#((a follow up to a certain thread))

[tskumoyuuma]

god damn was the ending of arcane good. I didnt blink for like the whole last episode

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ playing dangerous ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ player 177. your assigned number. the three digits stitched in stark white thread on the coarse forest-green tracksuit now clinging to your body. you didn’t remember putting it on. you didn’t remember anything between falling asleep in your cramped apartment and waking up in this sterile, alabaster void. the tracksuit was loose in some places, tight in others, the fabric rough against your skin, a similar sensation for the discomfort that had settled deep into your bones.

˚ ༘♡ the air here was heavy, oppressive. tension hung over the room like a storm cloud, pressing down on everyone in its path. you sat on the thin mattress of your cot, the iron bars of the bedframe biting into your back as you leaned against them. your throat was dry, your lips chapped, and a faint crust of dried blood clung to the edge of your mouth, an unpleasant reminder of the chaos you’d barely survived. in your lap rested a cold metal bento box, unopened. the thought of eating its contents of rubbery eggs and starchy rice, made your stomach churn. it wasn’t hunger gnawing at you but dread. eating felt like acknowledging the possibility of another day here, in this place where death lingered so close you could almost taste it.

˚ ༘♡ death. it wasn’t something you’d ever had to think about seriously before. you were young, healthy enough, aside from the occasional winter flu. life’s struggles had been mundane, bills, work, nothing quite noteworthy. you’d thought financial trouble was the worst of your problems. how naive that seemed now. the sharp crack of gunfire still rang in your ears, and the memory of bodies crumpling mid-run played in an endless loop in your mind. every scream, every desperate gasp for air as life left someone’s body, was etched into your mind.

˚ ༘♡ this wasn’t life. it was survival, twisted into something grotesque. children’s games weaponized against desperate people for the amusement of others, with the promise of money as bait. one hundred million won for every life taken. your own life, reduced to a figure on a balance sheet. you’d survived the first game, the horrifying version of red light, green light, but at what cost? surely, after witnessing such carnage, the others would have voted to leave. you’d been certain of it. but the desperation was stronger. greed was stronger. most players had chosen to stay, ignoring the horrors of what lay ahead.

˚ ༘♡ “the next game,” player 456 had said, “will be cutting shapes out of dalgona candy. pick the triangle. it’s the easiest.” his voice had carried a strange conviction, and he claimed to know these games intimately, even to have won before. but how could you trust him? maybe he was lying, or maybe it didn’t matter. maybe none of you were meant to leave this place alive.

˚ ༘♡ “hey, 177!” the crude voice shattered your thoughts, dragging you back to the present.

˚ ༘♡ you glanced up to see player 230, “thanos,” as he called himself, sauntering toward you. his garish purple hair stood out like a bruise against the sterile backdrop, and his brightly colored nails flashed as he gestured. he’d painted them to match the infinity stones, leaning fully into the nickname he’d given himself. behind him, player 124 followed, all sharp angles and slicked-back hair, his grin as eager and sly as ever.

˚ ༘♡ “why didn’t you vote for one more game, huh?” thanos sneered, his voice laced with mockery. “you had no problem playing foul last round.”

˚ ༘♡ you frowned, rising slowly to your feet. “you and i both know it was an accident,” you replied steadily. “everyone was running for their lives. i didn’t block your way on purpose. we both finished in time, didn’t we? no harm done.”

˚ ༘♡ he rolled his eyes, his expression exaggerated and spontaneous. “yeah, sure, whatever. typical cold-hearted bitch behavior.”

˚ ༘♡ player 124 cackled at the insult, his laughter harsh and grating. “that’s right. cold, stuck-up bitch,” he echoed, his voice dripping with scorn.

˚ ༘♡ their taunts were designed to provoke you, but you refused to give them the satisfaction. your hands curled into fists, but you forced yourself to relax them, forced yourself to breathe. these two thrived on conflict, and the best thing you could do was walk away. you turned on your heel, ignoring their shouts, and started to move toward the far corner of the room.

˚ ༘♡ “hey! i’m talking to you!” thanos barked, stumbling after you with heavy, uncoordinated steps. he didn’t get far. player 001 stepped into his path, his expression stoic and unyielding.

˚ ༘♡ “don’t you boys have any respect?” player 001 asked, his voice quiet but firm. there was something about him, an emanation of authority that made everyone within earshot pause.

˚ ༘♡ thanos bristled, his arrogance faltering for just a moment. “mind your own damn business, old man,” he snapped, jerking forward.

˚ ༘♡ player 001 didn’t flinch. when thanos lunged at him, the older man moved with startling precision, sidestepping the punch with ease. he grabbed thanos by the wrist mid-swing and twisted sharply, forcing a guttural yelp from the younger man as his knees buckled. with a swift motion, player 001 yanked him forward and drove an elbow into his chest, the dull, cracking impact echoing in the room. thanos collapsed onto the floor, clutching his ribs and coughing violently.

˚ ༘♡ player 124 scrambled forward, his face twisted in fury. “bastard!” he yelled, charging with reckless abandon. player 001 turned just in time, catching the younger man by the collar and using his momentum against him. a sharp twist and a well-placed shove sent player 124 sprawling into the edge of a nearby cot, the metal frame rattling as he hit it with a thud.

˚ ༘♡ the fight wasn’t over. thanos struggled to his feet, his face contorted in pain and rage. “you’re gonna regret that, old man,” he spat, lunging again. this time, player 001’s response was more deliberate. he ducked under thanos’s wild swing, stepped inside his reach, and delivered a devastating blow to his lower torso. the younger man doubled over, gasping, before player 001 swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor once more.

˚ ༘♡ not finished, player 124 staggered up again, charging at player 001 with fists raised. the older man sidestepped and grabbed player 124 by the arm, wrenching it behind his back and forcing him to the ground with a hoarse cry of pain. he planted a knee firmly against player 124’s spine, holding him there as the younger man squirmed and cursed.

˚ ༘♡ thanos, blood now trickling from his nose, crawled toward his friend, wheezing apologies and swearing obscenities all at once. player 001 released player 124 with a shove, stepping back as the two younger men lay crumpled together on the floor.

˚ ༘♡ the room was silent, every player watching in stunned awe. then, slowly, the silence broke into cheers and clapping. player 001 straightened his posture, his expression as calm and inscrutable as ever. without a word, he turned and walked back to where player 456 and a few others were gathered, leaving the two troublemakers to nurse their wounds.

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated, then followed him. when you reached his side, you spoke softly. “i wanted to thank you, sir. if you hadn’t stepped in, they wouldn’t have stopped harassing me and disturbing the peace. you’ve done us all a favor.”

˚ ༘♡ player 001 turned to look at you, his dark eyes meeting yours briefly before he nodded. he said nothing, his expression unreadable. there was something deeply weary about him, a weight that seemed to press down on his shoulders. his posture was rigid, his face lined with exhaustion, and though he was relatively handsome, it was the kind of masculine appeal eroded by time and hardship.

˚ ༘♡ you wondered what had brought him here, what had led him to the point where he’d chosen, or been pushed into, to enter this place. you didn’t ask. prying into his past would be an impolite gesture and an indignity for what he had done for you.

a/n: my first squid game fanfiction! i definitely want to write more for hwang in-ho in the future so let me know if you have any requests! 🤍

[flwrkid14]

Famous streamer Danny and his secret boyfriend:

Okay, but picture this: Danny Fenton is this massive streamer—like, he’s the guy everyone watches for chill vibes, chaotic gaming, and somehow getting sidetracked talking about conspiracy theories in the middle of a speedrun. His streams are a mess of ghost jokes, random facts about space, and way too much energy for someone running on three hours of sleep and coffee.

And then there’s his boyfriend—who the fans only know exists because Danny’s way too in love to not talk about him. Like, every stream, without fail, Danny’s casually dropping hints. “Oh yeah, my boyfriend brought me coffee, isn’t he the best?” or “I was playing this game with him last night, and he kept getting us killed, but he’s cute so I let it slide.”

The thing is, no one has ever seen this boyfriend. Not once. No name, no face, nothing. And at this point, it’s basically part of Danny’s brand. His fans are in the chat, spamming questions like, “Who is he?” “Is he another streamer?” “What’s his name?” and Danny’s just laughing it off every time, like, “Eh, maybe I’ll introduce you guys one day.”

The fan theories are wild. People have made entire reddit threads trying to piece together clues about who this mystery guy is. Some think Danny’s boyfriend is a celebrity. Others are convinced it’s someone famous in the gaming world, but no one has any proof. It’s like the internet’s biggest mystery, and Danny’s just sitting there, fully aware of it, leaning into the chaos without giving away a single detail.

Meanwhile, Tim Drake—yes, that Tim Drake, Gotham’s resident CEO of WE and vigilante—is just chilling in the background. He’s the boyfriend, obviously. The one who makes sure Danny actually eats between streams and sometimes joins him off-camera to play co-op games. But Tim’s got no intention of revealing himself. He likes the anonymity, the whole “mysterious boyfriend” thing. Plus, with his whole double life as a vigilante, staying out of the public eye (more than he already is) isn’t exactly a bad idea.

But the best part—Danny’s fans? They’re convinced his boyfriend is some kind of superhero or vigilante. The way Danny talks about him—like he’s always busy, never around during certain hours (because, you know, Tim’s out patrolling Gotham), and the fact that he’s never once shown up on camera? It’s practically begging for wild speculation. And Danny? He’s just letting them run with it, saying stuff like, “Oh yeah, he’s totally saving the world right now, can’t make it to stream today.”

So now Danny’s got this massive online following, all obsessed with his mystery boyfriend, while Tim’s just quietly in the background, living his double life and probably smirking every time Danny plays along with the fans’ theories. It’s lowkey hilarious, and neither of them is ever planning to set the record straight. They’re just having way too much fun with it.

[felassan]

David Gaider: "If I really dig into my empathy, I can kinda see the thinking here. Like, let's say you don't actually know much about games. You're in a big office with a bunch of other execs who also don't know much about games. What are they all saying? "Live games do big numbers!" "Action games are hot!" Your natural response? "We should make more action games, and all our games should have live service!" Cha-ching, right? Then some uppity devs spoil your buzz by saying "that doesn't apply equally to all games" or "we have an established IP with an audience that has certain expectations". You frown. You go look at their sales. Good, sure, but not as spectacular as live service and action games! Profit's great, but what's the point if you're not #1 in the charts? If you're not making headlines? If the devs can't make it work, this is THEIR failure. This, after all, is the future of gaming! Eventually, you're going to ask yourself why we (the company) even bother with those other games. Like single player games. It's a question you've asked aloud before. The fans bristle, but you're not here to supply every audience what they want. You're here to make money and increase share value. Maybe I'm being unkind. There are certainly all sorts of lessons a company could learn from a game like Veilguard (I still haven't played it, so I'm going off what other people have said), but "maybe it should have been live service" being the takeaway seems a bit short-sighted and self-serving. Not that there's any shortage of that, when it comes to deciding why a game doesn't do well. For the anti-woke crowd, for instance, there are woke games that do well and woke games that do poorly and only the ones that did poorly did so *because* they were woke. Says more about them than the game. My advice to EA (not that they care): you have an IP that a lot of people love. Deeply. At its height, it sold well enough to make you happy, right? Look at what it did best at the point where it sold the most. Follow Larian's lead and double down on that. The audience is still there. And waiting. ❤️" [source thread]

--

User: "Maybe they can sell the IP to Larian. Or someone else who would treat it respectfully." David Gaider: "I suspect Larian is, smartly, done with working on third-party IP. You do all that work, and the IP overlords do little more than dictate the minutiae and make your life difficult and then you have to cut them a huge slice of the proceeds too? Not a lot of studios are going to bite THAT hook. [source] I know you said SELL the IP, but there's no way EA will relinquish its hold on an IP that could potentially do big numbers. In their ideal world, a studio takes it on, does all the work, and they rake in the cash. Giving up that kind of potential would require BIG money... and who would buy it?" [source]

[luna-azzurra]

Softness Turned Sinister (Character Traits)

Love turning into obsession They start by wanting to be close to them. Then, they want to know everything, every thought, every movement, every breath. Love shouldn’t feel like possession, but theirs does. And It doesn’t even feel wrong.

Loyalty turning into willing servitude At first, it’s devotion. Unwavering support. But somewhere along the way, it stops being a choice. They would do anything for this person. Even things that make their stomach turn. Even things they swore they never would.

Curiosity turning into obsessionThey just wanted to understand. To know more. But knowledge is addictive. And when you start pulling at certain threads, the whole world starts unraveling. Some doors, once opened, refuse to close.

Empathy turning into self-sacrifice They feel everything. Other people’s pain. Their suffering. And it twists inside them until they’d rather take the hurt themselves than watch someone else bear it. Even if it means destroying themselves completely.

Hope turning into delusion They refuse to give up on them. Refuse to believe they can’t be saved. No matter what they do, no matter how much it hurts, they keep believing. Even when the truth is staring them in the face... Some people aren’t meant to be saved.

Patience turning into endurance of abuse"They didn’t mean it." "They’re just struggling." "It will get better." Patience keeps them waiting. Hoping. Making excuses. Until one day, they look in the mirror and realize, there’s nothing left of the person they used to be.

Generosity turning into power They give. And give. And give. But not because they’re kind. Because they want something in return. Because there’s a weight to every gift, a silent contract no one realizes they’ve signed. Until it’s too late.

Bravery turning into recklessnessThey stop feeling fear. Stop caring about consequences. What starts as courage morphs into something else, a desperate, manic need to prove they are untouchable. Until the moment they realize, they’re not.

Innocence turning into cruelty They used to be gentle. Sweet. The kind of person who never hurt anyone. But kindness is fragile. And when the world broke them, they didn’t just break. They shattered. And now, they want the world to hurt the way they did.

Protectiveness turning into violenceThey said they’d do anything to keep them safe. And they meant it. Even if it means hurting people. Even if it means killing people. Because if love is a battlefield, then they have already decided, they refuse to lose.

Charm turning into manipulation They know exactly what to say. What to do. How to make people want them, trust them, follow them. It’s not a gift, it’s a weapon. And they use it without hesitation.

Honesty turning into crueltyThey don’t lie. Ever. But the truth can be just as sharp as a blade. They don’t sugarcoat. They don’t soften the blow. They enjoy watching the way people flinch when they say exactly what they mean.

Here’s the Show, Don’t Tell freebie book and my newsletter.

[shouyuus]

18+, mdni

inspired by @rabbbitseason's insane sae art right here pls direct all complaints to that-a-way :)

ta!sae who's known campus-wide for being a no-nonsense guy, a harsh grader, and an even harsher tutor when it comes to giving critical feedback. who barely says a word during lectures when the professor's there, content to sit in his corner desk at the front of the classroom, occasionally scanning the lecture hall for anyone who's clearly not paying attention to the professor (participation is 35% of the final grade, so you had better be actively listening/taking notes during class).

ta!sae who always shows up in the same getup -- white shirt, suspenders, clean dark slacks. sometimes, he'd wear glasses, sometimes, he'd be without. who has a habit of absently rolling up his sleeves when he gets really into a passage, even though you can't tell from the flatness of his voice, there's a certain way his fingers always dance when he gets properly invested in one topic or other.

ta!sae who, despite his ice-cold rep, has full office hours, because he is as good as they say (if not better), his comments and critiques, if a little on the harsher side, are always helpful and right to the point, and sure, he's been known to make students with more tender dispositions cry on occasion from his hyper-blunt comments ("and what exactly are you trying to say with this sentence? it goes on for... half the paragraph and doesn't make a cohesive point." "there's no coherent thread between the in-text examples and your examination of them -- did you consider these quotes at all before you chose them?") but it's an undisputed fact that he helps you get better, no matter the method.

ta!sae who's got a weird fan-following amongst the more precocious female students (and a handful of the males as well), but he never pays them much mind, treating them like he does everyone else, brushing off their obvious advances, never blushing when a girl gets too close, tries to run her finger along the length of his suspenders, asks him if he's down to get coffee -- he'd pin her with a flat look and repeat that "office hours are monday through thursday, from 3-5pm" and that if she needs help, she can sign up for a slot just like everyone else.

ta!sae who almost does a double-take the first time you step into his little office, but he manages to keep his gaze steady when you settle yourself across his desk and lay out your notes; he can't help thinking to himself that you're a pretty one. but he files that thought away for later -- it's not like you're the first pretty girl to appear opposite him in this office, and he's sure you won't be the last. but there's something about you... he just doesn't know what yet.

ta!sae who expects you to recoil from his comments, but you don't. you push back, you question him, force him to pause and rethink his viewpoints. he blinks, meets your eyes -- and for the first time, he feels a heat prickling into the skin of his cheeks. who, finds himself glancing at the clock on the wall, only to find that he's held you longer than your allotted time but when you get up to leave, he feels a sharp tug in his stomach, like the urge to lean forward and catch your wrist in his, just to see if your pulse is jumping, like his just did.

"i'll see you in a week, then."

you turn at the door, your eyes bright.

"but i haven't made another appointment."

sae blinks owlishly at you, the hard turquoise of his gaze sharpening beneath the florescent lighting.

"then make one."

you cock your head to the side; the corner of your lip twitches. then, you're turning and slipping through his door.

ta!sae who refreshes his calendar every 30 minutes for the next day and a half until he sees that you've finally made an appointment for the same time next week. and the week after. and, the week after that. he allows himself a tiny smile, turns his phone onto do not disturb, and does not check it again for the rest of that week.

ta!sae who pays a bit more attention to you in class, though not enough for any of the other students to notice. who lets his eyes linger on you, even though you never sit in the first row, whenever you look up from your notes, it's to find him watching you, though the second your eyes meet, he'll blink once, and turn away, going back to the lecture. and when you show up to your second appointment for his office hours, he's waiting for you, his fingers laced casually over his desk, his glasses perched on his nose.

you pause for a second by the door to admire the image -- sharp-tongued as he may be, reticent and even cold-shouldered, he still cuts a startling image, strawberry hair and ocean eyes, set off by the muted woods of the bookshelf behind him, the walnut grain of his desk, the piles of papers and books just a tad messier than one might expect of someone like him.

"come. sit."

you do, dropping into the seat opposite him and pressing your bag into your lap. a beat of silence. you point towards a small manila file on his desk.

"you gave me a b minus on the last pop quiz."

sae glances towards it before his eye slingshot back to you. it takes everything inside you not to shiver at the contact.

"yes, and?"

"i -- i don't think i deserved that grade."

he makes a soft noise and reaches over, tugging your quiz out with near surgical precision. he presses it to the table and flips it around, pushing it towards you, the red marks jarring against the white page, the black in, the faint grayscale of your penciled in answers.

"and why's that?"

"i --" you suck in a breath, "on question three, you marked me off, but my answer was correct. it was just a phrasing issue."

"hm. i appreciate you feel that way. i don't agree."

ta!sae who doesn't waste time arguing with you, but does take your complaints into account. the rest of your session is spent going over the notes from the previous class and clearing up any misunderstandings that might've sprung from the text. by the time you leave, you feel slightly better, but you pause by the door, glancing over your shoulder. you find him watching you, as you so often do nowadays.

"s-since you don't do grade adjustments... do you accept extra credit work?"

sae's eyes flicker with something so akin to hunger it makes your stomach flip. then again, it might've just been curiosity or incredulity, caught beneath the slant-wise light of the small, windowless office.

"no."

"oh... you... you wouldn't even consider it?"

he's quiet for a bit longer this time. then, he drops his eyes to the stack of papers on his desk.

"i'll see you next week."

ta!sae who gets used to seeing you on tuesday nights, for the last 30 minutes of his office hours. who lets you stay five minutes over, and then ten. and then one day, he glances at the clock, and it's almost 6pm. he purses his lips, lets his eyes flicker over the shape of you, scribbling in your notebook, an array of pastel-colored highlighters scattered across his usually meticulously organized desk.

"are you hungry?"

you glance up, your fingers pausing over your notes.

"oh, uh --"

"there's a pizza place around the corner."

you stare at him for a few seconds before your stomach growls and heat washes into your cheeks. you scramble to cram your study materials into your bag, blushing something furious as you smooth a palm over your skirt and stand up.

"y-yeah -- sounds good."

ta!sae who's quiet, watching you dig into your hawaiian pizza, who doesn't question it when you order banana peppers on the side and snack of them like they're french fries, though he does make a face when you ask him if he wants actual french fries.

"not a fan?" you ask, grinning as you take another bite of pizza. his eyes linger on the grease-slicked shine of your lips longer than it ought, before he takes a much smaller, dainty bite of his own.

"no." he offers no explanation, and you don't ask for one.

the next week, he doesn't ask if you're hungry. only stands up and motions for the door.

ta!sae who finds himself a little lost the first time he hears you laugh, the sound of it so bright, ringing through him, reverberating against his bones till he can feel it in his teeth. and not for the first time, he wonders what it might feel like to kiss you, to lick the pizza grease off yours lips, and if your mouth would taste like canned pineapples.

truthfully, he doesn't think he'd mind.

ta!sae who, when he does finally give into the urge and kiss you, it's a barely controlled thing, all teeth and barely-restrained hunger, and it's so much more passionate than you might expect that you jerk back a second later, wide eyes flickering between his as if looking for some kind of hidden explanation. he offers none, only drags you forward by the collar of your dress to meld your lips again, groans against the feeling of your lips on his, licks into your mouth till you're melting against him, hoists you bodily into his lap so you're straddling him proper, his fingers digging into the plush of your hips, trailing down to tease at the skin of your thighs --

"i -- i thought -- you didn't accept extra credit --" you pant, rolling your hips down just to watch his lashes flutter (and they're stupidly gorgeous, aren't they? he's known for them -- itoshi sae, of the unnecessarily long, perfect lashes).

he sucks in a breath, his palms planted on your hips as you rock yourself against him.

"i never said anything -- about extra credit."

ta!sae who is annoyingly stoic, even as you're working yourself into a frenzy in his lap, soaking through your panties, his slacks, and if not for the threadiness in his breath or the way you can feel his cock pulsing inside his pants, you'd almost miss how debauched he actually is on the inside. who grips your waist so hard you're sure you'll find the pale blue ghosts of his fingertips there the following morning (not that you mind), the crescent moon kisses of his nails as he helps you ride his cock over the thin material of his slacks.

ta!sae who, after he's finally had enough of all this foreplay, presses you down over his desk, papers and all, flipping up the hem of your skirt to tug aside your panties, the soft click of his belt coming undone making your shiver, but when you try to turn your head, all you feel is a palm against the back of your neck, his fingers curling around the sides --

"keep still --"

you stop your squirming, but you can't help the way you keen when he feel his cockhead pushing at your sodden folds, or the way your hips jerk forward when he sheaths himself inside you, the stretch of it making your eyes flutter shut, a groan twisting its way from your throat.

"f-fuck --" you gasp, the first time he pulls back and rucks forward again. you hear him hiss out a long breath, feel the pressure of his hand leave your neck, feel him trail his hand down the length of your spine to pull at your arms, locking them behind your back as he starts to fuck into you proper.

ta!sae who does not tell you to keep quiet, because he knows that it's late enough, and his office is the last one at the end of the hallway --

"no one's here this late, usually --" his voice is more level than you'd like; you clench down around him just to hear his breath stutter. but then he's bending over you, pressing his chest to the whole length of your back, pinning you beneath him, his voice hot by your ear as he murmurs --

"c'mon then, let me hear you."

ta!sae who is rougher than you'd expect, fucking you hard enough for the edge of the table to dig into your hips, the tenderness only heightening the pleasure as he leans back, the new angle making your eyes roll back. who yanks you up by your arms, uncaring to the way they strain as he jackhammers into you from behind, groaning low in his throat as he finally reaches his climax, pulling out only to paint the length of your back, right over your blouse, careless of the way you whine -- both at the loss of him and also the thought of him messing up your shirt.

"t-that's gonna stain!" you snipe, pouting as you glance over your shoulder at him, not quite able to muster a full glare, but you hope that you dissatisfaction comes across all the same.

he's a bit breathless, his cheeks a bit redder than usual, but otherwise, he looks stupidly normal for having just fucked you over his desk. he fixes you with a look before letting go of your arms.

"you brought a jacket, didn't you?"

ta!sae who hoists you up onto the desk as soon as you turn around, despite your squeak of surprise, dropping to his knees to bury his face between your thighs. you barely have time to yelp before the sound morphs into a gasp of pleasure as he licks a long strip up your cunt and shoves three fingers into you, curling them up till your vision fizzes out at the sides.

"oh fuck --!"

you glance down to see him watching you, his sea-glass eyes fixed on your face even as you reach down to fist your fingers in his hair, uncertain if you want to push him away for pull him closer.

ta!sae who eats you out with the tactical precision of a surgeon, till you're shaking open above him, rolling your hips into his face, your ass almost falling off the edge of the desk, and when he finally pulls away, your slick shining down his chin, he only licks his lips and reaches into a drawer for a pack of tissues, offering you one while taking the other to wipe at his face.

"i'll see you next week," he says, tossing the tissue away, even as you wiggle your panties back into place.

you let out a soft puff of incredulous laughter. he cocks his head, waiting for you to say something. you fix him with a long look before grinning and rolling your eyes, smoothing down the hem of your dress and picking up your book bag.

"yeah. see you then.

ta!sae who doesn't even startle when two days later, you storm into his office, well outside of his office hours, waving the paper he'd passed back that morning in class.

"you gave me a c plus?"

sae is unfazed by your apparent agitation, shrugging before lowering his eyes back to his book.

"you missed some key parts of the reading. if you bring it by next tuesday, we can go over the specific --"

"i've got your cumstains on the back of one of my favorite blouses!"

for a beat, sae is silent, considering your words. then, he looks up, tugging his glasses off his nose bridge and folding them carefully on his desk.

"they come out with a bit of baking powder and white vinegar. and i believe i made myself very clear at the beginning of term --" he slowly rolls up the sleeves of his white button up before folding his hands delicately on the table, right behind his glasses.

"i don't accept extra credit or any... supplementary work."

you lick your lips at the inflection in his tone, your cheeks flaring with heat.

"however."

you perk up as he glances at the clock on the wall, leaning back to pop the first button of his shirt.

"i do have some time before my next lecture --"

you feel a thrill tingle up your spine as you watch him pop the second button on his shirt with a casual flick of his thumb.

"... and if you'd like to discuss the things you missed, i might make an exception."

you raise your eyebrows, reaching back to shut the door behind you. the click of the lock makes your mouth water.

"to what," you ask, dropping your bookbag by the chair and rounding the table, leaning against the edge as sae's eyes skate down the length of you, lingering on the imprint of your bra peaking through your blouse, "the extra credit thing or your office hours."

the shadow of a grin twitches at sae's lips as he tugs you down into his lap.

"either, both. i suppose... you'll have to wait to find out."

[readwritealldayallnight]

There are less than ten minutes left until midnight when you realize you can’t find Ghost anywhere

The local bar you and the rest of the 141 are visiting tonight is packed tight, on account of it being only a few minutes before the new year

The Lieutenant had mentioned stepping out for a smoke a while back, but had yet to return to the table you were all occupying

It was silly, but a small part of you had been harbouring some hope that you might get a kiss at midnight this year

It wouldn’t be so silly, if you were hoping to have that kiss with anyone other than Ghost

And yet, that was exactly the man you’d had your eye on all night and all year if we’re being honest-

“I’m going to run to the ladies room really quick.” You murmur quickly, hopping out of your bar stool before anyone can realize you’re slipping away, their attention focused on some story Soap is recounting enthusiastically

You work your way through the densely packed crowd until you make it to the back entrance, finding the door propped open with a brick

Carefully pushing it open and poking your head out, you scan your gaze around the back alley until your eyes land on none other than the tall, dark figure of your Lieutenant, leaning against the brick wall a ways down further away from the light, the smoke from his cigarette wafting from his hand

Wordlessly, you make your way towards him, his attention never straying from the hole he’s currently staring into the wall ahead of him, even as you step up next to him and lean your own shoulders against the bricks

Only when you let out a small sigh does his head instinctually turn towards you, even just the slightest fraction, and he slightly raises his cigarette towards you in offering, bringing it up to his own lips to inhale when you shake your head

You can’t help the way your eyes naturally follow the movement, zeroing in on the pair of lips you’ve spent so much time thinking about and such little time ever seeing with your own two eyes

You’re certain it must be the liquid courage still running through you that prompts you to speak up, otherwise you don’t think you’d ever be brave or foolish enough to look him in the eyes and say, “Hey Ghost, when was the last time you had a midnight kiss?”

You only know he’s heard you because he cuts off his inhale abruptly, eyes snapping towards you, exposing his genuine surprise for only a split second before he’s recovering already, pulling the cigarette from his mouth and letting the smoke out, taking those precious seconds to absorb your words, before carefully choosing to say:

“What are you fuckin’ goin’ on about now?”

“You know,” you quickly reply before you can feel too embarrassed to back down. “A kiss. On New Years Eve. At midnight. People do it all the time. When was the last time you-”

“Never.” He replies bluntly, throwing his cigarette butt onto the ground next to him, stomping it out with his boot before turning to face you fully

“Oh. Really? Because I-”

“Is tha’ what you came all the way out here abou’? A bloody kiss at midnight?” A chill runs down your spine at the sound of Ghost’s rough, Manchester accent just uttering the word kiss. Your eyes are locked on his lips as they form around the word, failing to notice how his own eyes are now glancing down at your own mouth

“Fuckin’ hell- come here then.” He playfully rolls his eyes before pushing off the wall, taking the small step it takes to close the distance between you, his one hand coming to pull his mask up just a little further until it’s resting over the bridge of his nose, while his other hand is slipping behind the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you towards him without hesitation

Your hands land on his shoulders, reaching up on your tip toes when he slots his lips over yours, just as you hear the crowd inside the bar chanting, “…three, two one, happy new year!”

You’re not sure which are louder, the fireworks erupting outside on the streets or the ones going off in your head as you kiss Ghost back

Before you know it, he’s pulling away from you, leaving you breathless where you stand

He allows himself one last glance down at your lips before he’s pulling his balaclava back into place, reaching an arm around your waist to turn you back around towards the propped door

“Come on, pretty. You’ll catch a cold. Ya didn’t take my jacket I left for ya.” He says, paired with a sneaky smack to your ass as he leads you back inside, where there are three men waiting, and though they’d been occasionally entertaining other women throughout the night, they each had realized they couldn’t find you as midnight approached

[bonus-links]

*waiting eagerly and patiently for directors commentary* :)

IT'S DONE RAHHHHHH ITS FINALLY DONE!!!!!!! I hope you all have enjoyed this chapter but I am REALLY excited to move on to what's next!!!!! i have been waiting literal years to get here,,,,

starting off with a few things: these frames are the same design from pt. 9, just damaged now. it's also uh. literally the same drawings KJSNFKJG listen sometimes I just have to make things easier on myself. also convenient crack through the hero of time's right eye >:-)

okay so the hero of time lore gives me a bit of a headache. let it be known that I understand in wolf's timeline, the events of OOT technically never happened. He knows the "hero of time" moniker bc he's met him, and i could've SWORN that name is mentioned if not somewhere in TP then in the TP manga. suspend ur disbelief for me lol

Anyway the idea is basically that post-game Wolf has done some digging to track down the person the Hero's Shade was when he was alive. I like to imagine he had some kind of bargain with Zelda where if he agreed to come to certain events she'd let him dig around in what survived of the archives after lol. I actually got stuck on this panel for a while trying to think of some other imagery that got this idea across without being so,,,idk on the nose? but i couldn't think of anything so i went with this HAHA. Even if Mask wasn't technically the "hero" in this timeline, I think he still ended up being a prominent figure, and some documentation of him would exist. An unfinished portrait, a text about the history of the royal guard, military records, correspondence between him and the castle, etc.

ALSO ALSO. how do they know they're talking about the same hero of time? well, they don't. they're making an educated guess lol. obviously whoever made this statue of the Hero of Time couldn't make it look exactly like him, but I feel like Wolf has noticed enough similarities between depictions to be like. hey wait a second

wake is trying to give a pep talk here like "come on guys, going on adventures is what we do!!" meanwhile Wolf and Loft are both like. yeah i guess leaving our loved ones behind with little notice to go on dangerous missions we may never return from IS what we do.....

speaking of which Loft is maybe technically being a little bit of a hypocrite here but I really think he's just trying to make sure Wake doesn't make the same mistake he did lol. he's feeling guilty

one of many things I really regret abt this chapter is not having Tetra and Loft have a conversation similar to the one he and BOTW Zelda have. I feel like Tetra's experience of getting to grow up outside of the pressure of the royal family or her role and then basically having it forced on her during the events of WW would be very valuable for him to hear. I had so many things I was trying to juggle this chapter and somehow that just slipped through the cracks 😭 im sorry tetra.

AT LAST!!! ANNA FROM FROZEN!!! when all that was going down a few weeks ago i was like GUYS GUYS WAIT. HE'S ALMOST HERE. does this mean I have to get a new icon now

in case its not clear (and it probably isn't) he's in the ALTTP lost woods!

okay so some of you may have noticed this, but up until now we've basically been following the thread of mainline games, starting where the timeline merged and working our way back to where it split in OOT. ALTTP is technically part of that, as the timeline where the Hero of Time dies. I have them all connected through the Lost Woods. The pitch for this was basically "wouldn't it be so fucking funny if Mage could've joined the story way earlier but didn't bc he was the only one with enough sense and also enough gall to just throw something through it." and then I couldn't NOT do that

so on that note, this is the BOTW lost woods. If you look closely, you can see Wolf in the distance.

I wanted to do something to establish him as a magic user! he could have just pulled these out of his bag but where's the fun in that. you might also notice that he's not wet because the rain isn't actually hitting him

ALTTP ZELDA MY BELOVED!!!! that's all

that's all i've got for now!!! bonus links turned 3 years old 3 days ago which is. wild. thank you all for sticking with this story for so long!!!

[ariichive]

LONG AWAITED

anaxa returns to the city of okhema with one goal in mind.

yan!anaxa x gen. neutral reader.

tw: slight yandere, 3.1 main story quest spoilers, kidnapping kinda, not proofread :'), phainon appearance

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

the air of okhema felt unidealistic as anaxa quickly turned away from the white haired chrysos heir, who's eyes held admiration and a hint of nervousness. anaxa could not blame phainon for being on edge, after all it's been some time since he's traveled far from the grove of epiphany; the tension with aglaea only intensifying.

phainon wasn't just worried about anaxa's distaste towards the dressmaster, but the fact a certain beauty happened to reside in okehma; one anaxa had a growing obsession with that aglaea had informed him about.

the scent of earth and lingering incense clung to the air as anaxa strode ahead, his pace brisk despite the weight of his thoughts. phainon hesitated before following, his fingers ghosting over the embroidery of his sleeves—a nervous habit he'd never quite shaken. the streets of okhema were alive, yet there was an undercurrent of unease threading through the revelry, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

"...professor anaxa, with all due respect, you should probably go rest." phainon said nervously as he watched the annoyance grow on the professor's face he didn't put any effort in to hide. anaxa brought a hand up to his head, already feeling his headache increasing.

"still as unrelenting as ever," anaxa said more to himself than phainon (who knew not take that as a compliment).

phainon shifted on his feet, uneasy under the weight of anaxa’s sharp gaze. the professor’s silence was rarely comforting; it carried the weight of words unspoken, of conclusions already drawn and judgments already made.

“if you keep straining yourself like this, your mind will falter before your body does,” phainon tried again, forcing his voice to remain even. “and considering how much you pride yourself on your intellect, i imagine that would be a rather devastating blow.”

anaxa exhaled through his nose, a slow, deliberate gesture that conveyed both irritation and restraint. “you assume exhaustion is a state that can be remedied by mere rest. a rather reductive view.” his fingers pressed against his temple, as if attempting to physically restrain the inevitable onslaught of thoughts. “the mind does not cease simply because the body demands reprieve. if anything, it accelerates in retaliation. an unfortunate contradiction of existence. now then, i must be on my way. more time spent here entwined in aglaea's threads is less time spent with my [name]."

“if something happens—”

anaxa halted, turning just enough to glance at phainon from over his shoulder.

“then it will be because i allowed it.”

and with that, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving phainon standing there, uncertain if those words were meant to be reassuring or a quiet promise of inevitability.

anaxa moved through the streets of okhema with a purpose, his every step measured, his every breath steady. the air here was thick with incense and candle smoke, curling through the alleyways in a way that made the city feel almost dreamlike. he ignored the idle chatter of merchants, the distant hum of music, the eyes that lingered on him longer than necessary.

his destination was clear.

past the winding streets, through the stone archways laced with ivy, beyond the courtyards filled with marble statues of nameless gods.

his mind churned through the possibilities of the night—outcomes, variables, countermeasures.

but then, as he neared the threshold of that familiar estate, he felt something tighten in his chest.

a presence.

not phainon. not aglaea.

you.

his fingers curled slightly.

the moment he stepped inside, he would no longer be professor anaxa, the ever-stoic scholar with a mind sharpened like a blade.

no, within these walls, he was something else entirely. something raw. something that could not be defined.

nothing about the outside of your residence has changed in the slightest. your same favorite greenery blooming by your door, the half broken pillar you have yet to fix, and even the familar sense of longing deep in anaxa's heart.

you were in there. goodness, how long has he deprived himself of your beauty?

with an almost shaking hand and a crazed smile, anaxa's hand slowly made its way to knock. one swift, sharp, knock.

the sound echoed in the still air, sharp and deliberate. anaxa’s fingers lingered against the wood for a fraction longer than necessary before he pulled back, exhaling through his nose in a measured attempt to steady himself.

he had rehearsed this moment in his mind countless times—constructed dialogues, crafted perfect syllables, envisioned every possible reaction you could give him. but now, standing here with his heart drumming an unsteady rhythm against his ribs, he found himself at war with something far less logical.

and when the door creaked open, revealing you—bathed in the glow of sunlight, as breathtaking as ever—he felt it.

that intoxicating, maddening sense of possession.

how could he have ever let himself stay away?

meanwhile, you were in utmost shock seeing the familiar face of an old friend standing outside your door. "anaxa!" you were quick to take his hand and pull him inside. "y-you're okay," your eyes were quick to scan over his body for injuries.

you heard about the bustling news around okhema, the fall of many at the grove of epiphany by the newly announced flame reaver. with the news of no survivors being found, you were immensely relieved to see anaxa.

anaxa allowed himself to be pulled inside, though his expression remained unreadable, save for the flicker of something unreadable—relief, amusement, or something far more dangerous—when he felt your hands on his.

“of course, i’m okay,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly as he watched you scan him for injuries. “you underestimate my ability to persevere.”

but there was something strange in the way he spoke. something distant.

the warmth of your concern should have soothed him, but instead, it only deepened the ache inside him. you were still the same—soft, caring, unguarded in your worry for him. and he?

he still had this dark desire within him.

you, however, seemed oblivious to the turmoil beneath his carefully composed exterior. you cupped his face gently, your thumb grazing the sharp line of his jaw. “you’re burning up,” you whispered, concern lacing your voice.

anaxa let out a breathless chuckle, a sound devoid of humor. if only you knew.

“it’s nothing,” he dismissed, though he didn’t pull away. “simply the remnants of a journey longer than intended.”

your frown deepened. “you should rest. whatever happened at the grove… it must have been—”

his hand shot up, fingers wrapping around your wrist—not harshly, but with enough force to halt your words. his grip was steady, calculated, yet there was something almost desperate in the way he held you.

his thumb brushed idly over your pulse, feeling the steady rhythm beneath his fingertips. a scholar by nature, anaxa had spent years studying patterns, deciphering truths from the subtlest details. and right now, your heartbeat told him everything—your worry, your hesitance, your trust.

trust.

his jaw clenched. did he still deserve it?

slowly, as if realizing the intensity of his own actions, anaxa loosened his grip, allowing his hand to drift away. “forgive me,” he murmured, his voice softer now, yet no less heavy. “it seems exhaustion makes a tyrant of me.”

you didn’t move for a moment, your eyes searching his, looking for something—an answer, perhaps, or reassurance.

maybe it was cerces playing a trick on him for his lack of belief in the gods. her former yearning for mnestia seeping through into him, enhancing his already deep need for you.

he took a slow, deliberate step closer, as though drawn by an invisible force, his presence closing the space between you without any words spoken. his eyes searched yours with an intensity that bordered on desperation, yet his expression remained calm, composed, almost as if he were fighting against something larger than himself.

“do you feel it too?” he asked, his voice a quiet rasp.

feel what? you wanted to ask. the tension in the air, the pull of something darker than you understood.

but instead, your breath hitched, something shifting within you as you stood there, uncertain whether to pull away or step closer. you couldn’t tear your eyes from his—this man, your old friend, your anaxa—but now, the person standing before you felt like something different altogether.

and suddenly, the truth was clear in the depth of his gaze.

he wasn’t here because of what had happened at the grove. he wasn’t here for the tragedy.

he was here for you.

and he wasn't going to leave without you.

“[name], you feel it too right? the gods won’t be here to save you either.”

[pitlanepeach]

Two Weeks | Oscar Piastri (18+)

A From Eden Oneshot | Oscar Piastri x Francesca Gold

Summary — It’s been two weeks. Two weeks of pining. Of waiting. Of wanting. And now his wife is in front of him, beautiful and warm and needy. How could he possibly resist?

Warnings — Soft!Dom Oscar, ‘good girl’, explicit sexual scenes, aftercare (because obviously).

Notes — My Shaylasssssss!!!!! I missed them so much. Had a soft!dom Oscar itch; so guess what? I scratched it!

Francesca didn’t even get to make it fully into the hotel suite before Oscar had her pressed against the door.

His hands were trembling; not with nerves, but with a build up of too much restraint. They pressed flat against the wood on either side of her head and he just looked at her. His chest was rising fast, cheeks flushed pink all the way to the tips of his ears, eyes dark and dangerously tender.

“I don’t—” he started, voice rough, then stopped. Swallowed. His gaze flicked down her body and then back up like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to look. “You look so good, baby.”

Francesca smiled, soft and open, like she’d been waiting forever to hear him say it. It felt like she had. Two weeks without him had felt like an entire lifetime. “Hi,” she whispered.

That was all it took.

He crashed into her, mouth hungry but reverent, hands diving into her hair, fingers digging into her waist, anywhere he could reach.

She whimpered against his mouth, fingers clinging to the hem of his shirt. “Missed you,” she breathed. “Miss you so much, Osc.”

Oscar pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. His pupils were blown wide, pink spreading across his cheeks in earnest now, embarrassed by how much he needed this. Needed her. His entire world, finally within reach. His heart. His wife. “I—fuck, I missed you too. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Everything made me miss you.” His voice cracked a little, and Francesca?

Francesca melted.

She rose up on her toes, rubbing their noses together, and whispered, “Let me take care of you?”

That did him in.

“Get on the bed,” he said, low and certain, but his hands were still shaking as he helped her out of her jacket, his thumbs ghosting over her arms like she might disappear. “Please, baby.”

She obeyed immediately, crawling back across the sheets, eyes never leaving him. She didn’t want to look away. Didn’t want to miss a single minor reaction from him.

Oscar followed slowly, kneeling between her legs with a reverence that felt like worship. His hands were rough where they touched her — firm, unyielding — but his eyes, his voice, were soft. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I don’t know how to handle it. You— you don’t know what you do to me, ‘Cesca.”

Francesca flushed, cheeks pink and eyes shy, but her smile was dripping with want. “Tell me,” she begged, pleaded. “I want to know.”

He leaned down, cupping her face, kissing her like she belonged to him — like she was something sacred and already claimed. His voice was low, rough at the edges. “You make me feel invincible,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “Like no one can touch me. Like I was made to be yours — and you were made to be mine.”

“You are mine,” she said, lips brushing his. “And I’m yours. Always.”

That snapped the last thread of his restraint.

He kissed her again, deeper this time, and pushed inside her slowly, too slowly, dragging it out because he needed to feel every inch of her around him.

Francesca hitched a breath, her whole body responding before her mind could catch up. Her back arched, pressing her chest flush to his, skin to skin and desperate for more. Her hands slid up the nape of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, holding him there like she needed him closer. She did. She needed him as close as possible. All hers.

Oscar dropped his forehead to hers, whispering, “There she is… that’s my good girl.”

She whimpered, tightening around him, her thighs wrapping around his hips. “Yours. I’m yours, Osc.”

His hips snapped forward, the pace brutal and unrelenting; but his words, his hands, his heart stayed soft.

“Doing so good for me,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face, kissing her nose. “So sweet. So fucking pretty, baby.”

She keened, overwhelmed by the praise, the pleasure, the closeness. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

“Never,” he swore. “I’ve got you. Not going anywhere. Not ever again.”

When she came, it was with his name on her lips. Oscar, Oscar, Oscar. And he followed seconds later, burying his face in her neck, murmuring how perfect she was, how much he loved her, how he didn’t know how he’d managed to exist in the world for so long without her.

They stayed tangled together, limbs and whispers and sweat-slicked skin, until the world shrank down to the soft rise and fall of their breathing and the feeling of finally, finally being home.

⸻

Oscar carried her to the bathroom.

She was boneless in his arms, cheek resting against his shoulder, fingers idly tracing the line of his collarbone. There were fresh teeth marks on the curve of his neck.

His heart was still hammering against her ear; not from exertion anymore, but from something quieter. Something tender and sweet.

He set her down on the bathroom vanity with a kiss to her temple, then knelt to start the bath. Warm water thundered into the tub, steam curling around them as he reached for the little bottle of bubble bath she liked; the one he always remembered to travel with, even when it was unnecessary and took up too much room in his case.

Francesca watched him silently. Her lashes were heavy, her lips kiss-swollen, and there was a peaceful sort of glow about her that made Oscar’s chest ache.

“You okay?” he asked, not looking up as he tested the water with his hand.

She smiled sleepily. “More than okay.”

His blush flared up again, pink blooming over the apples of his cheeks. “Good,” he muttered, suddenly shy now that they weren’t tangled up in each other. “Didn’t want to be too much.”

Francesca reached for him, tugging gently until he stood between her legs. She rested her hands on his hips and tilted her head up. “You’re never too much,” she said. “You were perfect. You’re always perfect.”

Once the bath was full, he lifted her in first. Then he slid in behind her, arms wrapping around her torso as she settled between his legs, her back flush to his chest.

The bubbles frothed around them, lavender-scented and soft. Francesca leaned her head back onto his chest with a slow, gentle sigh that melted through the room.

Oscar nuzzled against her, pressing little kisses along her skin. Soft and unhurried. “Missed this,” he murmured. “Missed you.”

She reached back to tangle her fingers in his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. “I know,” she whispered. “Me too.”

His hands never stopped moving, gliding along her arms, her sides, her thighs under the water. Not sexual, just grounding. Reassuring. Like he needed to remind himself she was really here, really his.

“You always take such good care of me,” she said quietly. “Best husband in the world. My world champion.” She murmured, pushing back against him and closing her eyes.

They stayed until the water cooled, until the bubbles popped and the steam faded from the mirrors. Until their fingers were wrinkled and their skin soaked and their hearts finally felt whole again.

And even then — they didn’t let each-other go.

[nerdygirlramblings]

did someone say omega!soldier? here you go

previous

The next two hours are a complete whirlwind. You find yourself back in front of Adam, who has the most shit-eating grin, being officially and properly introduced. He holds out his wrist for you to scent, and as you finally tell him your name, you hold out your hand to him. Price passes him your transfer papers and tells Adam to pull together everything he needs to make sure the transfer goes through smoothly. He makes you sign releases for your service records, so your skills can be paired with those of the other 141. His smile freezes momentarily when he apologetically says, "You're going to have to re-qualify on your weapons and do another PT check."

Price cuts in and says, "I'll make sure we get that squared away, Adam. Ye'll have 'er new quals within a fortnight."

Adam also makes you release your medical records. "Need to know anything that would be necessary if you're injured on an operation and can't get to base medical."

You're pulled into a virtual standing meeting with Laswell who was apparently anticipating this and promises to pass this news up the chain of command on her end as well. Price also has you record a quick introduction for him to send along to Farrah and Ale, names that mean nothing to you yet, whom he says are members of other military units who often work closely with the 141 in certain areas of the world.

You're given a tour of the task force's barracks by a grinning Soap who tells you, "Noo tha' you're part 'a the team, you're welcome here whenever ye want."

You end the day walking with the 141 into the mess for supper. The conversations quiet when you walk in after Ghost with Gaz at your back. Hushes comments spreading from the tables nearest the door to further back in the room. It's not like half the base didn't see you with them yesterday, but there's something different now. Yesterday they met you there; walking in together, everyone knows a dynamic has changed.

As you pass by the alpha whose nose you broke, there's the scent of burning ozone wafting from the table, and you hear someone mutter "fuckin' slag."

Before you even register what's happened, you're overwhelmed by the acidic scent of burning rubber. Ghost leans over, grabs the offending soldier by the scruff of his neck, and slams him into the table top. You're standing close enough to hear Ghost when he growls in the other man's ear, "I ever hear ya fuckin' disrespectin' a member 'a my team again, I'll kill ya." Ghost then shoves the man back into his seat and glares around the now silent mess. "Eat," he commands, and heads get quickly buried back into meals, conversation ticking up to cover the oppressive anger still radiating off Ghost.

He stalks silently to a table in the back of the mess, the rest of the pack and you following in his wake. None of the others seem surprised or fazed by Ghost's behavior. You're a little disturbed, in part because you've never been on the receiving end of such protective behavior. Your omega, however, is preening over the alpha's display.

You're sat between Soap and Gaz again, but this time it's Price and Ghost who collect food for the table. You watch them head for the line, their eyes constantly scanning the room, pointing at little pockets of soldiers. You turn to ask Gaz what it means only to find him glaring at other tables, seemingly at random.

When Price and Ghost get back, you're quiet throughout the meal, trying to follow the conversation that clearly picks up threads of things you know nothing about. You perk up when Ghost rumbles your name. "Yer wi' me on the range tomorrow mornin'," he says. "Hear Adam needs new weapons quals." He glances at Price, who nods. "Gunna see wha' ya can do."

You blink at him for a moment. "Er, yes, sir. Er, half five, sir? Or does earlier work better?"

The pack shifts a little. Soap tilts his head quizzically while Ghost asks, "Wot? Why on earth would we be on the range so bloody early?"

You feel a ripple of shame work its way down your back. "Er, I usually go early. Before it gets too crowded." Now Price is looking at you, too. You can see he's trying to guess what you're not saying.

Ghost huffs, grasping things quicker than Price. "Ya mean, ya go before ya piss off alphas simply by being an omega wi' a good eye." You shrug in response, eyes on the table. "Fuck 'em if they can't handle 'ow good ya are." He looks at you, and you can feel his stare burn your cheek. When you can't take it anymore, you glance at him. He catches your eye and says, "Oh eight hundred, sharp, yeah? Ya show me if yer as good as Garrick keeps sayin'."

You swallow quickly, throat bobbing, as you reply, "Yessir. I'll be there."

next

series masterlist | main masterlist

[prythianpages]

Come Back To Me | Eris x Reader

Eris x Reader ft Azriel | Experiencing some pregnancy complications, Azriel is left with no choice but to seek out Eris for help.

a/n: This is pt 10 and a little under 4.5K words. It's nearly 1am where I live but I couldn't help myself & needed to finish this lol.

warnings: angst, reader is pregnant, mentions of high risk pregnancy, things get a little tense between Eris and Az

Shadows clouded around Eris, blurring his vision and muffling his hearing. Even his keen sense of smell was dulled as Azriel’s shadows coiled around him further. It infuriated him—the lengths the shadowsinger was going to protect your location from him. Your mate.

Azriel had made certain there would be no trail for Eris to follow after this. Not scent, not sound. Not even magic as Azriel had forced him into a bargain, the ink etched onto his arm fresh and burning. Azriel would bring him to you to aid in your situation, but only under strict conditions: Eris would remain only for as long as Azriel allowed and under no circumstance would he be permitted to take you back with him.

Two of the shadows bound themselves around his wrists like shackles, pulsing faintly. As if the bargain was not enough for Azriel. It didn’t matter. His shadows were not enough to suppress the power simmering just beneath his skin. Eris could have fought against the makeshift shackles, easily burning the dark tendrils away. He didn’t though. If the shadows hadn’t picked up on it, he knew it was smarter to let Azriel think they could actually suppress his power.

When the shadows blinding his sight finally lifted from his eyes, Eris found himself standing in a hallway. The first thing he saw was an older fae woman approaching. She wore plain robes, the symbol of a healer embroidered in silver thread on her sleeve. Her gaze landed on Azriel first, the two of them exchanging a look.

Eris’s patience frayed with each second of silence. Azriel had told him almost nothing—only that it urgently concerned you and the baby. And his mind had done the rest, conjuring horrors, each one worse than the last.

“Where is she?” 

The healer didn’t flinch. She must have heard that tone countless times in her line of work. Her eyes swept over him, calm and assessing. “You must be the father,” she replied simply.

The word hit him like a blow. Father. He was going to be a father. A title he didn’t think he would acquire so soon. Though, this wasn’t the reason why he hesitated to answer.

 It was what him claiming that title meant.

To say the words out loud was to admit a truth that carried weight and danger. It meant putting you and the baby in the crosshairs of enemies who would use them against him. He could only put his trust in Azriel to have picked a discreet and trustworthy healer, even though the paranoia in him was screaming not to trust anyone.

There were very few people Eris trusted and Azriel was not one of them. Not even close. But the way Azriel had held you before he took you away, the unquestionable look in his eyes when he showed up in Autumn to bear the bad news…had the Shadowsinger fallen for you?

Eris couldn’t blame him. You were a precious gem. One he failed to treasure and hold onto as he should’ve. Not because he stopped caring but because he found himself caring too damn much.

And now, he has lost you.

Or as he would rather say, he was losing you. He only had himself to blame, realizing the grave mistake he had made. He would never forgive himself for this, for the way he broke you. He’d give anything to go back, to have been brave enough to say those three words back.

The past was done, and now, he had to fight as he was not ready to admit defeat quite yet. Because even if he’d already shattered whatever future you might’ve had, he had to keep trying with all his might. You meant too much for him not to fight for you back. Especially when the one he was fighting against was Azriel—that Illyrian bastard. 

He could lose you and he would have to live with that, if it’s what you wanted. But Eris could not lose you to him.

“I am,” he finally said quietly. He felt as though his throat was closing. His tone was much less demanding when he spoke next. “Who are you?”

The older woman’s lips curved slightly in a polite greeting. “I’m the healer tending to y/n,” she confirmed. “You can call me Madja.”

His eyes flicked to Azriel, who he had no qualms on restraining his emotion on. So he directed all his anger and frustration to the shadowsinger instead. “Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?”

It was Madja who answered, her tone somewhat somber. “Come and see for yourself.”

She moved to the door, painfully slow, and Eris nearly shoved it open himself. His chest ached, heart thudding as he stepped into the room.

The sight stole the breath from his lungs.

The room was warm—too warm— and it seemed, all the heat was coming from you. You were submerged in a porcelain bath that stood out like a sore thumb in the room. Barely conscious, your head rested on a pillow cradled in the lap of a woman, who looked similar in appearance to Azriel.

“‘S’hot…” you murmured, moaning in discomfort.

Eris took a step forward instinctively. The shadows binding his wrists tightened. His stomach twisted as he looked you over.  Your skin was flushed and your breathing shallow. You didn’t look good, you looked….

He didn’t let himself finish that thought. 

The woman behind you lifted a bucket, pouring ice into the tub. He watched as your body slackened with relief and despite the warning of the shadows, he took another step toward you.

That’s when he saw it. 

It wasn't the clearest view, the rippling of water and ice blurring your body. But there was no denying the mottled, angry marks that were spread across your stomach. You were hurt…and the baby…?

“Your fire gremlin is burning her from the inside,” Azriel snarled, venom lacing each word.

“Azriel!” The woman at your side immediately reprimanded.

Eris’s vision tunneled and flames erupted at his fingertips. The shadows at his wrists let out a sharp hiss, immediately fluttering back to their master. So much for pretending. That bastard—that bastard—had the audacity to call his child a gremlin? 

Eris’s head turned, amber eyes blazing as they locked onto the shadowsinger.

But Azriel didn’t flinch as the shadows around his wrist had. If anything, he took a step closer toward Eris. There was a challenge in his stance, his wings flaring just enough.

Madja stepped between them, diffusing the spark before it could become a wildfire. “At first, I thought it was a fever. I tried everything I could think of. The ice baths help… but only temporarily,” her voice was tired, her gaze lowering to Eris’s burning hand. “It seems your child has inherited the fire in your blood. Y/N is being burned from within.”

Burned. By their child.

Eris’s eyes hadn’t moved at all from Azriel’s.  “How long?”

Azriel hesitated, and that hesitation said more than words ever could. His normally unreadable expression cracked, guilt seeping through the breaks. “Three days.”

Three days. Eris’s rage detonated. Three fucking days. Fire burst from his hands now, licking up his forearms in spiraling flares of molten gold and red.

“You waited that long to come for me?”

Azriel’s guilt twisted swiftly into fury. His eyes darkened as he took another step forward. The two males were no more than a foot apart. “Can you blame me?” he shot back, not wincing when he could feel the dangerous heat radiating off of Eris. “All you’ve ever done is hurt her. She’s like this because of you!”

Flames surged higher around Eris while Azriel’s shadows swarmed in a frenzied storm, like a furious hive on the brink of breaking loose. The room quaked beneath the weight of barely restrained power.

“Well, it doesn’t matter who did and didn’t do what,” Madja cut through, once again diffusing the tension. “The damage is being done as we speak. Y/n is in pain and though I’ve been giving her sedatives to ease it, I don’t know how much longer her body can endure this.”

Eris’s flames went out immediately. His heart squeezed so tightly it ached. That’s why he couldn’t feel you through the bond—why your side of it had gone so still. You’d learned how to shut him out but he felt you every now and then. When your emotions were too much to bear on your own, the bond would crack open just enough. You may or may not have known it but he felt those emotions with you.

“And the baby?” Eris asked, voice barely more than a rasp.

“Restless,” Madja said grimly. “But alive for now. If we can’t find a solution, I fear the child’s life will be in danger. Y/n’s body can no longer safely support the child’s growth.”

Eris swallowed. His gaze turned to you. His mate. The one he had pushed away, trying to protect you from the dangerous politics of his court. He had thought distancing himself would save you.

Instead, all it had done was hurt you. And now, it is killing you.

His thoughts raced back to his mother. To her pregnancies, the sleepless nights she had, the ice baths to keep her from overheating. But his mother had come from a family born of fire. Just like his father. Just like him. 

You were not.

This child growing inside you was made of the same flame and now threatening to consume you. 

His hand trembled at his side, helplessness threatening to take hold. A feeling he absolutely hated. Until a thought struck him. A memory. A possibility. Maybe, just maybe...

“I think I know how to help,” he breathed.

Eris crossed the last of the distance between you, dropping to his knees beside the tub. One hand clutched the porcelain edge with white-knuckled desperation, while the other reached for you. Your skin was searing to the touch. Too hot–far too hot.  And terrifyingly wrong, because your skin had always been much cooler beneath his touch. Always.

You whimpered, wincing away from his touch.

Azriel stepped forward then, his shadows slithering like wild snakes across the floor. “What are you doing—”

“Don’t.” The word was sharp, near feral, spoken through clenched teeth. Eris’s eyes did not leave you. Fumes released from his body, providing a barrier between him and Azriel’s shadows. A warning.  

The woman beside you must’ve sensed something in Eris’s gaze. Perhaps, it was his desperation or his determination. She gave him a small nod, shifting her legs and adjusting your head carefully. “Tell me what to do.”

“Just hold her still.”

He tried again, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers. You winced—again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered with a small frown.

He didn’t even know what he was apologizing for anymore. For letting you go? For not being here sooner? For giving you a child that was hurting you?

He drew a shaky breath, lifting his hand from your face. He conjured a flame onto his palm. It shimmered and twisted until it gathered into a single, pulsing orb of bright red magic. A kernel of his power. He stared at the orb for a second, sending a prayer to the Cauldron, to the Mother, to anyone or anything that would listen. That this time, he could do something right by you.

Then, he released it. The orb floated from his hand and moved toward you. It hovered above your chest and then, slowly sank into your skin.

There was a stillness. A moment when even Azriel’s shadows held their breath.

Then, you exhaled. A soft, low sigh. Your brows unfurrowed, expression smoothing out. The burn marks on your stomach dulled. The fevered flush began to fade from your cheeks. And finally, the ice in the bath stopped melting so quickly.

Eris felt the bond stir.

You were there on the other side again. 

He bowed his head, overcome with relief. A ragged breath left him, silently thanking all entities who heard his prayer. It worked. It had actually worked.

He hadn’t been sure it would. He’d only ever seen something similar like this once. Under the mountain, when his father had given a spark of life to Feyre after she had saved them all. Eris had only hoped that by sharing a kernel of his own power with you, it might do the same. Might change your body, mold it to help carry the fireborn child.

Eris had seen people burn from the inside out before. His own fire could be a gift or a curse depending on how it was wielded. He had never feared it, never hated it. Until now.

Guilt clawed further into his chest. It seemed never-ending at this point. All he seemed to do was bring you pain—trouble after trouble. It’s not like he planned for this. Becoming a father wasn’t something he expected at all. Not now, not yet. And certainly not like this.

None of this was supposed to happen. You were supposed to hate him, to move on. He thought if he was cruel enough, you'd leave and eventually, you’d forget him. You’d go live the life you wanted. The one he couldn’t give you. You’d live free from the curse of loving a man like him.

Eris had never intended for you to carry this burden alone. He had intended to be the only one suffering. 

But this fire had already taken root, whether either of you were ready for it or not. 

Parenthood was no longer a distant concept. It was here, knocking at his door, demanding to be faced. With it, came fear. For you. How could something so small and unborn already wield such power?  How could he not have seen this coming?

He remembered his mother having similar troubles but it wasn’t until her last month of pregnancy that they arose. You couldn’t be that far along. He would’ve definitely noticed then as he could pick up on the shift in your scent now.

Had he known the risks you’d undergo, he would’ve done this for you the moment he found out you were pregnant. Without hesitation, without question. He would’ve handed over every last ember of his power, if it meant you wouldn’t suffer.

Madja was at your side, her hand moving across your fevered skin. First your forehead, then your chest, and finally, she dipped her hand beneath the water to feel your stomach. A look of relief crossed her face as she nodded her head.

“The fever is broken. She seems to be stabilizing now.”

“Thank the Mother,” the woman, still holding you, breathed.

Eris didn’t need Madja to know you were feeling better. He could feel it, the bond awake once more. Your breathing grew more steady. Exhaustion now took over your features, body slumping further against the woman.

“Let’s get her out and dressed,” Madja instructed the other woman.

Eris immediately stood on his feet, ready to help.

Madja stopped him. “We can take it from here.”

Eris told himself to not get upset. It’s clear she meant no harm from it. Though Eris has seen you countless of times, he realized that if you were fully conscious, you may not have wanted him to help you dress. So he took a step back and averted his gaze, letting them help you instead.

His eyes found the shadowsinger’s wings.  Azriel, wanting to also protect your decency, had turned his back, facing the wall. Eris’s ears were attentive to the movement behind him. He listened as the women behind him moved and dressed you, bringing you to bed. 

One of his fists clenched in unease when he finally heard you speak, your voice a faint murmur. 

“My baby…is…okay…?”

“Yes, your baby is okay,” he heard Madja comfort you.

“Good,” you breathed. “M’tired…so, so tired…”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he heard the other woman, whose name he still hadn’t bothered to ask for. He should, considering how caring and attentive she’s been to you. “You can rest all you need to.”

A strangled noise came from you, a cry from exhaustion.

Eris hadn’t meant to look. His chest flared with protectiveness at the distressing sound you made, his body moving on instinct. His eyes flicked over his shoulder—just for a second—and they widened.

Your undergarments were in place, the women working together to slip a sleeping gown over your body. It wasn’t the sight of your skin that had his eyes widening. it was what had changed.

He knew your body like the back of his hand, had memorized every inch of it with his eyes and lips. He knew it well enough to immediately pick up on the changes. Your hips had widened and stomach rounded, all to accommodate the baby growing inside you. His baby.

The awe that pierced through him was drowned quickly by guilt as the women blocked his view, settling you further onto the bed. When they drew back from you, he was comforted by the peace slowly easing onto your face. The Illyrian woman smiled down at you as she brushed your hair back.

“I’m going to finish some tonics that she can use to build up her strength again.” Madja said before walking out of the room. 

“It’s time for you to go.” Azriel finally spoke, addressing Eris. “There’s no need for you to be here anymore.”

Eris’s body tensed, that anger from earlier flaring back up. He forced his gaze away from you, though it felt like tearing flesh from bone, and turned slowly to face the shadowsinger. “She needs me.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she doesn’t want you.”

Eris winced, as if he had been struck. The blow landed deep. He didn’t know if it was true and that was the worst part. 

Though, it didn’t matter if you wanted him or not. What if another complication arose? The power he gave you was a sliver of his but one you never wielded before. He had centuries of mastery while you had none. If something happened, he could help you. Not Azriel. Him. 

And what of the baby? Who would be there to guide them once they were of age? Or if they started manifesting them much sooner as it already was proving to be?

“She’s carrying my child. They need me. She can’t go through this alone.”

“They’re not alone,” Azriel said sharply, stepping forward. His shadows were stirring behind him, emphasizing the bright pulsing of his blue siphons.  “They have me.”

Eris laughed bitterly. A sound with no humor—just disbelief and hidden pain. “You?” His lip curled. “You expect me to trust you? You knew what was happening and still—still—you waited three days to come find me.”

Azriel’s wings twitched, whether in irritation or restraint, Eris couldn’t tell. But the room suddenly felt smaller. Like it might close in under the pressure of their magic. The two males stood nearly toe-to-toe, just as they had before.

“Because you broke her trust,” Azriel shot back, his shadows coiling tighter, like leashed beasts waiting for the order to strike. “And I don’t trust you. Never did and never will. You always have a selfish motive for everything.”

Eris’s nostrils flared, pure jealousy flaring beneath his skin now. “And when exactly did you earn her trust, shadowsinger?” 

“Enough, the both of you!” the Illyrian woman snapped, stepping between them with a might of her own. She winced as the bed behind her rustled, you stirring in bed. “If you are going to fight, then do it outside."

Neither male moved at first.

They simply stared at one another. Hate and grief and guilt writ in every tense breath between them. Then, finally, Eris stepped back, muttering a curt “sorry” to the woman. The flames in his hands flickered out, though the heat in his eyes remained.

“Eris.”

It was you calling to him.

Azriel blinked, taken aback, and a small, unexpected victory pulsed through Eris’s veins. 

Azriel reluctantly stepped back, his shadows retreating with him. Still, they lingered close and Eris swore they had eyes of their own as he could feel them staring him down.

“She's been through enough," the woman said with a sigh, her gaze lingering on Eris, as if she were assessing him. She turned to Azriel. “She’ll probably wake up hungry, poor thing hasn’t eaten much either. Won’t you help me prepare something?”

Though it’s phrased as a question, there’s an underlying demand in her tone. One Eris can’t help but feel grateful for.

“Sure,” Azriel replied after a brief pause, his voice taut. He turned to follow, but not before glancing back. “Five minutes,” he said over his shoulder.

**

Eris’s eyes caught the clutter on your nightstand as he approached your bed. For a moment, he froze. The letters–his letters– were stacked unevenly, some edges bent from being reopened too many times. There were small things, too. The other gifts he had sent.

None of his letters have been returned and it appeared that the gifts he had sent were unused. 

But they were here. They’d at least been opened and kept. Not thrown away as he feared.

The smallest sliver of hope pushed into the cracks of his chest. Perhaps, there was still a chance. You hadn’t shut him out entirely. He exhaled slowly and then, finally, he turned back to you.

The bed dipped slightly as Eris sat on the edge, and for a moment, he just looked at you. The fever had dropped but it left behind a sickly sheen of exhaustion. Reaching out, his hand hovered over your face. There was a moment of hesitation before he gently lowered his hand to rest against your cheek. You were no longer searing to the touch, just slightly cooler in comparison to him now.

You didn’t flinch like before. Instead, you leaned into his touch and the movement stole the breath from his lungs. His lips parted, a tremor of a smile tugging at one corner. 

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering. Then, slowly, his gaze drifted downward to the gown draped across your body. He could see the small curve of your stomach beneath it and it made his chest tighten.

There. Right there. Life–Life the two you had created.

His hand moved from your face to rest lightly on your bump. His touch was featherlight like he feared even pressure might hurt you further. The contact was both grounding and devastating. He really wished things didn’t have to be this way. 

“I’m sorry,” he finds himself whispering again. He was full of so much regret and so much yearning.

“Eris,” you rasped, your lashes fluttering faintly. “Is it really you?”

Eris knows it must be the exhaustion. He can see you fighting it, struggling with the weight it pressed upon your eyelids. The hand that had been resting over your stomach drifted lower to reach for your own hand. “Yes,” he replied. His hand tightened around yours, bringing it to rest over his heart. “I’m here.”

You hummed softly, your fingers twitching in his grasp. He watched you, observing every shift of your expression, every flutter of your lashes as if it were some fragile miracle. The tears he’d been holding back finally slipped free, tracking down his cheeks in silence.  

“When Azriel came for me, I thought the worst. I thought I was protecting you by pushing you away. I thought…” He trailed off, swallowing hard and struggling with his words.

He gave you space to respond, though he knew better than to expect it. He wondered if the exhaustion won, sleep finally taking over you. Good, he thought. You probably haven’t been able to properly rest these past couple of days.

Your breathing remained steady and no more words from you followed. Just the soft rhythm of your body. He could hear your heartbeat and he swore he could hear the baby’s too. It was quiet but quicker. A ticking sound, almost.

Before you, he hadn’t believed himself capable of feeling for someone this deeply. But you—you had carved out a place in his heart, built a home there, even when he tried to board it shut. And now, there was someone else nestled in that space too. Someone so small and unseen but already adored with an intensity that terrified him.

The bond between you stirred faintly, dulled by your fatigue. Maybe you wouldn’t remember this. Maybe it would all fade into your dreams. It didn’t matter. He had to say it anyway.

“I’m going to fix this,” he whispered, pressing your hand to his lips. “I swear it. Even if you never forgive me... I’ll spend the rest of my life fighting for and protecting you. The both of you.”

Eris closed his eyes, forehead resting briefly against your joined hands. And then, with a tremble in his chest, he said the three words that had haunted him since the day you spoke them first. The three words he had felt long before you ever gave them breath. The ones he had buried beneath fear and duty and pride.

“I love you.”

It left him in a broken whisper. A confession and a promise all in one. He only hoped he’d get the chance to say them to you when you were awake. He wanted to sit here with you, holding your hand as he waited for you to wake up. He didn’t want to leave. How could he, when everything that made his life worth anything was here in this room?

The tattoo on his arm from the bargain with Azriel flared, as if sensing where his thoughts had headed. It pulsed against his skin like a second heartbeat and it was followed by a knock at the door. Azriel must’ve felt it too.

Eris looked at you one last time, his gaze trailing over your face. Then down to the bump beneath the thin gown, where your hand now rested. You looked at ease now and it made it even harder for him to leave when all he wanted was to curl up beside you. His legs felt heavy, as though the weight of what he was walking away from had rooted him in place. 

He burned the image of you into his mind before he forced himself to stand. He didn’t know how, didn’t know when. He just knew he would find his way back to you. Even if he had to bleed for every step back to you.

And then, he walked away, closing the door softly behind him. He didn’t hear the faint words that left your lips moments later, voice cracked and barely there.

“Don’t go.”

a/n: Hope you enjoyed this part! <3 In my head, iI have a little HC that f Eris and reader had consummated the bond, this pregnancy wouldn't have turned high risk so early. I have 2-3 more parts planned but I'm going to take a small break from them so I could write little drabbles/scenes in between them. Basically, it would be scenes I couldn't figure out how to incorporate into the next parts but still wanted to write out.

Sneak peak to next update: here

If there's anything you'd like to read, let me know! I'm open to suggestions and also love hearing your thoughts.

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[a-bit-of-writing]

Cloak

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 

Characters: Astarion x Reader

Words: 1,591

Summary: You only meant to survive your night watch, not end up draped in Astarion’s cloak and scent.

part. 01 | part. 02

The cliffs above the Chionthar were pretty things by daylight — ragged ridges powdered in wild heather, gulls wheeling overhead — but after dusk they sharpened into bone‑white fangs. Wind tore off the river and scraped your cheeks raw, tugging at your sleeves like a petulant child begging to be let in.

You flexed your fingers — nothing. Half‑numb. Brilliant idea, volunteering for the late watch in nothing but a travel shirt and bravado. Gale had offered his spare cloak; you’d waved him off. Shadowheart had raised an eyebrow; you’d grinned. Pride was a stubborn parasite and now it gnawed your bones with every icy gust.

A twig snapped behind you. Leather boots, light tread — predator’s footfall. Only one person walked that quietly and still managed to announce himself with the sheer audacity of his presence.

“Honestly, darling,” Astarion drawled, voice a silk ribbon sliding round your throat, “if you wished to turn blue you could have asked me for pointers. I have centuries of experience.”

You exhaled a foggy plume. “I’m fine.”

He came into view, draped in a cloak the color of spiced wine, clasp of polished garnet winking at his throat. Moon‑silver hair spilled over the collar like frost over velvet. He looked entirely too warm, too princely, too amused.

“Liar,” he murmured, stepping close enough that his breath stirred the hair at your temple. “Your teeth are rattling a charming concerto.”

“I said—”

“And I said you’re shivering.” One arched brow. “Would you like my cloak?”

The offer landed like flint on tinder. You opened your mouth — habit formed around refusal — but the night stole the word and left only a shudder. Fine tremors climbed your arms. Astarion watched, ruby eyes bright with mischief and something startlingly soft.

“Here,” he sighed — half resignation, half relish — and reached for the clasp. Gold links whispered apart. As the cloak swung free, heat rushed out like the exhale of a hearth. Cedar, smoke, faint mulled wine: his scent, rich and dizzying.

He didn’t simply hand it over. Oh no — Astarion performed the act like ritual. One step forward, boots crunching frost; cloak lifted high, then draped across your shoulders in a slow, enveloping fall. He gathered the fabric at your throat, cool fingertips grazing the hollow just above your pulse. You felt it leap; he felt it too — his smile said everything.

“There,” he purred, smoothing collars with absurd delicacy. “A lovely splash of red to set off those cheeks.”

You tugged the cloak tighter. “Thank you.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head, studying the way it swallowed your frame. “Marvelous. It hangs on you like sin.” He leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Be wary — wearing a vampire’s garment might constitute a blood pact in certain, decidedly salacious circles.”

“Oh dear,” you deadpanned, exhaling warmth back into your stiff fingers. “Am I doomed?”

He hummed approval. “Doomed to — let me think — moonlit poetry recitals, perhaps a scandalous duet or two.” His grin glinted fang. “Surely you can bear the torment.”

You mustered a scoff, but the cloak’s heat seeped beneath your defiance, loosening the tight curl of your shoulders. Even the wind seemed reluctant to intrude through velvet this thick. You inhaled — cedarheart and something sweet, like the echo of summer berries on the tongue.

Astarion’s gaze followed the rise of your chest, satisfied. Then, casual as smoke, he settled onto the flattest rock beside your post — close, but not crowding. The river’s dark ribbon murmured below. Fireflies stitched gold thread between brambles.

After a beat he said, softer, “I never cared for that cloak.”

You glanced sideways. “No?”

“Cazador chose it.” A small shrug. “He enjoyed dressing us like decorative knives — beautiful, useful, always his.” For a moment the campfire in his eyes dimmed, revealing an undertow of old hurt. But then the mask slipped back into place, polished and bright. “Yet here we are — re‑appropriating luxury. Rather poetic, don’t you think?”

“Very,” you whispered. “And it does suit you. Or did.”

He laughed, rich and low. “Are you angling to keep it?”

“Maybe I’m claiming it. Finders, keepers.”

“Heresy.” He slung an arm along the rock’s rim, posture indolent royalty. “If you intend to steal my wardrobe, I’ll need compensation.”

You arched a brow. “More secrets? Another blush tally?”

“Oh, I have grander schemes tonight.” He leaned in until moonlight caught in his lashes. “How about a favor to be named later? Something deliciously open‑ended.”

Your pulse skipped. “Dangerous.”

“Exhilarating,” he corrected. Then, unexpectedly gentle: “But if bargaining unsettles you, we’ll stick to simpler trades. A story, perhaps.” He lifted his chin, invitation in every line. “Gift me a memory.”

Cold forgotten, you searched for something worthy. “All right,” you said at last, voice soft. “When I was small, my mother would brew cinnamon milk on winter nights. She’d hum — terribly off‑key — while I sat by the hearth pretending to read. I’d memorize the tune, wrong notes and all, because it meant warmth was coming. I loved that.”

Astarion’s expression flickered — surprise, then a longing so fierce it scared you. “Cinnamon,” he echoed. “I remember cinnamon.” He looked away, throat working. “I’d- I’d snatch sweet rolls from palace apprentices and hide on the roof. Eat them alone so no one could shame me for sticky fingers.” Soft laugh, brittle as spun sugar. “Feelings taste different when you savor them in secret.”

He fell quiet, the confession hanging between you like frost‑glittering glass. Your hand twitched beneath the cloak — impulse to reach for his. Instead you said gently, “You don’t have to hide anymore.”

His eyes cut back, bright and wary. “Don’t I?”

“You offered me warmth with no demand.”

“Oh, I’ll demand something eventually,” he teased but the line lacked bite.

“You could have let me freeze,” you pressed. “Mocked me, walked away. You didn’t.” You lifted a corner of the cloak. “That choice is yours now. Every time.”

Astarion stared long enough that riverwind filled the silence with its hush. Then he chuckled, a sound that trembled at the edges. “Careful, sweet thing. Keep talking like that and I might start believing I have choices.”

“Maybe you should,” you echoed your earlier words, softer still.

He inhaled — sharp, startled — like the idea itself was a sudden ache in his ribs. For an instant vulnerability bared its throat. Then his grin returned, dazzling and defensive.

“Let’s test this newfound autonomy, shall we?” He stood, offered a dramatic bow, and extended a hand. “Come. The wind’s unrelenting, and I know a niche halfway down the cliff face — sheltered, private, excellent acoustics should I burst into impromptu sonnet.”

You laughed, taking his hand. His fingers were cool but steady, closing around yours with teasing ceremony. As you followed him along the narrow path, the cloak swirled your ankles, trailing his scent.

At a ledge half hidden by thorny broom, he paused, gesturing you ahead. A natural alcove cupped a sliver of embers from some forgotten traveler’s fire; still warm. He dusted the stone, sat, then tugged you down beside him. The space forced proximity — knees brushing, cloak draping over both. Twin warmths: velvet outside, his body heat inside.

“Better?” he asked.

You nodded. In the dim, his eyes burned garnet, softer than any flame.

A playful silence stretched. Then he cleared his throat theatrically. “Right. About that sonnet…”

“Oh gods, no,” you groaned.

“Too late. Inspiration strikes.” He pressed the back of his hand to his brow, reciting in a tragic stage whisper: “O crimson cloak upon a trembling frame, / Envy of dawn, ye put bright day to shame—”

You dissolved into laughter. It echoed off stone, mingling with his self‑satisfied chuckle.

When your mirth subsided, you found him watching you — smile gentled, eyes steady. “I like that sound,” he admitted quietly.

“What sound?”

“That laugh. It…does something foolish to me.” He glanced away, almost shy. “Makes monsters feel less monstrous.”

Your breath caught. Without thinking, you slid your hand across the small gap, resting it atop his. He stiffened — a reflex born of centuries — then eased beneath your touch, exhale feathering the cold air.

“Monsters don’t share cloaks,” you whispered.

“They do,” he said, lips quirking. “They just expect payment in flesh.” A pause. “I’m trying something new.”

“And how does it feel?”

He considered, thumb grazing your knuckles. “Terrifying,” he said. Then, softer: “Nice.”

You smiled into the dark. “Borrow the feeling as long as you need.”

“Dangerous invitation.” He curled his fingers, lacing them with yours. “I may never give it back.”

“Guess I’ll have to keep you, then.”

He laughed — a fragile, wondrous thing. “You drive a scandalously hard bargain, darling.” He squeezed your hand once, then let the silence rest — comfortable, living. Wind rattled faraway branches, but the alcove held only warmth.

Minutes — or hours — later, when your watch ended and you both rose to return to camp, Astarion reached to reclaim his cloak. His hands paused at your shoulders, clutching velvet as though reconsidering.

He released a hush of air, almost a sigh, and withdrew, leaving the cloak on you.

“Keep it till morning,” he said, eyes unreadable. “Consider it… interest on our deal.”

“What deal?”

“The one where I practice giving without taking.” He winked, stepping back into moonlight. “Don’t get used to it.”

Too late. You smiled, heart thudding. “Good night, Astarion.”

He hesitated, then with the softest smile you’d ever stolen from him, murmured, “Good night, warmth‑thief.”

He vanished into shadow, leaving you cloaked in crimson and something far rarer: the promise of choice.

[imsryyimlate]

lipstick stains on the monster trio

nsfw

luffy

“is that a new color?” luffy asked, pointing at your lips with curious enthusiasm.

“you noticed!” you replied cheerfully. “this one’s flavored.”

his eyes lit up with intrigue. “really? what’s the flavor?”

you laughed, shrugging. “no idea. that’s where you come in.”

“really really?” he confirmed, his grin widening as he bounced closer to you.

“mhmmm,” you hummed, leaning in and pursing your lips playfully.

without hesitation, luffy cupped your face, his hands warm and rough yet gentle against your skin. he pressed his lips to yours in a soft, curious kiss, his tongue flicking over the surface briefly.

“watermelon,” he declared with a wide smile. “tastes like watermelon! mind if i lick it all off?”

“be my guest, captain,” you replied with a smirk, your fingers lightly tracing the scar on his chest. “my lips are yours to command.”

luffy tilted his head, his expression turning both curious and mischievous. “that so?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “then how about you put that mouth of yours to work?”

your grin deepened as you knelt before him, your lips trailing kisses down his chest, leaving faint, watermelon-flavored stains against his skin. his breathing hitched slightly, his fingers twitching at his sides as he watched you. you paused at the waistband of his shorts, glancing up at him with a teasing look before unbuttoning them.

as you slid his shorts and boxers down, he let out a small, surprised laugh. “whoa, you’re not wasting time, huh?”

“not when i’ve got orders to follow,” you teased, taking his length into your hand and pressing a soft kiss to his tip.

when your mouth enveloped him, luffy’s laughter melted into a contented sigh. his hands instinctively found your hair, his fingers threading through it as you moved. “guess i taste like watermelon now, too,” he said, his tone light and amused.

you pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. “then i’ll be here to lick off every kiss mark i see,” you promised.

luffy’s grin returned, wide and carefree. “good! looks like i don’t have to tell you to do exactly what i want. you’re already perfect at it!”

his words, so unfiltered and genuine, made you laugh softly against him before returning to your task.

zoro

there were no lipstick stains on zoro’s face, neck, chest, or stomach. those marks you left were reserved for the most intimate parts of him - places only you had the privilege of reaching. a trail of color adorned the insides of his thighs, the sensitive skin below his waist, and his hardened length. though zoro cared for you more than he often expressed, he guarded these moments fiercely, unwilling to let anyone else witness the vulnerability you pulled from him.

“y’know,” you murmured, your lips brushing against the heat of his inner thigh as you trailed soft, lingering kisses, “i’m pretty sure the crew wouldn’t care about seeing a few marks on you.”

the warmth of your breath against his skin sent a shiver through him, and his fingers twitched against the sheets. “i’d never hear the end of it,” he replied, his voice low and gruff, though the slight rasp revealed just how much your touch affected him.

“when did you ever start caring about what people think?” you teased, your lips moving closer to the place he most needed you.

he inhaled sharply when your hand wrapped around his base, steadying him as you angled your head to kiss his length. “it’s not about them,” he muttered, his fingers finding their way to your hair as he guided you.

“then what is it about?” you asked softly, your words muffled against his skin as your lips pressed closer, your lipstick leaving faint, tantalizing stains.

“privacy,” he said, his voice strained, “is a luxury on this ship... and i prefer certain parts of us to stay that way.”

your lips curved into a small smile, the intimacy of his words warming you. “fair enough,” you murmured, letting your tongue trace along his length, savoring the way his breath hitched above you.

his grip on your hair tightened as you kissed up to his tip, your lipstick smudging slightly as it mixed with the beads of precum. the sight of you, the deliberate pace you set, made his jaw clench as he fought to maintain some control.

pulling back for a moment, you looked up at him, your gaze meeting his intense, half-lidded one. “you’re thoughtful,” you whispered.

zoro’s response came not in words but in the way his hand tightened in your hair, his body trembling as you returned to your kisses. every kiss and motion was a reminder that while privacy might be a luxury, moments like this were far more valuable - something just for the two of you.

sanji

sanji’s face was covered with your lipstick, and he loved it. the marks, though temporary, were his favorite - a vivid reminder of your touch, of the moments he got to keep just for himself.

that night, the ship was quiet, the gentle rocking of the ocean the only sound apart from the occasional creak of the wood. sanji stood leaning against the kitchen counter, extinguishing a cigarette in the ashtray nearby.

“looks like it’s just us,” you said as you stepped into the kitchen, your voice quiet but laced with intent. you walked toward him with a sway in your hips, your eyes gleaming with mischief. “everyone else is asleep.”

the cook smiled, his expression tender and adoring as he straightened to meet you. “lucky me,” he murmured, pulling you closer with a gentle but firm grip. his forehead rested against yours, his warm breath brushing your skin.

sanji’s long, elegant fingers toyed with the waistband of your pants, slipping beneath to graze your warm skin. his touch sent a shiver through you, and you leaned in, capturing his lips in a slow, deliberate kiss.

you trailed your lips from his mouth to his cheeks, leaving soft lipstick stains, then went down the sharp line of his jaw, and then the curve of his neck. the faint marks were his skin like a map of your affection. meanwhile, his fingers slipped your pants lower, brushing against the heat of your center through your underwear.

a soft moan escaped your lips, and sanji’s smirk widened, his fingers slipping beneath the fabric to tease you further. one finger slid in, then a second, his movements slow and deliberate, drawing soft gasps from you as your body melted into his.

your hands found their way to his shoulders as you steadied yourself, your lips moving to his ear. you bit down on his earlobe gently, eliciting a quiet groan from him before you kissed a path to the back of his neck. his pace quickened, his fingers finding the rhythm that made your knees tremble.

“sanji,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your ragged breathing.

he pressed his lips to yours again, his kiss deep and full of longing. “kiss me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough with desire. “kiss me until my face is stained with your love.”

his words sent a thrill through you, and you obeyed, your lips finding every inch of his skin, leaving a trail of soft, smudged marks as his fingers brought you closer to the edge.

[fear-less]

harry + first time for both of them + set during dh 1 when ron leaves (in this scenario hermione goes with him) + they have kinda experimented before but this is their actual first time

tysm ❤️❤️

₊˚⊹˚ 𐙚 Your fingers in my hair

pairing: harry potter x f!reader

➥ In which, you and harry are left alone, stressed but glad to still have each other.

warnings: smut, first time, dom!harry, pretend the tent is big and not tiny…lol, y/n used once, pet name (baby), unprotected sex

1.3k words

divider creds: i-mmaculatus & dollywons

The night was unnervingly still, the kind of silence that amplified every crackle of the campfire and the faint whisper of the wind threading through the trees. Harry sat alone outside the tent, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames. He tried to push away thoughts of Ron’s sudden departure and Hermione’s decision to follow him.

He wasn’t sure what to feel. Betrayed? Hurt? Maybe relieved? The tangle of emotions knotted in his chest, making it impossible to settle on any one.

The soft sound of a zipper being pulled back snapped him from his thoughts. He turned to see you stepping out of the tent, your hair tousled from sleep, eyes still heavy with exhaustion. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the night’s chill, pulling your coat tighter as you stepped into the cool air.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked gently, your voice a comforting murmur in the silence.

Harry shook his head. “Too much on my mind.”

You nodded, then sat down beside him. Your shoulder brushed his lightly as you settled into the space between him and the fire. For a while, you sat in quiet companionship, the flames casting shifting shadows around you. Finally, it was you who broke the stillness.

“Ron and Hermione... they’ll come back, you know.” The words came out softly, but there was an underlying doubt that couldn’t be hidden.

Harry didn’t respond right away, his eyes locked on the fire as it danced between you. "I don't know," he said finally, his voice low. "And even if they do… things won’t be the same."

Your hand hesitated for a moment before it reached out to rest on his. There was warmth in your touch, steady and unwavering. Harry didn’t pull away, but he didn’t know how to respond either. The truth was, for so long, he’d been wrapped up in the fight against Voldemort, in the weight of their mission, that he hadn’t allowed himself to think about what he wanted. Not about this. Not about you.

"Y/N," he whispered, his voice barely carrying through the cold air. "I—"

Before he could finish, you leaned in. The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, but there was an intensity to it, an unspoken understanding that Harry’s heart stuttered at the touch of your lips. It wasn’t the first time you’d kissed, but it felt like it was—different, more real, more... inevitable. When you pulled away, your eyes searched his, asking for something he wasn’t sure how to put into words.

But Harry nodded, the unspoken weight between you two finally breaking through. Everything had been building toward this moment—the stolen glances, the unacknowledged longing, the shared silence in the face of everything falling apart.

Your movements were slow, tentative at first, as if unsure whether the fragile spell between you could withstand more. But the hesitation quickly gave way to something deeper, more certain. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, your touch sending a warmth spreading through his chest, and Harry’s breath caught. His hands found their way to your waist, trembling slightly as he pulled you closer, feeling the urgency of a connection that couldn’t be ignored any longer.

"Are you sure?" he murmured, his voice rough with a mixture of uncertainty and longing.

You smiled softly, your eyes glistening with tenderness, with something stronger. "I’m sure."

Harry, his heart racing and now with your certainty, didn’t waste a moment. Without hesitation, he closed the distance between you, his lips finding yours once more. This time, there was no uncertainty—only a quiet urgency.

You guys had never gone too far, only ever making out and subtle grinding on each other. Harry was determined to change that. So to no surprise, with trembling hands, Harry pulled off your jacket. Minutes later, both yours and his shirts were discarded in the dim glow of the campfire, forgotten on the ground.

He took a moment to look at you, you weren't wearing a bra so your full chest was on display. You were beautiful—breathtaking. Your body, your eyes, your smile. All of you. His heart raced again, though this time it was for a different reason. You, too, had been watching him, your eyes tracing the lines of his chest and the muscles beneath his skin. The intensity of your gaze was enough to make him forget everything except the way you made him feel.

Before he knew it, he was guiding you gently down to the couch, lowering you with a tenderness that contrasted the urgency of his actions. He hovered above you, eyes locking with yours, both of you breathing heavily. 

“Please,” you said breathlessly. 

Harry wastes no time in taking off your pants, now leaving you in just your underwear. 

“Fuck baby, you’re soaked, all for me, yeah?” 

You nodded, too hazy in the head to form any words. Harry Now catching onto your neediness, he wastes no time in taking off his boxers and your panties. The only pieces of clothing that were separating you from one another were now  gone. 

He looks down at you, his gaze intense, a silent question hanging in the air as his eyes search yours for any sign of hesitation. The warmth between you both thickens, and you lock eyes, your heart racing. With a breath that feels too heavy to release, you nod, your body tingling with anticipation and desire, impatience igniting the air around you.

So with no warning, his cock was pressed against your slit and slowly went deep inside you. You cried out in pain and pleasure as he was still against you.

"Shhh, I’m right here," he whispered, his voice low and soothing. "I won’t move until you’re ready, got it?" He leaned down, his lips gently kissing away the small tears that had escaped down your cheeks, his touch tender, grounding you in the moment.

You were a mess beneath him, struggling to take him fully but to Harry, he felt like he was on top of the world–like nothing else could compare. Harry dreamed about him wanting to desperately fill you up and he reckons he's damn near doing that.You grasp onto his back, your fingers digging into his skin, nails pressing deeply into his flesh, a mix of urgency and need coursing through you. He couldn’t help but move forward slightly into you from the sensation, a sharp intake of breath escaping him as the intensity of your touch sent a rush of heat through his body. The connection between you deepened, both of you caught in the rawness of the moment. You let out a soft moan, instinctively tightening around him, the sensation causing him to groan deeply, his lips brushing against your neck as he succumbed to the overwhelming wave of pleasure.

“Harry, you can move now,” you breathed out.You didn’t have to ask him twice; his hips surged forward with a sudden urgency, a raw intensity in his movement that even took him by surprise, the heat between you both building with every passing second.  His hands gripped your waist hard, unknowingly leaving marks that would darken into bruises by morning. You barely noticed in the moment—distracted by the way his breath quickened against your neck, the urgency of his touch, as if every second mattered. 

“Fuck you feel so good around me, youre sucking me in so deep.” He said through a whimper. His words made you clench hard around him, making him let out another moan.

His fingers drew closer down and found their way to your clit. Your moans filled his ears like music, each sound more desperate than the last. It was as though he was the only one who could make you feel this way, pulling you deeper into something neither of you had fully prepared for.  Begging for a release that you were desperately in need of.

"Harry, I-I’m so close..." The words escaped you in a breathless gasp, your face instinctively finding its way to his shoulder as you cried out, trembling with the anticipation of release.

“Does my baby want to come for me? Have you been a good girl? Should I allow you to?” His voice dropped even lower, dripping with a mix of authority and indulgence, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Please… I need it. I can’t take it anymore,” you cried out, your voice trembling with the urgency of your need. Every inch of you burned, desperate for release.

“Shit, cum on my cock, baby.” Harry spoke, his voice full of intensity, but softer now, as if the moment demanded it. His fingers now circling faster around your clit, you could feel yourself on the edge, so close to that sweet release, every nerve in your body on fire with anticipation. WWith one final, powerful snap of his hips, you lost all control, your body trembling as you came undone around his cock. 

When he felt you coming undone, he nearly lost it, your moans, the way you clenched onto him. 

“Holy shit, baby,” he cursed, his thrusts now becoming sloppy, he was nearing his release while you whined, still high off your release. 

“Fuck, take it, take my cum, fuck!” He shot load after load of his hot cum deep into you. Groaning and whimpering like a mad man as he reached his much needed climax. 

As if he couldn't take his weight any longer, he laid on top of you, your fingers subconsciously finding their way to his hair while he wrapped his arms around your waist. 

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[jane-the-good]

CALEB: deceptive solitude

WORD COUNT: 3.5K

SUMMARY: Caleb comes home from a mission and is not very happy that you would accept anyone else’s help besides his

NOTE: I hope this card is Caleb’s equivalent to the scratch off event secret times audios bc those were such a treat and I love them dearly and need Caleb’s more than I need water ♡

WARNING: smut, unprotected sex, oral sex, angst, Caleb is wildly over protective, panty sniffer allegations are true

AO3 caleb masterlist

The sound of the front door creaks open, and a wave of anticipation surges through you. Caleb is home.

The thought alone floods your chest with warmth, it shifts in your ribs, so soft and certain. You listen as he moves through the entryway, the drop of his bag hitting the floor with practiced ease, a sound so familiar it should be comforting. Should feel like the final piece slipping into place. But something feels...off.

Seven days without him. The house has been too still in his absence, the silence stretching wide in all the spaces where he should be. Before he left, there was a rhythm, his assuring presence, his steady hands, the way he always seemed to know exactly what you needed before you could even ask. Now, the absence of his touch, his voice, has hollowed something out inside you.

You smile to yourself, already picturing him stepping into the room, that half-smirk tugging at his lips, the one that always makes your breath hitch. He’ll be tired, sure, but he’ll be here. He’ll fold you into his arms, press his lips to your hair, let you trace the shape of his face like you’re learning him all over again.

The sound of shower door closing resonates through the bathroom. The quiet, deliberate click of the lock sliding into place.

You hesitate. A frown tugs at your brow. He hasn’t even come to see you.

Slowly, you rise, something uneasy curling in your blood as you step toward the bathroom. The door is cracked just enough for the light to spill through, soft and golden against the dark. You push it open.

Caleb stands at the mirror, steam curling around him, a towel slung low on his hips. His hair is damp, drops of water trailing down his spine, but his gaze isn’t on his reflection. It’s on the gun in his hands.

He cleans it with careful, methodical precision, each movement slow, deliberate, more ritual than necessity. The Caleb you know, the one who meets you with warmth even when he’s exhausted, is absent. In his place is something quieter, heavier. The usual light in his violet eyes has dulled, replaced by something distant, something unreadable.

And that’s when you feel it, the sinking, the knowing, the truth pressing in like a storm on the horizon.

Something happened. And whatever it is, it followed him home.

Your eyes meet in the mirror, just for a second. But there’s no relief, no warmth in his gaze. Just a flicker, a glance over your form, and then he looks away. Back down to the gun. His hands move with practiced efficiency, steady, detached, as if you’re not even standing there. Why could he possibly need to clean it right now?

"Caleb?" Your voice is quiet. There is a distance that wasn’t there before.

He doesn’t answer right away. The rhythmic slide of metal, the soft click of a piece locking into place, those are his only responses.

You step forward, bridging the gap just slightly. "Hey," you try again, softer now. "Are you tired?"

"Not really." Flat. Short. The words drop heavy with stones, meant to sink you down rather than reel you in.

Your frown deepens. That unshakable gravity that always pulls him toward you, it’s missing. And you don’t understand why.

"Did something happen?" The concern in your voice sharpens, threading through the air. "Something on the mission?"

He shakes his head, eyes still fixed on his hands. Still moving. Still working. “Not with the mission.” The words are clipped, cool. A dead end.

But you don’t stop. You step closer, your pulse picking up, something uneasy curling in your chest. "Oh? I—You seemed excited to come home before you left. And now… now you— What changed?"

Silence stretches. The air feels heavier now, spreading too wide in your lungs.

"You don’t have any clue?"

His voice is low and quiet, but laced with something sharp. Accusatory. Like you should already know.

Your stomach tightens. "Caleb…"

You step closer, close enough to touch him now, but he doesn’t move. His hands are still, finally, but his posture remains stiff, guarded.

"What’s wrong?" Your voice barely makes it past your lips, soft and uncertain.

His eyes cold, unreadable. His jaw clenches, and there’s a flicker of something darker, behind those purple eyes. You’ve seen that look before, but it’s always been reserved for moments of danger, not moments like this, and especially not at you.

He sighs, his fingers tightening on the counter. “Did someone help you while I was gone?” His voice is tight, like he’s barely holding himself together.

Your heart stops for a moment, your eyes widening in shock. “What?” you ask, confused. “What do you mean?”

Caleb’s gaze hardens, his expression shifting. “You know exactly what I mean. Did someone step in for me while I was gone?”

The question hits you like a sudden punch to the gut. How does he know? And it wasn’t something you even asked for. You were being followed, or at least felt like it. He- whoever he was, stepped in to walk with you to and you didn’t want to be alone. You were pretty sure he was a hunter, he looked familiar at least. That was it though? You even stopped a few blocks from the house so he wouldn’t know where you live. It was a weird situation yeah, but you didn’t ask for any of it, you did the best that you could on your own.

You stammer for words. “I… How did you—?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he cuts you off, his tone sharp, as if brushing it aside. “It’s taken care of.”

You freeze, something in his words sending a shiver down your spine. Taken care of? Was that his way of saying he’d done something to them? You back away a step, the weight of uncertainty making you dizzy. You can’t tell if you’re scared because of the vague threat in his tone, or if you’re terrified of the possibility that he has hurt someone.

You take another step back, your heart hammering in your chest. You can’t breathe, the anxiety swelling, and before you even realize what’s happening, you’ve backed out of the bathroom entirely. You feel the suffocating nature of cool air on your skin.

The dull clink of the gun as it hits the bathroom counter rings in your ears, but you can't bring yourself to look. You keep your gaze fixed on the tiles. Your pulse hammers in your throat, too loud to ignore, too frantic to quiet. What did he do to that person? What has he been doing, all this time?

“Wait,” Caleb’s voice, softer now, cuts through your panic. “Wait, look at me.”

You hesitate but eventually turn, too shaken to stay in place. Caleb is standing a few feet infront you, a calculating look on his face.

He walks toward you, his eyes softened now, his posture less rigid. The tension in his body is still there, but now it’s buried beneath something gentler, almost apologetic.

“Come here,” he urges, his voice low, as he gently guides you to the bench in front of the bed.

You hesitate for a moment before sitting down, your mind still caught in a whirlwind of confusion and fear. You don’t want to be scared of him, but the way he’s reacted, it doesn’t feel like the Caleb you know. You’re not sure who you’re facing now.

Caleb kneels in front of you, his hands resting on your knees as he searches your face, his eyes searching for something. His gaze softens even more, and you can see the weight of something in his expression. He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his movements slow and deliberate.

You flinch instinctively, pulling away from his touch. His eyes flicker with what almost looks like regret.

“You look so scared” he murmurs, his voice low.

"I... I just didn’t want to be alone," you admit quietly. "It was dark, and I was nervous... he walked me home.” You swallow hard, your pulse racing. “Caleb, what did you mean when you said it was ‘taken care of’? Did you—” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence, the fear still clawing at your throat.

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a slow breath before speaking. “I didn’t hurt anyone.” He shakes his head, his voice rougher now. “I’m pissed that someone thought they could take advantage of you.”

You feel a flicker of relief, though your heart still feels uneasy, heavy with the words you want to say. “But—”

He cuts you off, his hands cupping your face, the gesture so gentle it makes your breath catch. His thumbs trace your cheekbones, the touch meant to calm, but there’s something about it, something too careful, like he’s afraid of breaking you. Like he’s afraid of losing you.

"I understand. But it kills me that you had to be in that position in the first place, especially when I’m not around. I hate that I have to expose you to that." His eyes darken, the guilt thick in his gaze. "It feels like it’s my fault."

A strange warmth spreads through your chest, but it’s tangled with something else. A thread of unease you can’t untangle. This should feel like comfort. But instead, it feels like a weight pressing down, shifting the shape of your thoughts before you can even hold onto them.

"But you…" You hesitate, searching his face for something solid, something familiar. "You’re so different right now, Caleb."

His sigh is long, weary, as if your words ache in his chest. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, and the world narrows. "My emotions go a little haywire when I think about you," he admits, his voice barely above a breath. "It’s hard to control them sometimes."

You sink to the floor with him, your knees pressing into the carpet as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him close. His body is warm against yours, his scent, faint traces of soap and something uniquely him, filling your senses. You straddle his torso, feeling the solid rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

“You didn’t really seem like you missed me,” there’s an ache beneath your words that makes his heart clench.

He exhales, brushing his fingers through your hair. “I’m sorry, Pip. I wasn’t thinkin straight.”

Caleb tilts his head, his dark eyes searching yours. He looks so tired, his lashes heavy, his body worn, but still, he watches you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“I think you’re exhausted,” you say softly, letting your forehead rest against his.

“Yeah,” he admits, his fingers grazing the small of your back, grounding you. “To say the least.”

His heart pounds beneath your fingertips, a steady, rhythmic drum against your palm as you trail your hand through his hair.

“Let me take care of you,” you whisper, leaning down to capture his lips with yours.

A shudder rolls through him, his hands tightening around your waist as he kisses you back, the hunger in his touch pulling a gasp from your lungs. His lips are warm, insistent, an intensity in every movement, reverent, desperate, all at once.

“Fuck, you’re so good to me,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice low and thick with desire, but there’s something else too, something deeper, a yearning that stays unspoken but presses heavy along you both.

The heat builds, an undercurrent of something hidden deep within. His voice, soft but full of something raw, and the warmth in your chest blooms. You press closer, every movement feeling like an answer to a question neither of you have dared to ask aloud. Your bodies align, fitting together with an ease that only comes from a connection that runs deeper than touch.

His hands, gentle but insistent, trace the curve of your back, as though memorizing the feel of you, each brush of his fingers igniting something inside you that feels both familiar and new. The weight of him beneath you, the way he hardens at your touch, sends a pulse of heat through you, and you can’t help but roll your hips toward him.

He groans, low, guttural, a sound that twists your stomach. You break the kiss, trailing your lips along the column of his neck, feeling the frantic beat of his pulse under your mouth. It’s a rhythm that matches your own, frantic and yearning. The air around you feels charged, shrinking until there’s nothing left but the electricity of your touch.

You tug at the towel that separates you, the tension thick as you reach for him, the feel of him so hard in your hand sending shivers down your spine. His breath hitches, eyes closing in the quiet surrender to the moment. You watch him, his jaw slack, eyes fluttering closed, aware of how every breath he takes seems to echo through you. You move slowly, savoring the intimacy, your own breath ragged, unsteady.

“God,” he groans, head tipping back as you lower yourself, your lips replacing your hand.

His fingers thread through your hair as you take him in, his grip tightening when you hollow your cheeks, drawing him deeper. The sounds he makes, the soft curses, the way he moans your name, make your skin flush with heat.

“darling” His voice is dripping slow and warm with honey “please”

You hum your approval and his hips jolt in response at the vibration.

Slowing your pace, you let your lips linger as they trail back up his stomach, the heat of his skin beneath your mouth causing your chest to tighten with something more than desire,  with a tenderness you were so ready for.

His fingers twitch against your back as you take your time, pressing soft kisses along his ribs, over the curve of his collarbone. His heartbeat is steady beneath your lips, grounding you, pulling you in deeper.

You pause at his chest, resting your cheek against him, just listening to his heart beat so quickly, feeling. His hands find your waist, his touch reverent, but he doesn’t rush you. He just holds you, letting you take what you need.

The moment you notice his heart beat start to slow, you straddle him once more, your hands bracketing his face as you meet his gaze. His dark eyes are heavy with something tender and raw. it makes you exhale a trembling breath.

“I missed you,” you whisper, brushing your thumb along his jaw.

Caleb swallows hard, his hands sliding up your thighs, slow and deliberate. “I can tell,” he teases

And when you kiss him this time, it’s not hurried, it’s devotional.

“Did you sleep in my shirts every night?” he asks, his voice thick, his fingers playing with the hem of your tee.

You nod, letting him pull it over your head. “And I wore your hoodie when it got cold one day.”

Caleb groans, his hands skimming up your bare sides. “I’m so jealous they got to touch you.”

A laugh bubbles past your lips. “Now you’re jealous of fabric?”

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down and tossing them onto his nightstand, where they’ll probably never be found again. His eyes flicker up to yours, so possessive and aching.

“Incredibly jealous of fabric,” his hands gripping your hips as you reach down between you, guiding him to your entrance.

The moment you sink down onto him, a soft, trembling gasp escapes your lips, your body stretching to take him in, molding around him in a way that feels both overwhelming and deeply right, like returning home from an exhausting work trip.

Caleb exhales a shuddering groan, his head tipping back as his fingers tighten on your hips, anchoring you to him. “Fuck, you’re a dream,” you breathe, voice thick with emotion, with relief. His hands slide up your back, tracing the curve of your spine.

You brace your palms against his chest, feeling the steady, rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. Slowly, you start to move, grinding down against him as he meets you with deep, unhurried thrusts, each one deliberate, savoring, worshiping. The way he fills you, the way his body moves against yours, it steals the breath from your lungs, sends warmth unfurling through every nerve in your body.

“Say it again,” he rasps, his voice a desperate plea, his hands guiding your hips as he thrusts up with more pressure, his need for you tangible in every movement.

You lean down, pressing your forehead against his, letting him feel your breath, your presence. “I missed you, Caleb,” you whisper against his lips, your nails digging into his skin as you let yourself fall completely into him.

His eyes darken, but it’s not just desire, it’s raw and aching. There’s desperation in the way he looks at you, like he needs to feel you, to prove that you’re here, real and his.

He sits up suddenly, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath, that makes your heart stutter. His hand cradles the back of your head, holding you close as if letting go would mean losing you all over again. Then, with a quiet, reverent sigh, he rolls you beneath him, his body covering yours, pressing into you with a warmth that feels all-consuming.

His movements are slow but purposeful now, every thrust measured, intentional,  he’s savoring every inch of you, making up for the time apart in the only way he can in this moment. You cling to him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him even closer, desperate to keep him there, to make this moment stretch forever. The friction, the heat, the way he fits against you, it’s dizzying, overwhelming, and it pulls a trembling cry from your lips.

His forehead presses to yours, his breath fanning across your skin. “You know you’re mine,” his voice a rough whisper, but there’s no demand in it, only longing, only a plea wrapped in certainty.

You hum softly, a sound of agreement, of surrender, your body trembling beneath him.

His hand slides in your hair, but there’s nothing forceful in the touch, only need. “Tell me you understand,” he’s barely holding together.

You open your eyes, meeting his, letting him see everything you feel. “I understand.” you breathe, and the way he exhales, like you just gave him the one thing he needed most, makes your chest tighten with something impossibly tender.

His lips brush against your temple. “Thank you, love.”

The room is warm with the scent of sweat and lingering traces of his shower. You can feel a bead of moisture slide down your chin, his, yours, both of yours together, as he buries his face in the crook of your neck.

Each thrust sends you spiraling closer, your fingers clawing at his back as your body tightens around him. The pleasure builds, hot and all-consuming, and then, blinding, shattering, you break into millions of pieces and float through space.

Caleb follows, his grip on you tightening almost desperately, the pressure of his hands grounding you as his body shudders with the force of his release. A strangled groan slips from his lips, raw and heavy, the sound carrying a mix of pleasure and something deeper, something more vulnerable. The way his chest rises and falls, the way his breath catches, it’s not just the culmination of desire, but the release of a weight that’s been pressing on him for far longer than either of you had realized.

For a long moment, neither of you move. There’s only the sound of your breathing, your bodies pressed together, hearts hammering in sync. His weight settles against you, grounding you both in the reality of this moment, of each other.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he stays there, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm against your lips. His fingers, which had held you so firmly before, now trace slow, absentminded patterns along your ribs.

“I should have come to you first,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion. “Instead of being angry. I—” He exhales shakily, his thumb brushing against your skin. “You make me feel better. I should have just gone to you.”

You reach up, threading your fingers through his damp hair, brushing a strand from his forehead. His eyes flutter shut at your touch, like he’s savoring it, like it soothes something deep inside him. A warmth spreads through you, wrapping around your heart. You tilt his chin up slightly, guiding his gaze to yours, wanting him to see what he means to you.

“I’m so thankful to have you back.” and you truly mean it.

Caleb’s mind churns with thoughts he can’t voice. The truth sits heavy on his chest, yet he can't bring himself to share it. The fear of you hating him, of you seeing him for what he truly is, gnaws at him. You don't deserve the darkness he carries, especially when it's something he's supposed to shield you from. It’s his way of protecting you, even if you can’t see the lengths he goes to, how far he’s willing to stretch himself just to make sure you never feel the cold of it.

He will always do whatever it takes, to keep you safe and by his side.