alias: cece/venus
age: 23
SUGGESTIVE THEMES, NO MINORS ALLOWED
This blog mainly writes for male and gender neutral readers. If you submit a request and it uses female terminology, I will immediately switch the request to be more male/gender centered as Tumblr is already dominated by female readers.
I accept requests but will deny if the ideas/fandoms are unknown to me or I'm uncomfortable with the subject. My first language is not English, so some works might be filled with grammar mistakes, please be aware.
REQUEST GUIDELINES!
immediate no's: rape, underage smut, non-con situations, requests for celebrities
Unless your request includes any of the above, you're in the clear. If you have any questions or are unsure if your request fits the guidelines, leave me a question and I'll get to it as soon as I can. No exceptions. For example: if you suggest a fic with a gender neutral reader who gets saved by the love interest from certain non-con actions, that's allowed.
MASTERLIST!
the avengers
the twilight saga
interview with the vampire
hannibal (tv show)
deppverse
the vampire diaries
dc universe
slashers
percy jackson and the olympians and heroes of olympus
the hunger games
miscellaneous
miss peregrines home for peculiar children
hannibal extended universe
if you ever have the time you should totally watch supernatural !!! i feel like you could write all the mains great (especially castiel...) (totally not just giving this rec so more of my fav authors can write castiel x top male reader whaaaa nooo...)
Wait... hannigram x trans male reader...?!!? Like, super angst dysphoric type shit, and reader feels like he shouldn't be with them because he's not masculine enough, and takes his frustration out on will and hanni ,, just a thought :]
JUST A PROP IN YOUR MASCULINE AESTHETIC!
hannigram x trans! male reader
authors note: Just let it be known that I don't mean any kind of disrespect if I got anything incorrect. Perhaps a reason why I was debating on whether to accept this ask or not (along with writing for trans readers), but I tried my best.
You stood before the full length mirror, the one Hannibal had insisted on installing, and all you could see was the wrongness of it. The soft curve of your hips, the way the fabric of your shirt draped over a chest that was flat but still felt like a lie.
It was a daily betrayal, a body that refused to align with the stark, unyielding truth in your mind.
Will and Hannibal were a study in contrasts that somehow made a perfect, terrifying whole. Will, all coiled tension and raw, weathered masculinity, his hands calloused from boat repairs and his eyes seeing too much. Hannibal, a monument to curated, effortless power, his presence filling a room, his masculinity a tailored suit, sharp and absolute.
And then there was you.
A rough draft.
A pale imitation.
The feeling was a corrosive acid eating away at you from the inside out. It made you feel small, invisible, and yet horribly exposed. You didn't belong in their world of sharp edges and defined lines. You were a smudge, an imperfection on their perfect canvas.
Tonight was unbearable. Will was telling a story about a case, his voice low and raspy, and Hannibal was listening with that intense, predatory focus he reserved only for Will.
And for you.
That was the worst part. They looked at you with such want, such reverence. It felt like a mockery.
āAre you alright?ā Will turned to you, his story trailing off. He was always watching, always sensing the tremors in the earth before the quake. You couldnāt answer. The words were lodged in your throat like a bitter pill.
No, Iām not alright. I feel like a freak. I feel like a joke you two are playing on the world.
Hannibalās gaze was heavier, more analytical. āYou seem troubled, my love. Your posture is rigid. You are holding yourself like a man awaiting a blow.ā
The way he could dissect you with a single sentence, snapped something inside you.
āIām fine,ā you bit out, the words sharp and ugly. You pushed your chair back, the legs scraping loudly against the floor. āMaybe Iām just not hungry for another one of your performances.ā
āA performance?ā
āYes, a performance! This whole thing! The dinner, the wine, theā¦ the art. Itās all a fucking stage, and you two are the stars, and Iām justā¦ Iām the prop. The ugly little prop that doesnāt fit the aesthetic.ā
You turned your venom on Will, who was now standing, his hands held up in a placating gesture. āAnd you! Donāt look at me like that. Like you understand. Like you can just see me. You canāt. You see what you want to see. You see a broken little bird you need to fix.ā
āThatās not true.ā
āIsnāt it?ā You laughed, a harsh, broken sound. āWhat the hell would you two even want with me? Look at me!ā You gestured wildly at your own body, your voice trembling with rage and shame.
āIām not a real man. Iām a fucking patchwork doll. Iām nothing next to you. Youāre both soā¦so complete. And Iām just a collection of parts that donāt match.ā
The silence that followed was suffocating. Your chest heaved, the angry outburst leaving you hollowed and shaking. You had said it. You had vomited all the poison onto their pristine floor.
Will looked utterly wrecked, his empathy a curse that forced him to feel every jagged edge of your pain as if it were his own. āThatās not how we see you. Itās never been how we see you.ā
But you were already retreating, backing away from him as if he were a threat. āDonāt. Just...donāt.ā
Hannibal moved then. He didnāt approach you with Willās desperate caution. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, circling you like a shark. He stopped behind you, and you flinched when you felt his fingers gently brush the nape of your neck.
āYou believe yourself to be an incomplete man,ā he murmured, his voice a low hum against your ear. āA flawed creation.ā
You squeezed your eyes shut, tears of shame and fury burning behind your lids.
āYou see a patchwork doll,ā Hannibal continued. āI see a mosaic. A work of art assembled from shattered pieces, each fracture a story, each irregular edge a testament to survival. It is the brokenness that makes you beautiful. It is the struggle that gives you your form.ā
His breath was warm on your skin.
āMasculinity is not a monolith, my dear. It is not the brute strength of a bull or the tailored perfection of a statue. It is in the fight. It is in the fury you just unleashed. It is in the courage it takes to look in the mirror every day and wage war against the reflection. That is a strength neither Will nor I possess. We have never had to fight for ourselves in the way that you have.ā
Will moved in front of you, his gaze soft and wet. He gently took your hands, his thumbs stroking over your knuckles.
āWhen I look at you, I donāt seeā¦I donāt see what you think youāre lacking. I see the strongest person Iāve ever met. I see someone who's building himself from the ground up, every single day..ā
You were trapped between them.
Willās raw honesty in front and Hannibalās worshipful possession at your back. The anger was gone, replaced by a wave of such overwhelming emotion it brought you to your knees. Literally. Your legs gave out, and you would have hit the floor if Hannibalās arms hadnāt shot out to catch you, pulling you back against his chest.
A sob tore from your throat.
āYou are not a prop in our theater,ā Hannibal's voice left no room for argument. āYou are the entirety of the stage. You are the light, the darkness, the bloody climax, and the final scene. We are merely players in the world of your making.ā
hi hi, i love your writing!! could you write a stu macher x male reader where the reader is obviously depressed and not very stable. he always does risky things and things that are bad for him. but stu and the friendgroup think hes joking and that just part of his charm. one night stu sneaks in trough his window like usual but finds him unconscious because he tried to end his life. maybe he left a note for stu or smt (stu and reader are like best friends but make out sometimes cuz theyre gay as hell but too scared to admit it) sorry if this is too long... youre like my favorite author on this app lol
PLEASE WAKE UP, I DIDN'T GET TO SAY IT BACK
stu macher x male reader
authors note: I made this angsty cause I couldn't help myself (I'm sorry) but it's also open ended. You survive or die, your choice. Also, I didn't add you and Stu messing around 'cause I think if that were the case, this whole thing would never occur. I can't explain my thinking, but I do hope you guys enjoy it!
Your window slid open before Stu swung one leg, then the other, into your room. A grin was already on his face, ready for whatever chaotic energy you had in store for the night. Maybe he'll finally convince you to try that stupid one chip challenge.
āHey, Y/N, your favorite psychopath isāā
Stu's voice died in his throat.
The room was too quiet and too neat. Your bed, usually a chaotic nest of blankets and discarded hoodies, was starkly made. And you were in it.
But you weren't sleeping.
You were lying on your back, one arm thrown over the side of the bed, the other resting on your chest. Your skin had a waxy, pale color that the weak moonlight filtering through the window couldn't fix. But most concerning was your unmoving chest. Stuās brain refused to process it for a solid ten seconds.
This was a prank. It had to be.
āOkay, very funny. You got me.ā As he reached the edge of your bed, Stu's eyes landed on the orange prescription bottle in your hand. His grin vanished. A cold dread clawed its way up his throat. Stu grabbed your shoulder, and shook you. But your head simply lolled to the side, completely still.
āHey. Hey, no. No, no, no, no.ā Stu's voice was broken. āCome on, man. Donāt do this. This isnāt funny.ā
His frantic gaze scanned the room, looking for the punchline, the hidden camera, anything that would end this nightmare. Thatās when he saw it. A single piece of notebook paper, folded neatly and propped up against your lamp. His name was written on the front in your familiar, messy scrawl.
With a trembling hand, Stu snatched it. His fingers felt clumsy and useless as he unfolded it. The words inside were a blur at first, his vision swimming with panic and tears.
Stu,
If youāre reading this, I guess I finally did it. Donāt be too mad, I know this is gonna fuck things up. I just got so tired. Iām sorry. You were always the best part of my days. Even when I was being a moron, you made it feel okay. I hope you can still laugh after this. I really hope you can. Tell Tatum she owes me twenty bucks. And tell Billy heās an asshole.
I think I loved you.
He crumpled the note in his fist, the paper digging into his palm.
The jokes. The reckless driving. The way youād laugh after youād nearly gotten into a fight. The dark humor about wanting to just disappear. Stu thought it was part of your charm, your edgy, fearless personality. He and the others had fed it, encouraged it, laughing right along with you. He never once stopped to wonder if the laughter was a shield. He never looked past the charming chaos to see the drowning man underneath.
āFuck!ā Stu screamed. He grabbed your phone line, his fingers fumbling, nearly dropping it twice. He dialed 911 with a desperation heād never known, his other hand still gripping your cold, unmoving one.
ā911, whatās your emergency?ā
āI need help!ā he sobbed. āMy friendāheāhe took a bunch of pills. Heās not breathing! Please, please, you have to hurry!ā
He gave them your address, his voice cracking and breaking, until the operator assured him help was on the way. Dropping the phone, Stu fell to his knees beside your bed, his face pressed against your hand.
It was so cold.
āPlease, please, wake up,ā He pleaded, tears unabashedly rolling down his cheeks and to your hand. āYou canāt leave me. You canāt. Pleaseā¦just wake up and Iāll tell you. Iāll tell you for real. I love you. Iām so sorry I didnāt say it before. Just wake up.ā
But the only answer was the sound of his own ragged breathing and the faint, distant wail of a siren getting closer.
authors note: I've only got TikTok to blame. Those damn edits of Hannibal in later seasons with that silver peaking on his temples got me feeling some type of way. Not to mention, just the idea of Hannibal dye-ing his hair to make it not gray gives me a giggle.
synopsis: You decide to visit your lovely partner (for no reason whatsoever) when you make the most shocking of discoveries. Yes, even greater than his extracurricular activities and dietary choices. The reveal that he's actually graying and uses hair dye to cover them is horrifying. Because, damn.....you could've been snacking on that zaddy energy.
You werenāt supposed to be here.
Well, not in aĀ breaking and enteringĀ way. You had a key. A lovingly gifted one, though you suspected Hannibal appreciated the symbolism more than the practicality, since he was almost always the one opening doors for you.
Still, you'd come unannounced today. No real reason. Just the warmth of a Saturday morning and a half drunk cup of espresso that made you crave the quiet intimacy of his home. You'd called out upon arrival. Twice, actually, and when no answer came, you followed the soft, almost nonexistent trail of classical music wafting from upstairs.
āHannibal?ā you called again, hand on the carved frame of the bedroom door before stepping in. āI swear, if youāre mid dissecting someone in the bath, Iām turning right around.ā
No response.
You padded over the plush rug and paused by the ensuite bathroom before pushing the door open.
And there he was, your boyfriend, in all his elegant, unflinching glory, wearing a towel around his shoulders as a box of hair dye rested on the edge of the sink. You blinked, because, yes, the sight was real. Silver streaks glistened in his hair beneath the overhead light. He glanced up from the mirror with a mild, unbothered expression, like you hadn't just caught him in the most pedestrian of crimes.
āYou dye your hair?ā
A pause. āYes.ā
āYou have gray hair.ā
āCorrect.ā
ā...And you lookĀ hot as hell.ā
That earned you the faintest twitch at the corners of his mouth. You stepped into the room, eyes still focused on the silver of his hair. It wasnāt patchy or dull like you'd seen on some people. No, of course not. It framed his face in an almost ethereal glow.
āWhy the hell do you hide this?ā
āI assumed it might age me in an undesirable manner.ā
You scoffed, grabbing the dye bottle from the sink and holding it hostage. āYouāre Hannibal Lecter. You could wear clown makeup and still look like the embodiment of someoneās fantasy.ā
āHow flattering.ā
āNo, Iām serious!ā You reached forward, brushing back a lock of hair to closer examine the silver. āIt suits you. You look distinguished. More than usual. Likeā¦like a villainous silver fox who also knows seventeen languages and how to filet a man with a cheese knife.ā
āā¦Thatās oddly accurate.ā He reached for the bottle but paused when you pulled back. "It began as a practical decision. Appearances can influence one's perception, but then it became a habit, I suppose. It's similar to the way I select certain suits to preserve the style Iāve curated.ā
āYou mean the suits I abandoned you at the tailor for?ā
āYou did say, and I quote, āIf I look at one more shade of blue Iāll die.āā
āBecause they wereĀ the same shade!ā you hissed, then sighed. āOkay. Hereās whatās going to happen. Iām going to help you finish dye-ing your hair, but after this, Iām officially putting in a vote for you to stop.ā
Hannibal quirked a brow. āAre we a democracy now?ā
āWeāre a domestic dictatorship.Ā IĀ get veto power over hair decisions if it involves hiding how stupidly attractive you are.ā
He chuckled, rich and quiet, letting you guide him to sit on the stool as you snapped on gloves.
āHowever, while I appreciate the silver fox look, I don't want to give peopleĀ anotherĀ reason to fawn over you,ā you muttered, squirting dye unto the brush and raking it carefully through his scalp. āYou already wear waistcoats that make people forget their own names. Now you want to walk around looking like some snack up for grabs?"
āWould that bother you?ā
āYes, because Iām possessive. And petty. And maybe a little unhinged. So if someone flirts with you in public, I canāt be held legally responsible if they find themselves sinking to the bottom of an ocean."
Hannibal leaned back into your touch, utterly relaxed. āThen perhaps I should consider keeping the silver, if only for the drama it might provoke.ā
āDo it and Iāll drag you to a thrift store and dress you in dad jeans.ā
Later that evening, as you were removing the black tinted gloves from your hands, Hannibal caught your reflection in the mirror and asked: āWould you still find me attractive if I went fully gray?ā
You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his cheek. āIād still love you if you were bald.ā
authors note: Okay, I don't know what suddenly came over me, but I simply want to have a PATHETIC Will Graham. Like down so bad for us that he's practically a slut for praises and our attention he's willing to become whatever we want of him. I know it might be a mischaracterization of his true nature, but can people let me live???? Like, tell me this cutie pie isn't so touch and love starved that he would practically fall to his knees and beg us to stay without shame? Anyway, yeah, now you know how this fic came to be :)
synopsis: Abigail Hobbs was nothing more than a presented opportunityāsomeone you can manipulate so the darkness already present can be used to your advantage. However, your pet was insanely and madly territorial.
āLook at you. Who would've guessed that the FBI's most prized consultant would drop to his knees for little old me.ā
You chuckled, letting your fingers run over his curls before pulling the leash back, causing Will to stumble from where he'd been greedily nuzzling your abdomen. The man let out a soft whine, trying to get back to the comfort of your scent, but you tugged the leash tighter, cutting his oxygen flow just enough to remind him where he belonged.
Will's lips parted with a choked gasp, eyes fluttering in a mixture of panic and bliss. Still, even with oxygen dwindling, he didnāt stop trying to reach you.
"But what else did I expect from you? After all, it was inevitable for my pet to play nice with others."
Will's head stayed bowed even after you released the leash. His hands curled into tight fists on the floor, knuckles pressed against the hardwood like a dog waiting to be called forward.
āPathetic.ā you murmured, trailing your finger along his jaw before tilting his face upwards. Will's pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed a lovely shade of red.
"Say it again."
Oh, how you loved it when he begged like this, however, Will wasn't deserving of such a prize anytime soon. You didn't need to see the tableau to know it was all the doings of your pet. Just by Crawford's description, you pinned down Will's motive for displaying Abigail Hobbs in such a manner.
And it all led to jealousy.
Not romantic, no that would be absurd, however, your plans of adopting her into your orbit, teaching her how to harvest the darkness already present inside her made Will descend into madness. The idea of you giving attention, affection, instruction to someone elseāAbigail or notāhad turned something inside him rancid and feral.
āYou donāt deserve it,ā you let your hand fall away from his face before walking around him in a slow circle. āYou donāt even deserve to be looked at, not after what you did.ā
Will flinched as if struck. āIāI didnāt mean to. I swear, it wasnāt meant to ruin your plans. I justāā He shivered, unable to finish.
"You ruined everything!" You grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled back, making his back arch deliciously.
Will snapped, and oh, there it was. The pathetic little pet shedding the illusion of guilt and snarling like a mutt caught chewing through the leash.
āShe didnāt appreciate the gift you were presenting to her! Abigail wouldāve wasted it. Twisted it into something soft. SomethingĀ beneathĀ you."
You yanked his hair harder, exposing more of his pale neck. The action made Will cry out, but it wasn't due to pain. It was pleasure laced with madness.
āShe was a child,ā you spat, āYou bit her just because she got too close to the hand that feeds."
āYes.ā
The admission made your stomach twist in a mixture of rage, desire, and control. āYou knew what I was grooming her for.ā
Willās laugh was deranged. āOf course I knew. You wanted another blade to sharpen. Someone you could mold. ButĀ IĀ was already carved for you.ā His eyes locked onto yours now, defiant and wild. āIām the monster you made. Doesnāt that count for something?ā
āMaybe I should put you down.ā you whispered after a few seconds of silence, the words meant to wound. Yet it simply made Will's voice drop to a reverent murmur as he replied:
āThen do it. Kill me, cage me, cut me open. As long as your hands are the last thing I feelāā
Your hand struck his cheek hard enough that his head snapped to the side.
He moaned.
āYou're right,ā you said softly, mockingly. āYouĀ areĀ the monster I made, but even monsters have rules. Tell me, what will happen if you continue disappointing me, making my plans all go to waste? What if I go and find myself another who's more willing to obey?"
Will's body went still, but the stillness wasnāt calm. It was dread, wrapped in rage and bound by worship. You watched as his lashes trembled, jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might bite through the inside of his cheek.
āIāll kill them,ā he vowed. āWhoever they are. Whoever you choose. Iāll kill them and hang their heart like a trophy at your feet. Iāll paint your name in their blood and beg for your forgiveness while I do it.ā
There it was. The trembling desperation. The cruel, possessive beast curled behind his boyish curls and sad blue eyes. He crawled forward, like a priest approaching an altar made of sin and sorrow.
āThere isĀ no oneĀ else. No one but you. I donāt exist without you."
Will's forehead touched the floor. āIf you want obedience, Iāll crawl on broken glass. If you want silence, Iāll cut out my tongue. If you want a good dog, then leash me, collar me, break me down until there's nothing left but what you want to see.ā
He looked up again, cheeks now streaked with tears
āBut donāt ever replace me. Iād rather dieĀ by your handĀ than live in a world where youāve given someone else what I bled for.ā
There was something beautiful in how broken he looked.
Cheeks stained with tears, lips parted like a prayer half spoken, half dared. And still, even then, Will stayed obedient. Waiting, trembling, on his knees like the mangled thing he was, too afraid to touch without permission. Too conditioned to move without command.
āCome here.ā
Will didnāt move for a second, like he was afraid it was a trick. But the moment you opened your arms, he launched forward with a broken sound. Will folded into you with the desperation of someone crawling back into existence. His face buried itself on your neck as his arms wrapped tight around your torso.
Meanwhile, your hand drifted to his curls, threading gently now, no longer yanking or punishing. Will whimpered at the contact, his body melting against yours like candle wax. You felt the press of his lips, hesitant at first, then needier, along the skin of your jaw.
āThank you,ā he whispered. āThank you, thank you, thank youāā
You continued to thread your fingers lazily through his curls, dragging your nails along his scalp. āYouāre lucky I love broken things.ā
can you plz do some michael myers x dom reader smut ā¹ļøā¹ļø
BOUNCE ON IT
michael myers x male reader
authors note: I'm still not that great at writing smut, so I hope you can excuse any mistakes you may find. Also, I kinda changed your ask to have Michael be more of a power bottom because I just think it fits him more. Like, sure, the male reader has his cock inside him, but I think Michael is still in control and not as kitten/soft like as other smut paint him as. He's also still stoic as fuck though.
WARNING: 18+ SMUT AHEAD
"Fuck," You hissed, bitting your lip hard enough to draw blood as Michael began to deep throat your cock. The pleasure didn't gradually speed up nor you didn't expect him to go easy on you. After all, even with Michael being on his knees and giving you the most intense blow job to date, he was in total control.
"Mikey, please slow down. Imma cum quickly if youā"
You moaned deeply as he began to speed up even more, blond hair covering his eyes as he looked up at you unmoved. He gave no outward reaction that this was pleasurable for him, blank eyes staring at your soul as he showed you his non-existent gag reflex.
Your hands moved to his head, seeking stability of some kind, but before they made contact with his hair, Michael pulled back and stood up. The sight of your pre-cum rolling down the side of his mouth was erotic, you couldn't help but follow. However, he pushed you back on the bed and the world tilted.
You landed with a soft thud, the breath knocked from your lungs, and before you could even process the fall, his weight was on you.
His hands, rough and calloused, shot out, grabbing your wrists and slamming them into the pillows above your head. The sheer difference in strength and size between you two sent a jolt of electricity straight to your already aching cock. You struggled instinctively, but it was useless. He was a damn rock.
"Mikeyā"
One of his hands traveled to your neck, cutting off oxygen as he leaned in, his face inches from yours. His eyes, still that unnerving, placid blue, held no mercy. He was a blank slate, a beautiful, terrifying machine, and you were the thing he was currently taking apart. You could smell yourself on his breath, see the faint sheen of your pre-cum still on his lips.
The sight made your hips buck involuntarily.
A low growl rumbled in his chest, the first real sound you'd heard from him, and it vibrated through your entire body.
It was a warning.
He shifted his weight, the movement fluid and terrifyingly fast. He kept his hand locked around your throat, using the other to line up your slick, throbbing cock with his entrance. With a brutal, downward thrust of his powerful hips, he impaled himself on you in one, single, devastating motion.
A strangled cry tore from your throat, the sound muffled by the pressure on your neck. The heat, the tightness, the sheer force of him taking you was overwhelming. Michael didn't pause. He didn't let you adjust. He set a punishing rhythm from the very first bounce, his massive thighs flexing as he lifted himself up and slammed back down.
His hand on your throat cut off just enough air to make your vision swim at the edges. Yet the lack of oxygen also sharpened every sensation. The drag of his tight heat around you, the slap of his ass against your thighs, the sight of his powerful, sweat-slicked body rising and falling above you.
He leaned over you, his chest against yours, his breath hot and ragged in your ear. Still, he was silent, save for the low, guttural grunts that escaped with each punishing drop.
The pressure in your core built to an unbearable peak, a coil wound so tight it was about to snap. And, as if sensing it, Michael's pace became erratic, his movements deeper and faster.
He was close too.
The hand on your throat disappeared and he pulled you up slightly for a bruising, possessive kiss. It was all teeth and tongue, a fight for dominance that he won without even trying. The new angle made the tip of your cock touch his g-spot repeatedly, causing his eyes to water slightly.
You couldn't handle it anymore.
The combination of everything sent you over the edge. Your orgasm ripped through you, violent and all-consuming, your body convulsing beneath him as you cummed deep inside him. He followed a moment later, a deep, silent shudder running through his massive frame as his own cum painted your stomach.
Iām really sorry if Iām bothering you, but I was wondering if you can do Clint Barton x male reader? But reader is fixing Clintās daddy issues? (Itās like one of your iron man stories I fucking adore that story) Iām really sorry if Iām bothering you! Donāt overwhelm yourself
NOT MY FATHER
clint barton x male reader
authors note: I don't really know much about Hawkeye's past (all of my knowledge comes from the movies and his wiki because don't even get me started on the comics and it's convoluted plot) so I kept it at the basic daddy issues. I also didn't make it rely too much on smut since I felt that's Tony's way of avoiding the issue while Clint's more grounded, if you get my vision. Oh, and I also have Clint still have his kids, so think of him and Laura divorcing amicably before you come into the picture. (You're no home wrecker.) So yeah, hope you enjoy!
Clint sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at a spot on the hardwood floor. His bow was propped in the corner, clean and unused for this op. Heād gone in with a sidearm and a bad attitude, and heād come back the same way, minus the bruises.
You didnāt ask what happened. Youād learned that questions were met with walls. Instead, you moved to the bathroom, ran a washcloth under warm water, and came back. Kneeling in front of him, you gently took his chin and began dabbing at the cut on his cheekbone.
Clint flinched, his eyes wide and wary for a half second before they softened. āItās nothing.ā
āHumor me.ā
He let you clean the cut, his gaze fixed on your face. You could see the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the kind that went deeper than a simple lack of sleep.
āHey,ā you said, tossing the cloth aside before stroking the stubble on his jaw. "Talk to me.ā
The muscle in his jaw clenched. He tried for his usual smirk, but it was a pale imitation. āNothing to talk about. Jobās done. Weāre alive. Thatās a win.ā
āThatās not what I meant and you know it. Whatās going on in that head of yours, Clint?ā
He finally looked away, his shoulders slumping. āI...I messed up. Almost got a kid hurt.ā His voice turned rough. āFor a second, all I could see was Cooper. Or Lila. What if it was them? What if Iām the reason they get hurt because I canāt keep my shit together?ā
And there it was. The ghost of his own father, the specter of failure and abandonment that haunted Clint's every step as a parent. He wasnāt just worried about being a bad agent. He was terrified of being a bad dad.
āYou listen to me,ā You slid your hand from his jaw to the back of his neck, pulling his forehead down to rest against yours. āYou are not your father. You are the man who would, and has, walked through fire for your kids.ā
He was silent, but you felt his breath hitch.
āYou think being a good dad means never making a mistake? Itās not. Itās about caring so much that it tears you up when you almost do. Itās about coming home. Itās about loving them so fiercely that the fear of failing them is what keeps you sharp. That fear isnāt a weakness, Clint. Itās the proof that youāre everything they need you to be.ā
āI donāt know how to do this,ā he admitted, the words a raw whisper. āI want to be a good father. To be kind and safe. To be the man you deserve."
āYou donāt have to know how,ā you said, pulling back just enough to look him in the eye. āYou just have to let me be here with you while you figure it out. Iām not going anywhere.ā
That was the promise he needed to hear. The one heād never gotten. Not from his father, not from Barney, not from any of the men whoād used him and left him behind.
You leaned in and kissed him, a soft, press of lips that was all about reassurance. He responded slowly, hesitantly at first, then with a growing desperation. He kissed you like he was drowning and you were the only source of air. His hands roamed up your back, pulling you flush against him as he stood, lifting you with him.
He backed you toward the bed, the kiss deepening, growing messy and intense. There was a frantic energy to him, a need to erase the self-doubt with physical contact. He tugged your shirt over your head, his mouth immediately finding your collarbone, your shoulder, any patch of skin he could reach. He was trying to lose himself in you, to quiet the voices in his head with sensation.
You let him have his moment, let him push you down onto the mattress and cover your body with his own. But when his hands went to the button of your jeans, you caught his wrists.
āClint. Wait.ā
He froze, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark with a mixture of lust and confusion. āWhat? Did Iāā
āNo. Nothing like that.ā You squeezed his wrists gently before releasing them. Instead, you framed his face with your hands, forcing him to look at you. āJustā¦let me take care of you.ā
Clint looked utterly lost, the concept so foreign to him. He was the protector, the provider, the one in control. Being cared for was a language he barely understood.
āPlease.ā
Slowly, he nodded, his body relaxing under yours.
You rolled him over, reversing your positions so you were straddling his hips. You leaned down and kissed him again, but this time it was on his forehead, his eyelids, the bridge of his nose. You kissed the fading bruise on his jaw and the cut youād just cleaned.
Then you peeled off his shirt, tracing the scars on his chest and arms with your fingertips. You took your time, exploring him with your hands and mouth, focusing entirely on his pleasure.
You watched Clint's face as you stroked him, as you took him in your mouth, his head thrown back, his lips parted with a silent gasp. The tight control he always maintained was fraying.
When you finally sank down, taking him inside you, his hands flew to your hips, his grip almost painfully tight. But you just placed your hands over his, lacing your fingers together. āLook at me.ā
He forced his eyes open, and the raw, unguarded vulnerability in them almost took your breath away. He wasnāt Hawkeye, the worldās greatest marksman. He wasnāt the Avenger with a tragic past. He was just Clint, exposed and wanting.
You began to move, setting a slow, deep rhythm. It wasnāt about finding a release. It was about showing Clint that he could be seen (completely and utterly) and still be wanted. Still be loved.
āThatās it,ā you murmured, your voice a low counterpoint to his ragged breaths. āLet go, Clint. Iāve got you.ā
And he did. With a choked cry, his body arched up into yours, and he came apart in your arms. You held him through it, rocking him gently, whispering praises against his sweat-slicked skin.
Afterward, he didnāt pull away. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body heavy and relaxed against yours. He was quiet for a long time, and you thought heād fallen asleep, but then he spoke, voice muffled by your skin:
āStay.ā
You tightened your arms around him, pressing a kiss to his hair. You didnāt need to say it back. He already knew you werenāt going anywhere.
authors note: Okay, so this fic came to me while writing about clint's daddy issues. Just Tony having a younger, hotter boyfriend who's also a super soldier. Which is great on paper, but when you get down and dirty, it makes Tony feel old. Like, sure, he still got it, but years have caught up to him and suddenly he's drained after just one round when before he could go up till three. So yeah, hope you guys enjoy the fic!
synopsis: Having a super soldier boyfriend wasn't an easy walk in the park. Sure, the perks outweigh the drawbacks, but when it comes down to having sex, it just highlights the wedge between them. Tony was pushing 50, and you, with the serum, were barely 30.
WARNING: 18+ SMUT AHEAD
The headboard slammed against the wall with a sharp crack. Tony's fingers scrabbled for purchase on your shoulders, his legs wrapped tightly around your waist as you thrust into him with a relentless, super soldier rhythm.
"Fuck," he choked out, his head thrown back against the pillows. The arc reactor cast a frantic, blue light across his heaving chest, highlighting the strain in his neck and the blissful agony on his face. "Slow down, youā¦you animalā¦"
You couldn't. Not when he was clenching around you so perfectly, not when his broken moans were the sweetest sound you'd ever heard. You were on your second round, and while your body was still humming with energy, his was already reaching its limit. You could feel it in the tremor of his thighs, the way his breath hitched in short, desperate pants.
"Almost there," you grunted, angling your hips just so, hitting that spot inside him that made him see stars. "Come on. Give me one more."
He cried out, a raw, ragged sound as his orgasm tore through him, his body arching off the bed. Cum painted his stomach, and the sight of him completely wrecked and lost in pleasure, was enough to push you over the edge. You buried your face in Tony's neck, groaning his name as you cummed inside him.
Tony lay motionless, chest rising and falling in a rapid, shallow rhythm. His eyes were closed, his face pale.
"Tony?" You reached out and brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead.
He didn't open his eyes. "I thinkā¦I think I saw the afterlife for a second there. It was surprisingly boring."
A small smile touched your lips. "You okay?"
"Peachy," he breathed, the word barely a whisper. "Just need a minute. Or a week. Definitely a week."
You watched him, your chest swelling with a fierce, protective love. He was so beautiful like this. Vulnerable, sated, and completely yours. But you also knew the look that was beginning to settle on his face.
You shifted onto your side, propping your head up on your hand. "Don't start."
One eye cracked open. "Start what? I'm not starting anything. I'm just decompressing. A man is allowed to decompress after being practically fucked into a new dimension."
"I can hear the gears turning from here. You're thinking about how you're in your fifties and I'm, well, this." You gestured vaguely to your own still perfect physique.
He finally opened both eyes and the vulnerability there made your heart ache. "Can you blame me? I feel like I've been hit by a truck. A very persistent, very well endowed truck. And you look like you could go for round three right now."
You leaned in, kissing him softly, a stark contrast to the raw intensity from moments before. "But I want you."
"You have me," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "But for how long? One day you're going to wake up and realize you're shacked up with a relic. An old man who can't even keep up with his boyfriends stamina."
You felt a surge of anger, not at him, but at the cruel voice in his head that told him these lies.
You moved then, shifting to hover over him. You framed his face with your hands, forcing him to look at you, to see the truth in your eyes.
"Listen to me, Tony Stark. I don't care about how long you last during sex. I don't care if we do it everyday or only once every month. You know why?"
He shook his head.
"Because I care about this. I care about you. Every laugh line, every gray hair, every scar. I want the man who built an arc reactor in a cave. I want the man who saved the world half a dozen times and still burns his pop tarts. I want Tony Stark. All of him."
You kissed him then, a deep kiss that wasn't about starting another round, but about reminding him exactly who he was to you.
When you finally pulled back, his eyes were shining. The self doubt had been replaced by awe or just the profound, overwhelming reality of being loved. "You're too much."
"Good," you growled, nipping at his jaw. "You deserve too much. You deserve everything."
You settled back beside him, pulling his body flush against yours. He was still trembling, overstimulated and exhausted, but he melted into your embrace. His head found its place on your chest, right over your heartbeat.
"Just give me a minute," he mumbled into your skin. "Or ten. Maybe twenty. And some Gatorade. And possibly a full IV drip."
You laughed. "Whatever you need old man."
Tony pinched your side, but there was no heat in it. "Watch it, supersoldier. Even if I'm older, I still know how to pack a punch." Silence befell the room, but when you thought he might have drifted off, he spoke so softly you almost missed it.
"I love you."
You held him tighter, pressing another kiss to the crown of his head. "I know, Tony. I love you, too."
synopsis: Okay, so your crush on Chief Swan wasn't that much of a secret, but can people blame you? He was a dilf, a dick on a stick that you would love nothing more than to bounce on. So when it's your family's high school graduation, it gives you the perfect opportunity to make a move.
"Is it just me or was Chief Swan always this hot? Like c'mon, please tell me I'm not the only one seeing this." You bit your lip, golden eyes roaming his ass while he walked inside the auditorium.
"It's just you, Y/N," Emmett said, gagging in disgust at the lovesick look you currently wore. "Hope you know that my respect for you is decreasing 1% every minute you continue undressing him with your eyes."
"Then might as well make it zero cause god damn," you whispered the last part, knowing how Carlisle was about using Gods name in vain. Even if he was centuries old and a creature more closely associated to the devil himself, his catholic ideals never disappeared.
"He's a dick on a stick I wouldn't mindā"
"And I'm gone."
Emmett jogged to the entrance where the rest of the student's families were waiting for the ceremony to begin. Carlisle and Esme had long gone inside, wanting to get the best seats (as if Edward, Alice, and Jasper didn't graduate high school every few years.) But you stayed behind, wanting to get a look at Chief Swan in all his suited glory.
Sure, you were technically in your mid twenties and had just graduated college. And yeah, Charlie was forty-two with Bella (your future niece-in-law) kinda weirded out by your crush, but was it really a sin to admire what laid in front of you?
You adjusted your tie in the reflection of the car window. You needed to play this carefully. Charlie was Forks' Chief of Police. A man who dealt with creeps and lowlifes daily. Overt flirting would likely get you a restraining order, not a date.
Subtlety was key.
Taking a deep breath, you smoothed down your suit and followed the lingering scent of Chief Swan's cologne into the auditorium. Your enhanced senses picked up on notes of pine, something distinctly masculine, and the faint smell of gunpowder that clung to him like a second skin. God, that was doing things to you.
You spotted him near the side aisle, looking slightly uncomfortable as people mingled between each other. His eyes were scanning the crowd, probably looking for Bella, but you were determined to redirect that attention.
"Charlie?" you called out, your voice smooth but respectful as you approached.
He turned, his brow furrowing slightly as he tried to place you. The Cullen family resemblance was unmistakable, but you weren't one of the kids he usually saw around Bella. "Can I help you?"
"I don't believe we've had the pleasure," you extended a hand. "I'm Y/N Cullen. Carlisle's brother."
Charlie shook your hand, his calloused fingers warm against your unnaturally cool skin. His eyes widened slightly at the temperature difference, but he didn't comment on it.
"Right. Nice to meet you." he said, his eyes already starting to drift away, searching the crowd again.
You tightened your grip just enough to keep his attention. "It's an honor to meet Forks' finest. I've heard so much about your dedication to this town."
Charlie's eyes snapped back to yours, and you watched with satisfaction as a faint blush crept up his neck. "Just doing my job."
"A job you do exceptionally well, from what I understand. It takes a special kind of person to protect a community, day in and day out. That kind of commitment is admirable."
The blush deepened, spreading across his cheeks. Charlie Swan, Forks' stoic police chief, was blushing like a schoolboy and it was divine.
"I should find my seat." he said, pulling his hand back as if burned.
"Let me help you," you offered, placing a hand on his arm. "This place is a maze, and I'd hate for you to miss seeing Bella walk across that stage."
As you walked, you made sure to brush against him "accidentally" more than once. Unbeknownst to you, this caused Charlie to have a mental breakdown.
What the hell was happening to him? He had never looked twice at a man before, but there was something about Y/N Cullen that was messing with his head. The way those golden eyes seemed to see right through him, the smooth voice that made his skin tingle, the confident way he moved...it was doing things to him he'd never believed he would experience again.
"You must be proud of Bella," you said, making conversation as you navigated through the rows. "Edward speaks very highly of her."
Charlie's expression softened slightly at the mention of his daughter. "She's a good kid. Smart. Takes after her mother in that regard."
"I would be as bold as to say that Bella gets that from you."
Charlie snorted a little at that, shaking his head like youād just said something ridiculous. āYeah, no. She definitely didnāt get the brains from me.ā
āCome on,ā you nudged lightly, tone easy now and less polished. āYouāre the chief of police in a town where nothing ever happens. That means paperwork, patience, and dealing with the same three people causing trouble over and over again.ā
Charlie let out a short laugh at that despite himself. āHeyāā
āIām serious. You donāt get that position by accident. Youāve got to be sharp. Observant. Probably annoyingly stubborn too.ā
āā¦Iām not annoyingly stubborn.ā Charlie muttered.
You raised a brow. āYouāre arguing with me about it.ā
He opened his mouth, paused, then huffed. āOkay, maybe a little.ā
āAnd Bellaās the same way. Quiet, but she notices everything. Doesnāt let things go easily. That doesnāt come from nowhere.ā And wasn't that the truth? Even after continuous warnings from people, she was stubborn about wanting to be with Edward forever. "Here we are," you said, stopping at a row near the front. "Perfect view."
"Thanks." Charlie said, quickly sitting down. You leaned down, your lips close to his ear.
"Anything for Forks' finest."
As you moved to find your own seat, you glanced back to see Charlie fanning himself with the program, looking utterly flustered. You had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop from laughing. God, he was cute.
It's an angst/comfort with Willy Wonka having a emotional breakdown as he remembers his mother, who died when he was 4 from a brain tumor, as a cuddles an old sheep doll she had made for him before she died. And it is up to the reader to help comfort him.
I DON'T REMEMBER HER
Willy Wonka x GN! Reader
authors note: Hey, so when I finished writing this, I noticed that there isn't really a romantic element but more of a friendship sort of deal. But, if you squint, it can also be seen as a pre-relationship. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it!
You haven't been successful in finding the eccentric chocolatier. It wasn't until you entered the Inventing room that you saw him, curled on a plush velvet ottoman at the very end corner of the room. His back was to the door, his signature violet coat hastily thrown to the floor, leaving him in a simple black shirt and trousers.
In his arms, he clutched a small, lumpy sheep doll. Its wool was matted and grey with age, one button eye hung by a thread, and its stuffing was lumpy in all the wrong places.
You approached slowly, and while he didn't look up, you did see his shoulders tense. "Willy?"
"Go away," he mumbled, face pressed into the sheep's tummy. "I'm busy."
You stopped a few feet away, giving him space. "You don't look busy. You look like you need a friend."
A half laugh, half sob escaped him. "A friend? I have the Oompa Loompas. I have my factory. I have her," He held up the sheep doll, his hand trembling violently. "What more could a man need?"
"Who is she?" you asked, nodding at the doll.
He finally turned his head, and the sight made your heart fall. Willy's eyes, usually sparkling with mischief and boyish wonder, were swollen from crying.
"Thisā¦this is Wooly," he whispered, his voice cracking. "My mother made her for me. She was a dentist. Terribly boring, but she made wonderful things."
He fell silent, his gaze distant, lost in a memory you couldn't see.
"She had aā¦a tumor in her brain. I was four. I don't remember much. Not her voice nor her face. It's all blurry," He looked at you then, his eyes pleading for understanding. "But I remember her hands, sewing the ears and eyes. She told me Wooly would keep me safe when she couldn't."
A fresh wave of tears streamed down his face, and he buried his face in the sheep's body. You moved without thinking. You sat down on the edge of the ottoman, close enough that your shoulders were nearly touching.
He stiffened at your proximity, a lifetime of solitude making him wary of touch, but when you didn't move further, he slowly began to relax. After a long moment, you tentatively reached out and placed a hand on his trembling back, rubbing slow, soothing circles.
He didn't pull away. Instead, a choked sob escaped him, and he leaned into your touch just slightly.
"It's not fair," he whispered against the sheep. "I have everything. I have the world's most amazing factory, I have chocolate that can do anything, but I can'tā¦I can't remember her smile."
"You don't have to remember everything clearly for the love to be real, Willy." you said softly, continuing to rub his back.
āBut what ifā¦ā his voice cracked, fingers tightening around the worn fabric of Wooly, āwhat if I forget her completely one day? What if she justāā he gestured weakly, like something slipping through his grasp, āādisappears and I'm left wondering if anything was even real?ā
You exhaled quietly, your hand never stopping its slow, grounding motion against his back. āThen you hold onto something thatĀ isĀ tangible. You said she made Wooly for you. She told you it'd keep you safe.ā
A small pause.
āAnd look at you, Willy. YouĀ areĀ safe. You grew up. You built something incredible. You made a place that brings people joy, that makes kids feel like magic is real. She may not be here, and maybe your memories of her arenāt as clear as you wish they were, but her impact is everywhere around you."
Willy sniffed, dragging the sleeve of his shirt across his face in a half hearted attempt to compose himself. It didnāt work very well. His eyes were still red, lashes damp, hair falling messily into his face.
āā¦I donāt feel very magical right now.ā he admitted quietly.
āYeah, well, even geniuses who build candy empires are allowed to have bad days.ā That earned the faintest twitch of his lips.
āAnd for what itās worth,ā you added, a little more lightly, āI think sheād be pretty proud of you."
Hannigram with toddler reader who is a cuddle bug and struggles to sleep when they are not near their parents and listening to their heartbeat.
MY LITTLE CUDDLE BUG
platonic! hannigramļ¹ gn child reader
authors note: so, in the name of making things different, I wrote this to have hannigram do silly things in order to not be the one who gets you to bed. Like sure, they love you with their whole heart and soul, but nap/bedtime becomes inconvenient when Hannibal is midway through a difficult recipe or Will is stuck in an online conference. Do you get the vision? So I hope everyone enjoys how this turned out.
Hannibal stood at his kitchen island, plating a delicate sauce that had been simmering for hours. His concentration was absolute until a small voice called from the living room.
"Papa? Dada?"
Hannibal sighed, glancing at the grandfather clock. 2:37 PM. Exactly two minutes past naptime. "Will! It's your turn."
From the study, Will's voice floated back. "I'm in the middle of a conference call with the Behavioral Science Unit! You're on nap duty today."
"I was on nap duty yesterday and the day before," Hannibal countered, his knife hovering over a perfectly seared scallop. "We had an agreement."
"That was before Jack scheduled this emergency meeting!" Will shouted back. "Not it!"
Hannibal's eyes narrowed. "We don't say 'not it' in this household."
The small voice from the living room grew louder and more insistent. "Papa! Dada! Sleep!"
A pair of tiny feet padded into the kitchen, followed by a yawn so wide it threatened to swallow the child's entire face. The toddler, adopted under circumstances neither Will nor Hannibal would ever fully explain to social services, stood rubbing their eyes with balled fists.
Hannibal crouched down. "Ah, my little nightingale. It seems your internal clock is more accurate than your fathers' schedules."
The child's lower lip began to tremble. "Heartbeat." they demanded, raising their small arms toward Hannibal.
"Of course," He scooped them up. "But perhaps we could listen to Dada's heartbeat today? His is quite irregular but fascinating in its own way."
From the study came the sound of frantic typing. "I can't! They're asking about the Louisiana case!"
Tears began to well in their child's eyes. Hannibal shot a murderous glance toward the study. "William Graham, if you value that ridiculous flannel shirt collection, you will join us in precisely ten seconds."
"Can't! Jack needs my analysis!"
Hannibal sighed, bouncing the toddler gently. "Very well, but you owe me immensely."
As he carried the child toward the stairs, the toddler suddenly wailed, "Not tired! Want juice!"
"Ah, the classic diversion tactic. Clever but ineffective. We both know what happens when you skip your nap."
The child's response was a full throated scream that could shatter glass. From the study: "For God's sake, Hannibal! Just put on the ocean sounds app!"
"The ocean sounds app is a bourgeois substitute for authentic connection!" Hannibal called back, attempting to soothe the now wriggling toddler. "My little one, would you prefer to listen to Papa's heartbeat while we discuss the structural integrity of marine ecosystems?"
The toddler paused mid wail, intrigued despite themselves. "Fishies?"
"Yes, fishies," Hannibal confirmed, carrying them up the stairs. "And perhaps we could discuss the migratory patterns of Atlantic salmon while you rest your head against my chest."
Will's voice followed them up: "Don't you dare teach them about the life cycle before they're three! We agreed!"
"That was your agreement, not mine," Hannibal murmured to the child, who was now snuggling against his chest, tiny ear pressed to his heart. "Papa will teach you all the interesting things."
As Hannibal settled into the rocking chair in the nursery, the toddler's breathing began to even out. Within minutes, they were asleep, one small hand clutching Hannibal's silk tie. Downstairs, Will's voice came through the baby monitor.
"Did it work? Are they asleep?"
Hannibal smiled, adjusting the blanket around the sleeping child. "Yes, but you're on diaper duty for the next forty eight hours."
"No fair! I had work!"
"And I had a coq au vin that is now precisely seven minutes past its optimal serving temperature. I believe we're even."
From the monitor came Will's weary sigh. "Fine. But tomorrow, you're on conference call duty while I handle naptime."
"Tomorrow," Hannibal agreed, already knowing exactly how that conversation would go. "We'll see."
hellooo, thereee!! Iām so incredibly in love with your work, esp fic where reader was the only one in the cullen family with common sense!!
i wanst sure if your reqs were opened or not, but if it isnāt, please ignore!! could I req something with alec voltusi (gn reader) pleaseā¦? have a great day/night!!
WHAT'S WRONG WITH A LITTLE DECAPITATION?
alec volturi x gender neutral reader
authors note: the first thing that immediately came to mind when I saw you requested Alec was for him to have the complete opposite of a golden retriever puppy. Like you know how the Cullens paint Alec and Jane as violence driven and just overall evil, well, what if Alec's partner is just that but x100? Like it's literally a problem when THE Alec Volturi is telling you to calm down and think rationally before killing someone. So, yeah, I hope you enjoy! (BTW, I made this with the idea of Alec being of age 'cause it just sits better with me.)
Another one bites the dust. You hummed the lyrics under your breath as you decapitated another vampire before setting them on fire. "Is this the twelfth body today or merely the fifth?" your boyfriend voiced from behind, his tone indifferent but laced with that familiar hint of exasperation you'd come to find endearing.
You turned, wiping a smear of venom from your cheek with the back of your hand. "Fifth," you corrected cheerfully. "The other seven were from yesterday. Don't be so dramatic, Alec."
His crimson eyes scanned the carnage around you. Bodies dismembered, some already burning to ash, others twitching in their final moments of death throes. The scent of burning vampire flesh filled the air, a perfume you found particularly alluring.
"The Romanians arrive in two hours," he reminds you, stepping over a severed arm without a second glance. "Aro was quite specific that he wanted this matter handled quietly."
"They were spies," you said with a shrug, nudging a headless corpse with your foot. "Spies who got caught. What's the quiet part of that?"
"The part where you don't create a spectacle that can be traced back to us." Though there was no real chastisement in his voice. He'd long ago accepted that trying to curb your violent tendencies was like trying to contain a wildfire with a water pistol.
You sauntered over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your cold body against his. "But it's so much fun when they scream. Did you hear that last one? He had quite the set of lungs on him for someone who doesn't need to breathe."
Alec's lips curved into a rare smile, his hands settling on your waist. "I believe they heard him in Florence."
You laughed, a sound that made nearby animals scatter in terror. "Good. Let them hear. Let them all know what happens when they cross the Volturi."
"Not all of them. Just the ones stupid enough to get caught by you."
You stood on tiptoe to brush your lips against his. "Jealous?"
"Never," he murmured against your mouth. "Just concerned that you'll eventually run out of vampires to kill and start on the human population."
"Now that's an idea." you teased, though you both knew you had no interest in hunting humans unless absolutely necessary. They were too fragile, too easily broken. Vampires provided a much more satisfying challenge.
Alec's fingers traced patterns on your back. "The others are waiting. We should clean up this mess before the Romanians arrive."
"Let them find it," you suggested, nipping at his throat. "It might make them more cooperative."
"Or it might start a war before negotiations even begin," Alec countered, though he made no move to stop your exploration of his neck. "And Caius has been looking forward to this summit for months."
You sighed dramatically. "Fine, but I'm keeping one of the heads as a souvenir."
Alec's chuckle was dark and rich. "Of course you are. Which one?"
"The one with the ridiculous mustache," you decided, releasing him to retrieve your chosen trophy. "He looked like he was trying to imitate a 19th century gentleman. Failed miserably, of course."
As you picked up the severed head, Alec watched you with an expression that might have been concern on anyone else. On him, it looked more like fond amusement.
"You know," he said as you wrapped the head in a cloth you'd found nearby, "most vampires try to appear less threatening when important visitors are coming."
"I'm not most vampires. Besides, what's more intimidating than a collection of your enemies' heads? It's classic psychological warfare."
Alec shook his head. "Only you would consider decorating our chambers with severed heads 'psychological warfare'."
"It worked for Vlad the Impaler and he was merely human. Imagine what I can do as a vampire."
"I'd rather not," Alec replied dryly, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Come, my love. Let's dispose of the evidence before Aro sends Demetri to check on us."
"You're no fun," you grumbled, though you followed him willingly. "But I suppose you're right. We don't want to give the Romanians any excuses to back out of this meeting."
"Exactly," Alec agreed, taking your free hand in his. "We want them to come willingly to their own destruction."
You grinned at that. "Well, when you put it that wayā¦"
The two of you worked quickly to dispose of the remains, setting fire to the bodies until nothing but ash remained. The forest would soon reclaim the evidence, leaving no trace of the violence that had transpired.
As you made your way back to the castle, Alec squeezed your hand. "Try to behave during the summit?"
"I always behave. My version of behaving just happens to be more memorable than most."
Alec laughed, a sound that none outside the Volturi ever heard. "That's why I love you."
"Among other things." you added with a wink, already anticipating the bloodshed to come. The Romanians had no idea what they were walking into and you couldn't wait to show them.
