not about my preferences, my plans. Being seen fraternizing with you in public— alone, mind you— was a giant leap on its own. A risk.”

“I do try to be lenient, my dear, but all you do is take. You’ve even monopolized my time. See?” He lifts his wrist, removing his other hand from your sternum and unsheathing his casual dress shirt, showing you a watch. He taps the glass two times, clinking it with his fingernail, and sneers at you; so out of sorts, one might think you’d cussed out his mother. You open your mouth, the beginnings of a ‘how was I supposed to know that’ lingering on your lips, but he grasps your shirt collar and drags you down to him.

“If you’re so keen to make this relationship work, do right by me. Listen. That’s all I ask, darling.”

Riddle is not well-suited to the use of cheesy nicknames. Even something as benign as ‘my dear’ has the potential to throw him off kilter for his foreseeable future, utterly wrought with embarrassment and fear of coming on too strong. At his calmest, you’re not likely to receive an affectionate endearment from him— it’s much too unbecoming for a dorm leader to openly show favor like that, anyway. His inexperience is ultimately covered by the claim of ‘not wanting to be a biased ruler,’ which, quite blatantly, is an ineffective lie. To his credit, Riddle does try to be sweet on you. He has repeatedly practiced utilizing the name ‘darling’ in the isolated comfort of his dorm room, though he often finds himself flustered when merely conversing with a pillow.

But he’s fully in his element when buzzing with rage, isn’t he? He may not be the most articulate, gurgling and stomping around like a fussy toddler, threatening you with shattered teacups and sullying your dorm room with his tantrum: but he is free of inhibition and shame. Riddle will scream at you for allowing your grades to slip (it’s a burden to monitor you, you know, but he loves you well enough to take the task), but at least his blow is softened with the use of darling— albeit weaponized as a taunt, lilted and demeaning. In his furious blowouts, he’ll often take pause to berate you as if you were a fussy child yourself, cooing and verbally stooping to your (lower, in his distorted image) level, asking ‘do you understand that well enough, my dear?’ when your only transgression is running five minutes behind his predetermined schedule.

Riddle strictly calls you: darling, my dear. These are the only endearments he’s familiar with; he hasn’t been exposed to romantic media in the same way Ace has, for reference, and isn’t well-versed with what’s on trend to call one’s lover.

Trey Clover

“And now he won’t even answer me in class, Trey. And we sit next to each other!” You huff, throwing your arms into the air, growing increasingly irate, your every suppressed frustration bubbling up with ease in his presence. The beginnings of tears prick your eyes, and you feel your throat swell shut. To have an unresponsive group partner will always be an unbearable frustration— especially in Trein’s class, with his sink or swim curriculum, his rigid syllabus, his unwavering expectations. If your classmate doesn’t cooperate soon, you’ll fail.

You only wish you were headstrong enough to force him to comply.

All you can do, at present, is vent your every frustration with this situation to your sweet, doting, attentive boyfriend.

“I don’t know what to do…” You mumble, leaning against the cool kitchen countertop. You’re thankful that he’d entertain you so late in the night; not a soul can be heard in the surrounding rooms. It’s mostly silent, save for your ranting, the kitchen’s hum of electricity, the nervous shuffling of your feet.

Save for Trey’s worn sigh.

Exhausted, almost sounding more irate than even you, his mere exhale startles you straight. Is he mad? Eyes wide, worry seeps into you. Have you spoken too much? Had you even asked about his day? Are you being inconsiderate? You stutter something incoherent, but before your worn brain can muster something appeasing to say, Trey speaks up.

He lifts his glasses to rub his temple, green hair slightly tussled. He’s tired, and you certainly aren’t easing his tense mind.

“And what do you want me to do about this?” He starts, uncharacteristically monotone. Yellow eyes settle on you, unblinking, and you avert your gaze. Wholly intimidated, cowed into silence. When he wills it, Trey’s perfectly capable of sucking all the air out of a room.

Your sweet boyfriend speaks for you.

Pacing forward, he’s suddenly before you, so close the tips of your slippers touch. “I told you that one’s trouble, didn’t I?” Trey lightly chides, still cooly composed. ‘That one,’ being your fickle partner; the one your boyfriend did, indeed, warn you about. More than once, insisting that you inquire with your ever-intimidating professor about a group change, and to no avail. “Didn’t I?” He reiterates, pressing you for a reaction. You look away, a mix of scandalized and ashamed, called out on an error you hadn’t felt was too egregious to make. You thought you could handle it. You still can.

“Look at me, buttercup.” He implores, cupping your cheek with one hand and facing you to him— but, for fear of what you’ll find, and shame for the presumably selfish manner in which you’ve acted, your minor betrayal, you keep your eyes averted.

But your sweet boyfriend doesn’t like that, doesn’t enjoy offering his tenderness and receiving none of your compliance in return. Trey squeezes your cheeks so harshly his nails dig into your cheekbone, and you gasp, eyes immediately flickering to peer up into his.

“You know you can always trust me, right?”

You nod. Faintly feeling like he’d just grip your cheeks and do it for you, if you hadn’t.

“Take his name off of your research paper, tell Trein what’s been going on, and own up to it. It’s your work, sweetheart.” Thick fingers loosen their hold, and a soreness stabs the meat of your face, but you refrain from soothing yourself. He brushes hair from your eyes, and leans in to kiss your forehead.

“If you’d just listen, we wouldn’t have hiccups like this, would we?”

It’s a tad uncharacteristic for him, but still expected, given his pastimes and upbringing— Trey utilizes sickeningly sweet nicknames to when referring to you. He feels he’s being unoriginal when he calls you things like ‘honey’ and ‘sweetheart’, largely because he’s playing it safe and sticking to what he knows: what his parents call each other. It’s a secure bet to call you the aforementioned endearments, normal things like ‘pumpkin,’ but Trey does have a tendency to let pure sugar drip from his lips when he’s cross with you, using grossly saccharine names so as to glaze over the pure venom he’s fully capable of dishing your way when it’s warranted.

His idea is that, the sweeter his words, the more willing you’ll be to acquiesce to the severe alterations he wants to impose upon your relationship, which will ultimately bind you to him. Because he’s so articulate and persuasive in the manipulation he does, working the rest of your peers out to be these wholly volatile creatures so as to solidify his position as the sole recipient of your love, this strategy is incredibly effective. He plays a long game, planting little seeds of doubt in your own capabilities whenever you have the smallest slip-ups, hinting to the possibility that, yeah, maybe you’re just not cut out for an environment like this, that it’s in your best interests to quit, save yourself this cutting mental strain. It ultimately snowballs into a bigger issue, wherein you’re constantly left too-hesitant to pursue bigger feats in your school life, doubting your intellect and hard work thus far, feeling deep inadequacy in areas that you may not even struggle in. He’s at the root of it. And he’ll be there to soothe and sway you to him when you stray too far from the path you’d set for yourself, falling completely behind.

Trey doesn’t use lover’s nicknames too freely with you, though. They’re an indulgence, and something he typically doles out as a reward, somewhat micro-dosing you with doting words when you do what’s expected of you, and unprompted. Holding his hand, never straying too far from his lunch table, not growing too needy, listening to him (at bare minimum)— even going as far as to check up on your flossing and treat you with a ‘good job, honey,’ if you stay consistent. Like you’re some child.

Additionally, he’ll wean you from his tenderness should he feel the PDA gravitates too much attention to the both of you. He’s got no qualms in publicizing your relationship, and is in favor of doing so— but, as with most things, Trey is partly wary of exposing too much of himself, and this applies to you. It’s a mix of possessiveness and a desire to keep the raw parts of his life squared away, untouchable, and unseen. You’re among those things.

Trey loves to call you: sweetheart, honey, buttercup, muffin, sweetness

Cater Diamond

Cater wrenches you to him, hands spread over the expanse of your back, rubbing you up-and-down, as if attending to a distraught animal. The evening sun gleams through the club room’s windowpanes, kisses your cheeks, bathes you and Cater in a warm, honeyed veil. You’re both sat snugly atop a pile of pillows used to form a makeshift couch, snack wrappers littering the floor, the room left vacant with both Lilia and Kalim having long darted off to attend to their own dorms. Your boyfriend gives up on his half-assed massage and wraps an arm around your waist, curling over you and stuffing his face in the crook of your neck.

It’s intimate, it’s sweet, and it makes you flush. His earring rests cooly against your flushed cheek, and a smile tugs on the corner of your lips. It’s nice.

Even still, what he’d just said bordered on creepy. Invasive, possessive, and utterly strange, coming from him. In good conscience, you can’t let it slide.

“Cater?” You push, trying to nudge his head away from you, but he’s fully leaning on you now, his nose nuzzling into your jaw, this close proximity lightly frying your nerves. “Can you just— can we talk for a second? I don’t want to glaze over that.”

A little sigh comes from him at that, warm breath spreading over the expanse of your neck, making you shiver. “Glaze over what, cutie?” He croons into you, not sounding quite as irked as you anticipated he’d be from the interruption. If anything, he only squeezed your midriff a bit tighter, and you couldn’t exactly complain. It’s nice to be held like this.

Why don’t you quit your club for me?

You take a beat of silence, hoping that he’ll remember the jarring little tidbit he’d dropped on you not twenty minutes ago, his phrasing then disregarded and brushed away by the crushing gravity of Kalim’s excitement at the prospect of your participation in their band-snack-club… thing.

For me, he’d said. It’s not too weird, is it? He wants to spend more time with you. You’re already skipping over your obligations to your own club every other week to be with him, urged on by his club’s cumulative persuasiveness and heady enthusiasm, the ploy that Cater just really, really wants to see you more. That it’s boring without you there. It’s sweet that he’s so insistent, you think, but a thing of doubt gnaws at your brain. A bit of queasiness, at how easily he’d suggested you disregard what’s so important to you.

It’d be fine thing to say, had this not been the fifth time Cater’s brought it up, disregarding the five respective times you’ve already shot this suggestion down.

You like your club. You like what you do, and you really like the people in it. And you love Cater, of course, but you can’t deny the twang of uselessness you feel at wasting two hours to simply lounge and snack and sit in silence as Lilia mercilessly shreds an electric guitar, the sense that you’re misplaced, that there’s another place you’d rather be.

You’re queasy because of his insistence. You’re queasy because he won’t let up, and Cater seems just a little more annoyed every time he brings it up, as if he’s fed-up with some unreasonable display of defiance you’re putting up, that this is the end-all decision to the fate of your relationship.

You could very well be overthinking.

This could be no big thing.

He’s mouthing your neck at this point, warm lips lingering over your pulse. The hints of teeth he’d let roam your neck have you squirming by now, arms twitching to shoot up and brush him away from you, but you resist, indulging him in indulging you. It takes a moment to gather your bearings, find a modicum of mental fortitude, but you persist in your interrogation, wanting to quit the creeping discomfort that’s been nagging at you for weeks now.

“Cater, I’m not— I’m not comfortable coming over here anymore. After school, it’s… It’s better for me to do my own thing. I think. My club relates a lot to the field I want to go into, you know? It’s not optional for me.”

He doesn’t stop kissing at you. He doesn’t show a hint of concern to you, not baring a glimpse into what he’s thinking, and you’re getting a bit scared, to be fully honest with yourself. You want to be honest with him.

“And… I dunno. You’ve been really weird lately? Not, like, creepy or anything, just a little off. You don’t open up to me as much, and I feel like something’s wrong.” You explain, still letting him lean into you, wringing your hands in your lap as his lavishing persists, not once acknowledging your words. Taking a second to open room for an addition, you sigh as you’re met with silence, the movement of his lips not once abating. So you continue. “I just think—“

Cater bites your neck without an ounce of forewarning. A sensitive spot, the place he likes to tease his fingers over when he plays with your hair, that he knows can cripple you with a single chaste kiss. He bites down there, and hard. You stifle a cry, overwhelmed with a conflicting wave of pain and minute pleasure that does not abate. Confusion and fear overwhelms it all.

Your hand jolts to cover the aching impression the instant Cater lifts away from you, and you quickly turn away to face him, face twisted up in shock and slight discomfort at the jarring action, feeling quite miffed and, frankly, betrayed that he’d do something like that without asking. For biting you so hard. Hard enough for tears to prick your eyes, which, as you observe Cater lean back on the pillows with boyish ease, you’re faintly certain has caused his smile.

Lax and nonplussed with your shock and awe, the hint of trepidation that lingers around you, Cater spreads his arms, opening himself for another hug. As the seconds tick by, the longer you remain stagnant in your disarray, the more impatient he becomes. He leans forward, taking initiative, wrapping you again in his embrace and falling back with you.

Your boyfriend lets out a little ‘oomph’ upon contacting with the pillows, chuckling a little— so lackadaisical in nature, you could mistake this rendezvous for the same teasing tousling he likes to do in his dorm room, not the serious conversation you’d intended it to be. Why won’t he take you seriously?

His hand soothes over your head, lightly brushing over your baby hairs, and a little kiss meets your earlobe.

“Let’s just be quiet for a little while, yeah? Take it easy. You think too much, babydoll,” He coos, but not without a twinge of warning to his tone, sterner than he’s ever been with you. You go a bit rigid.

“You shouldn’t wear yourself out with useless stuff like that. Everything’s just peachy, isn’t it?”

Out of every Heartslabyul member listed here, Cater uses endearments with the most frequency. It’s expected of him!

He experiments with your nicknames like one would throw darts, constantly changing his flow of speech and choice words, shooting either to hit or miss. He’s not super in-tune with your likes and dislikes— it’s more so how his peers react to the nicknames he lavishes you in. If hearing him call you ‘booga-bear’ makes his dorm mates crumple up and cringe, he’s not likely to ever use it again. Whatever is popular to call one’s beau online, he’s likely to start calling you. It’s very impersonal, quite obviously only intended to build him up as the sweetly doting boyfriend he aims to be, superficial enough to throw you off. But he doesn’t exactly want that, either, so he’ll ease up a bit if he finds it makes you increasingly wary to accept his attempts at PDA, sticking to what’s tried and true— babydoll. It’s equal parts endearing and embarrassing, just intimate enough to make you squirm, with how quietly he’ll whisper it in your ear. Just below the rush he gets from a hit Magicam post is the thrill of making you shrivel up, be it out of shyness or plain discomfort. He likes to have that level of influence over your state of being, to get you to curl up from a small word.

Cater marks you his: babydoll, cutie, cutie-pie, lovebug, hon’, sugarlump, puppy, sweetums

Ace Trappola

Petulant, mean, and uncaring. Your boyfriend is a rotten bully. You fume and stomp down a main hallway, steps long and wide, aiming to make Ace acutely aware of your indignation.

“Leave me alone!”

“Baby, come on!” He groans, the noise reverberating throughout the gymnasium, following him out as he slams into the push handle and jogs after you. You don’t look back, walking faster now.

Mean, mean, mean. Who is he, to tell you to fuck off? What sort of boyfriend is he, to mutter that you’re only showing up to practice to ‘soak up attention,’ to flaunt and flirt with his teammates? You had thought doling out refreshments would be a nice gesture, something he’d recognize for what it is; his partner demonstrating support on a hot summer’s day, being his mini-cheerleader. You thought he’d be happy to see you.

‘Leave them there and go,’ are the words Ace greeted you with. Not a smile, no wave, no questions of why you weren’t at your own club, none of his typical sweetness. None of it. No, the second he spotted you in the sidelines with Floyd, he was immediately abrasive and cold, meandering over to tell you to piss off the instant a whistle blew for a break. Even upon pointing out your reason for being there, a cooler packed with carbonated sweetness and water, you received; ‘That’s nice, babe, but we’re busy.’

Perhaps if Floyd hadn’t been so close to you on the bench, Ace’s mood wouldn’t be so sour. His jarring bouts of jealously are a sign and dance that you are, regrettably, well familiar with. And utterly sick of.

But he’s always been quick to make a smooth recovery.

Catching up to you, breathless from the last game and the mini-sprint it took to reach you, Ace snatches up your forearm. You, still furious, wrench it away from him, but his hands are quick to follow. In a flurry of motion, you’re spun around to face him, shoulders gripped tightly by Ace’s sweaty palms.

To top off his absurd assholery, he absolutely reeks. You scrunch up your nose in distaste.

“Hey, hey, hey! Babe, I mean it. I’m sorry for being such an ass back there,” He smiles, crooked, his eyebrows knit together in a blatant mockery of regret. “That’s what you’re all mad about, yeah? I didn’t mean to talk so harsh. Honest.”

You open your mouth to rebuke him, attempting to shrug out of his hold, but he’s even quicker to interrupt you, to hold you tighter.

“I mean it.”

Tighter, tighter, tighter. Tighter until your shoulder locks up, rigid with pain, threatening to pop out of socket. You whine, thrash, try to maneuver yourself in such a way that throws him off of you, but Ace doesn’t let up. Till he wrings out your forgiveness, he won’t.

“I-I know! It’s fine!” Is what you muster, more of a yell than the timid acceptance he usually likes to hear from you, but it’s enough. His grip eases. You breathe.

And then he holds you, more tender than before, in that performative tenderness you can easily see through. It’s always the same— brush hair behind your ear, pepper your cheek, nose, forehead, and neck in kisses, and stroke your back up and down. He must think this is all it takes to rid you of your hurting.

Ace uses nicknames as one would a bandage. He strongly believes that, with enough sappiness, any wound he’s inflicted upon you can be easily amended. Typically, he’s too flustered to use endearments around his peers, not wanting to appear as some lovesick puppy-dog who’s desperate to win your favor. Cooly, he’ll call you by name, occasionally switching to ‘babe,’ if only to solidify his position as your boyfriend when he feels threatened by another man. Those sickly sweet nicknames only come up when you’re well and truly put-out with his abrasive behavior; he gets aggressive and accusatory when you display interest in anybody other than himself, and is both deliberately and unintentionally cruel, often forgetting himself and going too far with barbed words and vicious snipes. Only when you’re teary-eyed does Ace bust out ‘baby,’ cupping your cheeks in his hands and softly leveling with you— cooing warmly, as if he hadn’t just marked you a whore for electing to work with Deuce over him in a paired project.

Ace likes to call you: babe, baby, and (very rarely) cutie. Will try and fail to woo you by calling you ‘sexy’ and ‘kitten’. He’s not suave enough…

Deuce Spade

“You know… I’m not really comfortable with you hanging around Epel so much.”

You take pause from preparing Deuce’s study guide, setting your pen down mid-vocabulary word, leaving the bright blue flash-card unfinished. Intrigued, albeit slightly put-out by the serious tone he so rarely takes, you devote your full attention to him.

He immediately interprets your blank staring as open criticism rather than a gesture for him to continue— justifiably so, you suppose— but what do you say to something like that? What exactly has made him uncomfortable? Is he about to accuse you of something? You’re not sure. So you wait for him to speak, your expression the image of neutrality.

“Sorry. I’m sorry if that’s overstepping a little. I’m just… I don’t know, he’s a bit touchy, I guess ? He knows that I’m dating you, but he still calls you such nice things, and it’s kinda irking to see him hover around you like he does. Like he’s trying to win you over or something. I dunno,” He rapid-fires, speaking so hurriedly that you can hardly deliberate on what’s being said, as if to gloss over this blatant source of his concern.

Deuce has been clingy the past few weeks. To say the least. You’re well aware of his fried nerves as of late, but you’d thought to attribute the incessant lingering and repeated calls to his concern for midterms— that’s the viable excuse he had, anyway, and the very reason why you’re going so far as to make him a study guide right now. For a class you don’t even have.

“Maybe I’m just overthinking.” He asserts, about to brush away his statement, waving a hand in the air. Deuce’s right hand deftly flicks and twirls a pen, a mesmerizing little gesture, one you’re certain he’s doing to curb his own anxiety. You can feel his leg jolting up and down, practically vibrating from the intensity of his nerves. You think he’s finished, and open your mouth to inquire further, to coax out a better explanation from him, but he fires off again.

“I mean, it’s weird, right? I call you up to come over and study, like we promised, and he’s with you at Sam’s shop. He mozies up to our table in the cafeteria and sits next to you, and I have to sit two people away because, y’know, my class is so far away I’m always late, which I’m sure he knows. The apple thing, too, you know?” Deuce whines, breathlessly exasperated, so frantic in his explanation that you’re wildly taken aback, minimally gaping and grappling for an area to interject. But you can’t, and he continues for you.

“Cutting that apple for you. Making the slices into little bunnies, all that. I couldn’t even do it for you when I tried after school, and you had to wrap my hands cuz’ I’m such a clutz and went and cut myself, and— geez.” He breaks off, voice cracking, and you’re forced to full attention at the warble his lip takes, the wet gleam that instantly floods those striking chan eyes, threatening to drip down onto your freshly inked flash cards.

You don’t mind it. Instead, You immediately lean over the desk to cup his hands in yours, trying to ease him into meet your eyes as his own go glassy. He dips his head downward, clearly hiding from you.

“Hey, hey! It’s okay! Please don’t cry, Deuce.” You quietly urge, not keen on attracting any watchful eyes from around the library, empty though it is. You’d be sorry if anyone else saw him like this. If he became the butt of some joke for his sensitivity— you’ve always liked that about him. You don’t mind the tears, but you do worry.

So you do what any good lover would do, and comfort him. Do anything to right what’s making him so wrong.

“It’s Epel, yeah? You don’t want me to hang around him so much? That’s all fine. We’re weren’t even that close in the first place, Deuce. I swear.” Reaffirming him, you acquiesce to the inquiry that so quickly wracked him with anxiety, leaning over and pressing your forehead to his. “I wish I’d known about this. I’m sorry that I didn’t catch on sooner,” You offer, trying to get him to look at you with gentle reassurances, half-empty promises.

Then you kiss his forehead, and he rockets upright.

With a grin peeled over his lips, he leans forward to kiss your cheek, filled with fresh zeal and eagerness. Your eyes widen a bit at how quickly that crumpled expression fled his face. How immediately he resumed that easy boyishness of his, the sweetness that endeares him to you so much. It’s strange, but he kisses away the stitch that forms between your brows, too.

“I knew you’d understand, lovely. Thank you for being so considerate.”

Deuce knows much better than to degrade you in any capacity. Among a plethora of other life tips, his mother made it a point to drill into him the importance of respecting his partner, to communicate, harbor respect, to treat you as an equal. Ever since he meekly announced to her that he’d found you, she’s reminded him of this. Treat them well, she’ll note, every time he brings you up over the phone, which, admittedly, is incredibly frequent. So, he’s not likely to use the same monikers that Ace or Cater take to, which are markedly less respectful given the context they use them in— Deuce wants you loved and appreciated, and takes great care with what nicknames he chooses for you.

He’s flushed for hours after using it, but Deuce strongly favors ‘lovely’ for your trademark endearment, something to call you every day without fail, be it publicly or over the phone each night before bed. It’s sweet and easy, gentle, something that rolls off his tongue easier with repeated use. It’s comfortable and safe for him and you. It’s nice.

The issue with Deuce’s nicknames doesn’t pertain to you, necessarily, but trouble does arise when he seeks out a new individual to project his insecurities onto, someone he views as a threat to what you two have got going on. Be it with someone in his close circle physically inching too close to you, or an unknown classmate he shoulder-checks for staring at you too long, Deuce can quickly become volatile. To a fault, he’s incredibly possessive of you, and although it’s something he’s aware of, he struggles to keep it in check. Old habits die hard and, inevitably, he’s going to cuss someone out for crossing some benign and inscrutable boundary he’s made around you. Unbeknownst to you, or so he hopes. He’s not a massively threatening presence at school, but he’s got his fair share of bite— Deuce builds a bit of a reputation as an attack dog, where you’re concerned. If he deems it as warranted, he’s not above a bloody brawl. If his mom heard of any of this, she’d burst into tears. He’s quite certain that you’d leave him if you found out about him breaking fingers for the meager crime of latching onto your arm.

Deuce will call you: lovely, precious. He rarely deviates from these two, if at all.

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viktoriawallflower · 5 months

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Charlie Cobalt>>>>

#addicted series #garrison abbey #willow hale #loren hale #lily calloway #rose calloway #connor cobalt #daisy calloway #ryke meadows #books #bad reputation #beckett cobalt #maximoff hale #farrow redford Keene #jane cobalt #tom cobalt #luna hale #xander hale

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mcgnagallsarmy · 8 months

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Top 10 Spuffy fics I’ve read (Sept 2023)

A Game of Getting Caught by EllieRose101 [NC-17]

The eternal question: What is the most powerful force in the universe? Buffy's denial, Spike's need to prove her wrong, or Xander's pig-headedness? (Set in a world in which Riley doesn’t visit Sunnydale in Season Six, so the Spuffy sexcapades continue––and so do the close calls of almost getting caught by the Scoobies.)

The Bad Penny by OffYourBird [R]

Six years ago, Buffy made a home in a new dimension with a Spike who defied every rule to be by her side. Now it’s time to put to rest unfinished business in her original dimension. However, a visit there quickly turns apocalyptic, and at the heart of it is the two vampires who set Buffy's original journey in motion, and both of them have a lot of explaining to do.

Best Wishes by bookishy, Dusty, Grief Counseling, ashcrashed, MaggieLaFey, womanaction [R]

Well Hell's Bells! It's a Sunnydale style wedding! You know what that means: things are going to go very very smoothly.

Binding Effects by simmony [R]

What was supposed to be a simple truth spell takes a dark turn when Buffy can suddenly read Spike’s feelings—and he hers.

Future Happiness by EllieRose101 [R]

High School is over and Angel is gone, leaving Buffy worried about what lies ahead. At least until Willow tries to help. (Set in the summer between Seasons Three and Four. Mostly.)

The Future is Ours by DarkEternity96 [NC-17]

What if in mid-Season 4, Spike demands another spell from Willow, in a last-ditch attempt to get Dru back… but rather than having her cast a typical love spell, Spike wants to travel forward in time, to experience the future Drusilla claims she ‘sees’, and prove to her that there is bugger all between him and the Slayer. Cue the spell going awry, and S4 Spike being trapped in the body of his future self, in the very unexpected world of Season 6. And you can only imagine Spike’s utter shock when a lust-fuelled Buffy turns up at his door…

Night Swimming by Geliot99 [R]

An unexpected heatwave in mid-March is reason enough for an impromptu pool party for the Scoobies. But when Richard takes a second stab* at winning Buffy's affections, Spike is all too keen to show her how much fun night swimming with a vampire can really be… *see what I did there? Set between 'Older and Far Away' and 'As You Were'

Right Where You Left Me by acekoomboom [R]

Buffy is a newer ghost, as far as ghosts go, and she can't move on. She sits in the corner she haunts, right where he left her, waiting for him to return. Time moves differently for the dead. Haunted Diner AU.

Taste and Temptation by RavenLove12 [NC-17]

For a sticky sweet, tasty treat: Take one stressed-out Slayer, add one snarky vampire, place in an empty house and mix well. Bake on high and top with whipped cream.

Thing of Doom by Sunalso [Adult Only]

AtS S5. Things go a little off canon in Destiny and Buffy ends up with a whole lot more than she bargained for. Human? Demon? What makes Spike who he is and what’s a girl to do with the love of her life when he’s double the trouble?

#buffy the vampire slayer #btvs #spuffy #ficrec #monthly ficrec #dustyfics #acekoomboom #spnae #sunalsolove

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enjoythesilentworld · 15 days

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Wille's Month - Fashion/Style

wow day 15! @youngroyals-events tack! <3

AU. Crown Prince Wilhelm finally meets his favorite artist, Simon Eriksson, at the Met Gala.

read below or on ao3. (T, 1.4k)

Wille took a moment to steel himself, inhaling one long, deep breath, before he’d have to face the inevitable. He could already hear the shouts, the camera clicks, and none of those were even for him yet. It wasn’t often he found himself surrounded by this many other famous people, especially not of this caliber, so he was a bit nervous.

It was his own fault, really, that he’d found himself sitting in a black town car, in a stuffy suit, waiting to enter the most notorious fashion event of the year. But, with all of his duties as Crown Prince of Sweden, all of the handshakes and baby-kissing and ribbon cutting, he’d needed to carve something out that was his own. While he adored helping people and finding those tiny moments of joy in an otherwise suffocating role, Wille craved something that was just his. Delving into fashion had been his own personal fuck-you to the Royal Court at the beginning. They hadn’t been too keen on a big ‘coming out’ – and honestly, neither had Wille, not wanting to deal with all the drama – but the clothes he had a little more leeway with. Meeting with designers and learning about fashion was one of the few ways he could bring a bit of Wille into his position. If he wore things that were a bit more feminine or not-fitting for a straight crown prince, so what? The headlines would be what they were. It all helped him breathe a little easier, too, knowing that this part of his life was still his to control.

The theme of this year’s Met Gala was ‘Grimm Couture: Origins of Fashion’ and the dress code followed closely as ‘A Fairytale Encounter’. The royal-ness of it all hence why the Crown Prince of Sweden would be in attendance. Wille was honored, he supposed, to have been invited in the first place. It did seem a little bit too much like all the other events he usually attended – a night of rich people flaunting their wealth and pretending there were zero problems in the world – but the Court had insisted. Once he found out that Simon Eriksson would be attending, Wille had stopped putting up any sort of fight.

With a final gulp of air, he nodded to the driver. A moment later, the car door opened, and a million flashes and shouts hit him all at once. Blinking away the initial shock, Wilhelm stood and waved politely, the perfect-prince mask slipping into place. Not wanting to draw too much attention to himself but wanting to fit the dress code, Wilhelm had leaned into the fairy tale aspect. He chuckled slightly at the thought of Erik seeing him now, parading around in a light green and gold suit decorated with lily pads and willow branches. It felt nice to still have an inside joke with him, imagining Erik laughing at his little brother, The Frog Prince, attending such a prestigious event.

Slowly, he was guided, buffeted by multiple security guards, toward the main event and the main red carpet. He tried not to look too obvious as he glanced around, only really looking for one person. The saturation of fame in such a small space was astounding. Wilhelm was a different kind of famous from these people. A few tweets would be sent out by random people questioning his identity or purpose for being there and (hopefully) complimenting his suit. The rest of this crowd, though, were real famous people, renowned around the world. Like, for example, Simon Eriksson. The man was three-quarters of the way to an EGOT, and he was only 24. He also happened to be Wilhelm’s favorite music artist and the main star in his dreams. They followed each other on socials but had never spoken in real life. Tonight, Wille hoped, that would change.

When he got to the bottom of the stairs, Wilhelm spotted him. An absolute vision of sin, Simon Eriksson wore a deep purple affair, dripping in silver jewelry and pants so long and layered they might have been a skirt. His jacket was cropped and open in the front, revealing a bare, toned chest and midriff.

Voices shouting his official title shook Wilhelm out of his trance, and he let his eyes linger a second longer before turning to the photographers in front of him. Wilhelm made his way up the stairs distractedly, posing and half-heartedly answering interviewers questions. He simply could not look away from Simon, who was working his way up the other side of the stairs.

A few times, Simon caught Wilhelm staring and smirked devilishly at him. Wilhelm would whip his head back around and attempt to smooth his features, having to ask the poor journalist to repeat their question. Halfway up the stairs, Wilhelm zeroed into an interview Simon was giving right behind him.

“Simon, Simon! Tonight’s theme is all about fairy tale encounters. What fairy tales inspired your look tonight?”

Wilhelm couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder as Simon let out a warm laugh.

“Well, I’ve never been much of a believer in fairy tales. But looking around tonight,” Simon said thoughtfully, then turned and made direct eye contact with Wilhelm, “it seems I might find a prince of my own.”

Wilhelm, aware of their surroundings, sent a kind smile back, then quickly turned away to hide his blush.

The rest of their travel up the carpet continued as such, sending flirty glances at each other across the distance and adding piles of fuel to the media fire Wilhelm was sure to hear all about tomorrow. He couldn’t find it in himself to care. Still, he did his best to answer the interviewers questions, wanting to be respectful of their time and also to plug some of the charities he was proud to work with.

As soon as he made it to the top of the carpet, Simon disappeared into the crowd. Wilhelm didn’t see him for hours. In fact, he thought he might’ve left. It wasn’t until the evening was beginning to draw to a close, and Wilhelm was beginning to accept the fact he’d never get more than a teasing look from a distance, that he ran into Simon in the men’s restroom.

“Kronprinsen,” Simon said in a mocking tone, dipping into a small curtsy. His pretty voice echoed slightly in the tiled room.

Wilhelm groaned. “Please, no. Just– Just Wilhelm is fine. Wille.”

Simon’s eyes were playful, and, at this closer distance, Wilhelm could see the intricate black and silver eyeliner accentuating them. Thankfully, it seemed the bathroom was empty, so no one would see just how weak in the knees Wille was feeling.

“Okay, Wille,” he nodded, “I’m Simon.”

“I know,” Wille blurted. “I mean, how are you enjoying the evening?

“Ugh,” Simon rolled his eyes, “I hate these things. All the fuss kind of makes me sick, but I’ve got an album coming out soon, so the label insisted. Plus, who am I to turn down Anna Wintour?”

“Well, you look absolutely incredible, regardless. I’m a little worried you’re in the background of all my photos and stealing my shine.”

The immediate light in Simon’s eyes was worth the slight blush on Wille’s cheeks. Unknowingly, they had both stepped forward, bringing them closer in the already small space.

“Oh, dear,” Simon drawled, raising a hand to grasp at Wille’s lapels, “Are you nervous that people are going to notice you’ve been staring at me all night?”

At their sudden close proximity, Wille swallowed dryly. His eyes flickered down when Simon wet his lips, as if in invitation.

“How could I have looked anywhere else?” he whispered into the space between them.

Simon hummed. “Were you planning on staying much longer, Your Highness?”

“Don’t call me that,” Wille groaned again and reached out to wrap an arm around Simon’s waist, then pulled him in. “But, no, In fact, I was just leaving.”

The last bit of space vanished between their bodies and Simon tilted his head up tauntingly, revealing even more of that beautiful neck of his. “I see. Me too.”

“Do you need a ride?” Wille asked, breathing the words into the sliver of air separating his lips from Simon’s.

“I’d love one.”

That was the last Met Gala either of them attended. Three years later, the notorious fashion event had a much smaller audience as the majority of the world turned its attention to the highly anticipated summer wedding of an Ex-Crown Prince Wilhelm and EGOT-winner Simon Eriksson.

#hot boys in suits!#and #simon in eyeliner #makes his return #willemonth2024 #suprise suprise i wrote another AU #wmday15 #crown prince wilhelm #simon eriksson #yr fic #wilmon #young royals

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