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moonstruckme · 1 month

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Hello, I saw that your requests are open and I would like to ask for something pre-relationship with James. You could write in which the reader recently moved into a building/condominium and she needs help with something, like something that needs a specific tool or dealing with a spider and she asks her neighbor (James) for help? I think it would be something cute, like love at first sight. (I'm sorry if you don't want to write, but I saw a video like this and thought it would be cool to read something about it)

Thanks for requesting lovely!

neighbor!James x fem!reader ♡ 868 words

James almost doesn’t hear the knocking the first time. It’s hardly more than a couple of light taps, like someone might have bumped their bag into his door as they went by. Still, it gets his attention. James pauses in cutting up melon for tomorrow’s breakfast, head angling towards his front door.

It comes again, a bit less tentative this time, and he sets down his knife, wiping his hands on a dishtowel before going to the door.

You’re standing in the hall with your arms crossed tight against the nighttime chill that seeps into the building, wearing fuzzy slippers and what are quite clearly pajamas. You give him James a terse smile, looking somewhere between apologetic and panic-stricken.

“Hi,” you say, at the same time as he says, “Hello.”

Your smile blooms a bit more genuinely at that, and James is glad for it. You’re quite lovely when you look at him like that. It makes him wish he was wearing something other than his pajama bottoms or had brushed his teeth after his garlicky dinner.

“Hi,” you say again. “Um, I’m really sorry to bother you this late, but I’ve just moved in next door and I was wondering if you could help me with something?”

“Of course,” he agrees. No context needed. James prides himself on being neighborly, but he thinks he’d probably do just about anything you ask him to. “What is it?”

“There’s a cockroach in my living room.” You deliver the news with a grave face, like his revoking his offer of help is predetermined. “I’ve been trying to put a cup over it for, like, twenty minutes probably, but it’s too fast and I can’t really corner it by myself.”

“Ah.” James steps outside, closing his door behind him. “Alright, yeah, I’m sure we can take care of that. Lead the way, lovely.”

You take a bolstering breath before stepping into your apartment, making him grin. It really is just right next to his, and this knowledge seems like a dangerous thing to have. James is going to have to start playing his music a tad lower and making sure he looks decent every time he goes outside.

Just inside the door, there’s a broom propped against the wall. You take it up.

“Okay,” you say, awfully serious for someone in fuzzy slippers wielding a broom, “I was thinking I’d get him into that corner there, and then you could put the cup over him.” You nod towards a cup turned facedown on the coffee table. James picks it up. Some of the determination slips from your expression, eyebrows twitching towards each other, as you look at him. “Sorry to drag you into this. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s really fine,” James laughs. “This isn’t the first time someone has called me over to take care of a bug, and you live a lot closer than my mate did at the time.” In the period in between James and Sirius living together and Sirius moving in with Remus, his friend had forced James over to his flat at least twice a week so that he could trap spiders under cups while Sirius shrieked “Kill it! Kill it!” from atop his kitchen table.

You grimace. “Well, it’s good to know you’ve had practice. Okay, last I saw him he was under the couch. Ready?”

James nods, holding the cup in his hand.

You sweep the broom tentatively underneath the couch, starting at one end at working your way to the other. Just when James is starting to come to terms with the idea that the roach has moved to an unknown location, it skitters out from that opposite end.

You go after it with impressive grit, blocking its attempted escape underneath a nearby chair and herding it towards the corner.

“Ready?” You don’t take your eyes from the bug for a second, but James nods anyways as he steps forward, cup held aloft.

The roach runs into the corner, and James descends upon it. He lowers the cup quickly, not wanting the small creature to catch on and rebel against its eviction, but the thing moves quicker.

It flies towards him.

James makes a not-super-dignified yelping sound and trips backward, landing fortunately in the chair. You shriek and swat at it with the broom, missing by a meter. You both track the cockroach as it lands on a wall.

“Fuck,” James breathes. He’s aware that he’s not making a great impression right now, but he feels like he’s just been attacked. “You didn’t tell me it was one of those flying ones!”

“I didn’t think it was!” You’re clutching the broom handle in a white-knuckled grip, your eyes wide. “It wasn’t doing that earlier!”

“Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “Okay, it’s fine. We’ve still got this. Just, ah, if you decide you’d like to abandon this, sleep at my place, and call pest control in the morning, I’m just saying right now that’d be more than alright with me.”

You meet his eyes. “Think I’m gonna try a bit more first, but I might take you up on that. Thanks.”

James grins. “No worries. Always good to have a backup plan.”

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sweets3rial · 3 months

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friday, i'm in love

inspired by the request

di!leon x gn!reader

summary: your favorite agent surprises you with a very unexpected home coming.

tags: domestic fluff, no smut, sexual innuendos, reader is a good cook, reader uses pimple cream, mentions of a future family (give leon his family pls), leon is a horny freak, the song 'Friday, I'm in Love' by The Cure

word count: 1.2k

bass and drums echoed off the walls of your kitchen, the rhythmic lyrics and uplifting guitar put an instant smile onto your face as you jumped around with a spatula in your hand. you shouted out the lyrics, singing with your heart's content.

occasionally going back to flip the chicken breast, tender and juicy on the inside with a nice crunchy crust on the outside. today was one of those days when you were finally able to muster up the energy to cook a homemade meal.

both you and your boyfriend's favorite, chicken alfredo. a staple in your household and one you’re especially good at. you enjoyed being in the kitchen, you didn’t mind it actually. cooking was one of your hobbies and some people say you were just naturally born to cook … and well dance.

jumping around in circles, in your pajamas, with the smell of chicken and pasta in the air.

your lovely boyfriend was away on a mission, risking his life for the world and you couldn’t be more prouder. but you also couldn’t be more worried. every night that he was not in your bed only added to your anxiety.

you were always in a slum when he was away. dragging yourself around the house and cuddling into his pillow that smelt of his shampoo. though, this morning after receiving a prompt text that he was to be back tomorrow, you were instantly pulled back into a better mood.

he was as well. he didn’t expect to finish so early, the nurses cleared him and his reports were done. he was going to be going home to the love of his life. the whole drive home, he was occupied with the thought of what you were going to be doing.

you always had a surprise up your sleeve for him.

will you be sleeping? or would you be on the couch watching your favorite show? would you be out? would you be home? (most likely) would you be in bed waiting for him? with that gorgeous lace set he bought you the other week.

goosebumps ran down his spine at the thought of you waiting in bed for him. if so, his clothes would disappear from his body in a blink.

as he pulled up into your shared condo, he could hear the faint sound of music. was it from someone's radio? upon getting closer to the condo, he realized, it was probably you.

the song, ‘Friday I’m in Love’ by The Cure played on your speaker, the one he got you for Christmas. he smiled to himself, and he could practically hear you singing wailing at the top of your lungs.

you were so occupied, that you didn’t hear the jangle of keys coming from the other side of the front door. so occupied in singing at the top of your lungs rather than paying attention to everything around you, including your cooking.

as you were taking out the chicken breast and cutting it into slices. so-called lovely boyfriend walked into the house, shouting out, “babe?” he was sure you couldn’t hear him, given the fact that he could hear the bass and faint lyrics coming from outside of your condo.

he peeked inside, following the sound of music and your voice into the kitchen — along with the smell of salty and garlicky goodness. he smiled, slowly creeping into his own house.

his heart was beating with anticipation and he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. once he rounded the corner and into the kitchen, he was welcomed with the view of you rocking your head back and forth, whilst cutting up food.

your back was turned to him and you were singing at the top of your lungs. his little bird, always singing. whether it was in the shower, or the kitchen, or the yard. music was your second most favorite thing after him.

he leaned onto the counter behind you, admiring the way you just existed.

hair messy and frizzy, fuzzy socks on, detailed pajama bottoms, just you. being home and doing your own thing. he loved it.

he loved coming home to you. it didn’t matter if you were awake or sleeping. mad or sad. he just loved coming home to you, to be around your beauty and your grace. even in your three-day-old pajamas with a few dabs of pimple cream on your cheeks and forehead.

slowly, he stalked behind you. opening up his arms widely, before clamping them shut around you.

first, you felt someone grab you. they muscular arms with a tight but gentle grip, holding your wrists and hugging your arms to your sides.

then, it was a loud shout of the words. “it’s Friday! i’m in love!”

you shouted out, jumping about a whole foot off the ground. your reaction earned you a throaty laugh from your captor, or in other words your boyfriend.

you were quick to recognize his laugh, whipping around with knife still in hand, you were met his his wide grinning face and head of brown hair.

“you asshole!” you shouted over your music, slapping him with your free hand while the other placed your knife down. his hands found the purchase of your hips, pulling you closer to him and nuzzling his nose against yours.

you jumped up to wrap your arms around his neck, practically knocking him over, “when’d you land? i thought you were going to be away for another day!”

you pulled away, looking him in the face and instantly checking for any injuries. thankfully, there were none.

“i landed early,” he took a small pause, taking in the look of your wide eyes and your fluttering lashes.

“you didn’t hear me come in, sweets?” he asked, cupping your cheek.

you shoved him away, “no, i could’ve stabbed you.”

“which is why i held you down.”

“i know! but don’t do that!” you whined, tempted to hit him again.

he couldn’t help but smile wider, leaning down and placing a long and deep kiss over your lips. god, he loved coming home to this. coming home to you. he couldn’t wait for the day you’d make him a father. the day he’d not only come home to one, but to two.

a little mini you or mini him, running around the house, babbling out incoherent words. he’s had dreams, the little baby would have his eyes and your hair. your nose and your cheeks. he’d have a whole nursery set up just for them.

boy or girl, it didn’t matter to him. as long as he was blessed with the title of being their father and being your husband.

one day, he said to himself. one day.

he pulled away, placing another kiss on your nose.

“you look so beautiful, y’know that?”

“stop, i have my acne cream on,” you said with a crinkle of your nose.

“but it’s lovely,” he hummed, tickling at your sides.

you elbowed him away, still annoyed at the fact he scared you, but also happy that he was home. you missed him, you always do.

“i’m making your favorite,” you told him, turning around. he instantly caught you again, wrapping his heavy arms around you and leaning his body weight onto you.

his head sunk into your shoulder, taking a deep breath of your softener along with the scent of butter and seasoning. he sighed out into you, his hot breath seeping through your sweater and onto your skin.

“what do you want for dessert, hm?” you asked, turning your head to face him.

you watched a smirk slowly spread over his cheeks.

“you.”

“god, i can’t catch a break.”

(divider creds to @saradika ,, photos off of pinterest)

#leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy x you #death island leon #resident evil #leon kennedy fic #resident evil fic

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months

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To be alone with you 7

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, power imbalance, cheating, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your babysitting gig becomes complicated. (f!plus sized!reader)

Character: dilf!Clark Kent

Note: Long time, no see.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

Spaghetti and meatballs. Simple and delicious. You assume it’s one of Clark’s specialties, the way Jonny talks about it. A plateful steams before you, the garlicky scent tugging at the appetite you hadn’t noticed before.

After the unsettling night alone, you’re starting to feel normal again. It’s comforting to have someone else there, even if it is Clark. He’s not a bad guy, he’s nice enough, it’s just that underlying imbalance that makes it awkward. Technically, he’s your boss. Even if he wasn’t, he’s much older, you’re not sure you have much in common.

“Uh, what do you want to drink?” Clark calls from the kitchen, “I see Sprite and… not much else.”

“Oh, I’ll have one, please,” you answer. You don’t drink soda often, your mom’s the one who keeps the Sprite in the fridge but it’s so hot out you could go for a crisp drink.

You wait patiently, not wanting to be rude and start before he’s sitting down. It only seems right after he went to all the trouble of cooking for you. Clark appears with two glasses. You’re surprised he didn’t just bring the cans but don’t think much of it.

He puts a glass beside your plate, then his own, a few cubes of ice in his. You notice how his hair curls with the heat, a little askew from his efforts in the kitchen. You smile and thank him for the drink.

“This looks good. You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble. Dad left me pizza money.”

“It’s fine. I’m a bit restless without anyone around. I’m used to this,” he shrugs as he sits down, his shoulders wider than the chair. Sometimes you forget how big he is. It’s almost absurd when he’s just an overworked suburban dad in your head.

“Dig in, please. You didn’t have to wait,” he stirs the sauce into his noodles.

“Oh, it’s okay,” you twirl your fork in the pile of pasta. You blow over the steaming sauce and lean forward, tasting it as you try not to flick sauce all over. You hum and do your best to slurp up the ends of the noodles without making a mess. “That’s pretty good.”

“Yep, got more than my good looks,” he chuckles, “I can cook too.”

You smile, taking another bite and chewing through the tension. There’s a bit of zest to the sauce. You can’t disagree with his self-appraisal. He can cook.

You take the folded paper towel next to your plate and wipe your lips before you reach for your soda. You gulp it greedily and nearly choke. You sputter as the carbonation bubbles up to your nostrils.

“You okay?” Clark asks, his cheek ticking.

“Oh, yeah, yeah,” you sniffle and push the paper towel to your nose. You laugh at yourself and clear your throat, “I… haven’t had sprite in a while, guess I forgot how it tastes.”

“Ah, well, did you want water?” He asks.

“No, it’s fine. Not bad,” you turn the glass and look at the soda, “bit of an aftertaste.”

“I don’t really have soda,” he sits back, poking at his plate, “most water. A juice box here and there.”

“Makes sense.”

Your forks clink as you eat in silence. The air is thick as both of you search for something to talk about. Where you’re struggling to find some commonality, there’s a twitchiness to him that suggests he’s trying not to say everything.

“If you’re up for it, maybe we could watch a movie?” He suggests.

“A movie?” You weigh the prospect. You suppose it’s a better idea than staring at the wall. Movies are a great way to fill awkward silences. “Sure, why not. Been a while since I saw anything good. Do you have anything in mind?”

“Nah, not really. I mostly end up watching Pixar so it’s on you. I trust your judgment.”

“You shouldn’t,” you scoff, “I love Pixar.”

He smiles and gives a small chuckle, “well, just don’t be mad when I mouth along with the dialogue.”

“Kidding,” you take another sip of Sprite, trying to wash away the tomatoey tang, “promise, adult movies only.” You cringe as you realise what you said, “I mean, grown-up– er–”

Clark laughs louder, “I got it,” his cheeks bulb as the cleft in his chin deepens, “I know what you’re saying, don’t worry about it.”

“Right,�� you shift in your chair, thoroughly embarrassed. You really are so smooth. It’s a good thing it’s just him, you’re sure he’s not very worried about your dumb remarks.

🏡

Despite your efforts to help, Clark insists on cleaning up. You let him as you go upstairs to take a quick shower. Sweating in the sun reading all day has left you feeling a bit musty.

You pull on a pair of striped pajama shorts and a loose tee shirt. You do a face scrub and some moisturising serum before finally emerging, feeling fresh and a bit sleepy. You can hear Clark below scuttling around.

You go downstairs and peer towards the darkened doorway of the kitchen. You pass it and stop just at the threshold of the front room. You find Clark laying out the cushions on the floor along with the throw blankets and pillows. The coffee table is moved aside to allow for some space as the TV glares behind him.

You give him a curious look and he flinches as he notices you. You come forward slowly as the loose hem of your shorts ripples against your thigh. You’re suddenly very aware of how much of your legs are bare. Oh well, it’s only Clark.

“What are you doing?” You ask as you cross the room.

“Oh, me and Jonny do this. I figured you weren’t into making forts but I just thought–” he stops and looks down at his handiwork, “it’s lame, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I’m just trying to make things feel normal… for both of us.”

You give an empathetic smile, “it’s nice. Really,” you look him in the eye, the bold blues gleaming back at you, “it’s sweet. And it looks cozy.”

“Great,” he lightens up as he drops the last pillow, “well,” he turns and grabs the remote, “choose something.”

You nod and take the remote. You sit on a cushion and lean back against the couch. You flick through the new additions on the main screen and choose a movie you’ve heard a lot of buzz about. You blink as the light suddenly goes out and you look over to see Clark’s shadow moving towards you. It gives you an eerie wave of deja vu as you recall the silhouette of the intruder.

You shudder and reach to put the remote up on the couch behind you. You turn back around and a large yawn erupts without warning. You rub your itchy eyes and shake your head, the edges of the television almost blurry as you try to focus on it.

“Tired?” Clark nudges you as he sits beside you.

“Didn’t sleep after… after last night,” you say.

“Ah, of course not. That was a stupid question.”

“It’s f-i-ine,” you yawn again, “really. I’m sure I will tonight. Especially with you here.”

“Really?” He breathes.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t be able to turn the lights off if I was alone,” you lean into the couch as you slouch down, “anyway, I’ll be quiet. Movie’s starting.”

He doesn’t answer as he mirrors you, plumping a pillow behind himself as he wiggles down and gazes up at the screen. Your eyelids feel heavy as you fight to keep them open. The opening scene barely ends as you feel your body slackening with fatigue. You’re barely going to make it through the credits.

You turn onto your side, leaning on your elbow as you hug a pillow under your head. You feel Clark shift too. You blink, a long blink, and when you open your eyes again, you’re lost. You have no idea what the characters are talking about.

You flutter your lashes and try to sit up. You give up as an achy weakness bites at your muscles. Oh well, if you fall asleep, you fall asleep. You can’t fight it anymore.

You close your eyes and wade in the shallow pool of exhaustion. Your head goes wobbly as you’re vaguely aware of the hues flickering and flashing from the television. A sudden warmth rests on your hip, a light sensation you can’t place.

“Are you awake?”

The question blows through you. You don’t have the strength to answer. Your eyes feel strange, dry and almost painful.

You wiggle, shaken by a strength not your own. You slip further from consciousness. You flip onto your back, dragged down until you're entirely flat on the floor. Your eyes are glued shut as you’re trapped in the dregs of sleep. You can’t break through, but you can feel the world around you.

You feel a tickle over your stomach and along your chest. A soft squeeze and a dampness blows over your throat. Heat surrounds you as something prods below your jaw, something soft brushing on your neck. A low drone swirls in your ears.

“Mmm, sweetie, you smell good,” Clark’s voice distorts as you languish in the void, “I bet you feel even better.”

Another tickle. Just along your thighs. A coolness that breezes over you as fabric ripples against you. The loose leg rumples against the crease of your leg as a stroking sensation flicks around your clit.

The electrifying currents radiate from your core. Your chest rises and falls with your rushing breaths. Your heart beats loudly, further deafening the muffled voices coming from the television and the low moan drifting into your ear. Your name plucks at you but cannot rouse you.

Wetness across your cheek then on your lips, delving inside, pressing to your tongue. A sloppy lapping, slickness around your mouth, a new weight over you. Tugging at your shirt and roughness against your tender skin. Squeezing and kneading your chest as a fire razes over your.

Your legs are pushed wide. You feel the world shift and tilt as you come near the surface. Your eyes slit and you can see shadows pulsing all around. A heavy blackness hangs over you as you feel heat against your thighs. Firm muscle holding you open.

You gasp as the wetness along your cunt eases the intrusion. Your eyelids flick up and your eyes roll as your head lolls dizzily. You fight to lift your head but can’t. It’s too much just to look around.

The single digits moves in and out of you, inching deeper each time, the ridge of knuckles grazing your walls. You moan as the hand pulls back and a second finger stretches you. In, out, the wet noise of your tight cunt nips at your shame.

It’s not a dream. It can’t be. It feels too real. Too deep. He’s touching you, he’s inside you. Mr. Kent rocks his hand against your cunt as he hangs his head next to yours and pants, his large body draped across you.

“Baby,” he purrs as your arms remain paralysed at your sides, “shhh, it’s okay. It won’t hurt…” he whispers, “the pills will help.”

You don’t understand what he’s saying or what he’s doing. No, no, you’re wrong. It has to be a dream. He wouldn’t do this. He doesn’t want you. He has a wife. He’s heartbroken over her.

The glare of the TV limns his shoulders, broad and rounded with muscles. He’s naked. The colours skew over his skin as he curls his back, dragging his fingers free of your cunt. He leaves a wet trail down your thigh.

He pushes his knees up, keeping you splayed around him. He feels along your shorts, once more delving past the loose cotton. He prods against your folds. A bulbous, thick shape that has you clenching. He lines his tip up with your entrance and leans in, just enough for you to whimper.

He slides back along your lips, slickening himself with your stolen pleasure. He rubs against you, over and over, stopping again at your entrance. He huffs and jostles you, urging his thick forearm under your neck. Your head hangs back over his arm as you groan and curl your fingers against the blankets.

“Baby, it hurts me too,” he dips his hips, forcing his tip past the tight resistance. Your voice rises, tiny, short squeaks as you feel the daze splitting with your inside. “Just a little…” he rocks back and in again, an inch at first, over and over, shaking each time. “Little more…” he sinks in further and your voice grows more steady.

Your eyes are wide and terrified as the pain assures you of reality. You tense but your body won’t obey. You can’t stop him. You can’t move!

“Little…” he repeats and thrusts deeper again, “...more,” he rolls back and in. His arm bends around your neck as he buries his face in your hair. His other hand braces your thigh, nails digging in as he keeps his motion. With each tilt, he slides in more. More and more until you’re agonizingly full.

You let out a whine, long and desperate as he reaches his limit. He keeps himself there as he whimpers and shakes. He wiggles his hips as he feels you around him.

“Oh god, I… you’re so good. Why are you so good?” He puffs and thrusts, jolting your entire body, “you… you’re so good I had to. I know…” he ruts again, “I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t…I shouldn’t…” he chants as he keeps his motion, easing back slowly only to snap back into you.

Your eyes wet and tears trickle out. It’s more than the pain, it’s the horror swelling in you, boiling but unable to flow over as you remain helpless. You close your eyes and choke on a sob as he rams into you faster, flesh clapping louder each time he dips into you.

You ache as he fucks you. On and on. It feels like forever as you strain against the futility, only able to bend and unbend your fingers. Please stop. Please get off. All you can utter are senseless garbles.

“Baby,” he growls, “I’m gonna– I can’t–” He pushes off of you in a panic, sliding halfway before he spasms and bucks, whimpering as you feel him spill into you, “shit, shit, shit,” he pants as he stills himself, “I didn’t mean to… not inside…”

Your head falls to the side, your eyes rolling back into your skull. You let the darkness win. You’re going to wake up and it’s all going to be a nightmare. Right?

#clark kent #dark clark kent #dark!clark kent #clark kent x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au #dcu #dc #superman #to be alone with you #babysitter au

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merely-a-caricature · 1 year

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Garlic bread: A conundrum of a symbol for aros and aces

Garlic bread is an iconic symbol in both the aromantic and asexual communities. Beloved by many, it’s a fun inside joke for those on the community. But it is quite the confusing symbol with it popping up in both aro and ace spaces. Is garlic bread an aro symbol, or does it go with the aces?

The meaning behind this symbol is essentially garlic bread > sex or romance.

While the details of this garlicky treat are unclear, it seems to have first emerged as a bit of meme from the ace community based upon the analogy cake > sex, so they also went garlic bread > sex. Garlic bread in the ace community is used in a similar fashion to cake.

Now, this is where things get a bit tricky.

It seems that, at first, garlic bread was adopted as asexual symbol. I’ve read in a thread of people talking about coming with a food as an aromantic symbol and mentioning how garlic bread was adopted in some communities as an asexual symbol which would imply the aces used garlic bread as a symbol first. But before doing additional research to make this post, I mostly thought of garlic bread as an aro symbol.

In the thread mentioned above, people talked about ice cream as a potential aro symbol. Nowadays, ice cream is also a bit of an aro symbol, and I theorize it may have sprung up since garlic bread was once largely claimed by the aces.

It seems there is quite a bit of history behind garlic bread being a symbol for those on the aspec. Personally, I’ve seen more about garlic bread as an aro symbol than as an ace symbol. But it also seems aces were the first to claim it as a symbol. The Urban Dictionary definition of garlic bread mentions it as the “official food of the asexuals”, and nowhere does it mention aromantic. But you can find stuff in both aro and ace communities regarding garlic bread as the food symbol.

I mostly see people using cake for aces and garlic bread for aros. But I’m also aware that garlic bread is also big among some ace communities. The line between the two is blurry, and garlic bread isn’t just an aro or ace symbol.

All in all, the history of these communities is a bit muddled. The relationship the communities have with garlic bread is a unique and interesting one. Garlic bread as a symbol is somewhat ambiguous. It seems to be a shared thing along the aros and aces.

But I’d like to know, what are your experience with garlic bread as a symbol for these communities? How do you view the relationship the aro and ace communities have with garlic bread? Feel free to share your thoughts!

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ohbutwheresyourheart · 2 months

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continuing the fragments from the google docs series: yugi is caught in a horrific depression spiral after the ceremonial duel and finally hits rock bottom, until everyone's favourite ceo sticks his nose in. fem!yugi because... I don't even remember, I think I just felt like it.

tw: suicide attempt

The ground suddenly looked very, very far away. Which it should; she was only a couple of floors below the penthouse. Would have gotten the penthouse, had a certain someone not booked it before her, probably before the circuit for this year’s world championships were even announced.

Except it brought to mind one of those statistics that got bandied around on self-help sites about the Golden Gate Bridge, and the drop being long enough to pass right through suicidal ideation into oh-fuck-why-did-I-jump.

Yugi didn’t think she’d renege, and the point was sort of that even if she did it wouldn’t make a difference, but it made her stomach twist to think she might. That it might be something hard-wired into her brain rather than a conscious decision. It was all chemicals, after all; maybe the fear of death was just something the chemicals bullshitted together despite all good reason after the last drops of dopamine ran out.

She shifted from one foot to the other, her hands sweaty on the absurdly fancy Romanesque column.

God, how much easier it would be if she could just will her heart to stop beating. No fuss. No mess. Just here one minute, gone the next. She’d thought the next best thing was an overdose, until she read a well-meaning forum post about the after-effects. Yes, and the pain, because she was simultaneously brave enough and coward enough to admit she wanted it painless; dared to go as far as to think she deserved it to be painless, really.

Why should it hurt to make things right?

Yugi closed her eyes and listened. Distant music and muffled voices floated up from the open windows on the floors below. Traffic blared on the roads. The fan in her bedroom hummed white noise behind it all. She breathed in something floral they’d scented the hotel rooms with and, below it and more familiar, what she’d always thought of as the smell of a city. Fast food – pizza, burgers, something garlicky – and emissions mixed with something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Life.

Well. So long, and thanks—

Yugi shrieked like a scalded cat as she was pulled backwards off the balcony wall. Eyes snapping open, she fought instinctively against the hands gripping her elbows. As soon as she was on the floor again, she was released, and turned to see – oh.

“What the fuck, Seto?”

She wasn’t sure what annoyed her most: that Seto Kaiba had managed to get into her locked hotel room, that he had done so without her noticing, that he had interrupted her immaculately planned suicide attempt, or that he had done all of that with a bored, slightly irritated expression on his face.

“I was getting sick of watching you grandstand,” he said. “If you were going to jump, you would have jumped.”

Seto turned away and kept talking, pacing across the balcony and gesturing, but Yugi stopped hearing him. She stopped hearing anything. Pure, unadulterated rage managed what all the calm, logical reasoning in the world could not.

Yugi leaped over the balcony.

She almost didn’t make it. The balcony wall was higher than she could comfortably jump, even with a few steps of a running start, and her feet caught it on the way over. For a dizzying moment, Yugi was suspended over the glittering downtown lights, and then gravity took over. Her stomach lurched, her heart felt like it was going to burst out of her chest, and yes there was that sudden spark of horror, of internal screaming, of nononononono---

Then a hand caught her leg and momentum slammed Yugi into the wall below face-first, hard enough to drive all the breath from her lungs. The momentary red mist cleared and her hearing kicked back in just in time to hear Seto scream:

“WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Which, Yugi had to admit, was a very fair and extremely good question.

Drop me, she thought desperately. Please just fucking drop me.

But Seto Kaiba had never been accommodating in his life and he wasn’t about to start now. With a remarkable show of strength for such a wiry man, he hauled her back up over the railing by her ankles and dumped her on the balcony, red-faced and panting.

“That wasn’t - a - rhetorical - question - by the way,” he gasped as Yugi dropped her head into her hands and wished, intensely, for the sweet kiss of death. “What - and I cannot - stress this - enough - is wrong with you?”

Yugi sighed and forced herself to look up at him. There were so many things she could say. The truth. A host of lies, some more ridiculous than others. Something like the truth, without mentioning Atem. But in the end what came out of her mouth was:

“You ought to know better than to tell me I don’t have the guts to do something.”

Seto opened his mouth. Closed it again. Sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t have words,” he began in a tone that implied every word was being dragged out of him like a rotten tooth, “For how much I hate that I know you’re right. But even for you, this is extreme.”

Yugi sighed and leaned her head back against the balcony railing. She felt completely drained of every possible emotion. The attempt was ruined. All she wanted to do now was to be left alone to sleep.

“It’s possible,” she admitted, “That I’m not entirely in my right mind.”

Seto scoffed. “You don’t say.”

Then, instead of leaving, or lecturing her, or calling security, or any of the reasonable actions Yugi would have expected Seto Kaiba to take after witnessing - and averting - a suicide attempt, he got down and sat beside her, knees drawn up to his chest.

“I knew there was something wrong with you lately, but I didn’t think it was this.”

Yugi looked across at him, frowning. “What do you mean, you knew something was wrong?”

Seto shrugged. “It was obvious, as soon as I started looking at the footage from your duels. You’d stopped caring.”

“Yeah,” Yugi sighed, because there was no point hiding it and there was a certain relief in admitting it. “Yeah, that’s about right. Why do you care, though? Other than the tournament, I mean… is this just for the sake of the tournament?”

“It certainly wouldn’t help our advertising campaign if the current champion pitched herself off the tallest building in the city,” Seto conceded. He shifted slightly and looked across at her. “If I left, would you just jump right back over again?”

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

“No. I was mostly just curious about whether you'd admit it or not.”

“Ha.” Yugi looked down at her knees, considering. “...I don’t know. Maybe. You sort of ruined the moment.”

Seto let out a bark of laughter. He held up a hand as Yugi shot a glare at him, looking genuinely apologetic as he tried to rein himself in.

“You--You said that like I - fuck - like I came in and tore down your mood lighting.”

Oh fuck. Oh fuck, it did sound like that, didn’t it? Yugi tried to hold onto the seriousness of the moment - or at least her anger - but it was rapidly slipping through her fingers, replaced by a bubble of laughter of her own.

“You bastard,” she managed to get out before dissolving into giggles. “As a matter--heh--of fact it--it was my… mood music.”

That did it - within seconds they were both howling with laughter, the tension seeping out of them little by little, until they were clutching their stomachs with tears in their eyes.

----

He stayed with her all night. Yugi tried to protest but Seto just told her not to be ridiculous and made himself comfortable (or, at any rate, as comfortable as possible) in an armchair he pulled up near the bed.

(It wasn’t until the next day that Yugi realised he’d put it there to be between the bed and the balcony door.)

It should have been awkward, laying there with Seto Kaiba watching her like a hawk in the wake of a suicide attempt. They were friends (at least, Yugi kept insisting they were friends), but it wasn’t like the easy platonic intimacy that existed between Yugi, Joey, Tea, and Tristan. The four of them had had innumerable sleepovers, oftentimes sharing beds during their various journeys. Seto, though? Yugi could barely imagine him in pyjamas.

(Actually, that was a lie. She’d put money down that he owned Blue Eyes White Dragon print pyjamas. With a pair of matching slippers.)

And yet. Maybe it was just that the absurdity of the evening transgressed all other boundaries. Whatever the reason, it was… fine. Comfortable, even. The silence got a bit wearing after a while, so Yugi asked Seto to talk about -- something. Anything. He launched into a comprehensive monologue about the technological updates in the latest Duel Disk, which Yugi listened to with genuine interest, even asking a few questions, until the shop talk lulled her enough that her adrenaline drained away and she dozed off.

When she woke up the next morning he was still there; asleep, or so she thought, until she shifted and his eyes snapped open. They stared at each other for a few moments until Yugi attempted a weak smile.

“How’s your back doing?”

“It’s--” Seto began, stretching, only to cut off with a hiss. “...In one piece.”

So was Yugi. It seemed unbelievable now, in the soft morning light, how close she’d come to death the night before. Like a story that had happened to somebody else.

#fragments from the google docs #yugioh #seto kaiba #yugi mutou #despite the trigger warning i promise this is actually funny #black comedy funny sure #but still funny #(until you remember seto probably has horrible unacknowledged trauma about watching someone jump to their death...)#rivalshipping

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enquiringangel · 6 months

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Pyrrhic

Cw for canon character death. Vaguely implied Michael/David.

-x-

“It’s over,” Star gasps, elated with her newfound freedom. “It’s finally over.”

Michael doesn’t have the heart to tell her that it isn’t.

When she throws her arms around him he hears her pulse in stereo, rapid thumps that gradually slow without fear to act as a piston. Beneath the burned flesh reek of Max’s demise—Dwayne’s too—he can smell coppery, garlicky water and the acid wash of human sweat. Even in the darkness of their unlit home Michael can see the gleam of perspiration cutting through the soot on her face, on Sam’s.

He sees David clear as day, lying prone on the horns where Michael had thrown him, lifeless features cherubic and curiously smooth, as if someone had shaved his face in preparation for burial. No longer does he feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, or the curious magnetic draw of David’s presence.

What he does feel, as his mother and Sam pepper Grandpa with questions, is hunger. That terrible hunger like someone’s scraped his insides out with a melon baller, the monstrous desire that throbs in the roots of his fangs.

David had laughed when Michael proclaimed himself not to be a killer. Had watched with grim satisfaction as Michael’s face twisted to reflect the nature of the beast within, had twisted to become just like him.

How smug David would be, if only he were alive (unalive?) to be right.

There’s a cold, hollow sensation in Michael’s chest as he drifts across the breezy living room past the ash-blind eyes of the stuffed mountain lion to study the body more closely.

“Michael?”

He ignores the questioning call of his name in favour of tracing the line of David’s cheek with the pads of his fingers. Sadness settles on him, but it’s a strange kind of sadness, distant like he’s experiencing it third-hand. The anger that burns in his chest is bright and purifying in comparison.

“You lying son of a bitch,” he mutters. His newfound friends are all deader than dead, and for what? None of them had needed to die: not Marko, not Paul, not Dwayne. And definitely not David, who was never the head vampire to begin with. Monsters, murderers they were, but Michael would never have wished harm on them if he thought there was any other way.

If he only knew the truth, would the outcome be the same? Perhaps it would – perhaps they would’ve come to avenge Max as they came to avenge Marko. Or perhaps they would’ve treated Max’s death with the same casual disregard he showed for theirs.

“Stop fighting me, Michael! I don’t wanna kill you. Join us.”

Michael can never know; there’s no one left to ask. A bitter smile curls his lips. “I didn’t want to either,” he says, like David can hear him.

“Mike?” Sam moves towards him, sneakers scuffing through the dust. “You okay, bud?” His eyes are wide and white against his grubby face like the eyes of a startled animal.

“Don’t,” Michael warns, turning away from him. He can’t tell what his own eyes look like at the moment. Better not to look. “Stay away from me.”

“Michael, what’s wrong?” his mother asks, tired voice growing sharper with concern. She too, comes closer, heels clicking over the floorboards.

“I said stay back,” he snaps. God, it’s like they want him to eat them. Michael sees no point in dancing around the subject; better to do it quick, like tearing off a Band-Aid. “You’re not safe near me; I’m still one of them.” A pause. “And I’m...really hungry.”

Star now, adding her voice to the chorus. “What but that’s - me and Laddie are normal again, so why aren’t you?” She sounds so sad for him, like he’s the one who died or something.

“Because I—” Michael trails off, his throat suddenly too small to let the words out. Do monsters cry? It seems so.

“It’s because he made a kill,” Grandpa finishes for him.

“No,” Sam exclaims, as if his horror over the matter can make it simply untrue. “That guy’s not even human!”

Grandpa scratches his cheek. “I don’t know that humanity’s a requirement. Not exactly a lot of precedent – most vampires don’t exactly wait to start feeding.”

“B-but, the comic book said—"

“I told you before, this isn’t one of your comics.” Michael’s done talking now. The longer he stays, the harder this will be. There’s no way back. And what he is now is still him enough that it doesn’t want to eat any of the people here. Except Rambo #1 and Rambo #2; if he’s honest, he doesn’t feel a thing at the idea of eating them. But Sam will be sad, and this is going to mess him up enough without Michael chowing down on his friends right in front of him before he hits the road.

Michael turns back to David’s corpse. It seems wrong to leave him here like this, to be buried in the back forty or left out on the lawn to meet the rising sun. There’s not much left of the others, but he can take David home. He gets one arm under David’s shoulders and one under his thighs and lifts him off the horns, which slip free from his chest with an unpleasant squelch, dark blood running down the horns and dripping onto the floor as David lies limp in his arms like the inverse image of a bride.

He allows himself one backwards glance over his shoulder, his eye gleaming blue-yellow-blue as he drinks in the stricken realisation on his mother’s face, the confusion on Sam’s, the grim lines of acceptance across Grandpa’s features. “Don’t try and follow me,” he declares. “It won’t end well for you.” He doesn’t look at Star at all.

Michael strides out into the balmy night air with his burden and rises into the sky.

#sometimes we murder our darlings literally #the lost boys #michael tlb #the lost boys 1987 #i wrote this in like 20 minutes in the bath #my writing stuff

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lorei-writes · 10 months

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Postcard from Benitoite; Clavis and Chevalier, with love

Clavis & Chevalier Gen Fic Pre-canon

My second entry for the creation challenge hosted over on @flash-exchange discord! I thought it'd be interesting to see the brothers back when they were much younger.

This one was inspired by a chat I had with @scorchieart on the new lore drop from JP and Scorchie's work itself!

“You’re too loud.” Chevalier scowled, his frown only deepening as the light shone past the velvet curtains. “I didn’t say anything!" “You’re breathing.”

Beaten roads turned to stone when the carriage entered Benitoite. It shook, as did the boys seated inside, one with his nose in a book, the other with marvel in his eyes. The thrilled boy pressed his hands to the window, frosted it with his breath. Pages fluttered, then closed with an audibly crisp snap.

“You’re too loud.” Chevalier scowled, his frown only deepening as the light shone past the velvet curtains.

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You’re breathing.”

Chevalier returned to his book. However, Clavis could not bring himself to look outside again. The tutelage abroad? Diplomacy? Ha. Summer could not look any worse.

***

There were many things Clavis could list as bothersome during their stay. First, “their” tutor, an old judge with a head of thinning grey hair and a perpetually garlicky breath, combined with ears long past their prime. Second, there were the court visits and the negotiations, and third, the semi-dreaded tea parties held for “them” to mingle with the local nobility.

The worst, however, was Chevalier. By far. Whenever it was said that something would be done by “them”? It meant “Clavis, and possibly, Chevalier”. Barely comprehensible lectures delivered at a deathly range, hours spent listening about taxes on clams, being followed around by Emidio Ricci? All – all! – of it Clavis had to suffer on his own.

Clavis turned his face, red with rage, towards the sun. High noon, not a cloud in sight, the only sound the screaming seagulls and the humming waves. Lovely, or it could be lovely.

Pages fluttered.

Clavis clenched his fists.

“Can’t you leave me alone?”

No reply.

“I’m talking to you.”

Silence.

“Chevalier!”

Clavis spun on his heel, mouth open and ready to scream.However, not a word fell from his lips, the ever indifferent face of his insufferable older brother pushing him past his limit. Cold rage brewed deep in the pit of his stomach, the emotion eating away at any coherent thoughts until none remained.

“Fine!” Clavis threw his hands in the air. “Fine! Ruin this for me too!”

He stormed off, kicking up dusty clouds. The distance seemed to be on his side, as with time it reduced Chevalier and his book to mere specks. Only then did Clavis manage to calm down.

The beach was vast, with miniscule marble-like pebbles scattered across the white sand. Hurriedly, Clavis kicked his shoes off – the warmth below his feet felt nice, but not nicer than the lukewarm sea. Still mildly agitated, he pulled his shirt over his head, to then venture deeper into the waves, each taking some of his sorrows away. If he looked back, he was sure to see Chevalier – so he perished the thought and opted to float instead, swayed in the liquid embrace… pulled by it, as if adopted out of his miserable state. Perhaps he could welcome it, were his arms and legs not as useless as they were; Clavis swam, the shoreline diminishing despite his best attempts.

There was no solid ground anymore, only the clearest sky above and below. Clavis grunted, struggled to stay afloat, salt barging into his mouth. He frowned. A boat.

“Get lost!” He didn’t need him.

“If you wish to drown.”

“I can swim!” He could get back on his own.

“I see.”

“Chevalier!” He could not.

The boy stopped rowing, Clavis clumsily hauling himself into the boat. He gasped for breath, but the tip of a paddle still pressed against his throat. He took it in his hand.

Pages fluttered. Again.

Lord, did Clavis hate Chevalier… and his very red, very sunburnt face.

Tag List: @lancelotscloak @violettduchess @pathogenic @fang-and-feather @tele86 @rinaririr

Tell me if you'd like to be added to my tag list :)

#chevalier michel #ikepri chevalier #ikemen prince chevalier #ikepri #ikemen prince #ikemen series #clavis lelouch #ikepri clavis #ikemen prince clavis

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tailoroffates · 9 months

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Writing Tips #3 - Flavors

Hey y'all! Here's another comprehensive list to help fellow writers out there put words to their thoughts when struggling with trying to describe a certain flavor. Below I've included several different flavors and within those flavors are many synonyms to help describe them.

Rotten

Curdled, decomposed, fetid, foul, gross, moldy, offensive, overripe, putrid, rancid, rank, repulsive, rotted, rotten, spoiled, tainted.

Salty

Acrid, alkaline, brackish, briny, highly flavored, over-salted, pungent, salted, salty, well-flavored, well-seasoned.

Sharp

Acidic, acrid, astringent, biting, bitter, burning, garlicky, harsh, medicinal, metallic, pungent, stinging, tangy, spoiled, tainted.

Sour

Acidic, biting, briny, curdled, fermented, rancid, soured, sourish, tart, vinegary.

Spicy

Biting, cinnamic, distinctive, fiery, gingery, hot, peppery, piquant, racy, seasoned, snappy, spiced, spicy, spirited, zesty, zippy.

Sweet

Buttery, candied, candy-coated, chocolaty, cinnamic, citrus, cloying, coconut, fruity, honeyed, nectarous, rich, saccharine, sugar-coated, sugared, sugary, sweetened, syrupy, toothsome, vanilla.

I hope this was helpful and as always, have a wonderful week! <3

#writing help #writing tips #writing thoughts #writing community #writeblr #creative writing #writerslife #amwriting #TOF #writing advice

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prongsie-kins · 2 days

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part four of when i met you

this is a filo!james au revolving around james potter courting regulus black in a semi-traditional way

disclaimer: english is NOT my first language and not the type that this would be beautifully written but there might be some grammatical error i didn't notice while editing. also keep in mind that this is my first multichapter fic and im still trying to improve my writing

translation at the bottom, italicized text is when they are speaking french because idk french

Beginning | Previous | Next

you gave the world to me

"Have you seen my parchment?" Regulus asks while searching the table.

James doesn't say anything for a while so he has to glance up at him. The guy insisted on him to study at the library. Regulus got distracted reading a book so he lost sight of the parchment he was writing on.

"Potter, did you know where it is?" Regulus repeated.

James pursed his lips without looking away from the book he was reading.

"Huh?" He asked, bewildered.

James only pursed his lips even more.

"Just speak, Potter. I have no idea what are you doing."

"It's right there." Once again, James pursed his lips. This time, pointing his head towards a certain direction.

"Are you asking for a kiss right now?"

"No, I said it's right there," James insists, pursing his lips again.

Regulus sighs, actually leaning in before being stopped by James pressing his palms on his lips. "Wait, you're actually considering it? The parchment's right there."

He smacks James at the back of his head. "Why'd you use your lips then? Just point where it is."

"I'm more focused on the fact that you considered kissing me just 'cause I said so." James smirks, not so subtly leaning towards Regulus' side.

"Distance, Prongs," Sirius suddenly interrupts. "Keep your distance."

"When did you even get here?"

"I told you I would keep an eye on you."

"Tangina naman neto oh"*, James murmured, scratching the back of his hair.

"Putain de marde, Prongs. Don't cuss at me in tagalog assuming I can't understand you." Sirius snapped.

"Gago wala naman akong maintindihan sa sinasabi mo. Tarantado ka ba?"**

"You asked for my blessing. Just keep a distance."

"Blessing? What blessing?" Regulus asked which went unnoticed.

"Pa'no ko siya liligawan kung nakasamid ka sa bawat ginagawa ko."***

Regulus can only switch glances between the two men arguing. "You two look like idiots."

"Shut up, Reg," They both say in unison.

"Not on my watch, Prongs."

"But you're always around!" James complains.

—

"So," James started. "Were you really trying to kiss me back in the library when you thought I wanted one?"

"Fuck off, James." Regulus really hopes his blank face can hide his flustered expression.

"No, no, let's keep talking about it."

"Why'd you go here, anyway? It's late."

"You weren't at the Great Hall today. I figured you hadn't eaten yet. I made this." James handed Regulus another circular Tupperware, color yellow this time.

By the time Regulus opens it after getting back to his dorm, an aromatic scent hits him. What greeted him seemed to be white rice with an odd-looking red meat. It looks fried with a slightly charred hint of melted sugar.

The predominantly sweet, garlicky, and slightly peppery taste is what reaches his taste buds. The meat that seems to be pork is incredibly soft. He can't help but let out a quiet moan while chewing.

With the food James kept giving him, he might gain weight sooner or later. He still didn't know what his agenda was. Even with his embarrassing stunt at the library, Regulus is quite sure James is doing it just as friends. His friends were just confusing him.

That is how James really is. He is clingy. He's sweet. He's considerate. He's flirty. That's just how the man is around his friends. He certainly does it around them too.

Like the way he always notices when Regulus hasn't eaten anything. The way he always gives him food and always tells him all these cheesy lines he barely understands since it's in another language.

How he unknowingly makes Regulus' heart flutter. How he made the stoic, cold, often emotionally devoid Regulus Black feel flustered. He does that to all his friends. That is where they are getting to, right?

Right?

—

"Prongs," Peter started. "Can I have one of that tocino you're making?"

"No."

———

*"Tangina naman neto oh." - This motherfucker.

**"Gago wala naman akong maintindihan sa sinasabi mo. Tarantado ka ba?" - I don't understand a word you said, asshole. Are you kidding me?

***"Pa'no ko siya liligawan kung nakasamid ka sa bawat ginagawa ko." - How am I supposed to court him if you're keeping an eye on every move I do.

#marauders #regulus black #starchaser #sunseeker #jegulus #james potter #james potter x regulus black #filipino!james potter #filo!james potter #filipino james potter #james and regulus #james x regulus #james loves regulus #fanfic #marauders fanfiction #idek what to tag anymore #jegulus fanfiction

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eggcompany · 25 days

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Willow Graham Part 2

It was easy to be in love with Willow. She still liked to schedule appointments with Hannibal, usually at lunch time when she could eat with him or take a nap on the chaise. He told her that she didn’t need to and that he kept time open so she could just come see him, but she found it more fun to make appointments.

“ I thought you were a professional, Doctor Lecter.” She’d said to him once as she rinsed her mouth out after crawling under his desk to ‘help him relax’. Hannibal had laughed at her, leaning back relaxed in his chair, pants barely done back up.

She had smiled at him and shook her head.

“Did you mistake me for an honest woman, Doctor? Or am I too wild for your taste?” She asked as he fixed her heavy knit green dress where it had hiked up to her undershorts. She looked like the image of good , knee length green dress with full sleeves and a high neck, thick black stockings, brown boots, and her head covered by a matching beret.

“I would never mistake you for anything other than what you are, Willow.” He replied, combing back his hair and fixing his clothes to look presentable. He stood up and smoothed out his pants as she made her way to stand in front of him, her fingers coming to trace around the buttons on his waistcoat.

“And what am I?” She asked lowly, her eyes following her own finger as it traced up the edge of his vest to pick at his shirt collar. He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger, bringing her eyes to his.

“Something terrible, a monster, a beast so wild and vicious not even the bravest soldier dare cross, you’re beautiful Willow.” He said and pressed a kiss to the smile that had graced her lips. She pulled away from him, giving him a suspicious look.

“I’m terrible because I’m pretty?” She asked, she knew this was a dance, another twisting swaying motion between them with words.

“You are terrifying because you, Willow, are so beautiful. Everyone fears a beautiful woman.” Hannibal said as he placed his hands on her hips and her arms came up to rest on his shoulders. She huffed a laugh and closed her eyes, letting her head rest on his shoulder.

“You’re a whore for me, Doctor Lecter, did you know?” She said in a sweet voice, it was such a romantic soft scene and Hannibal could help but snicker, hiding his smile in her hair. Of course she would say that .

“There are worse things to be, my sweet Willow” He answered and they stayed there until the alert went off saying he had another patient.

Willow Graham. Willow Graham . Willow Graham . It was scattered across hundreds of pages of messy sketches and detailed portraits and smudged charcoal art. Hannibal had been… oddly stressed. He hadn’t felt so alive, so in love, so… human in so long. Willow had moved into his home, making herself happily at home. She had her own soap, her toothbrush that she left on the counter, her laundry in a basket by the washing machine, her bags of chemically crunchy snacks sat in the cupboard next to his own homemade food, she was in every inch of the house so casually. And it was… suffocating in the best way.

Hannibal often found himself doodling aimlessly on his notes. He’d sit in the library and try to read but she’d float by in the corner of his eye, walking by the doorway in a pair of tiny sleep shorts and one of his shirts, and it was like a siren song, he had to get up and seek her out, just to watch her sit at the kitchen table eating bagel chips and reading essays.

He’d gotten used to sweeping the floors more often as well. He hated sweeping. But Willow often cruised around the house, just walking around because if not she couldn’t sleep, with a bag of something in her hand.

Whether it be small garlicky croutons that Hannibal had planned to put with their salads or a ziplock full of dry cereal or some other horrible treat that she’d always offer to Hannibal knowing he could turn it away. Somehow she always had a trail of crumbs following behind her.

So Hannibal turned away the toxic snacks and swept the floors more and vacuumed the rugs in silence.

He’d gotten used to being hit in his sleep but also getting the best sleep of his life and waking up to Willow practically begging for a nice fucking. He’d wake up earlier and get to pet down her bare skin, savoring how warm she was, enjoying the comfort that came from her scent. She’d given up on wearing anything but underwear to bed, she tossed it off or got tangled in it during the night anyway.

The best days were the days when they’d go to bed and Willow would wake up earlier, claiming sometimes she needed private time to shave and such. Hannibal would take a few minutes to stretch out in bed, savor the leftover smell of sex and Willow’s sweaty pillow, and make the bed back up or strip it if it was time.

What made them so good would be the quiet click of the bathroom door unlocking, followed by the shower turning on. Willow would sometimes get started by herself, her hand going down to her cock or fingers finding her hole. She’d be standing under the water, completely ignoring Hannibal as he brushed his teeth and slid the glass door open and closed.

It was a sweet slow kind of occurrence. Long kisses, teasing, playful banter flowing easily between them. Hannibal always complimenting her soft skin and gorgeous body. Willow always felt the most vulnerable there, under the bright light, water washing away any pretty perfume or make up. She never feared though because Hannibal was always there to say what a wonderful woman she was as he got down on his knees for her.

He’d lay hundreds of sweet kisses to her soft belly and take her into his mouth, easily fitting it without much trouble. He loved how close he felt to dying in those moments. How she could kill him right there if she wanted. And Willow would just be so pretty and make a whiney noise and fill his mouth with bitter watery cum. He loved it, loved the way she would always apologize and return the favor with a sloppy handjob. He loved the way her taste stayed in his mouth until breakfast, loved the way she’d gently wash his hair after, making the track lines from her grip disappear.

It was… the best way to live. The best way he could ever survive life.

Instead of living surrounded by his own smell, living quietly, he lived in a cloud of Willow’s sweet apple scented lotion and her heavy footsteps. He found himself smiling more, considering each action before making it, going more places more often.

He used to go to the museum every so often, he’d occasionally visit art exhibits, traveling to see new installations. He went to the opera almost once a year, he went to the theater a few times a year.

He loved it. He loved calming evenings indulging in high society.

Willow really didn’t. Sure she liked going and watching the shows and walking around the museums. It was something Hannibal liked so she went along with it. However she pushed him to go to other places.

“ Hanni, let's go to the dog park. I want a hot dog and to pet the puppies! ” She’d beg him until they made their way, hand in hand, to sit on the bench in the dog park. Hannibal would often just sit and watch her rather than the dogs as they ran around. He’d love to listen to her ranting about dog breeds or class, he’d appreciate the beautiful atmosphere of joy and excitement, and he’d enjoy the fresh air. It was Willow’s favorite place to visit, just to sit and chat and pet some dogs and eat cheap hotdogs.

“ Hanni, take me to the river. I want to go fishing, take me fishing.” She’d ask and they’d pack a large picnic basket and drive way out to one of her favorite spots. It was very out of the way and secluded, only an old wooden picnic table to mark it as a public space. She’d go stand in the water, looking stunning like a painting, sun beaming off her face. And Hannibal would read a book and guard the catch basket. They’d lay out a nice meal of sandwiches and salads and such. Sometimes she’d stay out until the sun fell from the sky and Hannibal would have to carry her back into the house, her bones filled with exhaustion.

But what most happened was the one place Willow was her happiest.

“ Hanni, I want to go to the aquarium. Do you want to come with me?” She would go whether or not he did. She’d spend hours talking with curators and watching the anemones, she’d sit and watch the sting rays flap around their tank. Her favorite part was the biggest tank, she’d walk back and forth all around watching the fish dart around, watching the pufferfish look for treats, but she really loved the groupers that laid at the bottom. She’d kneel down in front of the glass and look at them, eyes twinkling like midnight stars.

Hannibal was content to follow her around, listening to her recite the same facts over and over each time, helping her dry her hands off when she occasionally wanted to try and pet the stingrays. They went a few times each month, whether to help her calm down or cheer her up or just for fun. Each time she was filled with the same joy and excitement. They must’ve gone a thousand times.

-----

“I love you Willow” Hannibal said, kneeling down on the dirty floor, it was a quiet day… mostly because he bought most of the tickets for this time slot but still. He looked up at her, plush box pulled open, golden ring shone in the light, small diamonds twinkling. A woman gasped across the tank but Willow… kept looking at the tank as a sea cucumber moved slightly.

“I love you too!” She chirped happily and kept her eyes on the creature. Hannibal stared at her for a moment, smile widening on his lips. She really was something else, and this was just proving that even more.

“No- Willow~” He said in a sing-song way, unmoving even as a few people stared at them. He watched as her hands met the glass to point past the sea cucumber.

“Look, it's a grouper!” She said excitedly and bounced up and down on her feet. Hannibal just watched her be happy for a moment longer before shaking his head.

“Willow Henrietta Graham look at me” He stated plainly and watched as her head turned before her eyes caught up, still glued to the fish.

“Hm? Oh my god.” She said, staring down at him. He was… a ring… Hannibal, ring, boyfriend, boyfriend, fiance…

“I love you Willow, will you marry me?” He asked, back straight, ring before him, anxiety tightening his chest in a way that he’d never experienced before. She stared at him, eyes big dashing between the ring and his patient face.

“You! Yes! Oh my god! You terrible man, yes!” She finally forced out and tackled him into a hug on the ground. He pulled them both up to stand, her arms squeezing him tightly around the middle.

“You’re awful! Just awful!” She said as tears slid down her face. He pulled her up into a chaste kiss, a few people clapping in joy for them. He pulled back, giddy smile on his face, a feeling sparkling through his entire being. He felt like a sparkler was lit in his heart.

Willow cried and cried as he slid the ring onto her finger. She was grinning though at the golden band with five small diamonds embedded. He got her the perfect ring. She hated big clunky jewelry, and he picked out a plain golden band with stones that wouldn’t catch.

“It’s perfect.” She whispered and admired the ring. Hannibal was glad, relieved, he wanted to get her something beautiful and extravagant and sparkling but… she didn’t like that kind of thing so he went and chose a petite, low profile ring.

“May I take you to dinner, my fiance, dear?” Hannibal asked, holding her hands in his. She sniffled and hugged him again. She whispered up in his ear.

“You better eat fast. Consummation of this engagement is the only thing I want for dessert.” She whispered and started pulling him to the exit. Hannibal felt lava start to puddle in his stomach.

They did of course have a long luxurious meal at one of Hannibal’s favorite restaurants. And Willow had laughed and smiled and showed off her ring, she ate her cake when it came to the table, and she drank the sweet champagne.

But when they got home she was much less patient. Pulling at Hannibal’s clothes until they were both nearly naked halfway through the house, she pulled him by his hand to the bedroom, where she pulled him over her onto the bed.

“Are you trying to make an honest woman of me? I don’t think it’s working.” She said teasingly as she took her cock into her hand, ring sparkling in the low light. Hannibal licked over her cock and hand before surging up the bed to catch her lips.

“You’re more than any honest woman. You are more than anything else in this entire creation, you’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.” Hannibal said, kneeling between her spread thighs. Willow pulled him down to nip and kiss from his lips to his ear.

“I am a beautiful woman. I’ve ensnared you, my weak man.” Willow replied and they ended up laughing at each other.

Each movement was slow and tender, savoring and full of love. It was love making and when they fell asleep that night it wasn’t as partners or just lovers. They were promised to each other, for life.

---

Hannibal planned a perfect wedding. A perfect wedding for them both. It was planned, date set, everything was ready…. In two months. They sent out few invites, Hannibal inviting his friends and a few other doctors who he enjoyed the company of. Willow invited a few people and tacked up a few invites in her classroom, kids coming in and congratulating her.

Her students were more and more excited. They would come by and ask about the wedding, dreamy eyes jealous of her. Most of them were girls who dreamed of marriage and wedding dresses and fancy cakes, some were boys who loved their teacher and wanted to show their support for her in all ways.

She spoke about where it was going to be held, how dress shopping was a disaster but she had a few friends who’d go with her, and of course she gushed occasionally about how she couldn’t wait to be a bride.

---

Though she was already a bride. For fun.

Hannibal had come home late, a conference had ended late and he was buzzing with life. He’d gotten a notification on his phone saying that Willow was waiting for him. He hoped that meant she was laying across their bed because he was all colors of pent up.

However when he got through the entryway and made his way to look into the library he was taken back. In the best way.

She was standing beside his chair, lightly off, only light coming from the crackling flame in the fireplace. A short white mesh robe flowed around her, bottom and sleeves ruffled. She had a pair of small diamond earrings in and her lips were painted a crimson red. Through the robe he could see she had on white lingerie, stockings that hugged her legs, a matching garter belt up on her waist, panties that had a heart cut out in the back, and a simple lace bra that had ruffled along the bottom.

She looked nervous as he looked her over, hunger filled eyes staring her down like a predator hunting prey.

“I um…” She tried and turned to face him, the closest thing she’d ventured to lingerie before was a bra that had lace on it. She was a bit nervous, hoping that her bulge wasn’t… ruining it.

“Um… Do you like it?” She asked and Hannibal was taking wide strides to grab her hips and swing her around, bending her back, kissing a bruning kiss to her lips. She put her arms around his neck as she pressed more and more kisses to her lips.

“Am I that pretty of a bride?” She asked and Hannibal was laying her down on the floor. He straddled her, looking down at the way her hair, now grown into a bit of a bob, haloed around her head and her robe spread out under her.

“You’re more than just a bride, Willow, you’re something crafted in the heavens, stuck down for me to ravish.” He said and ravish… is an understatement. There on the library floor, Willow was a bride for the first time. And second… and well… they woke up on the floor too and who needs to count.

----

Willow was a princess on her wedding day.

She had a big poofy dress with a train and a bouquet and a veil that couldn’t hide the biggest smile Hannibal had ever seen.

They were married in front of a great old oak tree, and Willow promised herself to the doctor. They’d joked that they should be married in front of a willow tree but… they way the forest opened up and the trail to the tree was so beautiful, they couldn’t pass it up.

Hannibal was wearing a well fitted white tuxedo that Willow had picked out because ‘ You’re gonna look so fit!’ . She thought he looked like a treat, glowing with joy as he stood in their small altar. She walked down the aisle and half of the party started screaming and clapping… she blushed and shook her head. Her kids.

Hannibal's side was full of fancy people dressed in fancy clothes. Women wearing veiled hats and shoes that cost as much as her dress. They were all emotionless and drab. They all looked so… serious.

However-

Willow’s side was full of 67 students all wearing green, her favorite color. Most in just plain cheap cotton blouses and button ups some had cardigans or blazers pulled on too but they all looked… like regular people. Even as they let out loud hoots and hollers, clapping loudly. They had all came up to her and asked if they could attend her wedding, all talking about how they’d go to the store and find shirts and stuff so they could look nice. They’d asked her opinion on everything, some of them never have gone to a wedding before.

They had all come, bags and boxes, gifts piled up in the event hall that was off the highway before the road that led to the forest. She asked for one thing, food and snacks. She’d told them that Hannibal was a food buff and that she needed to fill a cabinet with as much chemically delicious food before she gave up on it for Hannibal homemade.

After the ceremony, and Hannibal gave her a sweet short kiss, they traveled back to the event hall where Willow cried like a mess as her kids gave very well thought speeches. They danced a few times, though neither of them were dancers and rather they made rounds to talk to everyone and take pictures and they went home in a timely manner, Willow being a bit drunker than sober.

Later though they promised to each other in the heat of a proper marriage bed. A proper bride, Willow was just as she ever wanted to be, a proper bride.

‘ To My Dear Terrifying Monster, You’ve got a present waiting downstairs’ Willow read as she yawned and sat up in bed. Her back hurt from being hunched over too many fbi files. She had pulled on her thick glasses and slipped her robe over her shoulders from where it hung on the back of the door.

She made her way down the stairs to the kitchen. Yawning as she pushed the door open.

“Hanni? Wha’s-” She asked and rubbed the sleep dust from her eyes. She stopped short though at the picture in front of her.

A jug of cheeseballs, cans of doctor pepper, moon pies, and a big jar of moonshine cherries, laid out over the work bench like a fine dinner. Hannibal was standing there, in a big cotton t-shirt and a pair of his pajama pants, he looked so out of place. Willow smiled at the worn cotton shirt, she’d made him buy it and wear it because it was ‘comfy’.

It was their anniversary.

“It’s our anniversary.” Willow said with a smile. She’d remembered.

Well she had remembered last month and had gotten him a present a month ago and then forgot. Hannibal rounded the counter, pulling her by her hips to kiss her.

“A decade, you’ve been my terrible thing.” He said to her and she laughed and kissed him sweetly as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Am I still terrible?” She asked, eyes sincere. She was gonna be 40 in January. She wasn’t a sparkly 30 year old anymore. Hannibal laughed and kissed her, picking her up and setting her on the counter.

“You’re the most vicious, most ensnaring, most horrifying creature ever created, Willow.” He said, kissing her deeply. She smiled, eyes watering up.

“You are a beautiful, beautiful woman. Something all men fear.” Hannibal finished and gave her another sweet kiss and hugged her.

A decade and she was still a terrible beast, something that stuck fear in the very soul of a dangerous man.

<- Last Chapter

#egg_company #fanfic #smut tag #fanfiction #will graham #hannigram #hannigram smut #hannigram fic #hannigram fanfic #hannibal fanfic #mtf will graham #trans will graham #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter

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wheredidhiseyebrowsgo · 2 years

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Love you’re blog! ❤️😍 could you possibly do a fluffy steter post?

Hey anon. @kevaaronday found these for you!

Hook, Yarn, Sinker by pprfaith

(23/23 | 65,676 | Not Rated | Steter)

Stiles is happy with his store, his hobbies, his friends. Peter's just trying to figure out how to raise his nieces and nephew without fucking them up too badly.

Paths cross.

All I Need Is You (And Cookies) by SincerlyLittle (13/13 | 18,196 | Gen | Steter) “Daddy Stiles!” those are the words that ring out the Hale’s backyard, everything seems to stand still for a moment while Stiles opens his eyes to the sight of long brown hair, beautiful brown eyes and a freckled face. He doesn’t blame anyone for believing the kid when she looks so convincingly like a daughter of his own would.

Since said child is so cute, he can forgive her for potentially starting world war 3 - or at least he thought he could until the next words were "Daddy Peter and I brought cookies!" At least he'll have cookies in the middle of battle.

as the mist and snow by pibroch (2/2 | 14,052 | Teen | Steter) “Does it count as a daddy kink if seeing you wear the baby sling is doing it for me?” Stiles holds up a hand, forestalling whatever smartass response is on the tip of Peter’s tongue, and shrugs the strap of the diaper bag over his head. “Don’t answer that. Rhetorical question.”

The weather outside is frightful, Stiles and Peter are on babysitting duty, and Scott might be cursed. December in Beacon Hills is rarely dull, but so delightful.

Like Any Other Day by ClaudiaRain (1/1 | 11,603 | Teen | Steter) Stiles isn't a fan of mornings. Peter does what he can to make them better.

trusting and choosing by finnickyfox (1/1 | 5,618 | Teen | Steter) “I wanted to see what you’d do,” Stiles says. Peter holds off on handing over water—the truth sounds better in a hoarse voice. “You stayed. You had my back.”

Eyelids flutter open at half-mast, a deep honey stare before Stiles closes them again as he turns his chin and bares his neck.

—

Stiles offers Peter a chance to be an Alpha again if he gets Stiles out of Beacon Hills.

Come Into My Penthouse… by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf (1/1 |3,770 | Teen | Steter) ...said the wolf to the spark.

Quiet Nights by HyperLittleNori (1/1 | 3,654 | Teen | Steter) He wasn’t sure how it was possible for the human body to be both limp from exhaustion and tense but he was inclined to blame it on a missed step in evolution somehow.

“What sort of day have we had then?” Peter asked, letting his fingers sift up through Stiles’s hair.

“Tonight’s a quiet night,” he murmured into the space created from his forehead resting on his folded arms atop the counter.

“Mmm,” Peter mumbled softly, as if thoughtful. His fingers in Stiles’s hair splayed a little, pressing more firmly, massaging the back of his head and neck.

Punishment? Therapy by MyLittleRandomWorld (1/1 | 3,406 | Not Rated | Steter) Peter is late getting home from work. He finds Stiles in a very unexpected position.

My Life’s Better With You In It by asarcasticwitch (1/1 | 1,091 | Teen | Steter) Stiles smiles, and the thought of Peter wrapping him in his strong arms and kissing his forehead gives him the jolt of motivation he needs to twist the handle and walk inside. He rests a hand on the doorframe to steady himself, which he’s eternally grateful for, when a thick, garlicky cloud wafts into him, nearly knocking him straight on his ass.

Peter is cooking dinner, and fuck, it smells delicious—not that he expects any less from his mate.

a soft smile across a crowded room by ash_mcj (1/1 | 744 | Gen | Steter) Stiles wasn’t sure exactly when he’d say he and Peter started seeing each other—or whatever it was that they were doing. He didn't really know what to call it, because dating didn’t seem quite right. Stiles had dated people before, but it felt very different with Peter.

[or: stiles might just love peter and his smile]

prompt: Sharing a soft smile across a crowded room

AND

@minmu suggested these!

Domestic Bliss by moonstalker24

Cuddle Therapy by TriscuitsandSoup

(5/5 I 10,677 I General)

“Do not be alarmed; I am a cuddle therapist,” the omega said, continuing his shoulder nuzzles. His voice held all the authority of the police or an FBI Agent, not the cuddle therapist he claimed to be. Peter scoffed. Cuddly therapy was just an excuse for unmated alphas and omegas to go around throwing their musk and pheromones at anyone who looked twice in their direction.

Where Peter is being grumpy in a museum and is interrupted by a very determined cuddle therapist.

#teen wolf #steter #stiles stilinski #peter hale #fluff #anon #submission

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jynxeddraca · 4 months

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Scent of Undeath in BG3

So while playing Baldur's Gate 3, one of the banter dialogues you can get is between Shadowheart and Astarion about the smell of undeath. The interaction basically ends up with her pointing out that Astarion doesn't really have much of an odor and Astarion retorts his 'whiff' is very faint and easily covered by what I'm assuming is a cologne that he wears. Later, when about to walk into a vampire den, Astarion comments that they can be "organic" and everyone should brace their noses.

And it got me thinking. What would undeath smell like? Which the obvious answer is like a corpse, which led me to wonder what a dead body smells like. Here's a breakdown that I found [link to source]:

Hydrogen sulfide: A colorless, flammable, toxic gas that has the smell of rotten eggs.

Cadaverine: An organic compound that smells like rotting flesh.

Putrescine: Like Cadaverine, Putrescine is an organic compound with an intensely putrid, nauseating strong smell of rotting flesh. Some scientific studies have even considered the smell a “fight or flight” trigger.

Skatole (3-methylindole): Skatole has an interesting molecular composition and story. This crystalline organic compound is directly derived from the feces of mammals and birds. In high concentrations, it is a strong, earthy, fecal odor. At low concentrations, the scent is pleasantly sweet and flowery.

Indole: A compound with a strong sewage odor, produced by the breakdown of proteins in dead bodies. Indole has a musty, fecal, and flowery scent, similar to Skatole.

Dimethyl disulfide: A known volatile organic compound and decomposition byproduct known to attract blowflies. Has a garlic-like scent.

Dimethyl trisulfide: Dimethyl trisulfide has a similar molecular structure as dimethyl disulfide and is partially responsible for attracting blowflies as a decomposition byproduct. Also has a garlic-like scent.

Methyl mercaptan: A byproduct that is released during the early stages of a protein breakdown and has a strong distinctive rotten cabbage or egg smell. Methyl mercaptan undergoes a chemical reaction that oxidizes it into dimethyl disulfide. Bleach also deoxidizes methyl mercaptan into dimethyl disulfide, which is why the use of bleach is ill-advised.

Trimethylamine: A fishy-smelling gas that may also resemble the scent of ammonia. It is also responsible for bad breath and some human infections, including bacterial vaginosis.

There's plenty to choose from, but I feel being undead the natural scent isn't as cut and dry as 'you smell like a corpse'. For a zombie, I would imagine of course the smell of rotting meat, but could also lean towards fishy, fecal, flowery, and/or garlicky probably based on how far gone their bodies are. But they're also walking, rotting corpses so - low hanging fruit.

Vampires on the other hand would be much harder to decide. Methyl mercaptan, which is an early chemical, smell like rotten cabbage/eggs - but I feel like for a vampire that has to get close to someone that this wouldn't be a smell easily covered by cologne and would put off people more often than not. Putrescene probably woud be too strong as well and apparently triggers fight-or-flight responses.

I'm going to lean towards vampires having either a garlicky, musty, sweet, or flowery smell (or some combination thereof) that is reasonably faint when they are well fed and stronger if they are not. I could imagine a vampire that does without for extended periods of time probably does start to develop more of the unpleasant odors going from just 'musty' to 'fecal matter and rotting meat' odors.

Since Cazador is known to only give them enough blood to "live", lock them in tombs for a year at a pop, or in kennels for however long, and Cazador was impaled for 10 years himself as a spawn - makes sense that a vampire den could be very unpleasant to the nose.

Last thought: If you romance The Emperor, the narrator mentions his breath smells of vanilla and garlic. Vanilla is a floral-y smell, that and garlic are both smells that can come from a dead body. Mind flayers eat brains, I'm now wondering if this is a nod to them basically having "death" on their breath.

#bg3 #vampires #zombies #smells #astarion #cazador

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