Hello! This is my intro post! My name is Lyra, I go by she/her, and I write for Naruto mainly, but some Invincible and DC and other stuff.
Some favs:
Obito Uchiha, Naruto Uzumaki, Minato Namikaze, Kakashi Hatake, Gaara, Kankuro, Madara Uchiha, Hal Jordan, Roy Harper, Guy Gardner, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Clark Kent, Tim Drake, Conner Kent, Bruce Wayne, John Constantine, Zatanna Zatara, Mark Grayson, Rex Splode, Eve Wilkins
I’m probably forgetting some other ones.
If you want me to write about them but they aren’t on that list just send me an ask 🩷
Feel free to send in requests, I’m still in school so I’m not sure if or when I’ll get to them, but I’ll certainly try. Also feel free to leave some constructive criticism, I love feedback to help me get better at writing!
Tags: female reader, headcanons, humor, fluff, domestic, light-hearted, no use of (y/n), Madara comes with his own warnings*.
*I said “fluff and humor?” and Madara said “no, allude to smut and I want the reader naked.” Sorry everyone, this man dodges fluff like it’s an attempt on his life. Forced him to keep the humor though (success!). The other boys are tooth-rottingly sweet.
────» Itachi is a very light sleeper. Just about any noise or movement can stir him awake. You’re not even sure just how much sleep he can get when he’s so vigilant, always the last to close his eyes and the first to open them. He assures you that it’s okay for him, he got used to it way back in his Anbu days, and that instead of worrying about him, you should be resting yourself. To be honest, knowing how he is, you’re not entirely sold on that.
You might’ve tried some hands-on methods to ‘fix’ that already. The success was… well, ‘success’ is a strong word. Sleeping pills and ointments were refused on the spot. You’ve looked into it, and the only sleep jutsu are genjutsu, and, ahem, you were not about to try using genjutsu on the Itachi. Stuff like reading put you to sleep more than it did him. You felt like you tried it all to no avail. You were pouting about the failures, and you didn’t even notice how elated Itachi was to realize that you cared about him that much, how his dark eyes sparkled with gratitude and affection. He mustn’t let you know. He holds so many secrets, and one of them is that he doesn’t sleep much because he doesn’t ever want to let you out of his sight. It’s his responsibility to keep you protected, happy, and loved, and he would hate if you start to feel guilty about receiving what you deserve.
────» Despite everything, he stays with you throughout the night. Especially if you get yourself into a comfortable position and doze off, even if you’re making his arm go numb or oddly worm one of your legs between his (don’t ask how that made him feel, please), he stays put, ensuring that whatever happens, at least you get the best sleep possible. That’s the only thing that matters to him.
────» Even when the night air is crisp and goosebumps prickle his skin, or perhaps especially on those nights, the blankets, the pillows, the duvet and most of the sleeping space are yours. If you’re the type to selfishly hog all of the blankets, then you’ve found your perfect man. In fact, he is probably the one tucking you in, regardless of he fact that your sheets were stolen from him. If you’re not the type, he would be the one to offer that you take as many as you need to keep yourself warm and comfortable. And you’d never even have known that he was freezing if he didn’t subtly inch closer towards you to secure a little bit of the warmth.
────» He is a master of comfortable silence. He doesn’t speak much, but somehow, you never feel like he needs to say more than what he has. It’s almost like, whenever he does speak, his words are so carefully chosen, that they reassure you, confirm everything you need them to, and provide responses to questions you haven’t even asked, but are relieved to hear answered, anyway. It’s true. He is very particular in how he speaks to you, and perhaps that’s why, on your more restless nights, his simplest “I’ll be here, you’re safe” is enough to get you to sink back into his warm embrace.
────» He prefers complete darkness in the room. Even the moonlight can be a bit agitating, especially if the night sky reveals a cloudless full moon. When it comes to matters of the heart, he’s a bit contradictory. He wishes to bathe you in love and affection, but when it comes to himself… well, he feels unease at allowing himself to be known by another. He understands, of course, that a relationship is not a relationship if it only goes one way, yet he still seldom allows you a look into the deep well of emotions that he’s harboring within. Perhaps the times when he averts his gaze from yours, burrows his face into the pillow to hide the smile forming on his lips, lets his hair fall over his face to cover his reddening cheeks, are his first attempts at creating emotional distance between the two of you. Eventually, even his beloved will have to contend with the fact that he is a man living on borrowed time. But until then, he'll spoil you rotten.
────» Written with a post-war Obito lives AU in mind.
────» Before falling asleep, Obito likes to talk. Sometimes he talks about interesting things, sometimes he even shares things he shouldn’t and you’re not sure whether he’s lost himself in the moment or if he’s strategically trying to prolong your interest in him (as if that’s necessary, but he can never be too sure). But usually he just babbles. He could talk himself to sleep if you don’t stop him, sometimes the concept of shutting up eludes him entirely. He’s just so excited to have you, be around you, see you, touch you, feel you, hear you, and you’re always so good to him so how could he not want to spend as much time as possible in your embrace, and do you know, you let him live out his dream, he didn’t think it possible to achieve in reality, yet here you are, making it real, so real and true and he doesn’t even know, does a man like him deserve someone like you? You’re like a flicker of light, no no, you’re the entire sun, you’ve lit up the entire world in eternal daylight and he’s so happy and warm and fulfilled when he’s around you, blahblahblah love you love you love you love you Hey, does anyone else hear Only You by The Platters?
At some point you just can’t help but start giggling. You rarely ever stop the outpour of his affectionate words. He can be so lovable when he reverts back to his dorky personality. He’s never this open with others, or perhaps only in their memories from when he was a kid. You take that it means there’s a special tier of trust that he has reserved only for you, and when he’s tired, half-lulled to sleep by your comforting presence, he can’t help himself but tell you just how much you mean to him.
────» Now that he’s allowed himself to love again, it feels like all of his feelings, that he’d tried so hard to dissociate from for so many years, are spilling out at once. Eventually, he makes himself a promise. To not scare you away. Everyone has their limit, and he can’t just use you to emotionally regulate himself. He dreads being perceived as a burden by you. He’s very mindful, and I mean very mindful, to not totally overwhelm you with his neediness. And he’s good at it, he’s an excellent actor… when he’s awake. But when sleep forces his inhibitions to slip, he can’t help but reveal to you the touch-starved, desperate and clingy side of himself.
────» It doesn’t matter how much space there is on the bedding. He is exactly where you are, body pressed as close to yours as possible. The rest of the space might as well not exist. You’d think he’s trying to phase through you, or perhaps merge with you, with how close his chest is pressed to your back. If you face towards him, he sinks deeper under the sheets, nestling his head right under your chin, and pressing his forehead to your collarbone.
You can feel the wrinkled half of his skin, the warm, but hitched breaths, and hair tickling your nape. You notice that the skin on his right side is cooler than his left side. You also notice that, if you stay close together long enough, your shared body heat evens them out. You find it quite… symbolic. No matter how many sides he has, or how many of them he tries to hide from you, you will warm them all up until you get to see the real Obito.
────» Late into the night, when he’s in deep sleep, you may occasionally wake to low, soft murmurs. What he’s saying comes out in syllables, and though it’s quiet, you can make out that he’s saying your name. It’s sweet, and it’s even sweeter to see a peaceful, satisfied expression on his face in the dim moonlight. He really looks like he’s finally found his happy place. Silly man is so whipped that he can’t even shut up about you in his sleep, hehe.
────» He often hooks his leg under yours or entwines your arms in such a particular coil that it’s difficult to figure out where your limbs end and his begin. You’d think he fears you escaping from his grasp, choosing to trap you in his arms instead. You’ve heard of the devotion and possessiveness of the Uchihas, but is it not getting a bit excessive? Of course, he doesn’t restrict you like that on purpose, he’s usually long asleep by the time you find yourselves in this predicament. Fortunately, he doesn’t move much once he finds that golden position to sleep in, so it’s easy to fall asleep listening to the steady beats of his heart.
────» Set during the Warring States Period.
────» When he falls asleep, a war would need to break out right outside the room for him to wake. That’s because by the time he gets a chance to rest, he’s entirely spent. He falls asleep fast for the same reason, so you never really get to indulge in pillow talk. Though, he wouldn't be very good at it regardless. If he’s being honest, he’s sparing you the second-hand embarrassment (it’s better to have you believe that your man excels at everything than admit to his flaws, yep). However, if you do get a moment of him lying in bed awake, it’s of him giving you a contented smile, his quiet way of saying "thank you for being here for me", followed by dropping into the crook of your neck face-first. Annnd… he’s dozed off.
────» Do you like weighted blankets? Weighted blankets that are about seventy kilos of muscle squishing you down with no chance of escape? Hope that you do, because this man sleeps like a brick and if he rolls over on you, he ain’t moving. “Madara…” you whisper. “Ma…da…ra…” you say, voice increasingly louder and more urgent. Don’t even bother, your man’s out cold. “Madara!” you finally raise your tone, and he answers with a drowsy grumble. Instead of giving you some space, he just pulls his knee over your thighs, sinking you lower into the plush sheets. Well, he's comfortable.
────» His hair is everywhere. You used to wake up to black strands splayed on your face like a cobweb. There was almost no escape from that all-consuming void. You spat out a strand or two, just to feel another stuck between your lips a minute later. Once, he found a lock of damp hair when he woke, and had the audacity (when doesn’t he?) to look at you weird. Why are you eating his hair, woman?
You have taken to tying it for him before falling asleep. It’s a lot better, but the hair is too shaggy and refuses to be thoroughly contained. It’s so unfair that there is, but also isn’t, a fix. You look at him with light and hope in your eyes. “Don’t even think about it,” he growls. You sigh. Someday, you will make Madara with braided hair a reality, but that day is not today.
────» He’s hot. Wait, I mean… he’s hot in more than one way, okay!! His body is like a furnace on its own, but for some reason he insists on piling his body on yours in his sleep, basically turning the space into a steam bath. He’s like a big kitty (dangerous kitty!), driven by instinct to seek the warmest spot. Really, Madara sleeps in your warm embrace like a lion naps under the sunlight on a relaxing afternoon. Is it a stretch to say that he’d definitely compared himself to a lion at some point in the past, too? He has the mane to match, after all. And it sounds cool. And he's cool. He knows he's cool.
And yes, it’s not without merit. He is a fierce predator out there, a leader ruling with a rod of iron (in reality, a gunbai), but… over here? When his exhausted, deep grumble echoes in the room, you know that it's just your big kitty purring in satisfaction.
────» Madara would prefer to sleep in the nude, and is disappointed that he can’t really do that. Only because it’s not practical; at any point, he needs to be able to get up and be ready within the minute, which means that he sleeps with at least a pair of pants on. Flashing his clansmen is not on his to-do list, nope. The topwear is usually off, though. So yes, feel free to squeeze his pecs, it’s all muscle and scars, baby. No no, in fact please do that, he loves getting physical.
He says that it’s because it’s already so hot in the room, and that he just doesn’t want to sweat. What he means to say, though, is that he loves having skin-to-skin contact with you. And wow, look at that… It works out excellently for him. You can’t really put on any shirts, either, not with your personal heater pressing down on you like that, unless you’re particularly fond of waking up in a puddle in the morning. You already know that it’s all part of his plan to keep you naked and in his grasp. Well, not like you're going to start complaining. There is no need to fix what isn’t broken.
Gif edits and writing are mine. DON’T repost the writing. Feel free to use the gifs (credits are appreciated).
thinking about (biblically accurate) inexperienced obito in his first relationship with chubby!reader… (post-war obito lives au)
virgin!obito who’s in his thirties but hasn’t had time for dalliances. plotting, impersonating madara, attempting to overthrow the world order—none of these activities are conducive to losing his v-card. plus the trauma of losing rin, and growing up in a cave with his aging ancestor and talking plant-creature made it hard to find time to.
virgin!obito who’s jacked off, of course. but has never taken an actual lover.
virgin!obito who’s so touch-starved he’s overwhelmed by how much he craves physical touch when you first get together. he’s an adult now, but his traitorous body is like that of a teenager's. you hug him? he’s hard. you’re cuddling? he’s hard. it’s not even intentional; it’s like his body’s instinctive reaction after being deprived of it for so long. he does his best to hide it from you at first, embarrassed as he is. when you hug him, he hugs you back, angling you away from the growing tent in his pants. you’re cuddling—there’s suddenly a pillow between you. for your comfort, he says, all while hiding his throbbing erection.
virgin!obito who is also unprepared for just how sinful his dreams get. he’s used to nightmares of course, so he’s never slept well, but now his dreams are a series debauched fantasies. you panting his name, your breasts bouncing, the cute little pooch in your stomach as you’re on your back, him thrusting into you. more often than not after one of these dreams, he wakes up with his sheets tangled, his undergarments soaked with his seed.
virgin!obito who’s so so sensitive. grunting and rutting against you as you’re making out, clothes on. grip iron-clad on your hips as you rock against him, huffing out a “w-wait!” before throwing his head back and cursing as he comes in his pants.
virgin!obito who has no idea how intimidating the sheer size of him is until you tug his pants off and your jaw drops. he gets self-conscious, wondering if the boulder accident mangled something down there as well, until you say, “…i don’t even know if that’ll fit, ‘bito, what the fuck—”
virgin!obito who, when you do it for the first time and he’s fully buried inside you, has to hold himself still, eyes clenched shut, because holy fuck. his life has been marked by pain and suffering, so much so that he’s used to it—but this? feels heavenly. mind-numbing pleasure that shoots straight up his spine, his balls tight against your ass as pressure builds at the base of his cock. you clench around him once to reassure him that it’s okay to move and—oh fuck, he’s cumming.
virgin!obito who's so so so embarrassed that he came so fast. bottomed out inside you and he was gone. literally hides his face in your neck, won't even respond, just mumbling apologies until you laugh and tell him it was flattering and super sexy and—kami, he's getting hard again.
virgin!obito who finds out that while he's too sensitive and comes too fast, his refractory period is practically non-existent (something something about hashirama's cells and regeneration). he’s not sure. all he knows is that he’s not finished until you come at least twice.
nolongeravirgin!obito who humps pillows when you're gone. so so embarrassing and depraved, but he misses you. and they smell like you, and they're soft, like you, and, and—you wonder why your pillows are always freshly washed every time you get home.
nolongeravirgin!obito who you've opened up to a world of kink. he finds some his favorite to indulge in are: spanking, mutual masturbation (his eyes half-lidded as he watches you touch yourself, stroking his cock and telling you how fucking hard he is, already leaking pre-come, how he can't wait to come inside you, how you drive him crazy—maybe he's a little into dirty talk too; he just gets caught up in the moment and his freaky little fantasies run wild), boob jobs, sloppy makeouts with lots of petting and grinding.
nolongeravirgin!obito who has no experience eating you out, but he's hellbent on making you come. he's not skilled so much as he is intense about it, burying his face in your pussy, shoving his tongue inside you, nuzzling his nose into your folds. he nearly suffocates himself between your thighs. his sharingan capturing your blissful face on mid-orgasm so he can replay it over and over again later on, when it’s just him and his hand.
nolongeravirgin!obito who, when you’re giving him head, is caught between gripping your hair tight, slowly rocking his hips into your mouth, and using you versus being gentle with you, telling you how much he wants you and how good you’re being for him. eventually though the first urge wins out—he’s cursing and groaning your name loud as he unloads in your mouth.
nolongeravirgin!obito who, you can’t exactly call a sex fiend, but you’ve definitely awoken something in him. he can go several times a day, but for your sake, he keeps it to once a day. and he’s always so intense about it; he doesn’t do anything lightly. pounding into you, his mouth on your breast as he mutters how he’s going to fill you up, how you’re going to repopulate his clan. how pretty and cute you’d look swollen with his child. how he’s this hard only for you. how no one else gets him like this.
nolongeravirgin!obito who loves how soft you are, your curves. he’ll zone out in the shower, imagine your body beneath his—stomach pooch, plush thighs, and soft breasts—and his mouth goes dry. the blood pooling to his dick so fast he gets light-headed. has ethical dilemmas when he sees you wearing a loose shirt (on one hand, you’re so cute, the shirt swallowing you up—you look like you need his protection. on the other hand, he’s practically memorized your curves underneath, and his eyes glaze over as heat rolls through him).
nolongeravirgin!obito who’s so so loud in bed. he can’t help how fucking good it feels—your pussy gripping him tight, his balls slapping against your ass, the slick, wet squelch of him claiming you. while he starts off gripping your thighs, your waist, he eventually just has to brace himself against the bed frame or wall, so he can focus on pounding his hips into you. definitely the type to dig his fingers into the wall and rip out plaster when he comes hard. definitely has broken a bed before from fucking you too enthusiastically. and most definitely the entire apartment complex has heard him shout out your name as he came (the amount of noise complaints you two get…)
summary: five gothic romance vignettes for the men the uchiha clan could not bury properly
word count: 3887
content: gn!reader, multi-character x reader, gothic romance, dark romance elements, horror imagery, canon-typical violence, cliffhanger endings, individual content tags are attached to each mini-story
🖤 series masterlist
ITACHI UCHIHA — the doomed saint
content: injury and blood, wound care, death imagery, self-sacrifice, canon-typical itachi angst
You found him where the road ended and the cedar trees began.
It was always a place of endings. A shrine too small to appear on maps, a bell with a cracked mouth, stone foxes furred in moss and old rain. Travellers left paper prayers there when they feared they would not return home, and shinobi avoided it because shinobi hated admitting they believed in anything that could not kill.
Itachi sat beneath the eaves with blood darkening his sleeve as crows gathered in the branches above him.
He looked less like a missing-nin than a beautiful mistake grief had made and failed to correct. His cloak was torn at the shoulder, hair clinging damply to his cheek, and one hand rested against his ribs, too still to be casual, too careful to be painless, and when he looked up at you his eyes were dark.
No Sharingan.
Worse.
Human.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he stated.
“You always say that.”
“And you never listen.”
The bell’s rope swayed though there was no wind.
You crossed the shrine’s courtyard and knelt before him. He watched you with that terrible gentleness, the kind that made every practical motion feel ceremonial, every kindness feel like an offering laid before a god who had long since refused worship.
You pulled bandages from your pack.
Itachi’s fingers closed around your wrist before you could touch the wound.
“Don’t.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Yes.”
“Then let me help you.”
His hand remained around your wrist, loose enough that it couldn’t hurt, tight enough that it couldn’t be ignored.
Above you, the crows shifted together, a single dark thought passing through the trees.
“It will make no difference,” he responded.
You hated him for how calmly he could say things that broke something inside you.
“Then let it make no difference after I’ve done it.”
For a moment, Itachi only looked at you. Then, his fingers released.
You worked in silence, cutting away ruined fabric, cleaning blood from skin gone too pale beneath the lantern light. The wound was deeper than it looked. Older bruises shadowed the side of his abdomen below it, yellowed at the edges, violet near the bone. His breathing did not change when the antiseptic touched his flesh, but his gaze drifted up towards the treeline, towards distances you could not follow.
Inside the shrine, incense began to burn. You had not lit it.
The scent curled through the damp air, bitter and sweet.
“I brought food,” you offered, because talking about rice balls was easier than saying you were afraid that one day he wouldn’t be sitting beneath the eaves when you arrived.
Itachi’s mouth softened. “You shouldn’t.”
“You’ve mentioned.”
“You should forget this road.”
“I have a good memory.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
When you tied the bandage tighter than necessary, his eyes returned to you.
You saw it in his face then, that slight fracture in his composure, so delicate anyone else would miss it. You, however, had learnt the language of Itachi’s almosts. His almost smiling, almost reaching, almost staying.
A crow dropped from the cedar branches and landed beside his knee. In its beak was a strip of red thread. Itachi took it before you could ask.
“What is that?”
“A warning.”
“From whom?”
He looked down at the thread in his palm and when he spoke, it was soft, thoughtful. “Someone who still believes warnings can change fate.”
The shrine bell rang once. Far away, another bell answered. Then another. The sound moved across the forest like grief being passed from hand to hand.
Itachi closed his eyes. You felt the air change. He had made a decision.
“No,” you said.
His lashes lifted. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to.”
For the first time, something like pain crossed his face openly. It was gone almost before it arrived, swallowed by discipline, by purpose, by whatever cruel altar he had made of himself years ago.
“You’ve mistaken me for someone who can be saved,” he said.
“I have mistaken nothing.”
His hand rose to your face, and stopped before touching you. That restraint hurt more than contact would have.
“Do not love me,” Itachi said quietly. “I am already leaving.”
The words entered you cleanly, without mercy, and struck your heart.
You caught his hand before he could lower it and pressed his cold fingers against your cheek. For one breath, he let you.
The crows exploded from the trees.
The lanterns inside the shrine went out one by one.
When the darkness reached the doorway, Itachi turned his head towards the forest road.
Someone was walking towards you through the rain, wearing his face.
MADARA UCHIHA — the warlord
content: supernatural horror, curses, blood imagery, shrine/ritual imagery, power imbalance, fate/possession themes, implied forced betrothal
The shrine had been dead for a hundred years, though the villagers still left offerings at its steps.
They did not pray there, not properly. No one rang the bell, no one clapped their hands beneath the rotting beam or bowed long enough for any god to mistake them for faithful. They came at dusk with rice wine, salt, wilted camellias, and scraps of paper inked with names they would not dare speak aloud. Then they fled before moonrise, moving quickly through the trees as if the forest might remember their faces if they lingered too long.
You were sent because you did not believe in curses.
That was what you told yourself as you climbed the cracked stone path with your lantern held close to your cloak, damp from the mountain mist. The trees grew too thick here. Roots strangled the old steps and branches interlaced overhead until the sky narrowed to a torn, black cloth with moonlight caught in its ragged seams. Somewhere beyond the shrine grounds, a murder of crows called once and then even they fell silent.
Inside, dust settled over every inch like funeral ash. The offering table had split down the middle, one half sagging beneath a scatter of old salt and brittle flower stems. Paper talismans peeled from the walls in curled tongues, their ink faded to brown veins. A statue stood at the far end of the hall, too damaged to identify, its face eroded smooth by time.
At its feet sat a bowl of water, untouched by dust and still enough that the moon reflected through a roof that no longer existed.
You stepped closer.
The water turned red.
The lantern guttered in your hand.
“Late,” a voice said.
You turned too quickly and nearly dropped the light.
A man stood beneath the broken torii gate where no man had stood a breath before wearing armour dark as old blood. His hair fell wildly around a face cut from arrogance, violence, and fatigue. His eyes were not merely red, they were ancient wounds opened anew.
You knew him before your mind ever permitted the knowledge.
Every child knew Madara Uchiha by silhouette alone. The warlord, the ghost of battlefields, the name buried beneath treaties because peace could not survive speaking it too often.
“You’re... dead,” you whispered.
Madara looked almost amused. “As are many things worshipped by cowards.”
The mist crawled around his feet. Behind him, the trees bowed beneath a wind you could not feel. The shrine changed with his presence, becoming taller, darker, more recalled than ruined, as though waking from a long slumber. The beams groaned overhead, the walls remembered their lacquer, the air filled with incense though none had been lit.
You reached for the kunai at your hip.
His gaze followed the movement with imperial disinterest.
“If I wanted you dead, little descendant of trembling men, you would not have had time to fear me.”
“I’m not afraid.”
At that, he smiled.
It was not kind. It was worse. It was pleased.
“You lie badly.”
He came forward, each step unhurried, and the shrine accepted him. That was the only word for it. The floor did not creak under his weight; the shadows arranged themselves behind his shoulders; moonlight caught on his armour and came away sharpened.
You held your ground because pride was the last poor weapon left to you.
Madara stopped close enough that you could see the fine cracks in one plate of his armour, the old faded scar at the corner of his mouth, and the strange weariness buried beneath his terrible composure.
“Why am I here?” you asked, though your voice came out weaker than intended.
His eyes lowered to your face. “Because history has a longer memory than the living.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It is the only answer you are prepared to understand.”
You should have stepped away, you knew that. Every instinct in your body understood that this man was not safe. Especially not in the ways a shinobi measured danger. He was not a blade at your throat—he was the mountain deciding whether gravity still pleased him.
His hand rose, slowly. He touched two fingers beneath your chin, so lightly it was almost reverent. The shock of it passed through you with humiliating force.
Madara’s expression shifted. Something in him had faltered, brief as lightning behind cloud.
“You were promised to me by history itself,” he rumbled, voice low and quiet in his chest.
You sucked in a sharp breath. “No one promised me to anyone.”
His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. Barely there, barely a touch at all.
The shrine’s bell rang, once, deep underground, and Madara’s gaze moved past you towards the statue at the end of the hall.
Its faceless head had turned.
Your lantern’s flame sputtered and died.
In the sudden darkness, Madara’s hand closed around yours. Not gently, but not cruelly. He took your hand as though the world had opened beneath you both and he had decided you would not fall alone.
“Then tell history no,” he remarked.
The floor beneath the shrine split open under your feet.
You knew because you had walked this road every morning for three months, past the broken bridge, past the persimmon tree split by lightning, past the field where nothing grew though summer had come early. There had been no house, no gate squeaking on its hinges, no warm square of light behind paper windows.
Now it stood at the end of the road as though it had been waiting for you all your life.
It was a small house, perfectly ordinary at first glance. Dark roof, wooden steps, wind chimes singing softly under the eaves. Morning glories climbed a fence you did not remember planting.
Your name was carved into the gate.
You should have run. Instead, you opened it.
Inside, it smelled of rice, rain, and something almost painfully familiar. The entryway held your sandals, though you had never removed them there. A cup sat on the table, filled with the tea you preferred. In the corner, a half-mended tear in your old cloak had been stitched with clumsy, careful thread.
The room knew you, that was the first horror.
The second was that you wanted to sit down.
“You came home early.”
The voice came from behind you.
You turned, and Obito Uchiha stood in the doorway with flour on his sleeve and one visible eye curved in a smile.
This was not the masked man from rumours, nor the war criminal whispered about in briefings. This was not the thing that had crawled out of history carrying too many dead with him. This Obito looked younger around the mouth. Tired, yes, and scarred, and wrong in ways your instincts recognised before your heart did, but he smiled at you as if nothing terrible had ever happened.
As if nothing terrible ever needed to happen again.
“Where am I?” you asked.
“You’re home,” he stated simply, his smile thinning at the edges.
“This— isn’t my home.”
“It could be.”
The wind chimes sang.
You took one step back. The floorboards did not creak, nothing in the room moved unless he allowed it to. Obito watched you with aching patience.
“I made it from memory,” he said. “The parts you liked. That kitchen from the place you stayed in the Land of Waves. The window from that inn near the border. The garden from the village you said smelled best after rain.”
Your breath caught painfully in your throat. “I…I never told you that.”
“No,” he murmured softly, “you didn’t.”
Outside, the sky remained a perfect, tender blue. Too blue.
You went to the window and looked out. The road was gone. The field was gone. Beyond the fence, there was only garden after garden, all blooming impossibly. No insects. No rot. No distant smoke from war camps. No sound except the bell-bright chatter of water over stones.
A world without injury. A world without interruption. A cage made of flowers.
Obito came to stand behind you, not touching, but close enough that his warmth reached your back.
“You were tired,” he explained. “Every time I saw you, you were tired. Fighting, losing people. Pretending it didn’t matter because everyone else was doing the same.”
You stared out at the garden until the colours blurred.
“So you built a prison?”
“I built a place where nothing can take you from me.”
“You don’t have me.”
The silence that followed was the first imperfect thing in the house. Then Obito chuckled once, very gently. It was not amusement; it was damage learning how to breathe.
“No,” he conceded. “Not yet.”
You turned on him then and his expression had changed. The sweetness was still there, but behind it, something vast and starving looked as though it was trying to crawl through the seams. One eye red, one eye lost forever to shadows and old bargains.
“I made a kinder world,” he sighed. “Why are you afraid of it?”
“Because you’re the one who made it!”
He reacted to that as though you had struck him. You saw the movement, saw the boy beneath the monster flinch.
For one dangerous second, the house trembled.
The cup shattered on the table. The garden outside flickered, black earth bleeding through beneath the flowers. The far wall opened onto a battlefield slick with rain and blood, and for a moment, you heard screaming.
Then Obito closed his eye and the house became whole again.
“I can make you happy here,” he said.
“No.”
His gaze lifted.
In the hallway behind him, a door appeared where there had not been one before. Your bedroom door from childhood.
Obito looked at it, then back at you.
“That room was the hardest,” he said. “I had to guess what you dreamt about.”
As the words left his lips, the door handle began to turn.
SASUKE UCHIHA — the last heir
content: supernatural horror, haunted house, massacre and death references, ominous presence, claustrophobic atmosphere
The Uchiha compound did not rot.
That was the worst part.
Rot would have been merciful. Rot would have softened the beams, swallowed the blood, turned grief into earth and fungus and something honest. Instead, the compound endured. Roof tiles remained aligned, doors slid open on well-oiled tracks, the pond still reflected the moon. Even the wind moved through the streets as if afraid to disturb what had happened there.
The dead had kept house.
You arrived at dusk with a key from the Hokage and a task no one else wanted. Inventory, preservation, and removal of unstable materials. Careful bureaucratic phrases for walking through a massacre with a clipboard.
Sasuke was already there. He stood in the central street beneath the black skeleton of an old lantern post, his cloak lifting in the evening wind. He did not turn when you approached.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said.
“I was assigned.”
“So was he.”
You did not need to ask who. The compound listened for your answer.
That was how it felt from the moment you crossed the gate. Every wall seemed alert, every window dark but aware. The place had the awful intimacy of a room where an argument had just stopped.
“I can leave,” you said.
Sasuke’s shoulders moved almost imperceptibly. “No.”
It was not welcome. It was not a refusal. It was simply the only permission he knew how to give.
You worked through the first house in silence. Records, weapons, ceremonial clothing, framed photographs turned face-down in drawers. In one room, a child’s wooden shuriken lay beneath a low table.
Sasuke saw it before you did. His hand twitched, then went still.
You looked away.
Outside, crows gathered along the roofline and by midnight, you had reached the main house.
The air changed at the threshold. Sasuke stopped moving.
You felt it before you understood. Heat without fire, pressure without movement, the sensation of standing before something that knew your name and disliked the sound of your breathing.
“This house remembers everything I tried to forget,” Sasuke breathed. His voice was flat. His hand was shaking, but only slightly, only because the house saw him too.
You stepped inside first.
The entryway smelled of dust, cedar, and old smoke. A pair of sandals sat neatly by the wall, too small for him now. A crack ran through the mirror above the washing basin, splitting your reflection from throat to brow.
Sasuke entered behind you, and every lamp in the house went out.
Instinctively, you reached for a weapon. His hand caught yours in the dark.
“Don’t.”
The word was close to your ear, closer than he had been a second ago.
For a moment, the only living thing in that house was the warmth of his palm against your knuckles.
Then something moved upstairs. Not a footstep.
A drag.
Sasuke released you and his sword whispered free of its sheath. You could see nothing but the faint outline of him, black on black, breath held so tightly it seemed the air itself might bruise.
“What was that?” you asked.
“Just the house settling.”
You raised an eyebrow at him in the dark. “You don’t believe that.”
Sasuke hesitated. “No. I don’t.”
A door slid open above you. Then another. Then another.
The sound moved down the hall in sequence, slow and deliberate, as if someone were passing through rooms and leaving them open. As it went, the dragging continued.
Sasuke started towards the stairs, but you caught his sleeve before he could begin his ascent. He looked down at your hand. In any other place, he might have pulled away. Here, he let the contact remain.
“Don’t go alone,” you pleaded.
His mouth tightened, flattening into a line. “I’m always alone here.”
“No,” you said, shaking your head. “Not tonight.”
The words altered something.
You felt it and so did he.
The house…exhaled.
A lamp at the end of the corridor flared to life, blue-white and sickly. Its glow revealed a wall you were certain had not been there before. Fresh wood, no dust and a paper charm nailed to the centre with a rusted kunai.
On it, written in a hand identical to Sasuke’s, was your name.
Sasuke stared.
“That wasn’t here before,” you whispered.
His sharingan opened in the dark and from behind the new wall, something knocked three times.
You met Shisui Uchiha three days after his funeral.
The village had buried an empty story and called it closure. There had been no body for most to mourn, only rumours folded into official silence, only ANBU shadows lingering too long near the Naka River, only Itachi standing beside the water with his face blank enough to frighten you.
Three days later, Shisui was sitting on the riverbank with his sandals off and his trousers rolled up to the knee.
“Don’t scream,” he said cheerfully.
So you screamed. Naturally.
Shisui winced. “That’s fair.”
You should have run for the nearest patrol, you should have thrown a kunai, you should have done any of the things shinobi were trained to do when the dead appeared at dusk, smiling as if lateness were their only crime. Instead, you stood ankle-deep in river mud and stared at him.
He looked alive.
Not ghostly, not pale, not transparent beneath the dying light. Alive. Warm colour in his face, dark hair slipping loose around his forehead, that familiar, beautiful quicksilver smile softening when he saw your shock giving way to something more dangerous.
Hope.
“No,” you breathed.
Shisui’s smile faded then. “I know.”
“You’re— you’re dead.”
“I know.”
“Stop agreeing with me,” you huffed.
That almost brought the smile back. You hated how badly you wanted it.
The river moved quietly between you, evening insects humming in the reeds. Across the water, the trees leaned close, keeping counsel. Shisui looked down at his bare feet, toes just touching the current.
“I didn’t mean for you to see me.”
“Then why are you here?”
His eyes lifted to yours. The question morphed into something else in your mouth.
Why are you here?
Why are you alive?
Why did you leave?
Why does the world look less unbearable now that you’re sitting in it again?
Shisui heard all of them, he always had. That was one of his cruellest talents, understanding the things you had not yet forgiven yourself for feeling.
“I missed you,” he stated. Simple. Unadorned. Like it was obvious.
A blade between the ribs would have been kinder.
You laughed once, because anything else would have sounded too close to weeping.
“That’s not fair.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to haunt me and say things like that.”
His gaze dropped to the water again. “I’m not trying to haunt you.”
“Then what are you trying to do?”
The river darkened as the sun sank behind the trees.
For the first time, Shisui looked afraid.
Not of you, not even of death. He was afraid to speak the answer to that question aloud.
“I don’t know.”
You came back the next evening. And the next. And again after that.
Each time, he was there at the edge of the Naka River, alive in every way that mattered until dawn came too close. He told you things in fragments, but never enough, never the part that explained the impossible. He laughed when you were angry, went quiet when you were kind. Once, when you slipped on the wet bank, he caught you by the waist and his hands were warm through your clothes.
Too warm for a ghost. Too dear for a lie.
On the seventh night, you touched his face.
Shisui went still as stone.
His skin was damp from the river mist. His eyes searched yours with a grief so carefully hidden it could only belong to someone who had been beloved and doomed at once.
“You feel real,” you whispered.
“I am real.”
“Then why do I wake up every morning with river water on my hands?”
His expression broke open. Only for a moment, only enough to show you the terror beneath the charm, but it was enough.
“Do you?” he asked.
Your blood seemed to freeze in your veins. The reeds stopped moving and far across the river, a crow called from the dark.
You stepped back from him.
Shisui stood quickly, reaching for you.
“No— Wait!”
“What did you do?”
Shisui held his hands up as though in surrender. “Nothing you didn’t ask me to.”
“I never asked you for this.”
His sharingan bloomed red in the dusk, not as a threat but as a plea.
“You did,” he whispered desperately. “You just don’t remember.”
Behind him, the Naka River began to flow backwards.
a/n: as you can see, i got possessed by gothic literature and decided to make a series of naturo characters as gothic horror/romance tropes since the naruto cast is basically emotional asbestos wrapped in pretty trauma
i'll be making a tag list for this series, please let me know in the comments if you would like to be on it 🖤
All rights reserved. Please do not repost, copy, translate, plagiarise, or feed my work into AI. Reblogs are deeply appreciated; reposts are not permitted.
a man built to level mountains, a solid wall of scarred muscle that took up entirely too much space on the mattress.
but right now, buried deep inside you, Obito Uchiha was reduced to a worshipping mess claiming you for the second time in the night.
he was a man who loved with his entire chest, carrying that loud, all-consuming loyalty he's always had into every single touch.
he was possessive, consumed by the way you felt around him, demanding every single drop of your attention in bed.
a complete lover boy devoted to you.
your lover boy.
you could barely take it anymore. On top of him, riding his dick like it was made for your cunt, and yours only, straddling his thick brawny thighs, gasping for air as you moved at a too desperate pace.
and he loved it.
Obito loved to see you cum around his shaft, he loved to see the way your whole body bounced on top of him.
Plap
Plap
Plap
his massive hands—the same ones with those thick fingers that had been curling inside you just moments ago, relentlessly hitting that sweet, spongy spot, now wrapped wholly around your hips.
he guided your fast descent, his thumbs digging religiously into your skin to anchor you, or maybe make you go even crazier.
Hornier.
feeling his hot touch against your shivering skin.
you had been leaning forward, letting the rippling heat of his broad, bulky, and solid chest soak into your skin, but he gripped your waist tighter and forced you to sit straight up.
he wanted a clear view.
he wanted to see you in the exact moment your cunt would come undone on his big cock as he bred your tight hole.
“O-obito," you were a moaning mess, your nails biting into his monumental biceps as your core contracted around him feeling him deeper, and deeper.
Oh. So. Fucking. Deep.
"y-y-e-e-s, baby... oh… yeeeesss."
he looked up at you from the pillows, his dark eyes swimming with a blend of pure pleasure and utterly devotion.
His.
His only, forever and ever.
To love,
To feel,
To hold,
To fuck your brains out.
a dark smile tugged at the corner of his lips as you paused for half a second to catch your breath.
"you want me to stop, baby? Yeah?” he teased, a low vibration of his silky voice that rattled straight through your stomach.
"n-no, Obito, p-please," you dragged out the plea, your hips instinctively twitching against his abdomen.
you were not leaving that dick until he made you cum at least 4 times that night.
"good, because I wasn't going to," he murmured, the dark, liquid velvet of his tone completely wrapping around your senses.
He moved one of his hands, slipping down between your thighs, his rough thumb finding that shivering cluster of nerves, the absolute epicenter of your undoing.
So sensitive.
Plap
Plap
Plap
he circled it with pitiless intent, completely stealing the breath from your lungs as a broken sob left your lips.
Gosh, you were so fucking beautiful.
Delicious.
And his.
His to claim, to mark, to scream his name so everyone knew who you belonged to.
you tried to drop your chin, suddenly shy under the raw intensity of his stare, but his hand snapped up, his large fingers smelling like you, your juices, your sex, catching your jaw to tilt your face right back down.
“Eyes on me. Let me see how pretty you look when you come around my dick” he ordered, the weight of his gaze pinning you exactly where he wanted you.
he arched his spine, surging his hips upward to drive his size even deeper.
“Yes baby, let this cock make your cunt feel good, hm?” he praised, his broad chest heaving as he drank in the sight of your wrecked expression.
the pressure of his thumb combined with that impossibly deep angle finally pushed you over the absolute edge.
a blinding wave of white-hot pleasure crashed through your system, tearing a loud, broken cry from your throat.
you came undone against him, your inner walls clamping down violently and milking his length with every trembling spasm. You could feel his thick white seed spilling inside of you.
he groaned, his own control snapping as he felt you unraveling so perfectly around him, in his arms.
“Mine. every single inch of you."
A/n: idk, just a thought I had (will forever blame my last convo with strawberrylina tho), enjoy <3 not proofread tho
summary: the newlywedded uchihas have yet to fulfill their... obligations, even though they're coming up on a year anniversary. some think it's not going over as smoothly as expected, as many arranged marriages do. 'what a gentleman,' the old ladies would gossip at the fact that you were yet to be with child. it's funny, how wrong they are.
contains: madara x f!reader, arranged marriage (but you couldn't be more perfect for him), breed¡ng, preggo mentions, creamp¡es, mating press, light choking, praise (good girl, princess, doll), cerv stim, madara is a FREAK, reader matches it, uchiha love (he is fucking crazy)
your head hums each time you pull a groan from madara’s mouth into yours, straddling his waist with your chest flush against his as you tongue him down. “god- you’re insatiable, woman,” he murmured between a sloppy break in the kiss. a husky chuckle comes from him when he sees you already a mess of yourself. spit sticks strands of hair to your cheeks, your lips dripping in it- so pretty and swollen already.
your desperation was evident when he arrived home and you immediately approached him in a loose-fitting navy blue robe- certainly not yours judging by how it all but hugged your figure. he peered down at you when you wordlessly outstretched your arms to him, and his expression shifted once you were close enough that he could make out the mounds beneath the fabric. a thick arm hooks around your waist, his other taking a firm hold of your jaw for a kiss. madara loved you hard, an aggressive lover through and through. you were his, and he would make that fact apparent to everyone including you.
no other woman could match the energy madara exuded. you, however, were different. so much smaller than him, he clicked his tongue at your pitiful bow. your face remained unchanged, and you rose to look him in the eyes. madara felt something stir within him- he felt challenged, in a way. every woman before and without a doubt every woman after could not meet the eyes of the man, and if they did it was shaky and uncertain. never in a million years would he take such a woman’s hand. much to his fathers dismay.
it was much deeper than eye contact to him. to him, it was stability. it was significant of the fact that you matched him in beliefs and wits. to him, you were equal. you were weaker by many miles, but you were wise- somebody he would be proud to have by his side and make a mother.
marital manners were something quickly thrown out of the window though, because you matched him in one other thing.
desire. lust, you could say. you and madara were unapologetically attracted to each other in a carnal, unceremonious way. fuck making you shuffle around and bow to him in your own household. many would assume the two of you to follow such outlines firmly, but oh were they wrong.
even after he broke the kiss, your eyes stayed fixed on his face, searching for something. “what do you need, lover?” he’d break you from your little trance and you’d look him in the eyes, your fingers gripping wrinkles into his robe sleeves. “i need you, madara.” you’d purr.
and now you’re on top of him, his robe untied around you and the entire front of your bare body on display for him. ‘like an escort,’ he had chuckled when you tugged it free over top of him. “you look a fucking mess already, doll.” “for you, madara.” nothing sounded better than his name on your tongue. the two of you flash a sly smile at the other, like two animals pausing a fight for dominance before attacking the other. this time, it’s him. gloved firm fingers and a thumb nestle on each side of your neck, and he singlehandedly tugs you down by the throat to be centimeters from his face. “better be for me.” he squeezes and a breathless, silent yip comes from you. not from the action, but the sudden arousal it causes. “only you.” you weakly strain out. the pressure isn't enough to make you struggle, but enough to make you fuzzy. he nips part of his other glove between his teeth, unsheathing it and tossing it to the side. “let’s see what you’ve got for me then, hmm?” he murmurs, tugging you down into another kiss with one hand and the other finding it’s way to you already soaked cunt. a hot moan breaks from you and into his mouth at the contact, two thick fingers lazily rubbing at your clit.
it’s not long before he’s stretching you on them both- you make it so fucking easy for him. you choke when the hand around your throat pushes against you, separating the kiss with a breathless “phuahh..” from you. “pretty girl.” he smiles, admiring your fucked out face. “needed me home, didn’t you?” he gives your head a small shake, like you’re a toy he’s trying to get to work. “huh, doll?” “mhmm..” is all you can hum, catching your breath and swallowing the spit pooling behind your lower teeth. “it’s… it’s been two weeks…” you breathe, watching for his face to realize what you’re saying. “since i bled.” you can see the cogs turns behind those inky eyes of his, and your cunt throbs at the way they soften upwards.
you and madara fucked like rabbits when he was with you, but that was the thing. he wasn’t with you often, and when he was, it was horribly mistimed with your cycle. poor you had been left to get through every ovulation cycle on your own, left only with his robes soaked with the smell of oak, jasmine, and his musk.
“hahhh? is that what this is?“ his laughs send tremors through your body, still sitting atop him. “i’m still to give you an heir, aren’t i?” he chuckles, like it just slipped his mind. like that wasn’t the only reason you were arranged to be wed so quickly. everything is so hot to you that even that fact has got you tightening around nothing. the fact that such a traditional man is so lost in you he’s forgotten your joint marital duty. “mhmmm,” you hum, your hands finding their way to his chest, taking two handfuls of his breasts into your palm and softly raking your nails over them. “i’m still to carry it, madara.” your voice drips like syrup, and all he can think about is you, ripe with his child and in this same crested robe.
your cunt burns as he goes to the hilt, even when all you and your body needs is him, he’s still so big. “there you go, princess. you’ve got it.” he rumbles, licking his lips like he’s soaking up your noises and whines like an incubus. “fuck- you feel fucking good.” he shudders, pelvis to cunt with you. your legs are bent and your knees are to your shoulders, arms still drowned in fabric weakly splayed out across the futon. “you feel good- stretch me so good, madara-” you whine “yeah? do i, pretty girl? feels like this pussy was made for me,” he chuckles as you tighten around him at the statement, a weak whine crawling it’s way out of your throat. “jus’ for you, sir,” you weakly smile, and that title is enough for him to start moving.
your hands find your chest and you weakly squeeze and pinch at yourself while his cock splits you with each thrust, you feel so much but you’re somehow desperate for more. it’s not enough, you need more of him. “m-mada-raaa,” he fucks his name out of you, head tilting down at your pathetic little pleas. “more- i need f-fuh-hahhh.. fucking moreee,” you groan, eyes locking with his. he almost looks offended. “more? more??” he cackles.
in one swift movement, his hands are on either side of you and he’s leaning forward, still sheathed and curling you in on yourself with him. “you’re too fucking much, you know that, brat?” he hisses, punctuating that poisonous nickname with a small thrust that sends blissful agony shooting through your nervous system. “you take and take,” he pulls out, situating himself to stand on the balls of his feet now. “all you do is fucking take,” he buries himself- fully inside- balls practically to your fucking asshole, and you feel like you’ve fallen flat on your back with the wind that’s been knocked out of you. he's suddenly flush against every erogenous spot inside of you and you're sobbing. “but.. hahahh.. you’re so fucking perfect i just want to give.” for a moment, you swear you see red flash in those eyes of his. he looks crazed above you, eyes wide and weakly smiling, and you swear you’ve never felt more attracted to him.
you’ve already milked one load from him, warm cum shooting into you for maybe 20 seconds straight, but it’s not enough. he’s ramming it back into you, a milky white ring forming around the base of his cock as cum mixed with cream keep the two of you attached by strings of each other each time he pulls out, just to drive it directly back into you. you look fucking stupid on him, and he loves it. loves that pretty little fucked out face. loves bringing a hand up to smush your cheeks together and give you little smacks like he’s trying to wake you up. “thought you wanted more, doll.” “nghh.. i do… i want all of you- i need you, madara. you’re- hohhh, you’re all i n-need…” you pathetically babble. “you’ve got me, princess. i’ll fucking kill for you.” uchiha’s and the way they profess their love. isn’t it so dreamy?
tears stream down your pretty face, you feel so exposed beneath him like this. you’re getting the air fucked out of you again and your hands ball up as you focus on the increasing heat in your belly. “you’ve got it, doll. hahh- need you to finish- hahh, gotta make sure it takes- hahahh,” his filthy words make the turbulence of feelings you’re riding through even rougher, and a sob escapes from you as you teeter on the edge. “cum for me, princess. i’m- hah, i’m gonna finish too- gonna shoot right into you,” his words are separated with the loud wet plaps of your cunt meeting his pelvis, and the harmony of those noises and his vile speech create have got you throwing your head back onto the cushioned tatami. you’re not sure what he’s saying, but the rumble of his voice is the only thing that's keeping you grounded amid your nerve-frying orgasm. his fat, precise tip abusing your low-set cervix has you going crazy, and then a particularly hard thrust has the two flush against one another and he’s emptying directly into your womb.
madara isn't always so vocal, his roster of noises consists of low groans and huffs (and... laughs for some reason..?), but god you've got him falling apart. every clench around his wide dick has got him singing above you. "hahh-- good girlll," he growls, sucking air between his teeth. "don't waste a drop, take it all for me," he pulls out of you, falling back on his knees and letting you lower body unfold and drop. you're still twitching from your climax, every part of you feels fuzzy. like you're in a cloud. a rough thumb rips you back to the mortal plane as it grazes your clit and plugs your entrance. he tuts, "now what'd i say?" you whine, limp legs weakly jerking in reaction. "nnh- madaraaa..." you breathe. you're funny, he thinks. "whaddya say, princess?" "mmm... thank youuuu..." you giggle weakly, hands coming up to rub at your teary eyes. his smile is gentle as he looks at you- not so hungry compared to the others. you're just too sweet in your glow. you make him soft. and that dumb little smile you reciprocate has him even softer.
Guys… I’m back. feel free to send in some asks. i’ve been kinda on a jojos kick recently so maybe send some jojos asks if you’d like!! my laptop is broken so im gonna be writing on my phone but like its worth it lowk
being a billionaire’s son will never stop jason from being poor
(｡ᵕ ◞ _◟)
i couldn't decide which version i liked the best so congrats you get all 3! broke jason in every angle trust .ᐟ.ᐟ
he's so James Dean, Paul Newman, Harrison Ford, Top Gun, beautiful, 10/10, gorgeous, vintage, stunning, classic, handsome, old hollywood, western, Lana Del Rey, love of my life--
fluff, affection, mentions of sexual activity but no smut, reader isn't a gl but it isn't specified if they're a hero or a civilian
by @cinnamon-girl-writes
"Y'better not be posting this for all your little internet friends to see," Guy complained as you snapped a photo of him tucked face down into your frilly pink bedsheets.
"Don't worry, it's for my eyes only," you responded coyly, throwing your phone aside and running a hand along the hard planes of his back from where you sat on the bed. The pair of you were still mostly unclothed from your activities last night, which provided you with an unobstructed view of his sculpted figure.
Almost every morning went like this when Guy stayed at your place. The two of you would wake, tangled in your rose-colored bedsheets, basking in the early morning sun and each other's presence.
This morning was no exception, with Guy currently taking up two thirds of the mattress and inching ever closer to your side.
"D'you really need all these stuffed animals?" he groaned, voice still groggy from sleep. He held a Hello Kitty plush in his hand unceremoniously. A plethora of stuffed animals were scattered around his head, a comedic contrast to the large, muscular man.
"They're keeping you safe," you teased, leaning down to press a kiss to his shoulder.
"Honey, I'm the world's greatest Green Lantern. Pretty sure I don't need your jellydogs to take care of me."
"Jellycats," you corrected with a laugh. Guy grunted, which you took as some form of acknowledgement.
"I'm getting hungry," you announced. "Can we order some takeout?"
"How about that burger joint down the street?" he suggested.
"That sounds good," you agreed, "but I don't wanna get up."
"Guess we'll just have to stay in bed all day," Guy said, pulling you closer by the hip and pressing a kiss to your skin.
"You're the one with the magic ring," you protested. "Why don't you Green Lantern down there and get it?"
"I'll give you the ring you can fly down and get it," he mumbled against your skin.
You huffed. "Yeah, right. As if the 'guardians of the universe' would let that slide."
"You're right," he teased, "You probably don't have enough willpower to do it anyways."
"What?!" you gasped. "I'm stronger than you are, Gardner."
"Sure didn't seem like that last night--"
You slapped his chest, and he pulled you into a death grip embrace, wrapping his thick arms around your middle.
Sometimes I have the URGE to read a fic where the reader is a sadistic manipulator, instead of being the manipulated, and their husband is a little bitch who is manipulated by them.
Hi, I requested the Jason pregnancy smut, and I was very happy with your results. But I was very sorry to hear about your loss, I’m also similarly grieving right now and I’m reading fics and making requests to take my mind off things. So I’m glad writing to my request took your mind off things. Hope we both feel better soon, thanks for filling my request ❤️
AW thank you. I hope you feel better soon, too. And of course, i actually had a lot of fun doing your request! i really liked the idea 🩷
