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fear-is-truth · 3 months ago

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ride — jimmy darling x f!reader

content warning — nsfw, mdni. unprotected p in v

THE SUMMER NIGHT WAS ALIVE with the sounds of chirping crickets, the air warm, heavy with the scent of grass and earth. the crowds had mostly dispersed, leaving the campsite quiet, with only the distant sounds of the last few stragglers lingering in the air. you made your way through the tall grass, its tips ticking against your knees.

then, you spotted him, broad shoulders slightly slumped as he walked with his cap shoved low just above his eyes. his gait was slow, tired — a long day of performing weighing on him. still, he looked beautiful, the moonlight catching on the sharp angles of his face, softening them. a smile spread across your face as you hurried forward, heart fluttering in anticipation.

“jimmy,” you called out, reaching out to grab his hand.

he stopped in his tracks and turned to you, the tired expression instantly melting into a big smile — dimples on each side of his cheeks, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

“hey dollface, whatcha’ doing out here?” the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked at you.

you didn’t answer right away, just grinned and took his hand in yours. “come on,” you insisted, tugging him along.

tall grass rustled as you led him away from his caravan, your steps light despite the uneven ground. you didn’t tell him where you were going, but he didn’t ask, trusting you entirely. the carousel stood like a forgotten dream in the middle of the empty grounds, its frame weathered but still holding onto its magic. it was a place you’d both passed by countless times, a relic of a world that felt far away from your own. tonight, it felt like it belonged to you.

a slow smile spread across jimmy’s face as he caught on. his grip on your hand tightened briefly before he let go, his confidence returning as he strode toward the booth. you watched as he flipped a few switches and pushed a lever; in an instant, the carousel roared to life.

the lights flickered on, twinkling like stars against the dark sky. the sound of crickets died down as you approached, their song being drowned out by the whimsical music that drifted from the old ride. the colors painted on the carousel’s horses shone like stained glass under the glow, their worn surfaces holding onto the remnants of childhood wonder. jimmy turned to you, his hand extended in an exaggerated flourish, his smile playful and charming. “care for a ride, missy?”

you laughed softly, slipping your hand into his. “thought you’d never ask.”

he helped you onto one of the double-person sleds, climbing in beside you. the carousel began to move, slowly at first, the world tilting ever so slightly as the ride picked up speed. the music grew louder, drowning out everything but the sound of your laughter and the creak of the machinery. you wrapped your fingers around his wrist and placed it on your chest, over your heart. wanting him to feel the rapid beat, the evidence of your excitement.

“feel that?” you asked a bit breathlessly, voice trembling slightly. he nodded, and with a gentle push, you guided his hand downward, towards your waist. he could feel the outline of the corset beneath your tweed coat, the laces loosened, hinting at the secrets within. his fingers meandered up, feeling the swell of your breasts.

“i’ve got a surprise for you,” you murmured, unbuttoning your coat, slipping it off and tossing it aside. the night air kissed your skin, a pleasant chill. goosebumps blossoming across your arms. the pink satin hugged your bodacious curves, the intricate lace and boning accentuating your figure in an enticing way you knew would drive him wild. the sight of your ample chest pushed up by the tight fabric made his pupils dilate and darken, his gaze raking shamelessly over you.

“on my lap, sweetheart,”

he managed to groan out. you eagerly obliged, throwing one leg over hip lap, straddling him. the feel of his hard-on through his trousers made you shiver with anticipation.

“fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely, in awestruck wonder. his lips found the column of your neck, nibbling and sucking, leaving a trail of tingles in his wake. you tilted your head to the side, giving him better access as his hands drifted down, cupping your breasts, squeezing the flesh lightly. the carousel’s motion rocked the sled, and you could feel the swell of his erection press against your thigh, and the need between your legs only intensified, that familiar warm, pulsating desire.

jimmy kissed you deeply, tongue exploring your mouth, as the carousel begun to spin faster, the music growing to a crescendo. his fingers clumsily undid the clasp at the back of your corset, loosening them further until he freed your breasts from its satiny confines. jimmy’s hands continued their exploration, cupping your breasts, teasing your hardened nipples. you moaned into his mouth, gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. grinning into the kiss, he shoved his tongue past your lips, roving against your hard palate before finally pulling back to allow you to catch some air.

he reached down, fingers brushing against your core, teasing you with the promise of pleasure. “no panties? you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” whining, you rocked against him, seeking more. his calloused thumb found the wetness between your legs, dipping into the heat, stroking it with finesse. you arched your back, head falling against his shoulder, a low moan escaping. with his other hand, he unzipped his jeans while you pushed aside your panties. his cock sprang free from its confines, tall and proud, the tip decorated with a pearly bead of pre-cum. with a deep inhale, you lowered yourself onto him, the delicious sensation of his thickness filling you. the music in your eardrums seemed to swell, as though the night was celebrating your union.

warm lips trailed down your neck, planting gentle kisses on your collarbone, neck, breasts. fingers tangled in his dark curls, you dipped your head slightly to capture his lips with yours—the sweetness of juicy fruit gum invading your taste buds. a series of moans and whimpers passed between your lips like clandestine love songs meant for you only. the motion of the carousel rocked you both, the gentle sway working in perfect harmony with your thrusts as though the machine was conspiring with you to heighten the experience. your thighs are growing weak but the pleasure mounted, the edge of release looming closer.

finally, the carousel reached its peak, crescendoing with your passion, and you both let out a simultaneous cry as you found release. you collapsed against jimmy’s chest, your hearts pounding in unison as the world around you faded, leaving only the two of you entwined in post-coital pleasure. wearing a lopsided smirk, he tilted your chin up, before pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth.

#american horror story #ahs #jimmy darling #jimmy darling smut #jimmy darling x y/n #jimmy darling x reader #jimmy darling x you #ahs freakshow

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woofwoofwolf · 7 months ago

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PURRING FOXES

Genshin masterlist: [link]

Tighnari x Reader

Summary:

Your relationship with Tighnari has been nothing but a blessing. You've always seemed to be in perfect sync, helped by the fact that you're the same species. ... But, is it really okay to leave that undiscussed? OR reader and Tighnari talk about what it means for their relationship to be Valuka Shuna.

Notes: Reader is Not Traveler, this is some real furry shit ngl, Fluff, reader is the same race as Tighnari, Established Relationship, Animal Traits, Hurt/Comfort, I tried my best but this is prob OOC, like. racism against animal hybrid people?, Communication Issues, GN reader,

Word count: 3,324

AO3 link: [link]

Shiny black fox ears stood tall on top of Tighnari’s head, twitching occasionally as the man paused to think. You could sense how focussed he was from watching his tail swish, your own tail and ears unconsciously shifting in call and response to his. Being both Valuka Shuna, you understood each other well like that.

Your tail accidentally hit the door of his study and it creaked. The feverish scratching of Tighnari’s pen came to a halt and he turned around with a jolt.

“(Y/N)!” His eyes darted towards the small clock placed on his desk. “I'm afraid I lost track of time, else I'd have some tea ready for your arrival.”

He moved to stand, but then halted briefly, the notes in his journal earning a couple more hesitant glances. Ultimately, however, he decided he wanted to focus his attention on you instead. Something you deeply appreciated, since you knew how dedicated he was to his work. Tighnari was always mindful about the fact that the two of you could only spend limited time together since you lived all the way at Caravan Ribat, your life as a merchant keeping you just as busy as the forest kept him. Every now and then, you’d plan a weekend where you’d come and stay in one of the vacant houses in Gandharva Ville so you could spend some time together.

His chair creaked as he made his way over to you. Unprepared to shift your quiet admiration into interaction, you put down your weekend bag instead of giving him the hug he expected. Looking back at him, you saw that his fond smile had faltered, in all likelihood caused by the downcast aura you were emitting. Despite this, he gently but resolutely placed his hand on your shoulder.

“Rough day?” He asked with a smile, his thumb rubbing at your tense muscles. You shook your head, but didn’t have anything to add.

“Oh well, rough week then?” You let out a breathy laugh and finally allowed yourself to ebb into his frame. Tighnari returned the embrace, offering great comfort.

“Just tired…” You mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

This earned you a hum in response and a tentative kiss in between your ears. “Take it slow this weekend. If you want to stay inside instead of accompanying me on patrols then please tell me. Anything you need, just let me know, alright?”

Anything, huh...

“Tighnari..?”

“Hmm?”

“Could we- Instead of tea, could we cuddle..?”

Your ears warmed from your own question. Surely, you had been together for long enough to be more blunt in asking for his attention? In the beginning Tighnari really seemed to struggle with giving physical affection, but you always craved to hold his hand, to hug him goodbye, or to kiss him on the cheek when he rambled about his work to you. Even though he seemed to have warmed up to your touch, you were scared that directly asking him for it would be too much.

To your relief, Tighnari stepped back with an affirming smile and wordlessly led you to his bedroom. It was a bit awkward shuffling around to find a comfortable position, but finally you ended up with your head on his chest and your legs tangled up together. After only a minute Tighnari's breathing calmed and he started brushing his hand through your hair. Meanwhile, you silently tried to calm your heart rate as you listened to his steady beat. This loving side of Tighnari, without all the sarcastic comments or nagging felt very special to you and you were nearly certain he’d never show it to anybody else. You tried to enjoy this special moment, but it was hard to settle down. The earthy and floral tones of his scent invaded your sensitive nose, fresh and herbal from his body and deep and sleepy from the neatly made up covers beneath you.

Eventually his hand stilled. You moved your head to meet the pouty frown painted on his face. “If you're going to toss around like a spinokrok with a fever, I don't see any point in lying down like this.”

Ah, oops...

After having known him for a few years, you knew this comment was meant to convey concern, rather than annoyance. Well, he was still annoyed of course.... And although it would be nice to shake off all your anxieties and just enjoy your time together, it seemed like you couldn’t just relax after all.

You sighed. “Tighnari…”

“Yes?” He sounded alarmed at your exasperated tone.

“What are we?”

Silence. Well, that attempt to breach the subject was a bust. Too direct maybe? It clearly wasn't what he was expecting to hear.

“You didn’t eat a conic, pink and white striped striped mushroom on your way here did you? You’ve been acting strange tonight.”

“Tighnari, I'm serious…”

The sheets rustled as Tighnari shifted so he could look you in the eye, his arm still around your back. His cheeks looked a little rosy.

“Well, I for one was under the impression we were dating… I thought I had communicated my intentions quite clearly.” The slight pout on his face squeezed at your heart, temporarily emptying your head of all thoughts. He jolted as you suddenly pulled your hands up to his ears and softly stroked the soft appendage between your finger and thumb, desperate to find a way to act on the boiling affection you felt for him. Like yours, his ears were warm, the skin almost as soft as the furred side. The pulse softly thumping underneath your fingers sped up ever so slightly.

Ahh.. this is nice… Never before had you touched his ears and although you obviously knew what Valuka Shuna ears felt like, touching his was… different.

When your gaze moved down from his ears to his face you were surprised to find his eyes tightly shut, face completely red. You were about to ask if he was okay when he let out a nearly inaudible whimper.

“Did you just whine?” You laughed. In a flash your hand was snatched away from his ears. His expression was annoyed, but not angry, so you continued your teasing. “Don't you offer people to touch them all the time?”

“N-no! It's because it’s- You- Y-You're making it sound as if I go around asking people to fondle me on a daily basis-”

Tighnari’s ears shifted back in annoyance at your giggles. Oh, he was so much fun to tease.

“Hmm, Sorry,” you whispered. You brought your other thumb back up and softly stroked his warm cheek.

“You're awfully affectionate today…” Tighnari grumbled, avoiding eye contact, though he did move his grip from your wrist down to hold your hand.

“You don't like it..?”

When his eyes shifted back to yours, they had a serious glimmer to them. “No, I adore you…” You, rather than it, you noted. “(Y/N) talk to me, I can see you struggling, you know.”

Alright, here goes nothing… Let’s not avoid this any longer.

“I, ehm, don’t really know how to start...” You confessed. Tighnari gave your hand a squeeze. Now that you started talking he seemed… relieved? “I-I’ve been feeling- I eh.. It’s kind of embarrassing, really.”

“Did anything happen to incite these feelings?” If it was a different topic you would probably have laughed. It was like he was trying to find the cause of a weird rash. It was the most logical place to start, however.

“Oh well… Do you remember what I said about Affnu..?” Judging by Tighnari’s sour face, he did remember.

“That one lady that compared you to her dog?”

“That’s the one…” Sometimes you’d encounter these people that are weirdly biased against human hybrids, but this lady in particular had some very odd assumptions about you. She was an old widow living in Caravan Ribat and according to some of the other merchants you worked with, she had always had a few screws loose.

Tighnari rolled his eyes. “What did she say this time?”

Your stomach churned. “S-someone must have told her I had a boyfriend. And ehm, well she came up to ask me about it, I guess. She was weirdly mad about it?”

“Mad?” You didn’t blame him for his incredulous tone.

“Maybe mad isn’t the right word, b-but she said because I’m a fox I shouldn’t just ehm. Date whomever and that I should stick to my own sort-” That wasn’t really what she had said, but you’d rather not repeat her exact words, Tighnari’s already seemed angry enough. “Don’t worry this time people intervened, so I didn’t have to deal with it for long.”

“When did this happen?”

“About a week ago,”

Tighnari took a sharp breath. You could tell he was trying to control his anger. And although you knew it wasn’t directed at you, you still desperately hoped he wouldn’t judge you for what you would say next.

“Honestly, I’ve been feeling a bit.. weird?”

“Archons, I’d be weirded out too if I had to deal with that.”

That hadn’t been what you meant. “At first I was angry, but recently I’ve been thinking, ehm you know…” Tighnari patiently waited for you to continue, but the words you were hoping to come up with still wouldn’t come, so he spoke instead.

“You don’t need to give this lady any thought (y/n). I think you should report her to the matra for harassment.”

You nodded slowly. “Right. Eh. She got arrested actually,”

“Good,” Tighnari pulled you closer. “Should she try anything else I might just ask Cyno to intervene. The nerve of some people.”

“I heard her yelling things about King Deshret as she was taken away. I don’t think she cares that the rebellion was disbanded. Not that she was part of them to begin with, she’s just like that, I think.”

Tiighnari seemed to be in thought. It made you wonder if you should’ve bothered him with the full story after all. You were kind of veering away from what you needed to talk about in the first place, so you felt frustrated. And that after you build up all that courage.

“Unforunately, this can happen with age. If she doesn’t have the right support system it can be hard to keep these sort of aggressive episodes unchecked.” There he went again, looking at things from an analytical angle.

“Tighnari!” His name came out in a yell. Well, that shut him up. More aggressively than you would have liked, however.

“I.. I’ve been so. So frustrated!" You confessed in between gasps of air. You sat up on your knees, leaving behind a perplexed Tighnari. You didn’t mean to, but the tears came regardless. “D-did you know that- that Valuka Shuna lovers purr when they’re together, and ehm, did you know they intertwine tails when they sit next to each other? That they let their, erm, their ears touch. That they- that they scent each other?”

Tighnari's eyes were blown wide open, the redness returning to his face in full force. He sat up on his elbows to face you. “(Y/N) I- I don't know what to say.”

A sob left your lips. That was so embarrassing, why did it have to come out like that? You shook his arm off and moved away from him. He was always so patient in hearing you out, why couldn’t you find the patience to be heard?

“I'm sorry, forget I said anything- I didn't mean it like that,” You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, but before you could stand up, a hand grabbed at your shoulder.

“N-no wait,” He said. “I’m sorry, it’s just- I guess I’m just new to this. The whole relationship thing I mean. You surprised me, is all.”

You didn’t relax in his grip and let out a few more sobs, tears flowing down your face. Tighnari’s mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish before he found his words. “I guess.. you’re not wrong. These are things I have observed in my parents when I was young. W-what’s this about, so suddenly?”

“You never treat me like that. Even though I thought I could finally have someone to connect to.”

You knew. You knew what kind of man he was. Reserved and although seemingly confident standoffish, he really was quite awkward and tender hearted. It wasn’t enough to stop you from leaving him a babbling mess. The selfish part of yourself wanted him to, despite all the guilt. God what was wrong with you.

“(Y/N), (Y/N), I’m sorry- Talk to me please,” He sounded so hurt…

Finally, you had to admit you were self-destructing. You slumped down, the tension leaving your body.

“You know… Since my dad died when I was 8,” You scrambled for anything to explain how you felt, even though you had told him before about your father. “And with my mom being fully human, I just never felt connected to that part of me. When Affnu said all these things I couldn’t help but wonder, why are we together? Does it matter what we are? Does it make us more special? A-and afterwards when I looked it up in a book about our biology, I realised, you and I weren’t like the book at all. That… That made me think that maybe I had misunderstood our relationship entirely.” Your voice had gotten smaller as you went on, fizzling out as you finished speaking. That was it. That is what you were struggling to convey. The guilt from your tantrum was hitting you full force the second you stopped talking. Your eyes hadn’t moved up from your hands while you were speaking, but now that it was silent, you didn’t even want to imagine the look on Tighnari’s face.

“(Y/N).” His voice was firm. “Can I hold you again?” You couldn’t detect any anger from him, as patient as ever.

“Oh Tighnari,” You sobbed. “Please hold me.”

Instead of circling his arms around you like you had expected, he moved to sit next to you, and placed his arm around your middle, pulling you down to rest your head on his shoulder. You gasped as you felt his tail brush up to yours, trying to curl around it. You let him.

“I-is this okay?” He asked, sounding very unsure of himself. You gave a bewildered nod.

“I-I’m sorry Tighnari. Sorry for getting angry.” You were sure he would be equally as cross with you, but he wasn’t. The tears wouldn’t stop flowing.

“It’s okay... Don’t think I’ve got this figured out, okay? I can deal with the trials and tribulations of the rainforest much more easily, but truth is, I’m really awkward when it comes to these things.”

You snorted through the tears, his clumsy wording catching you off guard. “Gee, really?”

Tighnari sighed, relief making its way onto his face. “You will never miss an opportunity to make fun of me, will you?”

“Never,” you laughed weakly. You tried not to jump as Tighnari brought up his hand to dry off your tears, but you couldn't help the twitch in your tail. He didn’t let go. You didn’t want him to either. It was silent for a bit and you felt yourself being calmed by his scent, your sniffling slowly dying down.

“To answer your question,” he suddenly said, enunciating clearly like he always did. “I think it DOES matter. That we’re both Valuka Shuna, I mean. Not that that weighed heavily in deciding on this partnership, but I think it is always nice to have something to share.”

This evening had been such a storm of emotions. And right now you were soaring above the clouds. All because of this dork of a man.

“I want to apologize if it felt like I was purposely avoiding certain aspects of your identity. I guess I was, really, I just didn't want to make you uncomfortable. But now I see I shouldn’t have left this unspoken.”

You nodded, feeling a bit surprised at his confession. “Can I ask you some questions?”

“Of course, I'll answer to the best of my ability.”

“You seem so confident about it all. Whenever people ask me questions, I feel so awkward, but you have no problems answering them at all. How does it not bother you?”

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Dealing with these people, it’s kind of part of my job, unfortunately.” You had to deal with stupid clients too, you wanted to object, but you didn’t want to start the ‘Who has to deal with the most annoying people in their job’ argument again, because Tighnari would always insist there were more idiots that crossed his path compared to yours. Although, maybe he’d let you win now you had told him about Affnu. “Besides, if people want to judge me on superficial factors such as my tail and ears, then that’s their problem, not mine.”

“Are they superficial to you? Your ears and tail?” You felt like a curious child, asking all these questions.

“Well, not to me. But my hybrid status is none of their business.” Tighnari's left ear tilted down until it was touching yours. Was he going down a checklist of actions you had just talked about? It was a little clumsy, but it endeared you. “For us… For us it can be as important as we make it to be.”

“I guess that makes sense… You know, I rarely get the opportunity to interact with other hybrids. I feel like I'm faking being exactly like them all the time. The humans, I mean...”

“This is actually not uncommon in mammals,” Tighnari interjected. “The ability to adapt to one's surroundings is an important skill for survival after all.”

“You're such a nerd,” You said. “I love you, Tighnari.”

He laughed. “I guess I love you too.”

Wow. It felt nice to have finally said that.

You moved your head off of his shoulder and looked at him properly. His eyes shifted around for a second before he held your gaze, and you felt a light spark tickling your spine. Next, you felt a wave of comforting joy wash over you when your lips touched. The kiss was noncommittal and careful, but the most loving one you’d ever had.

“How do we know if we’re forever?” You whispered. Tighnari’s ears shifted back in surprise, and the lovely eye contact you two were sharing was broken.

“W-well, ahum. The mating for life thing technically doesn’t start until.., well you know-”

“Oh. Oh hm.” you both sat up straight. “I eh. Let’s leave that conversation for another day, shall we?”

Tighnari cleared his throat. “Let’s. Until that time, let’s keep up the open communication. How are you feeling?” He moved to stand up from the bed, examining you up and down to make sure things were properly talked out.

“...A bit hungry. I eh, might or might not have had anything to eat since this morning?” Tighnari’s face fell.

“What? Why didn’t you say so earlier! What have I told you about eating properly?” There was the full return of the nag master.

“Why’d you think I’ve been so emotional tonight, I’m starving!” You held out your arms for Tighnari to pull you up from the bed. He left you hanging, both hands on his hips.

“Really now, sometimes I wonder how you manage to survive out there in the desert.”

“Caravan Ribat isn’t in the desert!”

“It’s more than close enough!” He argued before finally pulling you up. You moved in as close as you could.

“Hmm, and too far away from you?” You asked with a smirk on your face. Tighnari pushed you back down to your feet with an unamused look on his face.

“Enough with you, you can have some of the food I prepared for tomorrow.”

You let yourself be pulled towards the kitchen. “Whatever you say darling!”

-----------

IT'S FINALLY DONE! I've been working on this for a while actually,, well, longer than I usually do for this amount of words. It's not perfect, but I am happy enough with it.

PLEASE PLEASE let me know what you think if you have something to say, it is always very encouraging to get comments. Especially for 'less popular' characters. (life would be so much easier had I been a Gojo stan or smth)

On that note, I'm pretty sure there are no gendered terms used for reader in this fic,, but I don't usually actively make an effort for that. I write these for myself and I'm a cis woman, so there might be some slip ups. If there is a part that isn't gender neutral let me know and I'll remove the tag.

Also, important note: I know that Tighnari’s race is “Tighnarian” but that is such a stupid writing decision that I’m overruling it. We’re going by Valuka Shuna, which is what his ancestors were called.

Now that we’re talking about lore anyways, apparently “Valuka” means desert in Aranara language, which is kind of funny considering Tighnari blames his dark fur for not being able to handle the desert? I imagine others in the same species or at least their ancestors probably had a colouring similar to the foxes you can see in the desert. That being said, one of his voice lines is about how his father is currently researching beetles in the desert, and he has dark hair and ears, so… I’m at a loss.

Writing for Tighnari is hard because I admire him so much but he's also an asshole and a huge nerd,, and I think he would be super awkward when it comes to communication? But at the same time he's pretty emotionally intelligent so I hope this isn't super OOC or anything.

Cross posted to AO3

#tighnari #tighnari x reader #tighnari x you #genshin impact #reader insert

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indizombie · 8 months ago

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Indian media's collapse has meant that serious issues such as unemployment do not get the attention they deserve. Joblessness is not framed as a question of political accountability but is couched in technocratic language and buried in a maze of data and conflicting claims. Those who intruded into parliament reportedly told the police they were upset about high rates of unemployment. Youth unemployment in India is at around a staggering 23 percent, the highest for any major global economy and nearly double that of neighbouring Pakistan and Bangladesh. For graduates under 25, a report by the Azim Premji University estimates, this number rises to 42 percent. IT firms such as Infosys, Tata Consultancy Services and Wipro have announced they will reduce the hiring of engineering graduates by 30 percent-reducing it by 40 percent from the prestigious Indian Institutes of Technology-leaving thousands of freshly graduated students without jobs. Since the onset of the 2022 funding winter, 34,785 employees have been laid off by just 121 Indian startups, with 15,247 of them fired by 69 Indian startups so far this year. An improvement is unlikely. Pranjul Bhandari, the chief India economist at Hongkong and Shanghai Banking Corporation, estimates that while India will need to create 70 million jobs over the next decade, it will only end up with 24 million. Put simply, India's demographic dividend has turned into a demographic disaster.

Sushant Singh, ‘Fire and Smoke’, Caravan

#Caravan #Sushant Singh #Pranjul Bhandari #HSBC #India #Indian startups #Wipro #TCS #Infosys #IIT #Azim Premji University #Joblessness

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viennacherries · 11 months ago

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LONGING

Dammon/Tav | NSFW | 4,318 words

"The second Dammon spots her for the first time in the Grove he knows he's monumentally and royally, without a shadow of a doubt (and pardon his language), fucked."

~~~

Dammon is completely enthralled with Tav. She's obsessed with him, too, but she makes him wait for it. He gets what he wants eventually.

Read it on AO3

~~~

The second Dammon spots her for the first time in the Grove he knows he's monumentally and royally, without a shadow of a doubt (and pardon his language), fucked.

She's absolutely gorgeous, all petite frame with strong muscles. Her skin is pale and covered in freckles, from her face to the backs of her hands as she shakes his in greeting. She has one of those smiles that tells him she's definitely going to cause problems on purpose. He knows as soon as he sees her that she's the one who saved the Archdruid and took out the goblin camp. She just has that aura about her that tells you she's absolutely deadly. Unfortunately, thats exactly his type.

It's even more unfortunate, because she certainly notices. She can absolutely tell that he's completely smitten with her the minute their eyes meet, and it's when he gets his first glimpse of that smile of hers. The one the says she's going to make his life hell and she's going to enjoy every minute of it. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't looking forward to it.

Still, he's the absolute picture of cordiality and good manners. He thanks her for helping them, and even whacks a healthy discount onto his wares in the name of repaying her. He is completely polite and entirely appropriate.

She winks at him as she leaves.

He thinks about it for the next tenday.

~~~

When he sees her again at Last Light Inn, his immediate response is relief. The Shadow-Cursed Lands are cruel and brutal, and after what befell their caravan he was concerned her party wouldn't make it through in one piece. Especially taking into account her considerable affinity for finding herself in danger.

She's barely been at the inn a half hour before there's winged ghouls descending on them.

It's the first time Dammon has the pleasure of watching her fight, and it does nothing to ease the burgeoning flame he's been kindling for her in his chest. When he's done analysing her armour and has come to the conclusion she needs heavier plating, he just observes her.

She's lithe and muscular, and she spins around and through enemies as though she's dancing a pasodoble. Her every movement is precise, considered, calculated. She takes each step like she decided she would take it 5 steps prior, confident and assured. Her fighting style is just as elegant and brutal, all up close slashes and jabs that make quick work of her mark. And Hells, the way she wields her blade. It's a huge, hulking thing, just over half her height, but you wouldn't think it with the way she swings it around like it weighs nothing. The blade itself is simple, boring looking, and Dammon swears to himself in that moment he'll make her something better, something as brilliant and powerful as her. Something deserving of her finesse.

The fight's over almost as suddenly as it began, and he watches as she plants her sword into one of the floorboards, leaning on it with her forearms as she pants and tries to catch her breath. A long bead of sweat falls down over her brow, and she wipes it away with the back of her hand, smearing ghoul blood across her face in the process. Covered in viscera, and somehow she looks radiant. She catches his eye, smiles that awful smile of hers, and winks across the room at him.

She finds him later in his forge, while he's busy hammering out an old sword someone's donated to him. Dammon doesn't notice her til he turns to quench the metal and finds her leaning against the wall, watching him work.

"Tav, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He uses his scarf to dab some of the sweat off his brow.

She's got that grin on her face again as she trails her gaze over him, like she's appraising him. "Trust me, the pleasure's all mine."

He's covered in sweat, he can feel it dripping down his back and neck. It makes him think back to the fight earlier, when she was drenched in her own. He thinks about folding her in half, til they're both dripping with each other's exhaustion.

He clears his throat.

"You flatter me, truly," he's quite proud of how even his voice comes out. "What can I do for you?"

She smirks, "well, I was wondering if you had any suggestions? You seemed to be watching me earlier, so I assume you have a comment to make concerning my equipment."

He knows she's trying to tease him, but he nods anyway. He does have thoughts about her equipment, and now she's asked. That means it's not his fault if he rambles for entirely too long about the merits of different alloys.

"Yes, actually. I think you could do with some heavier plating. You favour fighting up close which is admirable, but it puts you directly in the path of your opponent's blade. You need something stronger to protect you."

Her smirk drops. She clearly wasn't expecting him to have actual advice. "I don't like heavy plating, it makes it harder to move around."

He nods enthusiastically, "yes, yes, you're constantly in motion while you fight. I believe your current armour is steel? It's strong, but some of it's integrity and strength has been compromised to keep it light, and even then you're only wearing half-plates. You need something just as strong, but far lighter. That way you can afford to wear more plating without losing your range of motion and speed."

Her eyebrow is quirked, and she looks somewhat impressed. "Interesting. What would you suggest?"

"Mithril, without a doubt. It's half the weight of steel but it's just as strong. You could wear a full set of plating and it'd feel identical in mass to the half-plates you have currently."

She nods thoughtfully, "I'll keep an eye out, then." The smirk finds its way back onto her face. "Was there anything else?"

There's a brief pause before Dammon speaks again.

"You need a new sword. That one's absolutely dreadful."

The laugh she lets out is musical, and it only serves to pour oil onto the flame in his chest. It roars up like an inferno

~~~

It's embarrassing, the amount of time he spends thinking about her. The image of her, pirouetting through the air as she sinks her blade through the skull of a monstrosity, haunts his every waking thought. Even sleep doesn't provide respite from her visage, and he finds himself waking up every morning achingly hard from another unconscious imagining of the ways he'd like to ruin her.

He wants to tear her apart beneath his hands. He wants to have her desperate and begging underneath him. Wants to tie her up and strap her down and use her until she's craving anything he'll give her, helpless and needful and falling apart at the seams. He wants to see the strong muscles in her arms bulge against her restraints as she writhes and pulls at her bindings, itching to touch him.

He wants her to do the same to him. Wants her to show him just how strong she is by pinning him down with one hand and taking what she wants from him.

It's getting really fucking inconvenient, to be honest. He thinks of her constantly while he works in the city, the bustle of Baldur's Gate around him not enough to distract him, the temperature of his forge only stirring the heat within him further. It makes him think of the way she'd looked at him that night at Last Light, like she was ready to devour him whole.

He lays in bed at night and fists his length desperately, smutty book held in one hand almost as tight as his cock in the other, imagining he's hovered over her, devouring her, filling her, anything and everything. It's depraved, the things he imagines, lewd and scandalous.

And then suddenly one morning she's at his door.

He doesn't hear her coming, so he's snuck up on once again as he turns to quench the commission he's working on.

She looks so different, wearing regular clothes instead of armour. It makes her look softer, but she's also wearing short sleeves which show off the muscles in her arms. It makes him a little weak in the knees.

"Tav? I'm glad to see you again! To what do I-"

"Owe the pleasure?" She doesn't let him finish. "To pleasure, I hope."

He's dousing the forge as soon as the words leave her mouth.

~~~

"Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?"

She furrows her brow from her seat on his sofa, "anything stronger?"

"I've got a couple bottles of Arabellan Dry?"

"That'll do." She's smirking again.

He leaves the room to get the bottles and a couple of glasses, and when he comes back she's taken her shirt off.

"Here's what we're going to do." Her voice is firm but playful. "I've taken off a piece of clothing, so I get to ask you a question. You have to answer honestly. If you answer it, you take off a piece of your clothing and then you get to ask me something back. If you don't answer, I put all my clothes back on and I walk out of the door."

He gulps, "what if you don't answer?"

The smirk that graces her lips is absolutely diabolical, "oh, Dammon," the way she says his name is even worse, "I'll answer anything. I'm an open book."

He sits on the couch next to her, pours them both a glass of wine and hands her one. "Then by all means, ask away."

She looks delighted, and her gaze is predatory. "Do you prefer giving or recieving?"

Straight to the point then.

"I like both," he shrugs as he says it, "suppose it just depends on the day and the context. If I had to pick just one, though, I'd rather give."

She nods thoughtfully, but doesn't say anything, watching him expectantly. He downs half his glass of wine and then yanks his shirt over his head.

"What about you? Giving or recieving?"

"Hm. Repeating my question is a bit cheap, but I'll allow it this once. I like both, too. I don't have a preference, really, just depends on my partner." She's barely finished speaking when she stands to unbuckle her bottoms, pulling them off swiftly and sitting back down. The sight of her, dressed in only her underclothes on his furniture, makes his head spin and his other head throb.

"So you like being on top. You like being in charge? Dominating?"

He swallows around the lump in his throat and nods, "yeah. I like... I like making my partner beg." He can feel his skin flushing with the admission, but he keeps talking. "I like making them come undone underneath me until they can't take it anymore. I like making them squirm and give themselves to me entirely."

Tav's breath is caught in her throat, and he realises that she likes it. Wants it. Knowing that fills him with confidence, and he takes another swig of his wine before standing and slowly undoing his bottoms. He pulls them down slowly, teasingly, and he watches as her gaze follows the line of his body. He tenses the muscles in his arms as he lifts the discarded clothes and folds them, and he hears her breathing grow heavier. He places them to the side and sits down closer to her than he was before, lifting her wine glass to her lips and urging her to drink from it. She does, their eyes locked. A drop spills down the side of her mouth, and before she can wipe it away he leans in and licks it from her lips. Her eyes close as she groans in the back of her throat.

He feels high on it. Having her here, knowing she wants him, seeing how receptive she is to him. His next question comes easily.

"Do you like being tied up?"

Her eyes are hooded with lust when she finally makes eye contact with him again. "Yes." She fumbles with the clasp of her bra behind her but fails at undoing it, so he places their glasses back on the table and leans forward towards her, snaking his arms around her back and unclasping it for her. It falls away from her onto the floor, and he takes a breast in each hand. She hisses through her teeth.

"What do you want to do to me?" It's quiet. Sensual. Her voice is absolutely dripping with desire.

"What don't I want to do to you." He smooths his hands down her body, sliding one round to her lower back and slowly pushing her to lay down on the couch as he hovers over her. "I want to tie you to my headboard and taste you until your legs shake. I want to have you begging for my tongue and my hands and my cock. I want to fold you in half and bury myself so deep that you forget what it feels like not to be full of me. I want to absolutely ruin you, if you'll let me."

Their lips are so close now, a hair's width away, and the air is charged around them. When he speaks, it's a whisper against her skin.

"Will you let me?"

She groans out loud and surges up to lock their lips together. It's open mouthed and hungry, more tongue than lips, and they both moan into it as they finally taste each other. His hand is still at the base of her spine and he drags her upwards towards him, grinding against her as he does, and she lets out a beautiful little whimper that has him feeling hazy. He pulls away, just enough to speak.

"Use your words, sweetheart. You want me to ruin you?"

" Yes ."

He tuts. "Say please."

She moans, low and needy in the back of her throat. " Please. "

He stands quickly and lifts her into his arms, carrying her up the stairs to his bedroom. She wraps her arms around his neck and sucks and kisses around his collarbone, and the feeling of her skin against his, her mouth on him, has him absolutely feral.

He practically throws her down onto the bed, and she bounces a few times before settling and crawling her way backwards toward the headboard. The sight of her hair splayed out on his pillows and her naked torso against his sheets is going to haunt him for eternity, he's sure of it. He lets himself admire her.

"Stay there, gorgeous. Don't even think about moving."

She nods, reaching up to palm at her breasts, and she looks like a vision. Like a renaissance painting, a beautiful torment put there just for him. Her fingers brush her nipples, teasing and pinching them, and the subsequent hiss of pleasure she lets out shoots straight through him to his cock. It's almost painful how hard he is, but he's going to take his time with her. Going to take her apart and put her back together with his hands and mouth, smelt her down and reforge her into something new.

Dragging his eyes away from her feels like an impossible task, but he manages and turns to root through the drawer of his bedside table. He finally finds what he's searching for: a length of silky material that's meant to be a blindfold, but that he usually shoves between his teeth to bite down on when he's being particularly noisy. He hangs it over his shoulder and turns back to face her, crawling over her and wrenching her hands away from her tits. He pins them over her and she arches up against him.

"Your safeword," he starts "is 'forge'. You say it, everything stops. If you can't speak for any reason, you tap me three times. Doesn't matter how you tap me, can be your hands, can be your foot. Same deal, you do that and I stop completely no questions asked. Repeat it back to me."

She's panting, "safeword is forge. 3 taps. Stops everything."

"No questions asked."

She nods, "no questions asked."

He holds her wrists above her with one hand, trails his other hand down her arms, along her throat, and brings his hand under her chin. "Good girl."

She moans fully at that, arching and writhing against him at his words, and he feels drunk off it. Having her falling apart before he's even started, so helpless and ready for him. It's intoxicating. When he kisses her it's because he literally can't stop himself, he has to taste her. He nips and bites at her lips and she huffs and sighs with every touch, so responsive and so eager, and he could die right now a happy man knowing he's the one drawing these quiet noises from her.

He pulls away from the kiss, straddling her hips and sitting up on his knees over her. He keeps her hands pinned to the bed with one hand, and he pulls the silk length from his shoulder with his free one. She shudders as he drags it slowly along her torso, the soft fabric cool to the touch. He wraps it around her wrists to bind them together.

"Too tight?"

She tugs her wrists apart slightly and bites her lip, looking up at him through her lashes, shaking her head. He ingrains the image of her, below him and wanting, into his brain.

The free ends of the silk he wraps around the post of his headboard, tying them in a tight knot. Lacing his fingers with hers, he tugs at her hands to test it. The knot holds fast, and he hums in satisfaction. He sits back on his haunches to admire her, runs his hands down her arms to come to rest at her sides, squeezing the skin there. There's a little bit of give to her that lets him get a good grip of her, and she wriggles below him.

Her breasts spill towards her armpits and he can't resist, he brings his hands up to cup them both and teases both of her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, rolling and pinching them into hardened peaks. She lets out more of her quiet little noises, needy and wanton and absolutely delectable. When he leans forward and latches his lips around one of the buds, she arches her back into him, making a choked noise of surprise and pleasure, and his cock aches with how badly he needs her. He teases it with his teeth, laves it with his tongue, sucks it into his mouth and tugs away from her gently until she's a puddle beneath him, and only then does he switch to the other nipple and give it the same treatment while he slowly drags her small-clothes down her legs and off of her.

Everything about her is soft and tender. He's never been with someone who wasn't a tiefling before, and her body feels so entirely different to his own. Her skin is smooth and pliant under his, far softer than he thought she'd be from watching her fight. Her skin is cooler than his, too. It makes him shudder as he positions himself between her legs, holding them wide open either side of his face, with his hands spread over the inside of her thighs.

"What do you do if you want me to stop?" He whispers it against her core, mouth just barely brushing against her skin, and she shudders.

"Safeword, or three taps."

"And the safeword is?"

"'Forge'."

"Good girl. I'm going to taste you, now."

He covers her with his mouth before she can respond, and they both moan in tandem. Her from the feeling of his tongue sliding against her clit, him from the musky taste of her arousal. She's like nothing he's ever had before, completely incomparable, but she tastes rich and delicious and he licks his way into her core to taste her deeper. He doesn't start slow or gentle, he's wanted her cunt in his mouth for months and he's going to enjoy it. He drags his tongue over her in firm, insistent lines, and uses the tip of his tongue to massage her inner walls. It has her keening, crying, shaking, and her legs wrench closed from the sensations. Obviously, that can't stand, so he curls his tail around one of her ankles and pulls , and now it's pulled out taunt and she can't move it any further than an inch in any direction. It also has the added benefit of freeing one of Dammon's hands, and he wastes no time in trailing it around her entrance and slipping two fingers inside her. He crooks them upwards towards her stomach, and she wails, canting her hips further into his mouth and his tongue where it devours her clit relentlessly.

He knows she close, because she can't stop her hips from stuttering, and there's a constant stream of breathy high pitched noises forcing their way out of her. He doesn't let up, increases his pace if anything, and then she's coming around his fingers. He pulls them out enough to fit his tongue underneath her, swallowing down every drop of her as she finds her release, licking her through it. He only stops when he feels three taps of her foot against leg.

He sits up instantly. "Are you okay? Do you want me to untie you?"

She laughs shakily, "no! Gods, no, don't. It was just getting too sensitive."

He smirks at that, "good. Now then," He comes up onto his knees between her thighs, trailing his hands along her stomach. She shivers. "I removed a piece of your clothing. If I'm remembering the rules of our little game right, that means you get to ask me a question."

She doesn't even hesitate, "Can you hurry up and fuck me?" A pause. "...Please?"

He chokes out a laugh, "goodness, Tav, how crass of you."

She groans, throwing her head back, "please, Dammon, I need you inside me like yesterday."

"Hm. Next time, you'll have to ask me nicer than that. But right now I'm so desperate to fuck you I'll allow it. I've waited far too long for this."

She smirks despite herself, "oh? You have? I had no idea , Dammon."

He growls a little in the back of his throat, and scoots himself forward on his knees, lifting her ass and resting it on his thighs. He pulls his small-clothes aside roughly to free himself, groaning at the cool air as it caresses his length, and uses one hand to guide it as he pushes himself to the hilt in one small movement. The smirk dissolves off her face as her lips part in a silent moan. He chuckles quietly.

"Don't play coy, Tav." He grabs both her legs under her knees, brings them together and hooks them both over one shoulder. "You know exactly what you do to me. You know exactly how long I've wanted you." He leans over her slowly, until her knees are pressed up against her own chest. She keens. "You know how long I've waited for this. Don't you?" He pulls out slowly, teases her with just the tip in and out of her. " Don't you."

She throws her head back, eyes screwed shut. "Yes, yes, Gods I knew! I wanted you too!"

He snorts into her ear, "well you have me, sweetheart. Or rather,"

He crashes his hips into her. She keens.

"I have you."

He wastes no time. He sets a brutal pace and it's everything he's needed since the moment he saw her. Her legs presses together makes her so tight he sees stars, folding her in half means his cock kisses that perfect spot within her with every thrust. It's everything he imagined. It's better than anything he could've dreamt of. She's slick and warm and beautiful below him as she cries out his name, hips bucking to meet his own every time he slams into her.

He can't stop himself from rambling, words spilling out of him on their own accord. "Hells, Tav, you have no idea how many nights I spent thinking of you like this. How much I've wanted to take you like this, pinned underneath me and begging for me. Gods, you feel incredible. So wet for me, sweetheart. Tell me how much you wanted me."

She tries and fails, just making noises and taking deep laboured breaths. It's completely obscene and it's perfect.

He groans, "where, Tav? Where do you want me to finish? Where do you want my cum?"

Her moan is downright pornographic, "on my stomach, Dammon, please. Want to see your cum all over me."

Her words have him moving frantically inside her, and when she clenches around him with her second orgasm he's lost to it. He pulls himself from inside her, tugs himself twice before spilling across her torso. He paints her pale, freckled body in his spend and he wishes he was an artist so he could immortalise the image on paper.

When he feels like he can breathe again, he tucks himself back into his small-clothes, crawls his way up the bed to untie her wrists and he rubs them soothingly. She sigh, sounding content and comfortable.

"Are you okay?"

She spits out a single laugh, before descending into hysterics, and it's so infectious. He laughs alongside her.

"Am I okay? Dammon, that was fucking incredible. I'm gonna stay in this bed for the next week in the hopes of a few repeat performances."

He can't help the grin that spreads across his face. "A few, hm? I quite like the sound of that."

~~~

#bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 smut #bg3 fic #bg3 fanfic #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfic prompt #bg3 requests #bg3 dammon #dammon bg3 #dammon #bg3 tav #smut #fanfic #fanfiction

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sufferu · 3 months ago

Note

Hey what do you think of this take on rem’s love for subaru?

https://www.reddit.com/r/Re_Zero/comments/t85er7/novels_character_analysis_someone_just_like_her/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button

I think it brings up some very interesting points — I particularly like their point about Rem seeing herself in Subaru, as a fellow below-average individual trying their best regardless of their weakness — but I don’t think it captures their entire relationship and I feel like it paints Rem as a fair bit more…stable, than she actually is. Like, yes, she does see Subaru as her hero precisely because he works hard despite his weaknesses, but she DOES still see him as a hero, and she IS still putting him on a pedestal for it. Hell, her final act defending Crusch’s caravans from Lye Batenkaitos is punctuated by her CHALLENGING TWO SIN ARCHBISHOPS on Subaru’s behalf.

(we don’t talk about the fact that she did that enough tbh. what the fuck girl)

And like — I feel like this analysis completely glosses over a lot of the really fucked up stuff she does to Subaru pre-Gluttony. She DID torture him in the woods for several hours due to being suspicious of him, traumatizing him to the point where he’s still frightened of chains a year later. She DID murder him in the hallway of the manor, in a way that is explicitly called out as needlessly brutal by Emilia in the WN’s Unthinkable Present of Arc 4 (it was cut for time but it wasn’t replaced with anything, so I think it’s still worth bringing up). She DID sneak into his room to watch him sleep every night even after he said that it was…really kinda creepy. She DID have that internal monologue in the LN where she considered running away with Subaru while he was too braindead to protest so that she could have him all to herself, with nobody to get in her way. She DID call caring for him while he was too dependent on her to so much as eat, use the bathroom, or even sit up on his own “the pinnacle of joy.” She DID say that she “never would have resisted him” if he had forced himself upon her in her sleep. She DID fake dying to the White Whale in order to manipulate Subaru into saying he loves her. SHE DID ALL OF THOSE THINGS.

And also, the meta is NOT kind to her. Her love of Subaru gets paralleled to Petelgeuse’ love of Satella in Arc 3, with Petelgeuse praising her as the height of devotion (something he DOESN’T do with Wilhelm, notably, despite Wilhelm being Arc 3’s example of a more healthy form of devotion). Her love gets paralleled with Subaru’s early obsession with Emilia, too. She is the ONLY NON-SUBARU CHARACTER to be directly responsible for an IF Route, because Sloth:IF entirely hinges on whether or not she decides to take Subaru’s hand — NOT on Subaru’s decision to extend it in the first place, which is an important detail regarding how the IF Route is framed. And in Arc 7, her amnesiac self explicitly starts referring to everything she instilled in Subaru in those first couple arcs as insanely toxic: the more she starts to care about him, the more she tells him to slow down, to think about himself more, to — for the love of god — stop trying to be a hero. In the early part of Arc 9 she is one of the only people to say “yeah, I won’t rely on him right now, specifically because he’s dealing with enough as it is and he needs to slow down.” Rem, more than anyone else, absolutely despises the very things she pushed Subaru to believe during those first couple arcs, because she sees it as incredibly, actively harmful (and considering what Natchuki Subawu does during Arc 8 in order to be a hero, she is absolutely right).

I’m really looking forward to Rem regaining her memories, because the moment she realizes that SHE is the reason Subaru is like this, she is going to absolutely lose her shit.

(Also there’s something to be said about how her projecting herself onto Subaru and then being very strict with him — to the point where her amnesiac self goes directly against her earlier advice by telling him repeatedly to slow down, for fucks sake — there’s something to be said about how that reflects on how her treatment of herself is toxic and unhealthy. Which, you know, fits with how she forced herself to be Ram’s Perfect Replacement and pushed herself to her absolute limit for years. So.) (Like the way Arc 2/3 Rem treats herself is canonically Very Unhealthy, and also her self esteem is absolute shit. Let’s not forget that part lol)

#remsuba #my inbox #rem #natsuki subaru

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azsazz · 1 year ago

Text

Tonight I'm So Lonely

Cassian x Rhysand's Sister!Reader

Summary: One-Liner Anon Request: This is so cliche but what about “of course it’s you.” for your writing exercise 😙

Warnings: Depictions of violence.

Word Count: 1,384

Notes: The way that this isn't even a blurb at all. 😅

_________________________________________

“Of course it’s you,” you scoff, rolling your eyes at the sight of Rhysand stepping through the darkened doors of your balcony. The curtains frame him like whips of shadows, and if you hadn’t known that he was born to be the High Lord of the Night Court, you do now, with the way the darkness parts for their master.

Returning your gaze to the sky full of stars isn’t hard. Your stomach burns at the sight of your older brother, and you’d needed to escape from the family dinner that had been more tense than any of the war meetings you’d sat in for hours upon hours this week.

“Don’t want to talk to your brother?” Rhys clutches a hand over his heart, dramatic as ever. “I’m wounded.”

No, you don’t want to talk to him. Especially since he’s the one giving the order for Cassian to stay away from you. There was only so much Rhysand could do about keeping you from war planning, but every time you tried to catch Cassian’s eye across the map or when one of you would snap, signaling that it was finally time to rest for the night, he quickly disappeared.

It was you who had been the first to leave the last meeting, before Cassian could storm away because it hurt too much to see him walking away from you night after night, the tether inside of you to him stretching to the point of snapping every time he left.

You had overheard your brother asking him how he was doing, heard the shortness of Cassian’s words, his tone clipped and frustrated in a way the happy-go-lucky warrior had ever been.

Overhearing their conversation is how you found out that Rhys had ordered him to keep away from you.

It hurt more than you were willing to admit.

“Go away, Rhys,” you try to snap, but it comes out weak.

And because he’s your brother, he doesn’t listen. Rhys takes place beside you, leaning against the railing and looking out across the expanse of his court, the stars he’s made from.

Your eyes sting because it reminds you so much of when you were young and your parents had been murdered before you. You used to spend most of your nights out here, hand on the ragged scar across your throat, a constant reminder of what you hadn’t been able to stop. Rhysand would always find you, like he knew somehow that you weren’t able to sleep, trying to find your parents in the very stars above, and take up a spot beside you, searching with you.

It’s now that you finger over the mark across your neck, a habit, a reminder of how you were supposed to be with them, if Cassian hadn’t saved you.

He'd been the one to find you, closer than both Azriel and Rhysand to the scene of the crime that night. You remember his roar of agony upon seeing your mother and your caravan flipped on its side, horses slain, reins still attached to their unmoving maws. The way the warlord searched for you, even though your eyes were glued shut and his name was a gurgle on your lips.

You don’t remember much but the warmth of his chest and his desperate pleas for you to stay with him, though you could feel the slippery blood coating your front and turning your gown cold deep in the Illyrian woods. You’d heard he’d refused to leave your side while the healers worked to clean your wounds and stitch you up, not even when Rhysand went to seek revenge.

When you’d finally woken up and met Cassian’s hazel eyes the bond wrenched in your chest, claiming his as yours. Your savior. Your protector. Your mate. It had made you gasp so harshly he’d called the healers back, and you realized that he did not know the both of you were mates.

He had been your bodyguard for months afterwards, and as much as it pained you to be so close yet your mating bond unrecognized by his own, it was better to have him near and unknowing than far from your side.

Until the kiss you shared with him mere months ago. You couldn’t help yourself, mind confident from the far wine you and the rest of the Inner Circle had consumed over dinner that night. It had been a celebration of securing a small territory of land, taking it back from the army trying to wage war on your court. Long days and nights spent with swords in your hands and blood on your face, for victory.

Cassian had walked you back to your room, playing every part of polite guard. Your arm was tucked into his own and your bond yearned in your chest so loud that it made you cringe, pulled you to the tips of your toes to lean into his chest and pull his face down to meet your own.

It had been the moment you’d been waiting for. You’d rocked back on your feet from the force of his bond pressing into your own, jumping from his body into your to twine and twist around each other in a knot so tight there was no undoing it. His fingers had tightened around you, digging into your sides in a desperate way that had you moaning into his mouth, completely unaware that your brother had been watching from the stairwell, having come after you to discuss your part in the war.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you admit, and he can understand that. Rhysand knows you’re upset with him, but you’re his sister and it’s been a whole month since he’s gotten you alone without turning your back on him and immediately leaving the room. Standing next to you now, even if you refuse to look at him, is progress.

“I miss you,” he says, equally as quiet.

“And I miss Cassian, but we can’t all have what we want, can we?” You’re too tired to snap, lids heavy with long nights spent in Rhys’ office or war tent, planning relentlessly ways to win the battle, and longer midnights after, unable to sleep because you’re too busy thinking about the other half of your soul, trapped with another.

Rhysand sighs you name, and from that tone alone you know he’s about to lecture you, but it's the last thing you want so you stand tall, finally facing him after all of this time, your temper raging through your blood, letting loose and cutting him off.

“He’s my mate, Rhys,” you start and he startles, violet eyes going wide. Rhysands mouth parts but you’re barreling on, unable to stop the vitriol so desperately trying to spill from your lips. “I know you don’t know how it feels to have your mate yet, and I feel for you, I truly do. But you have no idea how it feels to know your mate and not be able to be with them. The pain I feel in my soul is unlike any wound I could ever experience on the battlefield. It doesn’t even compare to this,” you gesture to the long scar branded across your neck and Rhysand flinches. He still hasn’t forgiven himself for what had happened that night and most likely never will.

“Your mate?” He questions, and the disbelief in his voice has you faltering as well. He braces himself against the balcony, eyes searching yours like he’ll be able to see it, the way that your soul yearns for one of his best friends. “Cassian is your mate?”

“He didn’t…he didn’t tell you?” You murmur, voice lost in the dark breeze. You surely thought that Cassian would’ve said something to Rhysand when the High Lord had given his order to stay away from you, but from the look on your brother's face, you’re no longer so sure.

You share a look with Rhys, heart cracking in your chest when he shakes his head softly, “I didn’t know.”

Turning back towards the sky, you watch the stars, trying to force away the tears prickling in your eyes.

Your voice is an echo, your chest a cavern of pain that you’re sure your mate feels down to his very being.

“He didn’t tell anyone.”

#cassian x reader #cassian #acotar #azsazz #acomaf #acowar #cassian/reader

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feeling-pushy · 7 months ago

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Journey to the Kingdom

Thank you to my anonymous commissioner for giving me yet another amazing commission with Mika! Love writing for her and this premise was a really fun one! I hope I'll get to write for again in the future!

~2k, fpreg, in the woods, alone in the woods, nsfw

The ancient forest enveloped Mika’s small caravan as it creaked along the narrow path. Sunlight pierced through the dense canopy, casting dappled shadows on the moss-covered ground. Mika, with her shoulder-length black hair tied back, looked out from her coach seat, her light grey eyes scanning the surroundings. Her hands instinctively rested on the gentle swell of her belly, a soft smile playing on her lips as she felt a flutter of movement from within.

The journey had been long and arduous, but the promise of gold and the honor of delivering the future heir of a distant kingdom had driven her to accept the task. Normally, she would have refused such a request, especially being in the late stages of her own pregnancy. However, the prospect of securing a prosperous future for her child outweighed the risks.

The rhythmic clatter of wheels over uneven ground punctuated the quiet, each bump sending a twinge through Mika's body. Her once slender frame had softened during pregnancy, a transformation she accepted with grace, knowing it signified the miracle of life growing within her. With a soft sigh, she shifted in her seat, attempting to find a more comfortable position to ease the discomfort tugging at her lower back and hips.

Traveling alone was not ideal, but it allowed her the peace and solitude she needed to prepare for the task ahead. The forest around her was alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves.

"You're going to meet a little prince or princess soon." Mika murmured softly, her voice a soothing counterpoint to the rhythmic sway of the caravan. She placed a gentle hand over her belly, feeling the movements within. "We're almost there. Just one more days travel."

The caravan jolted over a particularly rough patch of road, pulling Mika from her reverie. She winced slightly, placing a hand on her lower back to ease the discomfort. Her hands rested lightly on the reins, guiding the sturdy mare along the winding path.

As Mika adjusted her position on the cushioned seat once again, her thoughts turned to the practicalities of the journey. She had packed all the necessary supplies, her medical instruments carefully wrapped and stored. She carried herbs and potions, remedies for pain and complications, as well as her own provisions. The caravan was modest but sufficient, providing shelter and a place to rest during the long nights.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over the forest. Mika knew she would need to find a suitable place to camp for the night. Aside from that, her back could use the rest, as the jostling of the cart had agitated it, causing her discomfort all day. She guided the caravan off the main path, following a narrow trail that led to a small clearing.

As she set about making camp, she felt a tight cramp ripple through her abdomen, squeezing her hips. She paused, leaning against the side of the caravan, breathing deeply to ease the discomfort. It had been a long day, and the constant jostling of the caravan had taken its toll. She waved the pain away, convincing herself it was just the strain of the journey as she got back to setting up the camp.

As darkness fell, Mika sat by the small fire she had kindled, the fire crackling and popping as she settled down on a blanket spread on the ground. The warmth of the flames and the quiet of the forest provided a brief respite from the day's challenges. Setting up camp had taken longer than normal, her having to stop now and again to ease a flare-up of pain in her back and hips, still sore from the journey.

But now everything was set up and she was settled. Mika closed her eyes, allowing herself a moment of peace as she let the warmth of the fire wash over her.

Just as she began to relax, a more powerful cramp seized her, doubling her over in pain. She clutched her belly, gasping for breath. This was different, much stronger than the earlier cramps. Panic flickered in her eyes.

"No... Not now." she whispered to herself, she placed a now trembling hand upon her abdomen, struggling to stay calm. Another wave of pain followed quickly, causing her to wince, eyes closing tightly as she focused on her breathing, just as she had counseled countless women before in their labors. There was no denying it now, she was in labor, alone in the middle of the forest, far from any help.

Her mind raced, assessing her situation. She knew she had to act quickly. The supplies she carried for others' deliveries would now have to be used for her own. Fighting through the pain of the contractions that now came in waves, she crawled to the caravan, rummaging for the necessary items. She found clean linens, a sharp knife, and herbs to ease the pain.

Mika set up a makeshift birthing area near the fire, laying out the linens and preparing for the task ahead. Despite the fear and uncertainty, her training as a midwife kicked in, guiding her actions with a steady hand.

As the next contraction hit, she gripped the edge of a nearby log, sweat beading on her forehead. The forest seemed to close in around her, the shadows lengthening as night fell.

As the contraction subsided, Mika eased herself down on her back, propping herself up on her elbows. The firelight flickered across her face, “You know, this isn’t the best timing, little one.” she murmured, her voice a mixture of pain and tenderness. “But I’m still excited to meet you. We’re going to get through this, together.”

Time passes, and the forest around Mika was now completely dark, save for the fire as it casted it’s long, flickering light. The contractions were relentless now, coming in waves as they squeezed and then released, and Mika could feel the pressure building inside her. It was a deep, almost unbearable force, pressing down with a sense of urgency that she couldn't ignore.

She planted her feet firmly on the ground, lifting her hips to rock and sway them, trying to relieve the mounting pressure. The movements provided some small comfort, a way to keep her focus amidst the waves of pain. She breathed deeply, in and out, her hands gripping the edges of the blanket beneath her.

“Come on, little one.’ she panted, her voice a bit strained, ‘We’re almost there. Just a little more.”

And then, in the midst of the turmoil, she felt it—a profound shift deep within her. With a small almost popping sensation, a gush of warm, clear fluid came from between her legs, soaking the blanket beneath her. Her water had broken, the sensation both a relief and a new source of anxiety, knowing that she might need to push soon.

Turns out, she didn’t have to wait long. As alongside the next building contraction Mika felt a deep, instinctual urge to push. The pressure was immense, and she knew she couldn't remain lying on her back any longer.

With great effort, she adjusted her position, shifting her weight and the blanket beneath her. She moved to sit up against a nearby fallen tree, the rough bark providing a solid support. The cool earth beneath her and the sturdy trunk at her back brought a measure of comfort amidst the intensity of labor.

Her breath came in ragged gasps as she braced herself, planting her feet firmly in the ground. The firelight flickered across her face, highlighting the determination in her eyes. “I’m ready now.’ she murmured to her baby, her voice a mixture of pain-tinged resolve, ‘Let’s do this.”

Another contraction surged through her, and Mika bore down, pushing with all her strength. The sensation was overwhelming, but felt heavenly at the same time as it gave her purpose. She gritted her teeth, her body straining with the effort, every muscle focused on bringing her child into the world.

Time seems to pass nebulously as Mika fell into the rhythm of childbirth, only aware of her body and the progress she made with each heaving push. The pressure intensified, and she could feel the baby’s head descending. She let a primal sound escape her lips, echoing through the forest.

Sweat streamed down her face, mingling with tears, as she soon starts to feel a bulging between her legs, growing a little bigger every time she bears down. This drove her to push harder, knowing it was the final barrier between her and the moment she had been waiting for.

She gripped her thighs, anchoring herself against the overwhelming pressure and weight. With a deep breath, she pushed with all her might, her muscles straining. Then she started to feel a little stretch, as her folds started to part. By the time the contraction breaks and she stops to catch her breath, it's starting to burn.

She reached down instinctively, her fingers brushing against the soft, wet hair of her child. The sensation filled her eyes with tears of pain and joy, “You're coming, my love.’ she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion, ‘Just a little more.”

Feeling her child’s head filled her with energy as she heaved anew, gritting her teeth as the baby's head emerged a little further, the burning sensation increasing. She could feel her muscles straining, her body stretching to accommodate the new life that was so close to entering the world.

Giving another big push, she felt the baby's head reach full crown, the pressure immense but exhilarating. Mika’s fingers brushed against the baby’s head again, feeling the soft hair. Mika panted, her voice filled with both exhaustion and triumph. “A-Almost here. You’re almost here.”

The next contraction gripped her, and Mika pushed slowly but firmly, feeling the baby's head inching forward. She could feel the baby��s head emerging, and her breaths came in short gasps as she paused. Mika then pushed again, guiding the baby's head out as she birthed the head fully. The baby’s head now rested against her thigh, the shoulders still within her. She could feel the slight movements, her child so close to joining the world.

Mika took a moment to breathe, her belly pulsing in time with her breaths. Mika then leaned forward and carefully supported the baby’s head with one hand, as she bore down once more, the pressure building as she focused on delivering the shoulders.

She pushed with all her might, feeling the baby's shoulders rotate and emerge one by one. The sensation was intense, but Mika stayed focused as with one final, fierce push, the rest of the baby’s body tumbled out, slippery and warm.

Mika’s heart swelled with overwhelming joy and relief as she scooped her newborn into her arms. The baby's first cries filled the clearing and echoed through the night. Tears streamed down Mika's face as she cradled the tiny, wriggling form against her chest.

“H-Hi Baby. Oh wow.’ she croaked, her voice choked with emotion, ‘You’re finally here. Welcome home.” The pain and struggle faded into the background as Mika held her baby close, the firelight bathing them in it’s warm glow.

Mika's journey had been long and arduous, but as she approached the castle, a sense of accomplishment washed over her. The towering stone walls of the kingdom’s stronghold loomed ahead, the castle gates opening in anticipation of her arrival. She cradled her newborn close to her chest, the baby swaddled snugly in a soft blanket, their tiny face peeking out as they slept peacefully.

As she made her way through the grand archway, she was greeted by a steward who bowed deeply. “Lady Mika.’ he said, his voice a respectful murmur, ‘The king and queen are awaiting you in the royal chambers. This way, please.”

As she was led to the chambers to meet the expectant mother, Her baby stirred slightly, and she adjusted the blanket, whispering soothing words. She had been through an incredible journey, both physically and emotionally, but now she was ready for the next chapter in her life and to assist in bringing another life into the world.

#preg kink #pregnant #fpreg #birth kink #birth story #birth #giving birth #labor kink #in labor #labor and delivery #fic commissions #writing commissions #commissions

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sunlightmurdock · 1 year ago

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The Odyssey | 0.8 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

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Synopsis: Bradley keeps a close eye on the other students, nightly dinners become a regular occurrence. Malcolm feels further away than ever. A phone call in the middle of the night causes a swift change in plans.

Warnings: enemies to lovers, power imbalance (professor / student relationship), age gap (22 / 33), will be smut, virgin reader, swearing, infidelity. 18+ minors dni

…

Bradley wakes up with the sun. All of those West Coast mornings and thin, green floral curtains in his grandmother’s house. The sun spilling through them and alerting him to the Chordettes playing downstairs on grainy vinyl. That meant his mother was cleaning. Lemon-scented disinfectant, her sitting on her knees polishing the hardwood with a rag. The effortless warmth of her voice drifting through the walls.

He exhales. Sunlight seeps through his eyelids but there’s no Chordettes album today. No lemon scent. Just a dusty room and one of his students sleeping six feet away. His eyelids flutter, blinking through the early morning light. A slow turn of his neck allows him to check the clock on the nightstand and doesn’t affront the stiffness that these cheap mattresses give him either.

It’s early. About four hours before Luke would naturally rise, anyway. Bradley hits the alarm and pushes himself upright with a soft sigh. He doesn’t have to be quiet when he’s getting out of bed, that kid could sleep through a hurricane.

They have a lot in common. Lots of similarities in the way they were raised. Bradley likes him beyond just being his professor. In different circumstances, they would be friends. But, Bradley has always kept that line in the sand clear. Until now. Until you had kissed him.

Showered and dressed, Bradley’s up before most of Verona. The soles of his shoes are quiet against the cobble. Italian leather from almost a decade ago. A gift from an old friend that have held up well. The only dress shoes he’s got.

It’s bright out. Bright enough that Bradley’s squinting through his Ray-Ban caravans already, but it’s not too hot just yet. There’s a wind that makes the loose white of his button-up billow against his tanned skin, fighting to work free from being neatly tucked into his belt.

Enzo’s out on the steps by the time Bradley gets there, which means he is late. Teaching hasn’t ever been Bradley’s passion, but it makes way for him to study and — in theory — he gets his summers off. It allows him to write.

“Good morning.” Enzo greets him with a smile. Bradley’s not much for the business side of things — he would have better luck at counting the shades of blue in the sky than he would at figuring out schmoozing. Enzo knows this, and Bradley knows that he knows this. “How’s the book coming?”

“I’m not sure,” Bradley answers with a broad shrug. He tucks the gold frames of his sunglasses into the part of his shirt. “I’m not sure I’ll have it finished by the end of summer.”

Olive-skinned and about fifteen years Bradley’s senior, Enzo looks the part of a sleazy salesman even if he’s just a curator when his lips twist up into a smile. “Something’s got you a little distracted, hm?”

The straight ahead stare, the deep, slow breaths and the unwavering tight line that his lips are pressed into; Bradley’s reaction is easily readable — and Enzo’s close enough to get hit if he keeps it up. He knows that. Towing the line is his specialty.

“Just joking. Here, let’s go in.”

Three soft-sounding steps inside and Bradley’s back where he was this morning. Ten years old and laying on his back in the twin bed in the bedroom at the front of his grandmother’s house, smelling artificial lemon.

He turns his head just a little, his eyes lingering on the mop being pushed around the tile floor, as Enzo leads him further inside.

Being published is what professors dream of. Having someone decide that their little ramblings are interesting enough to publish. Bradley’s study focuses on two things that are inherently interesting to begin with — sex, and power.

His research may be tedious every now and again but the content is always rich. His morning spins by and before he knows it, it’s time to meet you again. You’re ready for him when he gets there, tugging open the door before he has knocked.

But, you don’t look excited to see him.

Cheeks flushed, your body language suggests to him that you would have a decent future as an offensive lineman. His gaze flickers up, over your head and into your seemingly innocent hotel room. Powerless as he scans the room, you just hope he can’t figure out what it is that has you so rattled.

You had aimed to finish before he had arrived but time had gotten away from you.

“So what are we doing today?” You try.

“What are you writing?” His eyes are already on it. The open stack of lined papers, torn out of the notebook already, sitting on the vanity by the wall. Your perfume is next to it and you’ve got the stationary set that your mother got you laid out neatly next to it.

“Nothing.”

He looks down. First, at your face. Wide eyes and baited breath. Then, at your hands suddenly resting against his chest like they’ll hold him in place. His lips twitch.

“Nothing?” He repeats to you. Enjoyment seeps through his words, amusement tugs at his lips and he lifts his right foot to take one step forwards. “Mind if I take a look?”

Instantly, your fingers are curling into his shirt and you’re throwing your weight at him to keep him where he is. Bradley huffs out a sound of amusement, passing you in one swift stride as you claw at his button up to slow him down.

“Don’t, Bradley, it’s stupid — I was just messing around. I don’t want you to read it.”

His fingers brush the top page as you plead with him, tugging at his sleeve, trying to change his mind. He lifts it nonetheless and shoots you a grin, making a show of clearing his throat.

“Dear Juliet,” He pronounces, turning his attention back to the page from you.

“Bradley, please don’t.” It’s not fun anymore. You’re quiet and resigned to him doing whatever he pleases. Embarrassment teems through you.

It’s a familiar kind of crushing feeling. It’s never just feeling small, it’s never that simple. It’s being made small. Every inch that you shrink, you’re squished down further until you’re nothing.

You can see it in his face, the exact moment that he reads his initials on the paper. It had seemed too personal to use his name. Back when this had seemed like a good idea at all.

He doesn’t read on. The paper sits still in his hand as he turns his head towards you. You stare back at him, preparing yourself. Tongue poised, ready to spit whatever venom he deserves after what he says next. Eyes wide, and sad.

“I’m sorry.”

He sets the paper back down as he had found it. It’s not his to discard, it wasn’t his to read. Bradley steps forwards and wraps his hands gently around both of your biceps.

“That wasn’t cool,” He tells you quietly. Bradley knows a couple of different languages, and he’s confident that he’s speaking English now, even if you’re staring at him like he isn’t. “I didn’t realize what it was. I was just trying to mess with you. I barely read any of it.”

Silent, you blink a few times. He’s still there with his big, heavy hands anchoring around your biceps. He’s waiting for you to say something back.

Slowly, your brows draw together. Your eyes flicker over every inch of his face, looking for some fault that will give up this little act.

Suddenly, your mind is made up. This is an act. He’s not sorry, men rarely are. You straighten your back and lift your chin, if you were a cat your claws would be out and ready. “You’re such an asshole.”

The clock beside your bed, the hands don’t move, and yet it feels like you can hear something ticking. Maybe your heartbeat. He’s staring back at you, not moving, but he’s going to have to soon — it’s his turn.

“I know, honey,” Bradley’s hands open and he releases your arms, only to open his and wrap you in them. Your face presses into his chest as he rubs a hand along the small of your back. “I didn’t mean to.”

You’ve received plenty of life lessons on what it means to be a woman. Your grandmother, your mother, your aunts and cousins, teachers and friends. Not one of them prepared you for this. In your scope, apologies come in the form of jewelry or luxury vacations.

No one had ever prepared you for a man to look into your eyes and tell you that he is truly sorry.

“I just wanted to put it on paper, get it out of my head,” You mumble into his shirt, inhaling the notes of wood and warm spice in his cologne. Your hand rests against his stomach now, unclenched. Your body is soft against his. You relax out of all of that tension and let him hold you. “Make some sense of it.”

His palm hugs the base of your skull, cradling you against his shoulder. His cheek rests against the top of your head. He gives you a slow nod.

“You should finish it.” Bradley tells you.

“Yeah. Maybe later.” You hum. It’s nice, to be held by him. He strokes a hand softly over your hair.

Within this city, within the walls of the first space that you have had to yourself in three weeks, in this brown hotel room — you have let yourself be his.

Tomorrow, you’ll move on to Venice. The decision is yours, to leave him and all of this insanity right here — forever between these four walls — or to let go.

Bradley’s thumb trails the nape of your neck. He can feel you deep in thought. Just once, he would like to know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours. “Could be our activity for today. Write it in Latin, think of it as a translation activity. I won’t check it.”

Lifting your head, you stare up at him, lips pursed in distaste. “If you don’t check it then what’s the point?”

“Confidence.” Bradley tells you. You feel his open palms trail your back until they hit your belt. Then, they skim around to rest safely on your waist. “The more you practice—“

“Yeah, yeah…” Both hands push against his chest as you wriggle out of his arms and turn. “Okay, I’m in.”

“Let’s sit outside. It’s a nice day.”

The eighth of June. The day you sat in a public garden opposite a fountain, laying on your front in the grass while Bradley sat in front of you, propped up against a tree. It turns out that when Bradley says he knows a place, it’s usually worth listening.

“What’s this place called?”

“Giusti Garden.” He tells you, working on something of his own in his lap.

“And what is it?” You ask him, trailing the end of your pencil through the dictionary. He looks up at you, his own pencil stilling for a second.

“A palace, originally.” Blinking through the lenses of his sunglasses, Bradley glances down at the page in front of him and back to your lips, pursed in concentration. “Pretty popular. Mozart, Gorthe, Ruskin— they’ve all visited this place.”

“Huh.” You hum.

This time when his gaze flickers up, you have moved. Your lips are parted, you tap the rubber at the end of your pencil against your bottom lip.

Mid-sentence and stuck, you turn your head towards him and he’s already looking at you. He read what was on that paper the first time. He reads hundreds of essays a year, he has mastered the art of clearing a page quickly.

Admittedly, he hadn’t gotten through the whole page, but he’d noticed that you had stopped halfway through a word at the bottom.

He read all about it. How confused you are. The new feelings and the difficult thoughts. Malcolm and how much he loves you. How guilty you are. How furious with yourself you are.

Selfishly, Bradley wonders if you’re writing the same thing now. All of those biting looks and harsh words — Bradley feels like he’s just starting to understand, and he likes the person behind it all.

He’s grown up enough to know that you’ve got enough people messing with your head back home. Whatever that letter helps you realize, Bradley has already decided that he isn’t going to say a word about it.

It’s still bright out by the time that your letter is signed and sealed, tucked into your bag. You straighten up, brushing off your front as Bradley collects his things behind you.

“Here.”

Lifting your head, you almost miss it. He watches your eyes land on the folded piece of paper extended towards you. Your lips quirk softly as you reach out and take it from him.

Breeze catches your hair, you comb it off of your forehead with one hand as you open up the paper with the other. Three different pencil sketches sit on the paper.

The largest is in the centre. It’s of your face and your shoulders, elbows propped up against the grass and your lips pouted slightly as you study the book before you. The lashes, the slight misshape of your polo collar, the tip of your nose. He’s got it down to a science.

The other two are just sketches. One of your face, turned to the side like it is in the drawing of you laying down. The last is of you looking at him, smiling. You don’t even remember what he had said. Neither does he. But he remembers that look.

“What’s this?”

Bradley just slips the pencil into the pocket of his jeans and starts walking, nudging his elbow into yours as he passes by. “You asked me to draw you, didn’t you?”

In truth, he assumes that it’s going to be a parting gift. Call him sentimental, but Bradley always leaves something to remember him by.

When he closes his eyes, he doesn’t remember his father’s face. He has seen it in pictures before, but never in memories. No, he remembers hugging his father’s legs, and sitting on his knee. He remembers the smell of tobacco.

The replacement dog tags. The gold chain. The shoes in the box in his mother’s wardrobe. The suit that Bradley never grew into — one day it was too big and the very next, he had already outgrown it. Those are what he has to piece together parts of his father.

When you’re old and married, maybe you’ll find the drawing and piece together the parts of Bradley that made you smile like that.

You trail behind him, white tennis shoes in the trimmed green grass. A white polo shirt tucked into lemon yellow shorts, your sunglasses sweeping your hair back off of your forehead.

In another life, he’d reach back and you would wrap your palm around his index finger. He would smile at you and you would be all kinds of giddy about this date.

But this isn’t that — it doesn’t work like that this time around. Someone could see you. Bradley knows now how you’re feeling. He knows that your fiancé is on your mind. He chose once, took Natasha’s choice in her own future from her. He won’t do the same to you.

“The dinner thing,” You call out from behind him, watching your shoes travel from grass to stone pavers as you pass by an intricately carved fountain. He turns his head and peers at you over the top of his sunglasses, looking over his shoulder. “Is that really every night?”

Before you’re even done with your question Bradley’s looking ahead once again, and you’re left looking at the plain white of his cotton tee stretched pliantly over the swell of his shoulders. “Until you all start treating each other with a little respect, I guess so.”

“All of us? — Come on, Bradley, don’t act like you don’t know who the problem is.” An incredulous scoff, barely paying attention to your own words as your eyes wander around the flowered garden. “She’s just a slut, and—“

He stops and turns. Your gaze snaps from double early tulips and their puffed yellow petals to Bradley standing before you — the look in his eyes is scolding before his mouth has even moved.

“Do you listen to a single thing that I say? — Seriously?” He asks you, brows drawn together and his lips pressed into a frown. You simply blink at him.

“What?”

“She’s a slut because she has sex with her boyfriend?” He challenges you, shaking his head. The past week, Bradley has been spoon-feeding you content about the sexual culture through the history of Rome. You nod like you understand and yet, you come out with bullshit like that.

He’s the one who challenged you. You simply answer back.

“She’s a slut because he’s not her boyfriend. They’ll both tell you that.” You tell him, defiance coursing through your veins in lieu of anything that might have helped you make a stronger argument.

“What does that make me? — You listen to my stories with a smile on your face. It’s not dirty until it’s someone you don’t like, huh?” Bradley asks. He’s right, you know that much. Bradley has indubitably slept with far more people than Robin possibly could have.

Still, maybe it’s his tone that makes you need to bite back so quickly. Hands on your hips and a scowl on your face, you stand off against him before the fountain. “What does it matter to you if I think she’s a slut?”

“It matters —“ Bradley stops and takes a deep breath. He leans in by three inches and you’re met with that familiar woody smell that just makes you want him even closer. “Use your brain. Whatever your mommy and daddy taught you back home is bullshit — you’re the odd one out.”

With that, he turns and starts away from you. He won’t leave you to walk home alone, but he will walk six paces ahead so that you’re clear with the fact that you have once again stepped on his nerves.

“I’m the odd one out for respecting my body?” You call out to him.

“Respecting it, ignoring it… same difference, right? — It’s your call, honey,” Bradley walks slowly closer until the toe of his sneaker brushes yours. He lowers his voice, calm. “But choosing not to have sex doesn’t make you better than Robin.”

“I’m not your honey.” You bite back.

“Right,” Bradley nods at you. He lifts his arms and drops them back against his sides incredulously. “But here we are.”

It’s an eleven minute walk back to the hotel. You stroll behind him, sullen like a scolded child. The letter feels heavy in your bag. He might not have called you a slut, but you’ve been put in your place nonetheless. The words would never pass your lips — but he’s right. The comparison’s right there in front of you, all around you. You’re living it.

She can’t be a slut for sleeping with one boy if you’re not for whatever you’ve got going on with Bradley.

You would hold it against her, crushing like a weight, if she told your story back to you. If she was the one with a fiancé at home and a professor who spent afternoons in her hotel room.

Still, your face is hot and you’re not ready to speak to him. Halfway across the herati patterned rug that covers most of the reception area, Bradley turns and looks at you as he tucks the arm of his sunglasses into the collar of his t-shirt.

Chin high and shoulders squared, your clear path is to walk right by him. Just as you always have when a man in your life has embarrassed you.

One step ahead, Bradley catches your wrist loosely, stopping you mid-stride. “Dinner’s in five. Remember?”

“I’m not going to dinner with you.” Your answer is simple and biting. Childish. He wouldn’t be surprised if you crossed your arms and stomped your foot.

“It’s not up for discussion. Everyone’s going.” Bradley explains. Right on time, he lifts his gaze and spots Pasquale headed towards the two of you from across the lobby. It’s not like he won’t have seen the two of you argue before.

He reaches you with a smile and stands at Bradley’s side. His bald head has caught the sun, reddened slightly with head. The smile lines beside his eyes always crease when he beams at Bradley. He stands almost an entire foot shorter. Looking up at him and grinning like a kid, even though he’s older than Bradley.

“Hi, guys!” He pats Bradley’s arm jovially and turns that wide, cheesy grin to you. “How is the revision going?”

Your eyes land on the professor and suddenly there’s something dark about them that has simply nothing to do with eye colour, and everything to do with the mood he put you in.

Pasquale lives in ignorant bliss for the two seconds that it takes you to settle your hands into the shallow pockets of your lemon shorts and narrow your eyes at the professor. “Bradley’s a self-righteous asshole.”

“But what else is new!” Pasquale tries. The laugh is forced out of him and nerves shake through it. He shoots Bradley an apologetic look. Bradley’s looking at you anyway.

“She got a C minus yesterday. Still trying to figure out if it was a fluke.” Bradley bites. Your eyes widen.

Sitting on his lap, wrapped in his arms as he told you how hard you had worked — how proud he was. His hand trailing your spine. His mouth soft against yours. Butterflies tearing through your stomach.

“I think I got too much sun today. I’m going to lie down. Enjoy dinner.” Fuck mandatory. Fuck every single student on this trip. Fuck this class, and fuck him in particular. Pasquale swallows softly as you turn on your heel and head for the stairs.

Bradley turns his chin towards the ceiling. He wants to like you, he wants you to like him. In the moments that you do, everything feels so easy. Like the breeze in early June. But when you’re hell bent on arguing with him — those are like those scorching hot summers back in California. Surrounding and heavy. Pressing in on him until he bites.

“A C… that’s not so bad. Right?” Pasquale asks quietly. Bradley turns his head and looks at him, there isn’t really an answer to give. A B is the average in his class, so no — a C really isn’t bad.

The thing about old Italian hotels is that they tend to be marketed towards guests looking to lead quiet lives — romantic getaways and such. Not young women fuelled by anger. The door slams and teaches you a quick lesson in cause and effect. The painting hung on the wall to the right of the bed wobbles in complaint, then bumps to the floor. The glass frame promptly shatters across the floor.

There’s an almost calm silence that follows. A few slow blinks, and the glass is still there. The frame is still shattered. There are pieces all across the floor. Bradley still said what he said.

The soles of your tennis shoes are thin and pliant, excellent for movement but not designed to fend off glass shards. Crossing the floor at that exact moment seems like far too much of a challenge. So, you press your back to the door and slide down it. Cupping your hands tight over your mouth, you clamp your eyes tightly shut and let it go.

The scream is muffled by your palms, but probably still enough to alarm other guests.

Your bag clatters haphazardly to the floor and you lift your face from your hands just long enough to examine the mess once again. Huffing out a sadder sound than you had intended, you push weakly to your feet once again.

Until today, Verona had been your favourite stop so far. Even with that spoiled, at least you have an en-suite here. You’re more careful with that door. You tug it closed and lock it behind you, toeing off each of your shoes as you go.

These old hotels have old water heaters too. You lean across to turn the shower on first and wriggle out of your shorts, dropping your polo onto the ground with them. Facing straight ahead, you stare into the little round mirror above the sink. It’s got molding all around it that was supposed to look gold once, but the peeling paint reveals brass underneath.

Your reflection stares back at you, sullen. It’s a portrait, just your head, shoulders and chest. Swallowing doesn’t make the thickness in your throat fade. You just blink at your reflection in the mirror. The cotton t-shirt bra hugged to your chest is modest and does it’s job — nothing more.

You’ve seen lingerie — you own lingerie. You have a white teddy with matching panties reserved especially for your wedding night. Bradley has most definitely seen lingerie.

A swift inhale is followed by a baited exhale.

The memory is so distinct, standing in a mall with your mother at the ripe age of twelve, watching her soured expression as she searched through the rack.

“Lace, lace, lace.” She had tutted. Back then, you had been more concerned about someone you knew seeing you here, shopping for your first bra. You hadn’t understood.

“Mom, just grab one. I want to go home. I don’t care what I wear.” You had whined, fidgeting on your feet and brushing awkwardly at the pleats of your dress. You’ll always remember the way that she had rounded on you, eyes wide like you had asked her to buy you a thong.

“Well you should, young lady!” Her voice always sounded scarier when you were younger, even though it had always been hushed and poised.

You have been a grown up for a while now. Lived outside of her home. Had your own bank account, car, clothes — and that voice still circles in your head.

The nightdress she had gotten you last Christmas is hanging on the back of the door. Malcolm hates it. He says it reminds him of his grandmother.

You look down at the thread scissors from your sewing kit resting on the shelf beside the sink. Anger has often led you to some of your best DIYs.

“So, we all have to be here… except not actually all of us.” Robin points out, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms over her striped t-shirt. Elbow resting on the table, Bradley turns his head to look at her.

“She’s sick, Robin, leave her alone.” Abigail mutters from beside her, pushing her fork around the plate of roasted vegetables.

“No, but I heard Bradley say mandatory. So, mandatory for everyone except—“

“Robin.” Bradley sighs, sitting back in his seat and frowning at her. The restaurant is dimly lit, almost ten of them are cramped around a table in the corner, and after your argument today, Bradley just doesn’t want to hear it. “I don’t want to hear another damn word.”

This is what Bradley hates most about education. Half of the time a punishment for his students is more of a punishment for himself, which this dinner just so happens to be. He wants them to like you. He doesn’t want to hear the bitter comments and the arguing.

Everyone’s eager to get it wrapped up and over with. It’s still early by the time that he heads back to the hotel — everyone else decides to go out for drinks again, without you. Making the entire thing pointless.

The knock at your door startles you. You wince as the pin slips into the tip of your finger, inhaling sharply. Abandoning the project on the bed, you push yourself to your feet and walk over to the door. You already know who it is.

Bradley’s gaze flickers down at the sweat shorts and T-shirt you’re wearing first, then back up to your face.

“How was dinner?” You’re already turning away from him again, stepping onto the bed and tiptoeing back across the sheets. Bradley glances behind him, then steps inside and closes the door.

“Are you done sulking?” He rests his hands on the leather belt wrapped around his hips. Sewing needle in hand, you lift your head and stare, silent. “I’m allowed to disagree—“

“Fuck you,” This time, you don’t give him a chance to finish. You turn your head and continue to thread the new hem. “What you said was cruel and you know it, this isn’t about a disagreement.”

His gaze turns towards the ceiling, hands still sitting atop his belt.

“It was. I’m sorry.” He mutters with an exhale and a shake of his head. Bradley looks back at you finally. His brows draw together and he takes a step into the room. “What are you doing?”

“Hemming.” Your answer is short.

Briefly, Bradley presses his tongue into his cheek and considers just saying goodnight. Then, he notices exactly what it is that you’re working on.

“Did you cut that in half?” He’s already crossing the room and craning his neck to get a better look. Unluckily for him, you’re finished. He watches you look up at him through your lashes and lift the nightdress, then stand up from the bed. “Oh, you’re ignoring me now?”

The door to the bathroom swings shut behind you, the thin wood does nothing to muffle your voice. “I’m not ignoring you.”

Bradley’s attention has already waned. He’s looking at the paper on your nightstand. His drawing from earlier is uncurled and illuminated in the light of the lamp, below that is your address book — opened to a page with Malcolm’s name. Dotted around are little pink hearts, his number neatly written along the line.

“Are you snooping?”

Bradley flinches, turning back towards you with a swift inhale. He remains silent, lips parted as you march from the bathroom to the wood-framed mirror about three feet from where he’s standing.

Aware of his eyes on you, you study the new garment. It sits a few inches above your knee, just above mid-thigh. The sweetheart neckline keeps it sweet. Bradley’s eyes flicker briefly downwards in the reflection. With the window open, he can’t help but notice your nipples peaked against the light cotton blend.

“What’s this?” He asks quietly.

“I wanted a change.” You answer him.

He lifts his gaze to your face, just in time for you to turn and face him. Half an hour ago, you were talking to your fiancé — and yet, you’ve got no shame in searching for Bradley’s approval like this. Maybe you aren’t as pure as you had once thought, or as your mother would like you to be. But for now, standing in front of him, you aren’t ashamed.

Malcolm had called you today from his office. He was eating a sub that one of the interns had grabbed from him and he was telling you about his week. Numbers and figures.

You had thought of everything you could tell him. Juliet and the views of the city, sitting under the tree in that garden this afternoon. Bradley.

“I’m sorry that I said what I said.” Bradley tells you. Maybe it’s just because he’s desperate to get the conversation off of the light fabric you’re wearing, but something tells you that he means it. “It was childish, and you’re right, I was being cruel.

Barefoot, you take four short steps forwards until you’re standing right in front of him.

“I’m not saying you’re right — but I shouldn’t have called Robin a slut.” The admission comes with a small, lip-twitching smile. Bradley’s hands reach forwards and curl around your hips.

“She is annoying. I’ll give you that much.” Bradley concedes. Your mouth twists into an eager grin as you press closer and shift up onto your tiptoes. Bradley steadies your hips and follows you in until your mouth is on his. Slowly, sweetly. His hands skim along the yellow fabric experimentally. He hums as he pulls away from you. “So, what’s with this?”

“You’re right. I was ignoring my body — I like the way I look in this. I like my shape. I can still respect myself without covering up so much. Right?”

Fuck. Bradley stares at you for just a split-second too long. He wrestles with the realisation of what he has just done to himself. Sure, you listened to him for once and it was a decent lesson to learn — but his summer just got considerably harder.

“Do you like it?”

He trails his fingers lightly along the fabric, careful not to touch too hard and press it against your skin. Quietly, he hums. “Sure. It’s cute.”

Bradley’s mind is swimming as he is walking back to his room. Fine, he resolved the issue that he went up there to resolve. Now, he has presented himself with a much bigger one.

His hands press into the pockets of his jeans as he starts to contextualize how deep he actually is into this mess. He hasn’t ever thought about fucking a student before — not once. He detests the men he knows that fantasize of it. And yet, here he is, picturing his fingers bunching up that stupid nightdress.

“Hey, Bradley.” Luke grins, sprawled out across his bed in the dark, reading a magazine with a flashlight. Bradley flinches. The door shuts behind him and they’re in there together. “Natasha called from Turin! She told you that she’s going to be in Venice this weekend too, she asked you to call her back.”

…

Tags: @thedroneranger @batdanceq @cassiemitchell @himbos-on-ice @wkndwlff @bradshawsbaby @damrlova @fudge13 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @sihtricswife @callsignvenus @callsign-joyride @harper1666 @krismdavis @sheisanangell @thecitysgraveyard @sugarcoated-lame @kmc1989 @cherrycola27

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #bradley bradshaw smut #rooster x you #rooster bradshaw imagine #top gun smut #the odyssey #bradley bradshaw x reader

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witchofthesouls · 26 days ago

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Look at these three:

It's from that TFP barbarians/city-dwellers twist on a really out there verse where Others from Earth managed to make Cybertron a home AU I was talking about.

D-16 here is doing his best to get these two acclimated to Neocybex, both the Common and Ilmentite (a dialect that's utilized by deep underground miners). He has treats hidden in his hands if they can get specific glyphs right. Scraplet/Orion is very much motivated by food. Juno is highly motivated to get the language down so she can wholly curse the mecha that stole her away and be understood by everyone.

Because D-16 no longer has companions his age, he latched onto the two little 'newcomers.' as they're the only ones that can venture out and do their part to help the cohort. He's happily 'mentoring' as he mimicking what the adults do for the fresh newbuilds. The adults around him think it's both cute and disheartening as no one has the spark to tell D-16 that there's a really high probability that those two won't make it (Spoilers: they do.) as sparklings that get sold to the mines typically have issues that surface-dwellers refuse to take.

Although Orion is the oldest of the three, D-16 had more consistent meals and the protection of an adult cohort to ensure he was able to develop normally. While Orion is shorter and less ornate due to delays, he has a far greater tolerance for different fuels, denta capable of crushing rocks, talons on agile hands, and very advanced sensory systems. Hence why his audials and antenna are detailed. Right now, he's pinging and listening around them in case anything (or one) tries to sneak behind them. That box is his best friend as Orion can't believe these mecha just try to throw away decent food! (It's a disposal crate meant that's currently meant for minerals. And yes, Orion sleeps curled up to it.)

Juno (a June Darby that descended from a Cybertron/Earth hybrid) is fretted upon by the adult miners around her. Because of her heritage, her armature is relatively weak, and those 'thin' robes are a part of it. Unlike a usual Cybertronian sparkling that can not remove their armature until a later stage in adolescence, her kind can due to their extended duration of frame development and constant manipulation due to a cross of Earth shapeshifters/humans and Cybertronians over the generations. (Their communities developed a strange relationship between wearable clothes and their natural-born armature.) The mask is part of her tribe's way of life. Less about hiding identity and more to help the young tap into latent abilities by drawing on the blank slate to invoke simple spells or transformations. That blank mask with those empty and dark optic holes creeped out many until she took it off. Nor does she have a 'proper' helm as she has an exposed mess of thin cabling that she can control. She has them tucked away in low buns whenever she needs to follow D-16 or his parent's cohort out of the Den. D-16 likes poking them since he never seen anything like that in his life. Despite her small stature and dainty appearance, she's a little menace that's currently full of rage and would absolutely bite the throats out of the mecha that stole her.

The harness she has isn't from her tribe but from the Snatchers. It's actually a specialized inhibitor and a tracker. The raiding caravan was hoping for the nearby Wilders to launch a rescue so they could track exactly where the main of the communities since young creatures, practitioners, and Seekerkin would fetch the highest credits and prizes from high rollers and the elite. Since her robes have sigils and runes carved inside to hide her and she lacks a T-cog, she was sold to the Tarn's mines as she seemingly had none of the 'exotic' and powerful abilities of the Wilders.

Some little extra details:

The boys are far more dirty since Juno has some sigils to keep herself clean for longer periods of time

D-16 is playing 'I spy'

Those blocky thick stripes on D-16 are harzard stripes and doubles as a unique identifier to his creators' cohort in case anything happens since D-16 doesn't count as a full person yet

The miners are trying to figure out how to keep it on Juno

Orion has it on his back

The box in Orion's hands has two Cybertronian scripts. The top is Common Neocybex (TFOne glyphs), which reads DISPO. Shorthand for disposal. It reads left to right. The other is the written version of Ilmentite (glyphs from Gen 1 comic and Transformers video games). It actually skips vowels and reads top-down. It's cut off, but it says MINERALS.

Orion's antenna and audials make subtly clicks and can move independently.

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baccarry · 1 month ago

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Winter's Promise

Summary: Boromir and a girl from Rohan continue to meet in secret against the backdrop of a harsh winter. Their encounters, filled with genuine moments and quiet conversations, bring them closer together despite the differences between their worlds.

Amid their growing relationship, Boromir faces an inner conflict: torn between his duties as Gondor’s heir and his longing to be simply a man who loves and is loved. The girl, too, understands that their love might be impossible within the rigid confines of Gondorian tradition, but her feelings and faith in him outweigh her fears.

Set in the wintry landscapes of Rohan, the story unfolds as each day brings the promise of spring—a symbol of hope and a new beginning for them both.

The tale can be enjoyed as a continuation of The Scarlet Ribbon or as a standalone story.

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings

Pairing: Boromir x Reader

Rating: G

Dedication: This story is dedicated to @scyllas-revenge and @lilunoakes for their inspiring comments and unwavering support. Thank you for being part of this journey!

Note: Winter's Promise is the second installment in The Scarlet Ribbon series. There will be 2–3 more parts to this story, including one smut chapter (18+). To stay updated, follow the tag #The Scarlet Ribbon Update so you don’t miss any new releases!

2890 Words.

***

It was midwinter, and you went to the river to do laundry. A mundane task, but for you, it was also an excuse to leave the house, to be alone—and perhaps to meet the one whose presence you longed for so much. You wore warm, simple clothing suitable for a merchant’s daughter from a roadside village in Rohan. A long green woolen cloak lined with fur, fastened with a leather belt, covered you. Underneath, you wore a dark blue dress of sturdy fabric that didn’t hinder movement. On your feet were soft boots lined with sheepskin, and you had wrapped a thick scarf around your head to shield your hair from the wind.

You carried a wooden basin and a small sack of laundry. In your hands was also a bag containing washing tools: a brush, wooden paddles for beating out dirt, and bars of soap that your father had acquired from a passing caravan. Yet what you regretted most was leaving behind the iron pickaxe, deciding at home that the river wasn’t fully frozen over yet.

When you reached the river, you set the basin down on the snow and looked around. It was quiet here. The white shores and the still, icy surface of the river gave the place an almost magical air, but the cold seeped through your clothes, making you shiver. You sighed regretfully, realizing you’d have to explain to your father why the laundry remained unwashed. But worse, returning home earlier than planned might mean missing a chance to meet him, and that was something you could not allow.

You knelt by the shore, brushing away snow with your hands to gauge the thickness of the ice. The ice was thick, smooth, with no visible cracks. You hesitated, wondering what to do, when you heard a voice behind you:

“You won’t break through it.”

You turned abruptly and saw him. Boromir stood a short distance away, having just dismounted. His horse, dark and powerful, was tied to a nearby tree. He wore a long cloak lined with fur, barely concealing the mail beneath. At his side hung a sword in plain but sturdy scabbards, and over his shoulders was draped a light woolen mantle typical of Gondorian soldiers. His face, weathered and intent, was framed by light chestnut hair that had slipped loose from beneath his hood.

“How long have you been here?” you asked, trying to keep your composure, though your heart raced.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he removed his sword and stepped toward you. His movements were confident but unhurried, and for a moment, you thought he was coming to help. He stopped at the very edge of the shore, his gaze fixed on the ice.

“Step back,” he said curtly, raising his sword.

You took a step back, watching as he gripped the weapon with both hands, lifted it over his head, and brought it down forcefully onto the ice. The strike rang out sharply, the sound echoing off the frozen trees. The ice cracked but did not give way. He struck again, and the crack deepened.

“Enough to freeze to the bone,” he said, sheathing his sword. His voice was warm, carrying a faint, almost imperceptible smile. You caught the tone and felt your lips curve into a small smile of their own. A simple act—a sword striking ice, the crack, the resounding echo—but in it, there was a care so natural to him that you couldn’t help but notice it.

The ice was no longer an obstacle, but you knew the laundry was just an excuse. All of this—the sack of clothes, the heavy basin, the biting cold that stung your fingers—was merely a guise to meet him once again.

Your meetings became more frequent, but in your father’s shop, they had turned into an impossibility. Boromir, with his proud bearing and noble manners, immediately drew attention. Your father was a perceptive man, and it didn’t take him long to notice how the gaze of the Gondorian lord lingered on you too often. His voice softened whenever he inquired about your health, and his movements became unnaturally slow as he browsed the wares, as though searching for excuses to stay longer.

“A merchant’s daughter is no match for Gondor’s heir,” your father said one day—not with malice, but with the stern honesty that was part of his nature. Those words were sobering, but could they stop you?

You recalled that kiss, given to him on the night of the Winterwood Festival. It was a moment when everything stilled: the forest, the stars, your hearts. That kiss was a promise, spoken without words, and it remained etched in your memory.

In Rohan, where hearts were free and traditions less rigid, such moments were a natural expression of human connection. But in Gondor, where people upheld strict morals and every action, every word, was dictated by tradition, such a gesture would be audacious, especially for an heir. Boromir knew that in his homeland, such behavior was unacceptable. Even married couples refrained from public displays of affection, limiting themselves to light, almost fleeting touches of the hand.

He thought of his brother, Faramir, and his wife, Éowyn. Their union was a living example of how two cultures could merge. Éowyn, while retaining the straightforwardness and strength of her Rohirric spirit, had learned to be restrained among the Gondorian lords. Yet behind closed doors, their love was vibrant and unreserved. Boromir had seen how Faramir looked at Éowyn—with pride, warmth, and admiration. Now, he understood that he wanted the same. He wanted to look at you that way—openly, without fear, so the whole world would see that he had found his happiness.

But for now, your meetings remained a secret. You learned to love what had once seemed like hateful routine. Washing clothes by the river, carrying dried herbs from your father’s shop, sorting fabrics and furs—all these tasks had become your excuses. They allowed you to leave the house, to step into the winter wind, and perhaps, to meet him.

You always noticed how different your worlds were. His confidence, forged by the strict traditions of Gondor, and your ease, shaped by the freedom and simplicity of Rohan, created a striking contrast. Boromir seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, often becoming too serious, and it stirred in you a desire to push him toward laughter, to see his true, human side. He, in turn, sometimes looked at you with mild astonishment when you spoke your mind or made a decision without hesitation, as though all the rules he had ever known could so easily be cast aside.

"Are you really going to wash clothes here?" he asked one day, crouching by the river. His finger traced lightly across the ice, leaving a faint line before he raised his gaze to meet yours, filled with a mix of doubt and concern.

"Of course," you replied with a wide smile, adjusting your scarf. "Do they do it differently in Gondor?"

"I wouldn’t know," he admitted after a brief pause, as though surprised by the question himself. "I never gave it much thought."

He glanced at your fingers, reddened from the cold, and frowned.

"Do you need help? Your hands must be freezing."

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, surprised by his offer.

"Alright, but don’t let the laundry fall into the water."

At first, everything went well. He pulled pieces of fabric from the basin, and you showed him how to work them against the paddle. But the further you went, the more it became clear: Boromir had no experience with such tasks. His strong hands, used to gripping a sword, fumbled awkwardly as he tried to wring out the fabric. Water splashed onto his face and cloak, and one of your best shirts nearly slipped into the hole in the ice.

"Eru Almighty!" he exclaimed as the fabric slid from his grasp. He managed to catch it, but not before leaning precariously over the icy water, nearly plunging in himself.

You couldn’t suppress your laughter as you looked at his bewildered expression, droplets of water streaming down his cloak.

"What?" he asked, wiping his face with his hand. "You said this was easy."

"For me, yes," you said, still laughing. "But for you, my lord, it seems beyond your skill."

He huffed in mock annoyance but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips.

"In that case, I’ll leave the washing to you."

And indeed, he didn’t offer his help again. But you noticed that he particularly enjoyed watching you work. He would sit a little ways off, as if guarding you, his gaze warm and slightly pensive, lingering on your movements.

Sometimes, though, he stepped in when he saw you struggling—pulling up a bucket of water or hauling the heavy basin. In those moments, he would speak with a quiet, barely noticeable smile:

"This isn’t washing, but at least I can help with this."

You liked it. There was something so genuine in his desire to be helpful that you began to wonder how little Gondor had offered him in terms of simple, human joys.

He still loved to watch you at work.

Even today, his eyes followed you as you bent over the basin, scrubbing the clothes with effort. Your hands, red from the cold, your cheeks lightly flushed, and a stray lock of hair slipping from beneath your scarf that you kept tucking back behind your ear—it all captivated him. To him, you seemed a part of the harsh winter landscape: determined, stubborn, and unyielding.

"In Gondor, it often snows in winter," he said, breaking the silence, and you looked up at him. He stood by his horse, running a hand along its neck. "But it rarely stays on the ground for long. And the rivers never freeze. Winter there comes quietly, like a guest who doesn’t linger."

You smiled, blowing the stray lock from your face.

"And here, winter is a mistress who sets everything in order," you said, glancing at the forest around you. "She closes the rivers, lulls the earth to sleep. Even the air is different—it smells of snow and pine, and of a cold that chills you to the bone."

Boromir chuckled, looking at you with warmth.

"But you don’t seem afraid of it," he said more softly. "You even come to the river in such cold."

You looked at him, your smile turning slightly mischievous.

"And if you didn’t come?" you teased, a playful spark in your eyes. "Do you think I’d endure these frozen fingers?"

He glanced away, visibly flustered, and turned his attention to his horse to hide it.

"But I do come," he said simply, pulling a comb from his saddlebag.

He began carefully combing the horse’s tangled mane, but the winter rides had taken their toll: the comb snagged in the knots, and the horse tossed its head in irritation. You frowned as you watched him.

"What are you doing?" you said, setting aside the laundry and wiping your damp hands on your skirt. "You’re holding a brush, not a sword! It’s hurting him."

Boromir looked up at you and smirked.

"He’s not complaining. If he could talk, he’d thank me for my care."

"He is talking. You’re just not listening," you huffed, stepping closer.

You removed your scarf and began gently untangling the mane with your fingers. The horse snorted but soon lowered its head, visibly relaxing under your touch.

"See?" you said over your shoulder without looking back. "A bit more patience, my lord, and he’d thank you."

Boromir watched you, unable to suppress a smile. Your confidence and ease in handling the task reminded him why he kept coming back to this harsh, wintry place.

"Easy, my friend," you murmured in Rohirric, softly running your hands through the tangled mane. "Your stubborn lord is used to having stablehands look after you, isn’t he? But things are different here."

You spoke quietly, almost a whisper, as if your words were meant only for the horse. It snorted and shook its head, but less sharply than before. You continued your steady, confident movements before leaning forward to place your palm on its neck, as if trying to share your warmth.

"Hey," Boromir protested, breaking out of his reverie. "I understand your language."

You glanced over your shoulder at him, smiling but saying nothing. Instead, you continued speaking to the horse, avoiding the Common Tongue:

"He’s stubborn, but he meant well. Didn’t he, friend? There, that’s better."

You extended your hand toward Boromir.

"Give me the comb."

He handed it over without a word, frowning slightly as you began untying the horse from the tree.

"Leave him," he said cautiously. "He might run off. And I still need to ride back..."

You turned to him with an easy smile and shook your head.

"A horse never leaves its master if it knows it’s well cared for. And here, my lord, he knows he’s safe."

You led the horse a step away, giving it more freedom, but you continued combing, occasionally smoothing its flanks with your hand. The horse snorted again, dipping its head toward your touch, as though accepting your care.

"Incredible," Boromir said, watching the two of you. "You’re so good with him. It’s as if he melts under your hands. Your bond with horses..."

"Has nothing to do with it," you interrupted, standing upright and returning to your basin. Your movements were brisk, as if eager to finish the washing. "He simply trusts me and 'melts under my touch,' just like his master, my lord."

You returned to your work, feeling Boromir’s gaze linger on you. He stayed by his horse, watching you, his expression a mix of admiration and unease. In your world, touch was natural—a gesture to the shoulder, the hand, the heart through warmth and action. But for him, it was something new, almost forbidden. You noticed how he increasingly sought excuses to touch you: handing you the comb, brushing a stray lock from your face, or lightly grazing your hand when helping with the heavy basin.

For you, it was natural. But each time you met his gaze in such moments, you saw something more: longing, hesitation, and sometimes gratitude, like a man learning to accept warmth for the first time.

"Are your hands cold?" he asked when you had kept them in the icy water too long.

You sighed, lifting your eyes to meet his.

"As always."

He stepped closer, pulling off his gloves and tossing them onto the snow. Your hands, red from the cold, trembled as he took them in his. His fingers were warm and strong as he carefully rubbed your hands before cupping them in his palms, as if protecting something fragile.

Usually, it ended there. He would warm your hands until they stopped trembling, then let go, avoiding your gaze, as though afraid to linger too long. But not today.

Today, he did something different. His lips brushed lightly against your index finger, then your middle finger, as if testing whether you could feel the warmth. He moved to the next, slow and deliberate. Each kiss was soft, barely there, but they carried something new, as though he himself was surprised by his boldness.

"And now?" he asked in a quiet, low whisper, his voice making the moment feel like it belonged only to the two of you.

You started slightly, not expecting the gesture, but you didn’t pull your hands away. Instead, you smiled faintly, meeting his eyes as warmth spread from within.

"Now it’s warm," you replied just as softly, letting the words hang in the air.

Your gazes locked. You saw the struggle in him, the attempt to reconcile the feelings that consumed him with the boundaries he had been taught to uphold. But you knew: with every touch, with every kiss, he was thawing. The polished veneer of a Númenórean lord, a familiar mask for a Gondorian heir, was beginning to fade.

You didn’t pull your hands away, letting him hold them a moment longer. You understood this wasn’t just physical contact for him—it was a step toward closeness, a moment of vulnerability he rarely allowed himself.

"My lord," you said with soft amusement, breaking the silence but keeping the tenderness intact. "Perhaps now you’ll warm them completely?"

He laughed, quietly but sincerely, and the sound warmed you as much as his hands did.

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, you gathered your things. He helped you lift the basin, and together you walked back to the village, silently enjoying the winter stillness, which no longer seemed so cold.

That day became another thread binding your worlds together. Every gesture, every word—small steps, but they led you both to a place where Gondorian rules and Rohirric traditions didn’t matter. There was only the two of you, and a winter that no longer felt so harsh.

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