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solxamber · 2 months ago

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Familiar, Not So Familiar || Lilia Vanrouge

You, a mage-in-training, attempt to summon a simple familiar—only to accidentally get yourself Lilia Vanrouge, a legendary fae with a penchant for chaos.

You have tried. You have tried so many times that the gods themselves must be watching your efforts like a soap opera, popcorn in hand, marveling at your persistence and misfortune.

Every spell you’ve ever learned? Perfect. Every potion you’ve ever brewed? Immaculate. Every single tedious little task required of an apprentice mage? Completed with at least passing competence.

And yet—this. This one, single, crucial spell has eluded you since the moment you first picked up a wand and thought, yes, let’s dedicate my life to this craft instead of something simple, like farming, or piracy, or a career in interpretive dance.

For years, you have watched your classmates perform their familiar rituals with ease. You have seen their little foxes, their wise owls, their unbearably smug salamanders perched on their shoulders like accessories in an enchanted fashion show. Oh, you don’t have a familiar yet? they’d say, voices dripping with polite condescension. That must be so hard! Magic must be so exhausting for you!

Yes. Yes, it is exhausting, Martha, you imbecile. Magic without a familiar is like trying to run a marathon uphill while being punched repeatedly in the stomach. It is like carrying a cauldron of molten lava with no gloves and being told, just don’t drop it! It is slowly killing you, and you are tired.

So tonight? Tonight is it. The line has been drawn. The candles have been lit. You have researched, you have practiced, you have painstakingly carved every single rune with the desperation of a student facing final exams with an empty study guide.

Either you summon your familiar, or you start looking into lucrative careers in something that requires zero magical ability. Candle-making. Tax fraud. Something.

You kneel before the summoning circle, hands clasped in pure, unfiltered desperation. Your voice is raw as you plead, as you offer up your dignity to the uncaring forces of the universe.

"Please," you whisper, nearly headbutting the floor. "Just this once. A cat. A dog. A single, semi-intelligent rat. Hell, a bat—bats are magical, right? I’ll take a bat. I’ll take a sentient pile of mold if it can cast at least one large spell without dying. Just something. Please, I am begging you."

The room is deathly silent.

And then—

A hum. A vibration in the air, as if reality itself is rethinking its choices.

The summoning circle does not glow—it erupts, an explosion of light so bright that your first instinct is to assume you have been smote for your insolence. The ground shudders. The candles flicker wildly. The sheer energy of the spell crackles through the air like the universe is taking a deep breath and laughing at you.

And then, through the haze, a silhouette.

Your first thought: That is not an animal.

Your second thought: That is not an animal, that is a person.

Your third thought: THAT IS A FAE.

Your fourth thought does not get to exist because your brain has blue screened.

The figure steps forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back, surveying the room with the air of someone who has just walked into an amusing play and finds himself the lead actor. He is floating, because of course he is. His wild hair is a chaotic mess of black and magenta, his sharp eyes twinkling with mirth, his very presence radiating power that should not, under any circumstances, be inside your living room.

Then he smiles, and you are abruptly hit with the horrifying realization that you know who he is.

The portraits. The stories. The absolute legend that is Lilia Vanrouge, former general, feared warrior, living relic of a bygone era, the kind of fae you read about in history books with the unspoken footnote of probably do not summon him.

And he is here.

And he is looking at you.

"Ah," he says, with all the delight of someone who has just stumbled upon something incredibly amusing. "How interesting."

You are frozen. Your body has stopped functioning. Your brain is actively trying to escape this situation by retreating into the astral plane.

Lilia tilts his head, observing your utter paralysis with great amusement, and then, with the flourish of a seasoned actor stepping onto the grandest stage of his life, he presses a hand to his chest and bows deeply.

"You have called," he proclaims, voice rich with dramatic flair, "and I have answered! For one year, I shall serve as your loyal familiar! May our contract be fruitful, our battles glorious, and our meals—" he pauses, grinning like a fox, "well, we shall see."

He straightens, clearly expecting some sort of response.

You do not move. You do not speak. You do not even blink.

Because you are still attempting to comprehend the fact that you have, against every possible law of magic, logic, and common sense, just summoned Lilia Vanrouge as your familiar.

The next morning, you awaken to the horrifying realization that last night was not, in fact, a fever dream.

Lilia Vanrouge is still here.

Floating.

In your kitchen.

Sipping tea.

With your mug.

You stand there, unblinking, as he lifts the cup in greeting, utterly unbothered by your complete mental breakdown. “Ah, you’re awake! Good morning, my dear summoner! Did you sleep well? Oh, never mind that, of course you didn’t—you must be so excited! Your first day with your new familiar!”

Your eye twitches. The existential dread is setting in. But there is no time to panic because you have class.

And now, for the first time in your absolutely miserable academic career, you have a familiar to bring with you.

Which would be a cause for celebration.

If your familiar was literally anyone else.

But no. No, you are marching through the academy halls with a floating, ancient fae war general drifting beside you, humming cheerfully, taking in his new surroundings like a tourist at a historical landmark.

Your classmates? Shitting bricks.

Your professors? Re-evaluating their life choices.

Your history professor? Actively vibrating in place. This is a man who has spent years studying Lilia Vanrouge, reconstructing battle strategies, debating historical inaccuracies, analyzing old texts to understand the mind of one of the most enigmatic figures in magical warfare. He looks at you, at Lilia, back at you, back at Lilia, and you swear to the gods above that this man is about two seconds away from weeping.

He wants an interview. He wants an entire dissertation. He wants to shake your hand for the sheer magnitude of this academic opportunity, and you are just standing there, barely holding onto your last scrap of sanity, because this is not a research opportunity, Professor, this is my life.

Meanwhile, Lilia is having a blast.

“Ohoho, what a delightful institution!” he muses, drifting through the halls, peering into classrooms, inspecting the architecture with a level of interest that should not belong to someone who predates half of these buildings. “Ah, look at that banner! I remember when these were in fashion—horrid little things, always got caught in the wind and smacked people in the face during duels. Ah! And look at these uniforms! What a quaint design! Oh, but that color… tragic choice, really, you should have seen the battle robes from my era. Those had flair!”

You press a hand to your face, inhaling deeply.

You are not going to survive this year.

But at the very least, you are about to have the first productive Offensive Magic class of your entire life.

For years, casting magic without a familiar has been hell. You’ve always struggled with large-scale spells, your body too weak to sustain the energy required. Your classmates have always had an advantage, their familiars supplying them with extra mana while you struggled to get anything stronger than a low-tier fireball.

But today?

Today, you have Lilia Vanrouge as a mana battery.

And you are about to find out exactly what that means.

The spell you’ve been struggling with for years—the one that has never worked properly, the one that has always left you half-conscious and questioning your life decisions—flows from your hands as easily as breathing. You don’t even have time to be excited because the moment the spell leaves your fingertips, the entire training ground erupts.

Not a small explosion.

Not a reasonable, manageable, academically acceptable explosion.

No.

You have just cratered the battlefield.

The shockwave sends everyone flying. The ground is smoking. There is a hole where the target dummies used to be. Somewhere in the distance, alarms are going off. Birds are screaming. Your professor is staring in mute horror at the absolute devastation before him.

And you?

You turn to Lilia, hands shaking, mouth opening and closing like a fish, because what the hell just happened.

Lilia, floating beside you, watches the destruction with the expression of a man who has just seen a slightly amusing street performance. He clasps his hands together, nodding approvingly.

“Well! Now that that’s done, why don’t we go find something fun to do?”

You are not going to survive the year.

It is supposed to be a quiet night.

Supposed to be.

You, a dedicated apprentice mage (read: overworked and underpaid student), have settled down with your magical theory book, prepared to suffer through the finer details of mana channeling. The lamp flickers softly, the air is calm, and for once in your chaotic existence, things feel peaceful.

Then, from the kitchen, you hear something.

Something that does not belong in the realm of mortals.

It begins with an unsettling hiss, followed by a squelching noise so visceral it sends a shudder down your spine. Then there’s a clank—something metal hitting the floor—then a thud, then another squelch. You are gripping your book so tightly that the pages crinkle.

And then—

A chainsaw.

You blink.

You tilt your head, straining your ears, waiting for your exhausted mind to correct you.

The chainsaw revs again.

There is a cackle—a delighted, mischievous giggle, unmistakably Lilia’s—followed by the sound of what can only be described as something wet hitting the walls.

You place your book down with the slow, measured movements of a person who has just realized that, against all odds, they are in mortal danger.

Before you can even get up, Lilia emerges from the kitchen, beaming, holding something that should not exist.

It is a plate of food.

You think.

At least, you assume that’s what it is. The thing on the plate is writhing slightly, like it’s trying to escape, its color shifting between shades of green that have never been found in nature. It looks less like a meal and more like something that should have been sealed away in a forbidden vault centuries ago. You are pretty sure it just twitched.

Lilia, looking pleased with himself, holds the plate out to you like a proud parent. “Here you go! A little something I whipped up! A good meal is essential for a strong mage!”

You stare at him. You stare at the food. You stare at him again. Then back at the food, as if hoping that, upon a second glance, it will suddenly become normal. It does not. It continues to vibrate menacingly.

You inhale slowly. You pray to the gods—the ones who have clearly abandoned you—and take a bite.

And then—

You almost meet them.

Your soul briefly leaves your body. Your ancestors appear before you, shaking their heads in deep disappointment. The concept of life and death ceases to have meaning. Time itself slows to a crawl as your taste buds experience a level of suffering once reserved only for cursed spirits.

You slam the fork down, forcing a smile that looks more like a pained grimace. “I—uh—actually, I’m not really that hungry right now!”

Lilia blinks, tilting his head. “Oh? But you just took a bite—”

You cut him off, nodding so quickly it could give you whiplash. “Nope! Super full! Wow, so full. Stuffed, actually. I definitely can’t eat another bite!”

Lilia frowns, looking genuinely disappointed, and for a brief, insane moment, you almost consider eating more.

Then the food on the plate shudders again.

And you decide that no matter how cute Lilia Vanrouge is, you simply cannot abide.

Later that night, you are once again seated at your desk, trying to get through your magical theory reading, when Lilia appears at your side.

For a brief moment, fear seizes you—until you see what he’s holding.

A cup of warm milk.

Just milk.

You stare at it, half-expecting it to start glowing or whispering in an ancient, cursed tongue. But no, it’s just milk. Safe. Harmless. Normal.

You accept it with more gratitude than you’ve ever felt in your life. “Thank you.”

Lilia settles in beside you, watching as you study, occasionally making little jokes, pointing out errors in your book’s outdated magical theories, offering insights that no historian could ever dream of. The conversation flows easily, his voice a constant, comforting presence, a bridge between history and now, between chaos and something softer.

And as you sit there, sipping your drink, listening to Lilia hum an old tune while offering you obscure magical trivia, you think—

Yeah.

Maybe he really is the best familiar you could have summoned.

Lilia does not like your magical theory professor.

At least, you think he doesn’t.

He’s always cheerful—borderline impossible to ruffle—but the moment you step into that class, something shifts. His usual smile dims, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, and his arms stay folded across his chest like a particularly judgmental gargoyle. It’s subtle—so subtle that if you weren’t stuck with him 24/7 (as your familiar, and definitely not because you enjoy his company), you might not have noticed.

But you have noticed. And it’s weird.

Even weirder? Every time you ask him about it, he gives you the most convincing performance of utter cluelessness you have ever witnessed. The first time, he even tilted his head, widened his eyes, and said, “Me? Dislike someone? Oh, dear apprentice, you wound me!” in the most theatrical, exaggerated manner possible.

And the thing about Lilia is, if he doesn’t want to talk about something, there is no force in the universe that can make him.

You gave up after the third attempt. If it was major, he’d tell you.

…Right?

Today, your professor smiles as she hands you a new assignment: a magic circle for you to analyze.

“You should be able to cast this with your familiar’s assistance,” she says, smiling in that teacher who’s about to ruin your life way.

You glance at the intricate diagram, tilting your head. “What’s it for?”

“Oh, it’s just illusion magic,” she assures you breezily.

And before you can say anything else, Lilia moves.

One moment, he’s standing behind you, silent as a shadow. The next, he’s in front of you, plucking the book from your hands with the effortless grace of someone who has definitely stolen things before.

His gaze sharpens as he scans the magic circle, his usual playful demeanor gone. His fingers tighten slightly on the book’s spine. Then, without hesitation, he snaps it shut and hands it right back to your professor.

“No.”

Your professor blinks, looking caught between offense and confusion. “Pardon?”

Lilia’s voice remains pleasant—but it is the kind of pleasant that makes your survival instincts scream. “I said no. My dear apprentice will not be casting this.”

The professor balks. “Excuse me, but I gave them an assignment. You contain your familiar—”

You raise your hands in exasperation. “Lady, are you kidding? This is a war general. You think I can just ‘contain’ him? You contain him.”

Your professor looks like she wants to argue. Lilia, meanwhile, tilts his head at her with the serene patience of a man watching a squirrel try to pick a fight with a dragon.

Then, he smiles.

It is not his usual mischievous grin. It is a deliberate, pointed smile.

“Why don’t you cast it first?” he asks, tone deceptively light.

Your professor stiffens. “That’s unnecessary, I already—”

Lilia’s eyes gleam. “Go on, then. Just illusion magic, isn’t it?”

The tension in the room spikes. Your professor, who has just spent the past five minutes acting like the spell is no big deal, suddenly looks very nervous.

“Oh, well,” she flounders, “I—it’s meant for—um—student practice—”

“Ah,” Lilia hums, nodding sagely. “So you’d assign a spell you wouldn’t cast yourself to my dear apprentice? How interesting.”

Your professor’s expression freezes.

And that’s when you realize something.

Lilia knew.

He knew the moment he saw the circle that something was off. He recognized it. And whatever it was meant to do, it wasn’t just harmless illusion magic.

Your professor coughs, clearly scrambling for a way out. Lilia waits, ever-patient, eyes half-lidded like a cat watching a cornered mouse.

Then, before she can say anything else, he turns to you. “We’re leaving.”

And you do not argue.

Outside, Lilia floats beside you, humming a little tune. You don’t say anything for a while, still processing.

Finally, you sigh. “You’re not gonna tell me what that spell actually was, are you?”

Lilia’s grin returns, bright and playful. “Who’s to say~?”

You groan. “Lilia.”

He chuckles, reaching out to pat your head in a way that is both condescending and annoyingly affectionate. “Let’s just say I’d rather not have to un-curse you anytime soon, hmm?”

Your stomach sinks slightly. You glance back toward the classroom building, frowning. Your professor has never pulled something like that before. But before you can dwell on it too much, Lilia floats closer, arms crossed.

“Promise me something,” he says, tone suddenly softer.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Run your spells by me before casting them.” His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something firm—unshakable—beneath the usual playfulness.

Your first instinct is to argue. To say you know what you’re doing. That you’re a capable mage. But then you think about how fast he moved. How easily he spotted the issue. How your professor, faced with his simple challenge, folded like wet parchment.

“…Okay,” you say.

His smile widens, but this time, it’s warm. “Good.”

And then, just like that, he’s back to his usual self, floating ahead, dramatically stretching as if he was the one who had to deal with a dangerous spell.

“Now that that’s settled,” he sighs, “why don’t set something on fire?”

You press a hand to your forehead.

At first, it was little things.

Your professors started assigning you slightly more advanced spells—reasonable enough, considering your mana pool had technically expanded (read: you accidentally summoned an ancient fae war general as your familiar). You could handle it. You were handling it.

But then it got worse.

Much worse.

It started with offensive spells. The usual: fireballs, lightning strikes, the occasional tornado. And then, gradually, the assignments escalated into city-leveling disasters.

One moment, you were casting a moderately powerful explosion spell. The next, you were being instructed to conjure something called the Wrath of the Abyss—which, from the name alone, sounded like it had no business being taught in a school.

Lilia, floating serenely beside you, casually flicked his fingers, erasing the spell from your assignment scroll. “No,” he said.

You didn’t argue.

The final straw came when you were assigned a spell so ridiculously strong that had Lilia not interfered, you’re pretty sure you would’ve smited an entire town off the map.

That night, exhausted and frustrated, you marched to the headmaster’s office to finally have a conversation about this.

And that’s when you heard it.

Muffled voices.

The headmaster and your professors—all of them—discussing how to weaponize your newly expanded mana pool. How to push you further, how to ensure you could be controlled—with force, if necessary.

You stood there for a long moment, processing.

Then you turned on your heel, went back to your dorm, and drafted the most polite resignation letter you have ever written in your entire life.

By morning, you were gone.

Which brings you to now.

Laid out on the couch.

Bored.

Contemplating your life choices.

Lilia floats around the new house, inspecting it with the air of a man who has been evicted from kingdoms before and now finds the concept of moving vaguely amusing. Occasionally, he hums in approval. Once, he sticks his head into the kitchen and mutters, “I could work with this.” (You choose to ignore the implication.)

Eventually, he drifts over to the couch, settling next to you. He watches you for a moment, eyes softer than usual, before reaching out and gently patting your head.

“…I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink, turning your head to look at him. “For what?”

He offers a small, almost wistful smile. “For everything. You wanted a small familiar. A cat, perhaps. A gentle companion to aid your studies. And instead… you got me.”

Something about the way he says it makes your heart squeeze.

You sit up, shaking your head. “That’s not your fault. It’s not your fault humans are garbage sometimes.” You snort. “Honestly, I should be the one apologizing to you. You got roped into this mess because of me.”

Lilia laughs softly. “Oh, please. This is hardly the worst summoning I’ve been part of.”

You roll your eyes but lean into him anyway, resting your head against his shoulder. “I mean it, though. I’m glad you were there to look out for me.” You exhale, closing your eyes. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else. You’re the best fit for me.”

There’s a pause.

Then, Lilia shifts slightly, tilting his head to look at you.

“…You know,” he murmurs, amusement creeping into his voice, “it almost sounds like you like me.”

You groan. “Lilia.”

He chuckles, clearly pleased with himself, and lets you rest against him, draping an arm over the back of the couch.

The TV plays some mindless reality show in the background—something ridiculous, the kind of show where two rich people argue over whose yacht is shinier. Lilia occasionally makes a quiet, offhand comment about the historical implications of their arguments, which, considering he’s been around long enough to have historical context for everything, is both fascinating and deeply concerning.

Still, as you sit there, comfortable and safe, a strange sort of peace settles over you.

Maybe this is okay, too.

Moping is unsustainable.

Yes, your dreams of becoming a renowned royal mage have withered and died like a houseplant you swore you watered (you didn’t). Yes, the academy tried to turn you into a walking magical war crime before you dropped out. And yes, you are technically in magical witness protection now.

But you refuse to let that get you down.

You are a problem solver. A forward-thinker. A survivor.

And what do survivors do? They pivot.

Thus begins your new life as the proud owner of Mystic Remedies, a charming little potion shop in a sleepy town where nobody knows—or cares—that you once accidentally summoned a literal fae war general as a familiar.

And surprisingly? Business is booming.

Apparently, people love magic when it’s used for normal things, like fixing bald spots or whitening teeth or getting rid of that one really stubborn pimple that refuses to die no matter how many times you pray to the gods. Your bestselling potions?

“The Shine of Youth” – Teeth Whitening Elixir

Results are instantaneous and blindingly effective (literally. One guy came back complaining his teeth were so white they were reflecting sunlight into his own eyes.)*

“Regrowth & Renewal” – Anti-Baldness Tonic

The town’s balding population has never been happier. One man sobbed openly in your shop after seeing his full head of hair for the first time in twenty years.

“Vanisher’s Touch” – Acne & Scar Removal Serum

One (1) drop and your skin becomes as smooth as a newborn’s. Side effects include strangers asking you for your entire skincare routine (which, obviously, you refuse to share because you are making BANK off of this).

And presiding over all of this?

Lilia Vanrouge.

Your fae general, immortal menace, questionably helpful familiar.

At first, you thought Lilia would just hang around for company. Maybe help with security. Offer sage wisdom. That kind of thing.

You were wrong.

Instead, he has taken it upon himself to be your business partner.

Which would be fine, except:

1. Lilia insists on being the shop greeter.

“Welcome, weary traveler!” he announces grandly every time someone enters, even if it’s just the lady from next door.

2.He also bows dramatically every time, which has led to multiple people thinking they’ve accidentally entered a royal court instead of a potion shop.

3. He makes up fake tragic backstories for your potions.

The baldness potion? “Crafted from the tears of a forgotten god who, himself, was once afflicted with hair loss.”

The teeth whitening elixir? “Distilled from the ancient wisdom of a radiant moonbeam, stolen by a trickster spirit under the cover of night.”

The anti-acne potion? “Forged in the fires of celestial vanity, when the first star envied the smoothness of the moon’s face.”

The customers eat it up. Business doubles because people now believe they’re purchasing legendary magical relics instead of DIY cosmetic solutions.

4. He takes “quality control” VERY seriously.

You once caught him drinking the hair regrowth tonic.

“Lilia,” you said. “You have hair. You have a lot of hair.”

He took a long, thoughtful sip, smacked his lips, and simply said, “Quality assurance.”

(The next day, his hair was so voluminous it looked like he had absorbed a lion. He seemed thrilled about this. You refused to comment.)

5. His idea of “helping” with potion-making is... distressing.

One time, you left him alone for five minutes.

When you came back, he had somehow produced a glowing purple substance that was hovering slightly above the table and making whale noises.

You didn’t even ask. You just threw the entire thing out.

Lilia disappears sometimes in the middle of the night. You’ll wake up, the room unnaturally quiet, and immediately know he’s gone. Not gone gone—he’s not that dramatic—but somewhere else, wrapped in thoughts you never quite get to see.

Tonight, the air is cool when you step outside, wrapping around you like a second skin. You don’t have to search long. He’s on the rooftop, perched with all the effortless grace of a creature who defies gravity. His eyes are locked onto the moon, silver light washing over his face, his usual impishness replaced with something… else.

You’ve seen Lilia in many states—mischievous, chaotic, wise, deeply concerning—but you’ve never seen him like this.

So, naturally, you make the entirely reasonable decision to scale the side of the house.

It is not a graceful process. There’s a lot of slipping, a lot of swearing, and at one point, you’re pretty sure you get stuck in a position that defies basic human anatomy. Lilia watches all of this unfold with what you know is barely suppressed laughter, but he doesn’t help.

Rude.

By the time you haul yourself onto the roof, panting like you’ve just wrestled a bear, Lilia looks at you like you’re the strange one here.

“…You could have used the stairs,” he points out.

You glare at him. “Yeah? Well, you could’ve not brooded on the roof like the protagonist of a tragic novel, but here we are.”

For a moment, you think he might tease you, but instead, something in his expression softens. Like he hadn’t expected you to come. Like the idea of being found was somehow surprising.

You settle beside him, deliberately sitting close enough that your arms brush. Lilia doesn’t say anything, just leans into you, his weight light but grounding.

“I’m grateful you left immediately when you did,” he murmurs, voice quiet in a way that makes you pause. “I wasn’t prepared to lose you.”

You don’t ask. You never have. Lilia carries centuries in his gaze, in the way he moves, in the weight of the things he doesn’t say. But this? This moment, this sliver of vulnerability? This is his truth, and you’ll never push him to unravel more than he wants to.

So you nod. You pull him closer. And you sit there, pressed together beneath the vast, endless sky, offering nothing but presence.

Because sometimes, companionship is enough.

Despite all of this—despite the dramatics, the chaos, the fact that you are pretty sure Lilia is making up 90% of his fae wisdom on the spot—your little potion shop thrives.

You get to help people. You get to live peacefully.

And best of all? You get to spend your days with someone who makes life interesting.

One evening, as you’re closing up, Lilia floats beside you, watching as you count today’s earnings.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he says, tone oddly soft, absent of his usual teasing lilt.

You glance at him, raising a brow. “We have,” you correct, shoving the last of the gold into the till. “I’d be lost without you.”

He hums in amusement, resting his chin in his hand. “Flattery will get you everywhere, you know.”

You snort. “It’s not flattery if it’s true.”

There’s a pause.

Then, after a moment, he reaches over—ruffles your hair with genuine fondness.

You pretend to be annoyed, but you don’t move away.

(And later, as you sit together, sharing a cup of tea under the quiet glow of lantern light, you think—maybe this life? This ridiculous, unpredictable, strangely wonderful life? Maybe it’s not so bad, after all.)

The first time you created a potion for hair growth, you barely had time to marvel at your genius before Lilia grabbed the vial and downed it in one gulp. No hesitation. No patch test. Just the unwavering confidence of a man who believed you were capable of alchemy miracles despite your previous track record, which included but was not limited to:

Accidentally making a love potion so strong it made a squirrel propose to a tree.

Brewing an invisibility elixir that only made clothes disappear (awkward).

Concocting a sleeping draught that did, in fact, induce sleep—just exclusively in yourself.

So, really, this blind faith of his was either heartwarming or deeply concerning.

The effect was immediate. Lilia’s short, fluffy locks exploded outward in a dramatic cascade, flowing past his shoulders, his waist, and then pooling onto the floor in a heap of silky, midnight strands. He blinked at you from behind his newly acquired curtain of hair, looking entirely unbothered, while you sat there in stunned horror like an artist realizing they’d just painted the Mona Lisa using finger paints.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, lifting a section of his hair with mild curiosity. “At least I won’t have to buy a blanket anymore.”

You groaned, already reaching for the shears. “Sit down. I’m cutting it before you trip and break your immortal neck.”

Lilia plopped down in front of you, perfectly content as you gathered the thick locks in your hands, marveling at how soft they were. You ran your fingers through them, untangling strands, watching them catch the light like the finest silk. Somewhere in the middle of methodically snipping away, your hand brushed against the nape of his neck.

And Lilia—Lilia of the endless energy, mischievous smirks, and unpredictable chaos—tilted his head into your touch like a cat craving warmth. He let his cheek brush against your palm, the weight of him light but deliberate, and you felt something in your chest hiccup.

Oh no.

Nope. Absolutely not. You were not going to sit here and have an emotional epiphany over a haircut.

You cleared your throat and kept cutting, pretending you didn’t notice the way his eyes fluttered shut, how he sighed just the slightest bit when you raked your fingers through his hair again. You ignored the warmth curling in your stomach, the way your heart stuttered like a miscast spell.

This was fine. Just a normal, everyday occurrence. No significance whatsoever.

(You ignored the fact that, long after the potion’s effects had worn off, Lilia still asks you to fix his hair for him.)

It has been a year.

A whole year since you knelt in front of a summoning circle, begging the universe for a small, manageable familiar—a cat, a bat, anything reasonable—only for reality to spit in your face and drop a war general into your living room.

A year since Lilia Vanrouge, former general, ancient fae, and walking eldritch menace, declared himself your familiar with a dramatic flourish while you stood there questioning every single life decision that had led to that moment.

And now, it’s time to let him go.

You knew this day would come. You told yourself you wouldn’t get attached. He was never supposed to stay forever. He has actual, important, world-changing things to do, and you—what are you? A small-town potion seller with a thriving business in male pattern baldness reversal and anti-aging tonics. This is not a worthy occupation for a fae of his caliber.

So why does the thought of him leaving feel like your heart is about to crawl out of your chest, slap you in the face, and then dramatically expire in protest?

You’re an adult. You can handle this. You will handle this.

Night falls, and you set up the ritual.

The summoning contract that bound him to you for a year must now be undone. The process is simple: draw the circle, say the words, and Lilia will be free to return to whatever grand, fae-magic-drenched existence he had before meeting you.

Your hands shake as you carve the sigils into the ground. You tell yourself it’s just fatigue.

The circle is perfect. The words are ready. You steel yourself, take a deep breath, and—

SCRATCH.

You blink.

Your circle is ruined.

Because Lilia just dragged his foot through it like a toddler messing up a sandcastle.

“Whoops,” he says, tone entirely insincere.

You stare at the ruined circle. Then at him. Then at the deep, deliberate groove he just scraped through the sigils.

“…Did you just—”

“Oh dear,” Lilia sighs, not looking remotely sorry. “How clumsy of me.”

You narrow your eyes.

Fine. Fine. You can work with this. You redraw the circle, faster this time, heart pounding, trying not to think about how every stroke is another step toward the inevitable.

But as soon as you finish it, it vanishes.

You gape. “What the fu—”

Lilia, sitting lazily on your kitchen counter, swirls his wine glass and hums, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You try again. And again.

Each time, something goes wrong.

The chalk disappears. The ink dries too fast. The lines curve into nonsense when you look away. Lilia, drinking his wine, watching you struggle, looking like a cat who just knocked over an entire shelf and is waiting for applause.

Then, finally, the last straw.

You painstakingly carve the circle one last time, standing up with triumphant determination—

And Lilia immediately spills his wine on it.

He gasps, eyes wide with the fakest, most dramatic shock you have ever seen. “Oh my. How unfortunate.”

You drop the chalk.

You inhale, slow and measured, like a parent about to scold a misbehaving child.

Then you turn to him.

“…Hey,” you say, voice trembling, not with sadness, but with the sheer, earth-shattering realization that this little fae menace is playing with you.

He takes another sip of wine, as if to fortify himself against the incoming confrontation.

“Do you,” you say, pointing at him, “not want to leave?”

Lilia smiles. That infuriatingly cryptic, all-knowing smile that he has given you exactly one thousand times over the past year.

He doesn’t answer.

And you are done.

You grab him by the collar, yanking his floating self down to your level, because no. Not this time.

“Say it.” Your heart is racing, your voice shaking. “Stop playing with my feelings and just say it.”

For the first time in a long time, Lilia looks genuinely surprised.

His bright red eyes flick over your face, searching, calculating.

Then, gently, effortlessly, he kisses you.

It’s soft. Unhurried. Like a promise instead of a confession.

When he pulls away, there’s no teasing, no smug amusement. Just quiet certainty as he murmurs, “I thought that was obvious, little mage.”

And you—

You think, yeah. This is perfect.

The day after the kiss is, by all accounts, completely normal.

Lilia is still Lilia—dramatic, whimsical, and absolutely insufferable in the best way possible. He flits around the shop like a particularly mischievous specter, rearranges your potions in ways that make absolutely no sense, and startles at least three customers by dropping upside down from the rafters like a bat with a caffeine addiction.

The only difference are the little changes in his proximity.

The way he brushes a little closer, his fingertips lingering on yours when he hands you a vial. The way he leans in when he speaks, voice a low murmur that sends shivers down your spine. The way his eyes—sharp, playful, knowing—linger just a second too long, like he’s drinking in every reaction.

Your regulars notice immediately.

“You two finally figured it out, huh?”

“About damn time.”

“Oh, we’ve been betting on this for months—Edgar, pay up.”

Even the old woman who only comes in for her arthritis tincture pats your cheek with grandmotherly approval, declaring, "He’s a little strange, but you always liked strays."

By the time you close up for the night, you’re warm with laughter, exhaustion, and the sheer reality of it. Of him. Of you.

And then there’s a weight on your back, light but unmistakable, arms winding around you as Lilia attaches himself like a particularly affectionate cloak.

“You still haven’t actually asked me to stay,” he hums, his chin resting on your shoulder. You can hear the grin in his voice, teasing and pleased.

You roll your eyes, exasperated and utterly, helplessly fond.

Then, without warning, you turn, grabbing his face in both hands and kissing him hard.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips before immediately melting into it, responding with all the fervor of someone who has absolutely been waiting for this. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, and you swear you can feel him smiling into the kiss.

When you finally pull back, breathless and a little dazed, you meet his gaze and say, firm and sure,

“Stay.”

Lilia blinks, as if he wasn’t expecting you to actually say it. Then his lips curl into something unbearably soft, unbearably fond, and he whispers,

“Till the end of my life.”

Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland #lilia vanrouge x reader #twst lilia #lilia x reader #lilia vanrouge #lilia twst #lilia x you #lilia #twisted wonderland lilia

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postmortemnivis · 1 year ago

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nobody knew simon’s name, his cold glances penetrating souls whenever someone on the force even dared to call him by his first name. he preferred it this way. he wasn’t the kind to blend personal life and work, he didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror without his mask and still see a murderer. his hands were clean, protected by the gloves ghost slipped on each time he reached base. it was soon that the other soldiers almost forgot his name, agreeing that their lieutenant was indeed a ghost.

that was until your worried voice called for him.

you didn’t know of the ghost identity, it had never even crossed your mind that your simon, your sweet and caring boyfriend’s personality would switch into a cold blooded killer as soon as he set foot at base or in the field. of course he never mentioned it with you, he sporadically talked about his job and his missions. you knew he was a strict lieutenant, but you had been kept away from more by the person with the skull mask and balaclava.

“simon?” you asked for the third time the receptionist. she apologetically looked up at you and shrugged. “oh cmon, simon riley. i know for a fact that he’s here. please, i need to see him.”

“i’m very sorry miss but…” the woman shook her head again, “let me call the captain.”

you sighed and sat down by the waiting area until a man walked in and talked to the woman.

“who’re you looking for?”

you stood up. “simon. simon riley.”

“ghost?”

you shook your head, almost clueless. “no, simon riley.”

“yeah, that’s him…” he said, “he’s training the recruits now. shall i deliver a message?”

“no, i need to see him personally. i wouldn’t have come all the way here if it wasn’t important, captain.”

you'd seen price a few times, simon's loyalty to the man was almost like a dog's one, always following orders and rarely complaining. he often talked about him when he was at home, all he shared with you about his threatening job was the friends he made along the way: johnny, kyle, price, gary, nikolai. he'd often go out for a pint—or two—with johnny and kyle, who also occasionally would come to your shared apartment for dinner with their temporary girlfriends.

"follow me." price sighed. you eagerly followed him, as close as his shadow, and the courtyard came into sight. dozens and dozens of soldiers in scarlet training uniforms were running laps of the immense open space under the pale sun, and that's when you spotted a tall and muscular man in black tactical gear. hell, he was hard to miss.

"another lap, smith!" his mancunian accent was stronger than his will to neutralise it. "if my gran was alive she'd be faster than ya."

you'd recognised the voice, of course, even if it was much harsher than usual, but you couldn't recognise him.

you realised, that was ghost. his cold eyes were studying each of the recruit's tired and red faces, his arms behind his back as he barked for five more laps for the ones who didn't look sweaty enough. even his voice was different, but what shocked you was the black balaclava with the white skull drawn on top.

you'd seen the mask once or twice over the years, shoved at the bottom of his duffle bag or drying on a windowsill, but you've never given it much thought, why would you?

"si?" you asked, standing directly behind him as price stood a few feet from you.

his head snapped in your direction at a worryingly fast speed, his eyes immediately becoming soft, then confused.

"what're you doin' here?" his voice spoke, much sweeter.

you kept staring at him, not recognising the man you loved.

he immediately grabbed the crown of the balaclava and yanked it off without a second though. holding the black piece of clothing in his hand, both of them came to cup your elbows, drawing you closer to him.

"love?" he called you.

still at loss of words, you reached to the balaclava and twirled it between your fingers.

"love, talk to me." his voice sounded worried.

"ghost?"

he shook his head. "simon, love."

"we'll talk about that at home." you raised your eyebrows, attempting a smile.

he looked at you impatiently, his fingers brushing up and down your forearms.

you fished in your bag a small plastic bag and gave it to him.

this wasn't like one of the times when he'd forget his lunch at home so you'd drop by and give it to johnny so he'd give it to an always so busy simon ghost; he could see it in your eyes that this was something more.

he unwrapped the plastic bag that you had rolled up on itself. his eyes looked brighter than ever when he took with shaky fingers the finally positive pregnancy test.

#simon ghost riley #simon and ghost are two diff people #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost cod

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angelltheninth · 3 months ago

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Arcane Characters Hand Headcanons

Pairing: Jinx, Vi, Caitlyn, Maddie, Ekko, Vander, Silco, Sevika, Viktor, Jayce, Mel x Reader

Tags: fluff, size difference, hand-holding, scars, bruises, hand comparison, cuddles

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: I remember there was a post where an artist drew the hands and made some headcanons in their drawings but I don't remember who the artist was. But that was my inspiration for this.

JINX

Long and skinny fingers

Lots of calluses from tinkering with her weapons

A strong grip because of the Shimmer

If looking at her hands in the dark you can see Shimmer running through her veins

Has to constantly be told to be careful when working because she has no concept of safety and has come close to losing more fingers

Her hands are really rough all over

bruises on her knuckles that never seem to heal because she's always fighting

A few bones have been broken over the years and healed haphazardly

Gets the biggest puppy-dog eyes if you take her hands and kiss each finger paying special attention to the bruises

You're the only one she trusts to help her wrap and unwrap her hands every day

CAITLYN

A lot of calluses on her hands, especially her fingers

She's been shooting with a riffle since she was young so the pads of her fingers are tougher than the rest of her hand

The skin on the pads if her fingers is hardened

Likes to wear gloves, which you will say is a shame

Knows you like her hands a lot, but she has a better grip on her guns with the gloves on

MADDIE

Her hands are dusted with little freckles

A bit small, perfect for hand-holding actually

Can crack her knuckles and she doesn't even realize she does it most of the time

Many faded scars from her time growing up and training in Noxus

Refuses to elaborate when you notice how scared her hands are, but if she gets to know you well enough and trusts you she might share a story or two

EKKO

Because he's always working his hands are really rough and even have a few burn marks

There are more than a few broken bones in his hands

Never healed well because he refuses to take Shimmer and it's a bit difficult to find good doctors in Zaun

Habit of tapping his fingers against surfaces, even your arm or back while you cuddle

To keep your relationship on the down-low he often holds your pinkie finger with his

VANDER

His hands are huge compared to yours, you have to use both to hold one of his

The strength he has could crush a man if he tried

Definitely a working man's hands, you can tell he's never skipped a work day in his life

Long faded scratches on his arms and wrists

Still enjoys punching things and has a big punching bag in his room, but he often forgets to wrap his hands, which makes them a bit bloody after

SILCO

For someone in Zaun he takes pretty good care of his hands

Cold compared to yours, like his body temperature isn't quite where it needs to be

Skinny, long fingers but he will paint his nails if you or Jinx ask him to

Takes care of himself so he never has dry hands despite how they look

Always places his hand over yours, it's a protective and possessive habit

SEVIKA

She only has one human hand left but she's reckless with that one too

Always fights so you always help her patch up the bruises and clean the blood

Marks from tearing off scabs or making them bleed again

Usually has a hard grip but softens it for you

Has a few ash burns from her cigarette, she doesn't always move it away in time

VIKTOR

He grew up in Zaun and then threw himself in lab work so he's not the best at taking care of his hands

Skinny, almost boney hands

Has a habit of biting his nails when he's thinking about something

Broke his fingers and wrists more than a few times

You always tell him to wear gloves but he never does, not because he doesn't think he shouldn't but because he doesn't remember

JAYCE

Big, meaty, rough hands, very strong

He always wears gloves when he works, be it the lab or the forge

And yet he still gets that slightly rougher skin, not fully though because he's really careful

Uses hand lotion when he finishes working, it's what makes his skin extra soft

Won't admit that he does it but when you hold hands he's doing math in his head and comparing the hand sizes

MEL

If she didn't tell you then you would have never guessed she grew up in Noxus because her hands are so smooth

Her hands are delicate, with really well manicured nails

Only when you look really close can you see just a few, very tiny cut marks but they're almost completely faded away

Enjoys getting hand massages from you and you complimenting her hands

Tickles you when she runs her nails across your skin

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leyavo · 28 days ago

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| Genus | 3

Part three. Previous parts > [Bug masterlist] (I just keep thinking of this)

Bugs get crushed, so mind where you go. Wouldn’t want to step on you.

It had been drilled into your head since you’d earned the call-sign, Bug. Sure the names were never something nice, but yours was given you to remind you of your place. That no matter how good you were, there was always someone bigger trying to crush you.

So you tried your best to stay under the radar, never going above and beyond what ever orders were sent your way.

After one particular training session though, Captain Price pulled you aside. The guys winding down on the opposite side of the training ground, stretching their aching limbs. Roach, however trails close by as if he’s trying to listen in.

“Are you a dog or a bug?” Price said, his hands raising to cross over his chest.

You tense, bracing for his knuckles to drive into your shoulder, but nothing.

“What am I, Captain?” You don’t even bother picking from the lot, knowing that he’ll tell you exactly what you are either way.

Is this the question he’ll ask each time you do something he’s not fond of? Or whenever you mess up. Just like your previous captain asked you, what are you? Are you to say you’re a dog now? Someone made just to follow orders no matter the task.

Anything to make your life a little easier. You’re tired of trying to dodge your superiors anger and let them have at it.

The Captain sighs, dabbing the sweat dripping down his brow with the cuff of his fleece. “I don’t want ya to be a dog, there’s more to this task force than following my orders, Bug.”

You’re not sure if this is some kinda test, something for you to slip up on. So you remain silent, waiting for him to tell you what he really thinks. Used to the verbal lashings from anyone superior to you.

“Why do you think I put you with Roach?”

He’s hard to kill. Hard to kill, that’s why you’re with him. Someone to drag you out if you ever fuck up. Your gaze wanders to Roach and he looks away as soon as your eyes connect with his. Turning his attention the dirt beside his boot, toeing the gravel beneath it.

“He’s good at thinking on his feet, adapting and bending the rules in his favour to get the job done. He listens to his orders, but is also in tune with the variables around the situation.” The Captain’s voice lowered, he’d never outright compliment Roach as he gets a mixed bag of emotions. Doesn’t want to add to the weight he already carries, so Price leans in for just you to hear.

He knows his team, knows who needs encouragement or praise, but also knows that sometimes it’s not always practical.

A pat on the back and a nod of the head from the Captain is enough for Roach.

“You want me to ignore a direct order, Captain?”

“No,” he scoffs, “I want you to embellish them, think of them as a guideline. The nitty gritty details are down to you, Bug.” The captain lifts his hand, but drops it deciding not to give you a reassuring pat on the arm. He balls his fist and shakes it, a symbol for strength.

“Yes, Captain.” You watch him walk across the training ground, falling in line with Ghost as they make their way back to the main building. Soap and Gaz have disappeared, just a lone Roach kicking the gravel a couple feet away from you.

Your legs tremble, the last few training drills settling in your aching muscles. The sun burns your scalp and coats a thin layer of sweat all over you. You don’t care how you look though, your knees crashing to the ground. The shuddering rise and fall of your chest, faltered breaths easing as a flask wiggles in front of your face.

Roach’s gloved hand grasping the neck of the flask. “Tougher than we seem us bugs,” he said, crouching down in front of you and poking your t-shirt. He lifts his finger, showing a red little lady bug perched there before it flies off.

You’re a bug, not a dog.

[Next part]

Bug’s still trying to figure out what type of Captain John Price is and doesn’t have a past superior who was good to compare him to. So she’s thinking the worse (which is what she’s used to).

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underthetree845 · 8 months ago

Note

chuuya taking his hat off to hide when he kisses his partner 🤭

Hello saturn lovely! Sorry this took me so long to finish TwT I love the prompt, but as you know writer's block hit me kinda hard the second semester of school so over the summer I've been trying to get back into the swing of posting once in a while!

Hope you enjoy <3 thank you for the request! _

Kiss Me Hard Before You Go

Nakahara Chuuya/Reader (oneshot request)

cws: fem! reader, established relationship, bungou stray dogs s5 spoilers, meursault arc spoilers, fluff, hurt/comfort kinda? there was a little hurt, reuniting, airport reunion, ada dazai, reader cries about 2.5k words summary: Chuuya disappeared on a business trip for three whole days with no explanation- and no one would tell you why. Now he's returned to japan and back in your arms. a/n: This is my last fic for the summer before school starts aaa qwq I'm glad I was able to finish it before the semester starts though! *sigh* am I really incapable of writing something like this without accidentally creating so much plot? Anyways, hope you enjoy! <3 divider credit: (x) (x) ‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹ Chuuya had never considered himself to be a very possessive man; or a possessive boyfriend, for that matter. Protective, sure, but how could anyone expect him not to be? He understood, probably better than most, the risks that came with even so much as associating with a person in his position. It made Chuuya’s stomach churn unpleasantly to even imagine putting you in any sort of danger, so he used his position (along with the power and assets that came with it) to take certain preventative measures. The penthouse you shared was equipped with state of the art security, a technological system truly fit for an executive of the Port Mafia. Additionally, in case you ever needed to travel long distances without him, Chuuya often kept a trusted chauffeur on call. This individual also happened to be a professionally trained underground bodyguard of his personal selection. Even so, Chuuya knew you had a good head on your shoulders. He trusted that you would try to keep yourself out of trouble, or call for him at the first sign of it. It didn’t matter if he was on the road, halfway through a private meeting, or in the middle of pummeling down an enemy organization. Chuuya had always been a man with his priorities set straight. Not even Mori’s notifications were set to come through on silent mode. Coming home to you at the end of the day, allowing you to soothe away the crease between his brows, your voice uttering sweet nothings against the shell of his ear. You had become his lifeline, irreversibly carved your name into every cell of his body. He’d do anything to erase your pain, and it was making his heart break more than anything to know that he was the cause of the salty tears now streaming over your lash line. Chuuya did his best to hold back an ‘oof’ when you threw your frame into his own, burying your sobs in the crook of his neck. He was immediately overwhelmed with the scent of your perfume, the familiar feeling of your body against his own, the softness of the sweater you wore, and the glimmer that never seemed to escape your eyes. The red colored contacts from earlier had given Chuuya one hell of a headache, which only added to the pressure from taking off and being stuck in one of the mafia’s smallest private jets with the most insufferable jackass he’d ever met and some hair dye obsessed casino manager passed out on one of the couches. Chuuya’s gloved fingers almost trembled as they gripped the fabric of your shirt. He lifted a hand to cradle the back of your head while the other remained planted firmly on your lower back.

Sakaguchi Ango, if Chuuya remembered correctly, stood a few yards away. He simply observed the situation from afar, as if he dared not insert himself into the scene. A government agent whom Dazai used to maintain his connection with the outside world. Ango stood with one hand folded neatly over the other behind his back, the faint ghost of a smile residing behind his glasses as he watched Dazai reunite with his fellow agency members. The brunette walked on a crutch, but the uncharacteristically tired look in his eyes brightened ever so slightly when he was swarmed by his coworkers. Chuuya continued to hold you close, patiently waiting for your sobs to die down enough for you to be able to speak coherently. He loosened his grip slightly, removing one of his leather gloves behind your back and bringing that same hand up to cup your face. A whisper of your name left his lips, and your teary eyes finally refocused to meet the warmth of his own. “Chuuya… how could you just leave?” your voice cracked; he could see the hurt in your eyes. Guilt crept into his chest, eyebrows knitting together as you subconsciously leaned into his palm. This was exactly the sort of thing Chuuya promised himself he’d never do. You were the absolute number one priority in his life. There was no doubt in his mind; he didn’t want there to be any doubt in yours either. “I know, Doll, ‘m sorry, it was never my intention…” he muttered, allowing you to rest your hands on his chest. “I know that’s a shit excuse, but I’ll make it up to you, I swear.” A beat of silence passed, the indistinct chatter of the agency fell on deaf ears as you zoned in on the man in front of you. His breath, the way his eyes searched your expression, how you could once again feel the warmth of his skin against your own. “You’re not hurt, are you?” your voice was pricked with concern, hands gentle as you cupped his jaw and turned his head from side to side. Chuuya let out a breath, fondness flickering in his irises at your concern. “Barely a scratch,” he murmured, and you seemed to accept his answer. “Chuuya,” you started, and his gaze locked onto yours. He voiced your name in response. “I need you to promise me something, please?” “Anything.”

You bit your lip. Your mind told you it was a selfish request. You understood, probably better than most, how unpredictable your boyfriend’s line of work could be. But you had accepted it as an adequate price to pay for his love when the two of you started seeing each other, even more so when you moved in together. He was yours, you believed it with every fiber of your being. Chuuya had told enough stories of his old work partner for you to gather that the two had never exactly been the chummiest of pals. So the fact that they cooperated for this mission must’ve meant that it couldn’t have been a minor dilemma. You understood why Chuuya made the decision he did, and that it was probably just as difficult on him. Albeit, that didn’t make your feelings any less real. Your heart reminded you of the unconditional love and comfort that Chuuya always offered you. You knew he’d never intentionally hurt your feelings, especially not without talking it out and making up for it in some way afterward. “Doll…?” he barely breathed, giving you all the space you needed to voice what was on your mind. You took a deep breath. “Don’t… please don’t scare me like that again,” your voice wavered as you spoke, “Everything on the news is scary. And every time I watch it all I can think about is the fact that you’re out there.” You took a moment to glance at the group of Armed Detective Agency members on the airport runway to your left. One of the so-called terrorists you heard about on the news stood amongst the group about ten feet away from where you watched. The world was confusing, and scary, but there was a certain security in your heart that told you as long as you had Chuuya by your side, everything would be okay. “First you’re leaving before sunrise and staying out late on special missions, and I get it, I really do…” you felt a lump beginning to form in your throat, threatening to make you choke over your words, “but then you just leave on a business trip to Europe without so much as a ‘goodbye, I’ll be home soon’? And I have to find out from a call from your boss? I didn’t- I still don’t understand what’s happening. Do you know how scared I was? That I might not ever see you again?” Chuuya’s thumb swiped away the teardrop that ran down your cheek, his eyes trailing over your expression. “You’re right, it’s not fair… I don’t think I could ever apologize enough,” he began, his hold on you tightening slightly, “All that I can ask is for you to understand. I can explain everything to you when we get home. And I promise, I’ll do my best to not leave you in the dark so suddenly. It was an urgent mission, but it must have been scary. You’ll never have to feel like that again, not if I can help it.” Chuuya’s face softened, the corners of your lips curving up slightly at his sincerity as he cupped your cheek. “Shit… you deserve so much better.” You stood there for a moment, just breathing. Soaking in each other’s presence as your heartbeat gradually fell back to its usual pace.

“My my, Slug, is this the lovely lady you were so eager to get back to?” a voice chimed from your left, and you turned your head to face the man at the same time Chuuya snapped his head in that direction. Your boyfriend clicked his teeth, pressing your body closer to his own. “What’s it to you, huh, Dazai?” Chuuya was clearly trying to suppress his irritation. He was doing especially well, considering the fact that he had been holed up next to Dazai on an airplane for the past fourteen hours. “I’m just trying to acquaint myself,” the man went on, a grin playing on his lips despite Chuuya’s glare, “As a responsible owner, I should at least make sure my dog is in good hands.” You tilted your head slightly, and Chuuya sucked in a breath. “You’re treading on some pretty thin ice, Mackerel,” he growled through gritted teeth, “Watch what you say around my girl.” The taller man only took a step forward, his eyes glittering in amusement, a sharp contrast to the hollowed out, almost dead look he carried earlier. “Oh? Holding back your more vulgar language around the lady?” Dazai hummed with mild intrigue, “Perhaps my dog is being well taken care of.” You simply stood and watched with intrigue, the interaction clearly more complex than distinguishable at first glance. Despite their constant verbal jabs and ostentatious insults toward each other, there was a sense of familiarity between the two that was almost palpable to you. They bounced off each other, knowing exactly which buttons to press and which ones to avoid. It was probably a welcome change of tone in contrast to what they had just been through. Your gaze flickered between the two once more, and you couldn’t help but notice how the tension in Chuuya’s shoulders had been released. “Dazai-san?” your voice was level, and both of the men fell silent to give you their attention. You looked at your beloved, then to his ex-partner, then Chuuya, then Dazai again. Mirth swam in your eyes. “I want to thank you for making sure Chuuya was able to return home safely today. Truly, I cannot thank you enough.” You gave a slight bow of your head, and Chuuya looked like he wanted to protest. For once, Dazai didn’t immediately produce a response; he fell silent at your sentiment. This time, a gentler smile curved onto his lips. “Please spare me, Miss,” Dazai began, “Truth be told, I don’t believe I could have made it out without Chuuya’s help either.” The redhead raised his eyebrows. "I'm passing him into your capable hands now. I trust you’ll take good care of him?” Dazai seemed satisfied with the chuckle that slipped from your throat. “You have nothing to worry about,” you replied, “And I trust that your detective agency will treat you well?” “They always have.” Chuuya let out a breath, sharing a look with his partner before turning to face a black passenger vehicle that had pulled up a short distance away. Tinted windows that prevented anyone outside from peeking in; glass, body, and tires that were all bulletproof. It was one of the mafia’s.

“C’mon Dollface, we should get going. Don’t wanna be here when the press shows up, and the boss is probably dying for me to give him a call,” Chuuya nodded his head in the direction of the car; you brought your hand up to give a small wave to Dazai and the handful of agency members further away who glanced in your direction. You let out a sigh you didn’t know you were holding in, allowing your head to rest on Chuuya’s shoulder as you made your way to the car. You felt like you could finally breathe properly again. The door unlocked with a quiet click. Chuuya swung open the door of the vehicle with his non gloved hand and stepped aside to allow you to enter first. “...Chuu?” you started quietly, taking a step closer to where he stood. “Hm?” he raised an eyebrow. You placed your hands loosely on the back of his neck, fingers intertwined; Chuuya responded by resting his hands on your hips, listening intently. You could have held more of a grudge. He disappeared overnight without a word, and no one would tell you why. You’d been on edge for three days straight. Hardly even sleeping through the night as you kept up with the news almost obsessively, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. To be able to hold Chuuya close again so easily felt almost surreal. A soft smile creeped into your expression, the corners of your eyes crinkling as you tilted your head to the side. Chuuya’s breath stilled. “I’m just…” you paused for a moment, your voice pouring with sincerity, “I’m really glad you’re back, and that you’re safe.” Chuuya paused for another moment, studying you carefully as an equally tender look came to his face. He glanced to the side for a moment, and let out a disgruntled huff upon discovering that Dazai’s head was still tilted in your direction; he kept a curious eye on the situation from several meters away. Your boyfriend pursed his lips for a moment before snaking one of his hands further around your waist. He plucked his pork pie hat off the crown of his head, and before you had the chance to realize what was going on, you were already being gracefully tilted backwards, forcing your hands to grip onto the lapel of Chuuya’s jacket for support. Everything seemed to still the moment he slotted his lips into yours, holding his hat up to act as a shield from certain prying eyes. You didn’t hesitate to pull him in closer, your lashes fluttering shut as you savored what you felt like you had been missing for an eternity. Chuuya’s eyes were shut in concentration, his heart thrumming with delight at the familiar sensation of your lips molded against his own. Chuuya didn’t pull away until you were both light-headed from the lack of air. Cheeks flooded with warmth, looking at each other as if you were the only two people in the entire world. “I missed you so fucking much, you know that?” Chuuya’s voice was low as he brushed his thumb over your cheek. The two of you stood straight, lingering in each other’s embrace for a moment longer. Chuuya lightly tossed his hat inside the car and once more gestured with his arm out for you to enter first. The satisfied smile on his lips morphed into one of slight perplexion when you didn’t show a reaction, raising your fingertips to brush over your lips. “Chuuya?” you questioned, and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He replied with your name, all the more puzzled when you let out an incredulous chuckle. “Since when are your teeth so sharp?”

‧˚₊•┈┈┈┈୨୧┈┈┈┈•‧₊˚⊹ a/n: Thank you so much for reading! Have a day/night/morning/evening as lovely as yourself. tagging: @judasgot-it (I noticed that I wrote down that I agreed to tag you for chuuya fics but I can't seem to remember why?? TwT please tell me if this is incorrect! Thank you <3)

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finalgirlmorgue · 4 months ago

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ᰔ・︴ Jason is cold ｡°✧

𝜗𝜚 Genre: Smut 𝜗𝜚 Warnings: nsfw, mentions of female anatomy 𝜗𝜚 Jason Todd x Iceberg lounge waitress 𝜗𝜚 PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE REQUESTS 𝜗𝜚 Pussy eater Jason Brainrot -----------------------------------------------------------------------

𝜗𝜚 You're responsible for your own media consumption :)

Winter is cold, but Jason is colder. You thought you two had made notable progress. Maybe that was just wishful thinking. You had helped him before in a heated interrogation about some high profile criminal. In which he stood over you. Donning the sleek armor, helmet, and hood. Sharp jagged edges of his words, accusatory and calculated. He never touched you in those 6 minutes. Never raised a hand at you. A few words was enough to make you spill. To make you spill information you were not aware was stored in your brain. From then on you were his preferred server. His little spy who delivered everything he wanted to know. You sought his praise, you learned what he needed.

The clientele phased in and out. You brought out plates of caviar and daiquiris with olives and offered kind smiles and an ear to listen to the Gotham elite's rants about criminal life. Their troubles were yours too when they tipped you rent money for the week. You listened with an eye to their wallets.

That was a waitress's manifesto. Hospitality is an art form.

And so, when you saw the Red Hood that bleak night, all you could do was nod politely at him as he slid into a booth. He was a large man, he dwarfed the plush corner table that was supposed to provide privacy. You swerved in between servers. Dodging plates with drinks balancing delicately on them. You approached his table, sliding him a menu from under your arm.

"Hi there," You nodded curtly at him as you set the menu on the table. "Can I get any drinks started for you?" Your eyes glanced back to his face. He was watching you intently, like a shark scenting blood.

"I'll just have an old fashioned. Thanks."

You mentally jotted it down. It was common practice to memorize orders. professionalism was a highly respectable talent, especially in such a large venue. You moved off toward another group. A few tables away you noticed that he had not taken off his helmet or mask. But, his eyes kept following your every move until you disappeared into the crowd.

The slits of his eyes disturbed you the most. The mask dehumanized him. It was like talking to an unfeeling machine. The way he observed, how he held himself. A machine. There was no warmth in his eyes. You watched his fingers twitch, and the knuckles go white as his hands flexed around the curve of the table. He was capable of breaking someone like a Barbie doll.

When you returned with his beverage you set it down on a coaster, a bit of liquid splashing over the edge of the glass.

"Gonna take a few cents off for that?" He asked. Maybe it was a cruel attempt at humor. You didn't smile, still debating on his sincerity. Your eyes widened slightly and he chuckled beneath the breath. Like he knew what you were doing, panicking internally. You tried again, offering him a pleasant expression, "Apologies, Sir." You said. You waited for him to say something further, anything that indicated he would talk to you, but his eyes stayed on your own. He watched you silently until the silence got to be too much.

"They've got you trained like a dog."

"Sorry?…" You were staggered at the comparison but you tried to play along. "Like a dog," he repeated, "trained to obey orders. You're a yes woman for Gotham's Illuminati." He mocked. His fingers fidgeted, the gloves on his right hand slipping slightly.

"Well, I enjoy my work.." And now you had his full attention, looking at you expectantly, waiting for you to elaborate. "I've met a lot of interesting people."

"Honesty, If you would." He cut you off abruptly. He seemed amused by your answer. You took a deep breath and spoke.

"While it is… stressing," You admitted. You wanted to tell him that you had been through more stress than the average college student, and you had also faced far more threats than Gotham's most notorious mobsters, "it's nice knowing the ins and outs of it all." His lips quirked up slightly at this admission. But his attention turned to the rest of the restaurant. The diners seemed oblivious to your conversation, the noise drowned out by the music. No one seemed interested in what you had to say, save for the occasional patron who had heard the comment.

The Red Hood tilted his head towards the bar where a bartender was mixing cocktails. They looked delicious and colorful even as the light reflected off the glass surface. "Let me see if I can make you feel better." He rose gracefully from his seat and made his way towards the bar, taking care not to step on anyone as he passed. You followed him.

"Oh I can't drink on the job-" You began.

"Then don't. This will only last 5 minutes." He interrupted, waving off your protest. You followed to the bathrooms behind him, Hood entering first. After a few seconds, he came back and gestured you inside. Inside was a small area, dimly lit but clean and modern. With sinks that looked more like counters. On the opposite wall there were mirrors. Hood motioned at the counter. Not getting the message he grabbed you by your waist, pulling you forward and hoisting you onto the cold marble. You squeaked, your thighs sliding against the smooth surface as you landed on your ass. When you caught your balance, Hood was already moving across your thighs, his hands reaching into your pants. Your mouth went dry as you stared. He yanked at your zipper, your body jerking in surprise. You gasped, as you watched the black fabric slide downwards. Hood pulled off the slacks and threw them into one of the sinks.

He pushed his thumb into your underwear, pulling roughly at the cloth. "wait--" you managed to mutter between gasps. "H-Hold on. The.. um- door." You stalled.

"Locked tight. I checked." He assured you. A smirk twitched at the corner of his lips. He dropped down to one knee, spreading your thighs farther apart as he pulled the masked down, shielding his lower half from view as his mouth was buried in your cunt. His tongue flicked out, tasting your wetness as he worked you open, gliding deeper each time. You whimpered as he nipped at your clit gently, tugging the sensitive flesh in the process.

"Oh god… this is so- a lot.. so much-"

You squirmed in embarrassment. He smirked at you as you struggled to find some sort of control. He continued to flick his tongue against your clit, making you pulse against the leather of his glove. A warm wet spot formed in his palm. Hood paused, licking his lips as he eyed your pussy hungrily. "I thought I was overworked.." He murmured. His thumb traced a line down your inner thigh until he reached the apex of your thighs. You arched up towards his mouth. You were panting now, "You seem tired."

"Mmm.." you mumbled and you could hear the grin in his voice

"Can't fuck you to sleep, not unless you clock out early." He teased, using his other hand to hold your hips tightly. "Call this a private service."

You nodded. As his tongue lapped at your pussy again you felt a rush of desire shoot up your spine, a shudder coursing through you. He pressed his face against the moist heat, letting out a groan. He slipped two gloved fingers inside you slowly as you moaned. You arched your pelvis into his touch. One of his hands slipped free from your thighs, resting over your knee, pushing them apart. You felt hot and feverish, sweat dotting your forehead, making your hair damp and sticking to your skin.

"should be paying me." He mumbled against your pussy, vibrations thrumming from his lips. He thrust one finger deeply into you. It sank all the way to the hilt before he withdrew it. You cried his name. That was all it took for you to lose the control you had over yourself. All of a sudden you couldn't think straight. All of a sudden you felt your muscles spasm as orgasm slammed through you in waves. You gasped loudly as you rode out your climax, your whole body shaking. Your legs fell open, allowing his nose to poke at your clitt. It felt slick with spit and your juices. He rubbed it against your folds, leaving a trail that tickled your sensitive tissue. You moaned quietly as he lapped up the salty moisture dripping down your folds and thighs. He licked at his finger before wiping it across his lips.

"There we are~." He purred. You shivered as his fingers stroked over your sex.

Reblong + Like if you got this far or Jason dies again

#dcu #jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd headcanon #red hood #red hood x reader #jason todd imagine #batfam #batman #dc universe #batboys #batfamily #smut #dc smut #dc x reader

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keerysfreckles · 4 months ago

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superglue — steve harrington

pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

summary: when y/n is needed by steve and a middle schooler to fight an interdimensional dog

warnings: use of y/n, she/her pronouns, mentions of wounds and blood, some lines will not be accurate to the actual scene, possible spelling errors

a/n: back in my writing era specifically for my pookie aly @keerysbrowneyes <3 (going through my inbox asap i promise)

masterlist !

⋆ ˚ ｡ ⋆ ୨୧ ˚

y/n loved steve.

her and steve have been the best of friends since the middle of second grade, when steve asked if he could have one of y/n's chocolate dipped marshmellows her mother packed her. how could seven year old y/n say no to eight year old steve's lopsided smile and missing front teeth.

ever since the two have been inseparable. throughout middle school and high school steve somehow managed to drag y/n into all of his antics and strange behavior.

in eighth grade steve managed to get her to go with him to egg the principals house as a dare. and in freshman and sophomore year he convinved her and his large group of friends to go skinny dipping while it was barely thirty degrees outside. (they all got frostbite and couldn't feel their fingers or toes for a solid week).

these reasons explain why him and some middle schooler were standing in front of y/n's red front door.

"why are we asking this girl for help? we could've been halfway down the train tracks right now!"

"will you relax? you said the more help we get the better the plan will be."

after three knocks on the door, it opens to reveal y/n with the most confused expression steve has ever seen on the girl.

she points to the kid, "why do you have a child with you? what-"

the child in question raises his hand to shake y/n's, catching her off gaurd.

"dustin henderson, pleasure. now we need to go," with that he walks back towards steve's parked car, making him deliver some form of an explanation.

y/n crosses her arms as steve finally responds.

"it's a very long story, but me and dustin need your help with something."

steve's big brown eyes lock with y/n's in a plead, as he flashes a dopey smile. she sighs, not questioning anything while slipping her shoes on to follow steve to his car.

steve taps the passenger seat window.

"what?" dustin asks.

"it's y/n's seat, get out."

"the hell? i was here first steve. make her sit in the back."

y/n chuckled at the boys' bickering, smiling proudly as dustin fussed even more while getting in the back seat.

"can one of you explain why you dragged me out of my house on this fine saturday?" y/n asked a few minutes into the drive, watching steve drive towards the woods near her house.

"we're baiting a monster to a junk yard," dustin deadpans as steve parks the car next to a set of train tracks.

y/n only laughs, but still gets out of the car, only to be met with steve and dustin pulling buckets of meat, gloves and backpacks out of the trunk.

"you can't be serious right now. there's no such thing as monsters," y/n chuckles again.

"just put some gloves on and help," dustin demands.

"only if you have proof of said monster."

"oh we'll have proof," steve replies. the slight waver in his voice confirms well enough for y/n not to take this lightly, as she grabs a bucket of meat in her gloved hands.

the trio started walking down the train tacks, y/n and steve stayed relatively close to each other, while dusting walked a few feet ahead of them.

"so what kind of monster are we baiting with all this meat?" y/n asks.

dustin stops and turns to the older teenagers before responding, "picture a dog. now add slime and teeth and gross viens and a long tail. oh and no face."

y/n simply nods, while dustin turns back around.

the trio walked a few feet again before steve starts a conversation with dustin.

"all right let me get this straight. you kept something you probably knew was dangerous just to impress some girl?"

"okay that's grossly oversimplifying things," dustin exaggerates.

"why would she like some slug anyway?"

"i thought you said it was a dog," y/n pipes up from behind the boys.

"it was a slug, but now it's a dog," dustin answers, before looking back towards steve, "and it's an interdimensional slug? cause it's awesome," he giggles.

"don't you think you're trying to hard? what if she doesn't even think the slug is cool?"

"not everyone can have your perfect hair all right?" dustin lets out a sight of defeat.

steve shakes his head, "it's not about the hair man. the key with girls is to act like you don't care. drives 'em nuts."

y/n can't help but roll her eyes as dustin asks, "even if you do care?"

"exactly."

"then what?" curiosity fills dustin's voice again.

"you uh, wait till you feel it," steve smirks.

"feel what?"

"y'know like before it's gonna storm, you'll feel this like, electricity."

dustin starts going on a small rant about electromagnetic currents, before steve cuts him off.

"no no no, like a sexual electricity. you feel that, that's when you make your move."

y/n can't believe her best friend was giving a twelve year old relationship advice. she starts zoning out, continuing to plop down chunks of meat every now and then on the weathered train tracks.

the boys in front of her continue their conversation.

"what type is y/n?"

steve looks behind him, noticing the girl is a bit farther behind them, "what about her?"

"well is she a ninja? lion? some other secret third option?"

"y/n's different. she's not like any other girl i've met. that's why she's my best friend."

"bullshit."

steve's caught off gaurd, "sorry, what? what's bullshit?"

"you two are way more than friends."

"oh yeah? how do you know that? you just met her today, and have some analysis on us?"

"well considering you've brought her up in almost every conversation we've had, wanted to go to her for help with dart, and now are calling her different from other girls. i'm just doing the math."

"yeah, well stop," steve deadpans, sighing as he looks back at the girl again.

a few minutes of silence goes by, as y/n now catches up to steve and dustin.

"faberge," steve blurts out.

both y/n and dustin's eyebrows furrow.

"what?" dustin asks.

"it's faberge organics."

y/n starts giggling from besides steve, knowing where this is probably going. in all eleven years of knowing steve "the hair" harringon, not once has she been told his secret hair care routine.

"use the shampoo and conditioner when your hair's damp, not wet okay?"

"not wet, damp," dustin repeats.

"then four puffs of farrah fawcett spray."

this makes y/n burst out laughing, making dustin join in as well.

"something funny to you?" steve turns, annoyed by his best friend.

y/n shakes her head, "no, no of course not. other than the fact you use a girl's hair styling products."

"you guys tell anyone i told you this," he points at both dustin and y/n, "your asses are grass, got it?"

they both nod, before dustin asks, "farrah fawcett, really?"

"i mean she's hot."

⋆ ˚ ｡ ⋆ ୨୧ ˚

after what felt like forever, y/n, steve and dustin made it to the junkyard dustin was leading them to.

"good call dude," steve praises as y/n pats dustin on the back, making the boy smile.

they pile the rest of the meat into a large pile in the middle of the junkyard, when a new voice makes them look to the right.

y/n guesses it's some of dustin's friends, but he doesn't look happy about them being here.

dustin drags the other boy behind a red rusted car, while the girl walks over to y/n and steve.

"hey, i'm max," she holds out her hand.

"i'm y/n, and that over there is steve," max nods. "i think the plan is to grab any trash we can find to cover the windows on this bus, alright?"

with that the new trio quickly begin covering the bus with old plates of metal, car doors, and wire, before steve goes off to find dustin and his friend.

the second friend of dustin's soon introduces himself to y/n, making the girl smile at all the kids' kindness towards her.

time went by far too quickly, as the sun was now setting and the group of five was sitting in different places around the bus.

lucas was on top of the bus with a pair of binoculars glued to his eyes. max was sitting in one of the torn up bus seats. dustin was anxiously pacing. y/n and steve were sitting next to each other on the floor, while steve was busy flicking a lighter.

"so you really fought one of these things before? and you're sure it wasn't a bear?"

"shit, don't be an idiot okay? if you don't believe us, just go home," dustin pouts.

"jeez, past someone's bed time?" max replies, before going up the ladder in the direction of lucas.

"dustin!" y/n scolds.

"that's good, just show her you don't care."

y/n punches steve in the arm.

"i don't," dustin responds.

steve turns as dustin sits down. he notices y/n's nervous habit of picking at her nails. the last time he noticed her do it was sophomore year before her driving test. and now a year and a half later she was doing it again.

"hey, you okay?" he stops flicking the lighter.

y/n nods, "yeah. i mean i've never fought a monster before," she smiles slightly.

"you'll be fine, trust me. i'll protect you," steve smiles at her, watching as the worry leaves her tired eyes.

"thanks steve."

the sweet moment however was cut short, by a distant growling noise, and dustin jumping up to the wire covered slit in the side of the bus.

"lucas, what's happening?"

"hold on!" lucas yells.

"who knew twleve year olds could be full of so much sass?" y/n questions as steve helps her up off the floor.

"right?" he agrees with a low chuckle.

everyone on the bus soon spots the monster they were looking for. y/n couldn't help but grip steve's jacket sleeve tighter than she was a minute ago, when she sees the monster's face.

well, resemblance of a face. she shivers at the light chittering noises as he sniffs the pile of meat.

"why isn't he taking the bait?" dustin asks no one in particular.

"maybe he's not hungry," y/n guesses.

"maybe he's sick of cow," steve then answers, beginning to back away from y/n and dustin, just as max climbs down the ladder.

"steve, what are you doing?" dustin asks.

"just get ready," he tosses y/n his lighter, as he grabs a bat from besides the door.

"steve are you insane? you could get killed out there," y/n hisses, only wanting him to say he's joking and stand next to her again.

y/n's breath hitches as steve goes out the busted doors and into the lion's den. or would it be dog's den?

whatever it may be, it only stresses the older girl out more once the demodog can be seen in front of steve.

as steve stops mocking the demodog, he swings his nailed back more times than he can count, as he runs away from the monster whenever it chases him.

the three younger kids begin yelling for him at the same time, panicking for him. y/n can only bite her nails and watch in terror as her best friend might be killed in the next five minutes.

"he's insane," max calls out.

"he's awesome," dustin responds with a smile.

lucas calls out from above, alerting steve of the other dogs approaching.

"there's more of them?" y/n questions dustin.

dustin avoids her question before yelling through the window, "steve! abort!"

max and y/n join in on the yelling, until y/n begins opening the bus doors.

steve stumbles up the steps and is out of breath after he shoves the door closed, now only inches away from y/n.

"you're an idiot."

"are they rabid or something?" max asks.

"they can't get in! they can't!" dustin yells as one of the dogs rams itself against the metal doors.

steve grabs y/n's arm to bring her away from any form of danger, something he's gotten used to doing over the past few years.

dustin begins yelling god knows what into his walkie talkie set, as lucas climbs down the ladder and into the group of worried kids.

y/n takes in a deep breath and grabs steve's bat from out of his hands.

"y/n what the hell?" he asks, before his eyes widen, watching her begin the trek up the ladder.

he grabs her waist, stopping her, "what on earth do you think you're doing?"

"what if more are up there?"

"then let me handle it!" he whisper-yells.

"no, you stay here with the kids. they seem to trust you more."

y/n starts walking up the ladder again, definitely missing the feeling of steve's big hands on her waist.

y/n makes it to the top of the bus, clutching the nailed bat in her hands until her knuckles practically turn white. her head twists and body turns at any sound she hears, not wanting to take any chances at missing one of those dogs.

she fully turns around at the sound of claws on metal, watching as a demodog crawls onto the top of the bus.

the color in her face drains as she beings walking towards it. steve and the kids inside the bus can't help but start calling out her name, just like they all did when steve was outside.

the demodog growls at her, as y/n holds the bat up, ready to swing. however another demodog makes it way up from the other end of the bus.

thankfully, dustin notices the faint prints of the dog's feet towards the back and is quick to alert steve.

"y/n!" he yells up the ladder, "there's two, you have to get down!"

"i'm kinda busy here!" her voice shakes, and she prays that steve doesn't notice. he does.

once the first demodog is close enough, she swings the bat with as much force as she can muster and it rolls off the bus onto the dried grass beneath her.

she lets out a sigh of relief, althoguh steve's words finally register, just as the second demodog runs towards her and slashes it's claws through her left leg. the force makes it so y/n falls forward, making steve's bat fall out of her hands and lands with a thud farther down the bus.

steve's head immediately picks itself up as he hears y/n's ear splitting scream, followed by the call of steve's name. he skips two rings at a time as he climbs the ladder, scrambling to get through the opening.

his eyes widen as y/n's trying her hardest to kick the demodog away, but move away from it at the same time. however she can't move much because of the pain seering up her leg. steve turns his head, noticing his bat behind him, and is as quick as possible to swing at the dog. he gets the dog off the bus in two swings.

as soon as he takes another look at y/n, he drops the bat and kneels in front of her.

"hey, hey you're okay," his calm voice is an exact opposite of everything the two teens just went through.

y/n shakes her head and cries more as steve looks down at the gashes in her leg. there's three thick lines of skin missing, with blood dripping down her leg, ruining her pants and single converse.

out of instinct, steve takes off his signature grey jacket and places it over y/n's leg. she reaches forward and holds onto steve's arm as if her life depended on it.

"steve!" she cries more.

"i know. i know it hurts baby," the petname rolls of his tongue before he can stop it, "but we need to stop the bleeding okay? it'll help in the long run."

y/n leans her head forward, crying into steve's neck as he continues tending to her.

"dustin! max! lucas! i need your help!"

the three middle schoolers come up quickly, dustin already looking for things in his backpack as he sits down besides steve.

lucas helps dustin find anything to help stop the bleeding, as max sits next to y/n and rubs her back.

steve throws his now bloodied jacket somewhere on the top of the bus, as dustin hands him a few paper towels. steve's heart rate calms slightly as the blood flow has slowed down since he began helping y/n.

"will this work?" lucas asks steve, holding out a worn out bandage wrap from his own backpack.

steve nods, before dustin quickly takes the paper towels, only wanting to help steve.

"this is gonna sting a little okay? and it might be tight, but it's okay, yeah?" steve's calm voice floods her ears again.

he feels her nod against him and mutter oout a 'yeah', before he carefully wraps the bandage around her leg. once he finshes, his hand hovers over the area, as he rubs his tumb back and forth.

"you're okay," steve whispers against the top of her head, and kisses her hair.

her hold on his shirt loosens and her breathing starts going back to his normal state.

"hey there champ," steve smiles as she brings her face out of his neck. steve wipes under her eyes with his thumb.

"you think you can walk?" dustin asks carefully, definitely not wanting to piss y/n or steve off at the moment.

y/n nods, "i'm definitely going to need some help."

the three kids are the first to go down the ladder, grabbing their bags, and steve's bat and bloodied jacket.

steve helps y/n down the ladder, and once she's at the bottom, lucas and dustin help her stand until steve reaches the bottom.

the same process is made until everyone is standing outside the bus. y/n is leaning practically all her body weight against steve, making sure not to lean on her injured leg.

"do you think steve scared them off?" lucas broke the silence, now noticing none of the demodogs were around them anymore.

"no, no way."

"jeez thanks," steve responds to dustin's response, after wrapping his arm tighter around y/n's waist.

"they were going somewhere," dustin continues.

"where?" max asks.

"the lab," dustin and lucas say at the same time.

just as the group begins walking towards the forest, after dustin hands out flashlights for everybody, y/n winces as she tries to take a few steps.

"you guys okay?" dustin asks.

"yeah, yeah, you guys start walking. we'll be there in a few," steve responds, helping y/n sit down on the hood of an abandoned car.

"are you okay?" steve rubs over the denim of y/n's pants, making his hands rest on her thighs.

she nods, "yeah it just feels weird."

now steve nods, before she speaks up again.

"you called me baby."

"what?"

"up on the top of the bus," she explained, "you called me baby."

steve's face instantly become pink as his cheeks felt hot.

"oh, i uh, i didn't mean to. it was kind of in the heat of the moment i guess. i swear i-"

y/n cuts him off, "i liked it."

"oh?" is all steve can get out.

y/n nods again, "i really liked it. and maybe this is just the blood loss talking, but i really like you steve."

steve is silent as she continues rambling.

"i've liked you since you took me to the eighth grade dance, in that stupid blue dress my mom made me wear. i've liked you since you invited me to that stupid pool party with nancy wheeler when you liked her. i've liked you since you helped me find my car in the school parking lot," she pauses as they both let out a laugh. "i've liked you forever steve."

steve lets y/n's words sink in. as he does his smile only grows wider.

"i've liked you forever too," he begins to lean closer to y/n.

he's now fully standing between y/n's legs, not letting his hands fall from her thighs. he captures her lips gently at first, feeling her hands move to hold onto his shoulders.

he deepens the kiss, both of them letting years of untold love fall onto the other's lips. y/n's hands move up towards his hair, holding the strands in the back between her fingers.

y/n is the first to pull back, solely to catch her breath and so she can admire a lovestruck steve. her hands move down from his hair to his biceps, as his still stay on her thighs.

"hey steve?" her voice is quiet.

he hums a response.

"do you think you could carry me to this lab we're going to?"

steve smiles and nods, "i was hoping you'd ask."

y/n giggles as he's being as gentle as possible to pick her up off the car and into his arms. he leans forward to kiss her forehead before he starts walking.

"i'm sorry i ruined your favorite jacket," she apologizes as she leans her head on steve's shoulder.

"it's okay, i needed a new one anyway."

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softaestluv · 1 month ago

Text

Breaking Bread

Simon Riley who is quite the anomaly of a man, or human, rather. Your lieutenant who has only spoken a handful of words to you.

Simon Riley who happens to be sat at the only open table in the mess hall.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Sergeant! Reader

Tags: Tags: Short n’ Sweet, Fluff, Pining, Slow burn if you squint, Food as a love language, Eventual romance, Eventual smut, Military inaccuracies

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5

On ao3 here!

The military is cruel, unforgiving, ruthless. Doesn’t quite consider the value of human lives and routines, especially for those who are active participants.

Your lieutenant faced this wraith more frequently than you did. You sat alone at the mess hall table more often than not, drank coffee on the rec room couch because you couldn’t make tea the way Ghost could. Other sergeants pressed to your side during meetings, didn’t quite burn away the itch thrumming under your skin.

But even after weeks of an assignment, he always returned to the table like a dog trained. Took quite a bit of effort on your part to coax him from his Ghost stoicism after a mission. Remind him that you were the pretty dove he ate with, that smuggled sweet treats just for him. Treats that had taken to a pile in your room in his weeks away, poured over him like muffins and chocolates from you were his reward for a grueling mission.

However, returning from assignments was different for you. It was normal at first, no changes in your routine when you returned to base. Found yourself sat at the mess hall table with Ghost like usual, as if there was no lapse in your shared lunches.

That was before you got injured on an assignment Ghost hadn’t been on. It wasn’t a horrible injury, didn’t require you to stay in the medbay, could still operate functionally. But there was an ugly bruise from your hip bone that radiated over your side to your back. Blue and black, massive and sensitive, made breathing hard. So, you had asked Price if you could opt out of training for the day, side pinched everytime you inhaled.

When lunch came you didn’t go eat with Ghost, didn’t have the energy to walk over for a mediocre meal, so you continued to sleep in your bed. Buried yourself in the warmth of the sheets, it was rare you were able to sleep in past the early mornings in this occupation.

Though, Ghost seemed to have other plans. Woke up to him knocking— quite impatiently, on your door. Didn’t even give you a second to react as he pushed past your smaller frame.

You rubbed at your eyes, still half asleep as you closed the door, turning to face your lieutenant who now stood in the middle of your room.

"Lieutenant?" You murmured groggily.

“Show me.” He demanded sternly, words curled with his lieutenant voice.

You looked at him confused, must’ve tilted your head because he sighed quietly, eyes piercing through the thin slit of his balaclava. He doesn’t say anything more, just points to your side.

Your mouth falls open in realization, wondered how the hell he knew about your injury if you had only spoken to Price about it. But you should’ve know he would force it out of your captain.

You hesitated, surely he didn’t mean for you to lift your fucking shirt up, show your bare flesh to him. Especially when the bruise curved under where your bra would clasp, one of which you weren’t wearing because he interrupted your sleep.

But the longer you waited, the tighter Ghost’s jaw became under his mask. So, like a good sergeant, you turned to the side, bunching your shirt up under your breasts. Forced your eyes to stare at the ceiling because you don’t have the strength to look in his eyes.

You don’t know what you expected him to do, didn’t expect him to fucking talk because he never did, but when you felt calloused fingers on the skin of your hip you inhaled a sharp breath between your teeth. Didn’t he have fucking gloves on seconds ago?

You had hoped that would be it, that he would step back and put his glove on again because you don’t think you could hold the noises from your throat down if he did anything else, but you never quite understood what ricocheted in your lieutenants mind. Had to squeeze your eyes shut when he slid higher, roughened fingers so gentle on your flesh.

The shirt slipped from your grasps when fingers became a palm, pressed smooth against your skin. Four fingers spread on the expanse of your back, thumb curled over your rib. He pushed your shirt back up as soon as it fell, pulled it taut at your chest, thumb resting just under your breast.

“S-Sir,” You stuttered, twisting your head to look up at him, but his eyes were zeroed in on your bruise, just hummed like he wasn’t inches away from cupping your breast in his large palm.

“I’m fine. It’s just a bruise.” You somehow manage to get out, cheeks just about swollen from biting them so hard.

Still, he doesn’t say anything, drops your shirt down over your side. You should really stop trying to predict his actions because you expected him to take a step back or leave, but he doesn’t move.

Instead, he shifts his gaze to yours, but you can’t quite decipher the look in his eyes. Swallow thickly as you watch them change, edges hardening into the tense stare your lieutenant always wears.

“You get the bastard?”

You nodded, “Always do.”

He seems pleased enough by this, steps back so you can breathe again. Walks out of your room as quick as he walked in, mind still fuzzy when you notice the tray of food on your bed.

The next day you have to stop yourself from jumping to conclusions when Soap whines to you— ‘Lass, yer lucky ye didnae hae tae train yesterday. LT was angry, ma bones still hurt.’

It becomes a constant, Ghost coming into your room to check on your injuries after a mission. Even if you weren’t hurt, he checks anyways, eases his concerns when he sees you standing and healthy.

Maybe you should feel a little offended; you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself, and he definitely wouldn’t let you barge into his room and demand to know if he’s still alive. But you let him every time, enjoy the way the strain in his irises soften when you tell him you’re okay too much to say anything.

Then, you find yourself in the rec room, a makeshift party of sorts that Soap threw together for Gaz’s birthday. A rare celebration in the special forces.

You’re already two drinks in, and you probably shouldn’t drink more so quickly, but Soap keeps wrangling you to the table to take shots. You can tell Soap no, but when Gaz looks at you with puppy dog eyes, and says— ‘But, lass, it’s my birthday!’ you can’t find it in yourself to deny him.

Which is most-likely why you sway over to Ghost’s figure in the corner of the room, sat alone at an empty table. His eyes find yours, or maybe they were already on you; you’re not entirely sure.

You’re surprised he hasn’t already beckoned you over to the spot in front of him. Except your buzzed self doesn’t fill the seat in front of him, instead, you slip into the spot directly next to him. Thighs pressed flush against his, shoulder knocking into his.

“Hi, lieutenant,” You greet, leaning real close.

An arched eyebrow, you presume, under his mask is the only response you get. He’s usually quiet, but for some reason, it peeves you today. Maybe it’s because he keeps barging into your room, but doesn’t even mutter a simple ‘hi’ to you.

Maybe it’s because you can still feel the phantom of his hands days later, fingers curled around your hips and ribs. When it’s so easy to imagine them cupped around other sensitive flesh. All your pent up frustrations bursting through the skin he’s touched with his bare hands, throbs in memory late at night.

“I didn’t think you would be here,” You pause for a response, continuing once you’re faced with more silence, “You drinking?”

He holds his cup up with a nod, showing you his half filled glass.

“What is it?” You ask.

“Bourbon.”— It’s short, one word, but you take it as a victory.

“So, he does talk,” You tease, breathe of a smirk on your lips.

He scowls at you, drawing a quiet laugh from your chest. Maybe you were spoiled, so used to your lieutenant willingly sharing his drinks with you, maybe you shouldn’t ask, but you do anyways.

“Can I taste it?”

“No chance, sweeth’art.”

You frown, placing your hand on his knee so you can press your lips to his clothed covered ear, “Our little secret?”

Ghost inhales as you whisper, watches you fall back against your seat once again, palm still on his knee.

“Mmh, c’mere then, dove,” He hums quietly.

You practically jump into the hand he holds out, smiling wide at his acquiescence. And just like his tea, he presses his glass of bourbon to your lips to drink. Except this time his grip is on your jaw, large fingers wrapped around your chin.

It’s bitter, burns your throat irritably, but you swallow it like it doesn’t, hold his stare for as long as you can.

When he pulls the glass back, some of the liquid spills from the corner of your lips. And just like the first time he shared his tea with you, his thumb catches the droplets. Except this time he isn’t wearing any gloves, so he pushes it back to your lips. Stamps the pad of his thumb against your bottom lip, smearing the bourbon across it; his eyes fixed intently on the movement.

Your tongue darts out on instinct, licking the bourbon off your skin, dragging it against his thumb in the process.

Sharp eyes meet yours.

The room spins, tilts on its axis.

Fingers tightening around his knee to stabilize yourself. Stuttering embarrassingly over your breaths as they get caught in your throat.

His fingers on your jaw scorch your skin, leave fingertip shaped chiaroscuro stains in their wake. Thumb smudging cedar remnants from your lips down your chin.

“Think ‘ts time we got you to bed, yeah?” He murmurs, dropping his grip from your head.

The absence of his touch brings you back to reality, the loud noises from the other drunk sergeants deafening. You nod, let him stand you up and walk you to your room because you’re afraid what you might do if you have another drink.

Gratitude pulses your body when the following week is your scheduled time for leave. You don’t have the strength to keep eating lunch with Ghost and pretending you don’t know the taste of his skin.

Your leave is short, two weeks is all you managed to scrape out of your superiors. Though, it’s not like you do much besides sleep in, rest your overworked body, and lounge on your porch reading.

And because you somehow convinced Ghost to give you his personal number before you left, you spend your time sending him messages you’re sure he doesn’t care about.

A picture of the chocolate muffins you baked— ‘Made some muffins, wish you could try them! I think you would like them more than the ones I get on base!’

A picture of the cup of tea you made— ‘Doesn’t taste as good as yours does.’

A picture of a stray cat in your backyard, black fur with white clumps decorated on its face— ‘Lieutenant Cat Riley.’

A picture of you reading on your porch, glasses on the bridge of your nose, sunset in the background— ‘Reading with a sunset instead of the rec room couch next to my grumpy lieutenant.’

You finally get a response from him— ‘Pretty.’

‘The sunset is pretty!’

But your lieutenant doesn’t mean the sunset.

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yawnderu · 10 months ago

Text

CW: mentions of kidnapping and stolen body autonomy.

Find a way in, kill the enemy, retrieve the hostages, leave. A routine of sorts that gave his life some sense of purpose to avoid going insane for the past two decades. Simon liked to believe he got over what happened in his past... truly, he did; and yet Manuel Roba’s horrors seem to haunt him no matter where how many years pass.

“C’mere.” Simon’s voice held no hostility, he made sure of it, yet your stiff position never changed. Legs angled to the right, hands folded on your lap, and eyes looking forward, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze even if it’s been hours since your rescue. Garrick, Price and Johnny have already tried to get you to talk multiple times, all of them with different approaches.

Garrick was friendly, trying his best to seem approachable, a bright smile on his lips that you didn’t seem to notice, too busy staring at a wall no matter how much he tried to hold a conversation.

Price seemed fatherly, never once laying a hand on you even if it was itching to comfort you, and so he settled with telling you you’re safe now, how no one will ever get you again now that they're here. His words didn’t seem to do much, either.

Johnny was… something else. His first attempt was a shitty pick up line, getting a reaction out of you for the first time— a nose scrunched up in disgust, but a reaction nonetheless.

And Simon… Simon’s approach was different. The man was used to barking out orders and obeying them himself, not to deal with an unresponsive hostage. His behemoth frame was nestled next to you, putting a tray on the table and observing your reactions. From the way you swallowed thickly the moment the meal was presented to you, to the sound of your stomach growling.

“Go on, then.” Your gaze follows his movements for the first time, the feeling of your stomach rumbling makes you more aware of your hunger, so many years being fed nothing but what was necessary to keep you alive by Manuel and his associates, so many years of being trained like a dog to obey to their very order.

Simon can see the hesitation in your body language, too tense to allow yourself to dig in the way you wanted, yet no longer as stiff as before. There was a sense of relief at the fact that they didn’t seem to want to hurt you —unlike Roba—, yet years of non-stop brutal training can’t be erased within hours.

Roba’s training was engraved into your brain, and while the sense of security the SAS blokes gave you is something you’re thankful for, nothing guarantees they’re not working for him. You’ve seen other military men come and go throughout the years, always Roba’s friends, and always sharing the same disgusting, sadistic desires.

“Eat up.” The rest of the men watch the way you move, curiosity and amusement mixing at how strange your movements seem, almost robotic. Your forearms rest on the table, elbows away from the cheap wood as you attempt to hold your own cutlery— attempt, because it looks fully foreign to you, trying out different angles to make it work, and yet it's the first time in years you've been allowed to try and feed yourself.

Simon is the first one to catch on, having lived under Roba’s rules for long enough to know he enjoys taking people’s autonomy, to reduce them to nothing but a pathetic mess that depends on him. His gloved fingers are gentle as he takes the spoon from your hand, scooping up some food before holding it up to your lips. His full attention is on you, relief starting to make its way into his body as sees your rather soft lips wrap around the spoon, eating whatever he was feeding you. Lucky for you, this time it wasn’t an MRE… or beans on toast.

His gloved thumb wipes the corners of your lips every time you’re done chewing, and he’s quick to pick up more food from the plate, nothing but patience and kindness shown in his actions, so unlike the brooding soldier he's known to be.

“... two goldfish are in a tank…?” Johnny’s loud groan gets your attention for a second, yet you quickly glance back at Simon, curious eyes looking up at him, almost as if asking him to go on.

“One turns to the other and says… ‘you know how to drive this thing?’” You can see the corners of his eyes crinkle before he even finishes his joke, clearly trying his best not to laugh at just how awful it was. A small smile hides in the corners of your lips, and Simon takes that as a victory, ignoring the questioning looks he’s getting from his team, for now.

#I've had this idea in my mind for MONTHS #Feeding you because he knows what it's like to be starved by Roba #being patient because Roba's torture is all you've known for years #silent promises of never letting anyone else take your body autonomy again #watching with nothing but pure pride the moment you're able to eat with no assistance #listening to your voice for the first time after you start getting better??#I'm going feral for this man #I'll rewrite this later but I needed to get it out of my head RAHHH #Simon being gentle to hostages save me...#cod mw2 #cod mwii #call of duty #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost simon riley #simon x reader #ghost x fem!reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost x y/n #ghost x female reader #simon riley x f!reader #simon riley x you #simon riley x y/n #simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost x you

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ilium-ilia · 2 months ago

Text

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Five: failed kintsugi

tw: none

Simon Riley does not exist.

Right now, he’s far away, tucked in bed in that dilapidating apartment back in London, hibernating as the cold chill of winter swallows the city with algid fingers. Everything he loves is hidden away in a neat little box compartmentalized somewhere in the grey matter of his brain where neither light nor susurrus can reach it. He sleeps soundly—dormant, but creaking the way the earth does when magma boils beneath the surface, waiting to spew forth and devour.

For now, there is only Ghost, and he is all sharp canines and malice. There is enough iron on his body—in the form of guns, bullets, and knives—to drown a man, and still he persists. Old viscera haunts the soles of his boots leaving behind stains that he can never quite rinse free, and a skull balaclava clings to his face like a second skin. He is nothing but dark eyes, ichor, and compos mentis among strewn offals for it to leave a sour taste on his tongue. A trained killer. A honed blade.

But there are instances where Simon Riley and Ghost intersect. They intertwine like roots from different trees, or how blood from different bodies mix when they meet on a cold floor. One can’t survive without the other.

At the moment, they’re both infatuated with a handkerchief.

Black fabric patterned with silly, cartoonish dogs stare up at him as he holds it as gently as he can in his gloved hands. Though the soft leather and stiff fabric dulls his tactile senses, his thumb still runs over the cloth with mesmerizing motion. Something whispers low and dangerous in Ghost’s ear—Simon’s desires cut through the hum of the transport aircraft with a saccharine lull.

Ghost smothers it before it can bear fruit.

“Think he’s got a kid?”

Though it’s difficult to hear Kyle over the humming of the engines as they soar thousands of feet in the air, Johnny hums as he leans back in his seat. “Sure hope not. I have a hard time imagining him around a kid.”

Chuckling, Kyle glances back over at his lieutenant for a short moment, eyes still focused on that handkerchief. He’s bent forward, elbows resting on his knees, lost in his own world.

“No, I think he’s got someone else waiting for him back home,” Johnny comments as he toys with the strap on his rifle. The red lighting inside the airbus makes his eyes throb as if they’re about to melt, but his lips quirk into a sly grin. “He’s got himself his own little ghost.”

“Little ghost?” Kyle repeats incredulously.

“Yeah, you know. A little phantom. A spectre. Ghostette?” Johnny eggs.

Kyle shakes his head. “You’re taking the piss.”

“What?” Johnny asks as if actually offended. “We call him Ghost. It’s only fitting that his girl gets a nickname, too.”

“If there is a girl,” Kyle corrects.

Lips pressing together, Johnny looks back at his superior just in time to watch him fold the handkerchief. It’s neatly done; a perfect square with crisp edges. Once finished, he leans to the side and shoves it into his back pocket for safe keeping. When his hands return back in front of him, he stares down at them as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore.

“Oh, there’s a girl alright.”

The next few weeks are brutal. October gloom slowly morphs into an algid January bite, and throughout it all, Simon fights. His trigger finger cramps with how often he pulls it these days, and he manages to snag a new hole in the sleeve of his jacket as barbed wire slices through his flesh like a butcher’s knife through a pig. For him, this is nothing new. He’s well acquainted with the way scar tissue mends over a wound and how gunpowder coalesces with blood into some noisome aroma that lurks in his dreams.

Still, he has a slight reprieve in the form of that handkerchief. Thumb running over the threads, he fusses over it in the darkness of a safe house or in a snowy foxhole. Even when he’s halfway across the world, you still haunt him.

The chill of winter follows him all the way back to London where he’s greeted by an empty apartment and a lugubrious heater that’s slow to turn on. He drags himself into the shower where he washes off weeks worth of toil and incessant eye black that still traces the rim of his eyes. When he’s finished, he can still smell the way death lingers on him, and he doesn’t feel any lighter and absolved from the violence he so expertly executed, but his freshly washed skin and clean clothes will have to do.

He lays in bed on his back, ready to catch up on the infinite hours of sleep he’s lost, but it does not come easy. The rainy afternoon sun bleeds through his blinds and stains his floor with pale silver, but it’s not enough to snuff out that throe in his stomach. He’s being watched. That silly piece of cloth stares at him from the corner of his nightstand.

You promise? That you’ll come see me?

You’re in the living room when a knock interrupts your evening.

Hands twitching, your head snaps towards the front door as your eyes narrow. The time on your phone says it’s just past seven—not exactly obnoxiously late, but concerning enough when you aren’t expecting any visitors. Pushing yourself to your feet, you carefully hop along the hallway as you avoid all the squeaky spots in the floor as you approach the door. You press your face against the wood as you gaze through the peephole, and the very moment your brain registers the hulking figure on the other side, your hand flies to the lock.

Simon Riley stands in front of you with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. Water droplets from unforgiving rain adorns the fabric of his balaclava, framing his obsidian eyes like rhinestones. Once you’re able to get over your shock, a smile pulls at your lips.

“Simon,” you exclaim softly as your hand falls from the door.

It isn’t until you speak that you realize just how disheveled you are. Donning nothing but loose pajamas and large house slippers to stave off the cold, you feel underdressed. Naked in your own home.

“It’s good to see you,” you continue breathlessly. “Do you want to come in and warm up a bit? That rain is brutal today.”

Simon shifts and the wet heels of his boots squeak against the floor. Though his balaclava and hood obscures his face, his eyes are plenty easy to read. He studies you—observant as ever—as he traces the features of your face with his gaze. His shoulders loosen once he’s soaked you in.

“Don’t waste your evening on me,” he says. His voice is stiff and gruff; worn down from rigorous and relentless use. “Just keepin’ my promise.”

As he speaks, his eyes unmistakably wander to the scar on the wall behind you. The hole Eric had punched into your wall has become nothing but a faint memory with a less than perfect patching job. Still, its presence has burned a hole in Simon’s mind, and he feels acrid annoyance boil in his stomach at the mere idea that it had ever soiled your home in the first place.

“Please,” you insist as you step to the side to let him through. “I was just about to put the kettle on, and it’s freezing out. It’s no trouble at all.”

There’s a short pause as Simon mulls your proposition over. “Alright,” he finally says. “Won’t keep you long.”

The cold radiates off of his body as he takes a step through the entryway, closing the door behind him. He kneels to the floor to undo the shoelaces on his boots, halfing his height. You try not to let your eyes linger on him too long as you step backwards to give him space as you wander into the kitchen.

“When did you get home?” you ask as you retrieve your kettle.

“Couple hours ago,” he answers, voice still coarse.

Running water spews from the sink as you begin to fill the kettle, and Simon’s boots gently thunk against the wall as he lines them up next to yours. You steal a glance at them and you try to ignore the fluttering in your stomach when you see the stark difference in size between his boots and your flimsy work shoes.

“Late night traveling, then?” you ask as you set the kettle on the stove. You turn the heat on with a few clicks and then watch as the electric coils burn a bright red.

“Something like that,” he mumbles. Once his boots are situated, he turns to face you as he stands in the doorway to the kitchen. Your throat grows dry when you note how his shoulders almost brush against either side of the frame.

Nodding, you gesture to the lone couch in your living room. “Feel free to grab a seat. I’d hate to make you stand around. I’m sure you’re tired.”

Simon hums as he follows your prompt and you watch his eyes dilate before he slowly stalks into the next room. “What’s in the box?”

“Oh, that? Don’t mind that,” you wave off as you curiously follow behind him. “I bought myself a new lamp. I tried to glue the glass base of the other one back together, you know with like the gold glue and stuff? It didn’t really work out and I hate using the overhead light so I figured it was about time I bought a new one. Haven’t quite gotten it put together yet, though. Feel free to move it out of the way, it’s kind of an eyesore.”

Teeth sinking into your lower lip, you duck back into the kitchen while Simon continues to wander around the room. As the water begins to boil, you rummage through your cupboards to raid it for tea. You’re met with mostly empty shelves coated with a painfully minute amount of sparse food. Rent has become a little more difficult to keep on top of these last few months. Though Eric wasn’t good for many things, he at least kept the kitchen stocked. Still, you’re saved by a stray box of breakfast tea shoved to the very back of the bottom shelf, and you eagerly snatch it with a huff.

“You alright with breakfast tea?” you call as your fingers sort through the bags.

Simon is quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Plain.”

You manage to catch the kettle as soon as it begins to whistle, and you remove it from the stove as you prepare your cups. Retrieving your favorite Halloween mug for yourself, and a cheeky don’t talk to me until I’ve had my morning tea one for Simon, you let the bags steep before you’re pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of tearing cardboard.

Wandering into the living room, you find Simon sitting on the floor with the box that belongs to your new lamp ripped open. Several parts and pieces lay out in front of him in their own separate bags, seemingly sorted into piles based on screws and main structural pieces. A small piece of paper sits in his hands as he carefully reads through the instructions.

“Simon, you don’t have to do that,” you insist, dumbfounded.

Ignoring you, he continues to read through the instructions before his eyes narrow. “Where the hell did you buy this from?”

“Ikea…”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grumbles as he tosses the paper to the side. “Useless.”

Without the help of any sort of direction, Simon begins to put your new table lamp together. Really, there doesn’t seem to be too many pieces, but even from a short distance you can make out about twenty different screws with several varying sizes. With his balaclava on and his hood pulled up over his head, Simon looks more like a robber than a handyman, yet here he is, building your lamp as if it’s his favorite hobby.

Chuckling, you return to the kitchen to grab the tea before meandering back into the living room. After setting Simon’s mug on the coffee table, you curl up on the couch as you warm your hands on the ceramic while watching him work—brows furrowed, eyes steady, hands moving.

How did the two of you get to this point? When did you go from strangers to… whatever this is?

How do you name this feeling in your stomach—this fluttering sanguinity?

As you sip on the tea and revel in the warm liquid pooling in your stomach, you notice Simon has rolled the sleeves up on his jacket. It’s up far enough to reveal a myriad of tattoos on his left forearm—the very one you had seen a hint of that night at the pub all those weeks ago. Skulls, smoke, and dog tags wrap around his arm in a monochrome mural, bringing depth to his otherwise pale skin. On his other arm, you notice a still healing cut. It’s deep and angry with red, puffy scar tissue freshly formed over a long gash, and you watch as it pulls taut while the muscles underneath it dances as he works.

“What happened to your arm?” you ask, unable to hide your solicitude.

Simon turns his attention away from your lamp and looks up at you. His head tilts to the side in a way that sends butterflies scrambling in your stomach, and you feel your skin begin to tingle and burn as if you’ve been set ablaze.

“Right,” you say with a breathy laugh. “Stupid question, I suppose.”

Something of a titter leaves Simon as he stands from his spot on the floor. It feels like you have to break your neck just to keep looking at him, but the lamp is finally put together—lightbulb, lampshade, and the works. He picks it up from the floor and places it on the side table next to the couch before plugging it into the wall. You excitedly place your half finished tea on the coffee table before leaning over the arm of the couch and twisting the switch. Warm light pours out of it like a fond memory.

“Well, would you look at that,” you beam. Really, it’s not anything spectacular; after all, it’s just a silly lamp. But it feels like—in some way—you’re getting a part of your life back. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” Simon responds simply.

A small string of tension weaves throughout the room as Simon continues to stand with eyes flickering back and forth between you and the lamp. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you glance back at the coffee table. His tea remains untouched, and now cold. Really, you don’t know why you had expected him to drink it. He never takes his mask off.

Perhaps that's why he asked for it plain; he doesn’t want to waste any milk or sweeteners.

“I missed you,” you suddenly blurt out.

This sudden revelation that spews from your lips surprises not only you, but Simon as well. You see it in the way his eyes land on you; how they flicker over your face—how they linger on your lips. He always lingers on your lips, but you know it’s not in the way the fuzziness in your stomach wants them to. Your tongue swipes over the corner of your lip as it prods against the painful reminder that Eric gave you all those months ago.

“I never used to worry about you,” you continue as you shift in your spot on the couch. You feel smaller than a bug as he stands tall, looking down at you. “I mean, I knew you were in the military, so when you’d vanish without notice I would just assume that you were out saving the world, or something. But I… I worried this time.” You pause as your words and embarrassment begin to choke you. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m glad you’re back.”

“Course I came back,” he says as if stating a fact. “Had to make sure you weren’t getting into any more trouble.”

You laugh, thankful for his teasing tone. It’s comforting to know he’s not put off by all of your awkward ramblings, or at least if he is, he’s good at hiding it. How you’ve managed not to annoy a quiet man like Simon is beyond you.

“Yeah, well, I think you scared off any trouble that would find me,” you admit with a shy smile.

“Brute force will do that.”

Simon is… funny. In his own weird, macabre way. Everything about him seems to lure you in like a moth to a flame, and at this point you don’t think you even care about getting burned—you know the butterflies in your stomach certainly don’t.

“Do you wanna catch a movie this weekend now that you’re back?” Once more, your mouth is opening and spewing out words before you even have the chance to think them through, but instead of retracting your statement, you double down. “It would be more relaxing than the pub, I’d imagine.”

“What? Need protecting?” he asks dryly.

You grin. “You never know when trouble is gonna find me.”

Humming, Simon digs his hands into his coat pocket and retrieves his phone. The screen illuminates his face with dull light for a few seconds before he passes it over to you. It’s his contact list—the keyboard is waiting for a new recipient.

“Text me the day and time, and I’ll be there.”

The butterflies in your stomach begin to bloom. They flutter and tickle the walls of your stomach as you take his phone into your hands, but they begin to thrash the moment you write your name and number. They want more—need more. You fear that if you don’t give them more, they’ll devour you, bones and all.

“Alright,” you say, handing his phone back to him with a coy grin. “It’s a date, then.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

#ilium writing #sr ilia #everything you touch #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #female reader

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honeyroots · 7 days ago

Text

— training day, ft. SOLDIER BOY

SYNOPSIS: ben is particular with what he likes, but he knows how to train you well.

WARNINGS: NSFW (18+) / fem!reader / soldier boy training reader to take him / finger sucking / power dynamic / oral (m receiving) / praise / objectification

“Slow down,” SOLDIER BOY tutted, pressing his gloved fingers down on your tongue to stop the sucking motion. Getting too ahead of yourself, you were almost swallowing his finger. He had you in his lap, legs swung over his princess style. Dark eyes scanned your face, searching for any micro-expression that might flicker across your features. Your expression was always a telltale sign of how you were feeling. His gaze was intense, slanted eyes that made you feel like an unexpected deer in the direct path of a mountain lion. “You can’t take it all at once. We’ve been over this.”

It was hardly fair, the way you were in his lap, borderline naked. Ben was in his suit, the green one that you ogled and drooled over— at this point, it was a pavloved response. When you saw the suit, you were ready to peel your clothes off for him; needy, desperate, and aching. A pink lace bra and the matching panties were the only pieces of clothing holding the last grain of modesty you had. When Ben slowly peeled your jeans and shirt off, he snickered at the sight of your matching undergarments, whispering something snide about how you planned to get naked for him.

You did.

“Ben,” you sighed around his fingers, the gloves leaving a weird taste in your mouth. Your saliva was tainted with leftover cigarette ash, and droplets of spilled beer that had managed to dry on the fabric of the glove. That’s what Ben tasted like; cigarette ash, beer, and a vanilla musk. It was a scent that drove you mad, coming completely undone when he walked in the room. Another pavloved response, you’d say. “Just let me try.”

“No,” Ben was blunt, removing his fingers from your mouth. Lacing his hand under your chin, he held your face firmly in his grasp. With one thumb hooked on one cheek, his other four fingers spanned the other. The size of his hand compared to your face was comical in retrospect.

“Why?” You whined, jutting out your bottom lip in a petulant pout. You weren’t used to things not going your way, and Ben liked to remind you that you were never the one in charge. When you thought you were one step ahead, he always managed to knock you down a peg. It was like a game of cat and mouse, just as you thought you were about to win, he had a cheat code up his sleeve. “I’ve done it before.”

Ben rolled his eyes. Gently, but with enough force for you to feel it, Ben used his four fingers to tap on the side of your cheek in a disapproving motion. “Gotta train for my cock if that’s what you want, sweet girl, you know that.”

“I’m your sweet girl? Really?” The unamused frown still present on your lips while your eyebrows creased together to offer that sad, almost puppy dog look.

“Course you are. You’re my little plaything, doin’ anything to please me.” Ben swiped your bottom lip, the one that was jutted out in a pout. He tugged on it gently before leaning in and taking it between his teeth as if to correct. Letting out a soft squeal, the harsh feel of Ben’s teeth sinking into the flesh of your lip, you pulled away. “But don’t tell anyone I’m gettin’ soft.”

Your movements were calculated, almost cat-like as you peeled yourself from his lap and sank between his legs. Fingers dragging up and down the pant leg of his supe suit, you offered a quivered lip, hoping that he would give into your desperate desires. Ben’s fingers tilted under your chin, his eyes darting between yours, and when he gave one curt nod, you knew that he was going to give you a treat. Leisurely, at a speed that wanted to make you scratch the insides of your thighs in anticipation, Ben pulled his shaft out.

“So pretty,” you gasped at the sight of him. A pink-flushed tip, leaking with precum, invited you in. Mouth watering and in a ditzy trance from the mere sight of his cock, you took in the details; the vein on the underside of the shaft that ran from the base to the tip, the breadth of his shaft was vast which was expected. Blinking once, like you were trying to take a photo of it, you learned forward with your jaw slack.

“Nope,” Ben chastised, pushing his index finger against your chin to create distance. He sported a frown, his brows furrowed in a way that signaled he wasn’t happy by your eager lunge toward his exposed shaft. “Ask nicely.”

“Please?” Your begging was immediate, and laced with raw honesty. The speed of the word tumbling from your lips before he was able to finish his sentence would have been embarrassing if you weren’t so cock-whipped. “May I?”

“Good girl,” Ben praised, and your ears perked at the sound of his reaction. Eager for more encouragement from Ben, you leaned forward, pressing a closed-mouth kiss to the tip of his dick, using his precum like it was lip gloss. Could you do that? Would you be able to bottle it up and use it as a glossy overlay? “Start with just the tip.”

With a deep need to please him, you were compliant and it reflected in your actions. Mouth opening just enough to fit the tip in, you sucked on it like it was your own personal lollipop. The taste of him was salty and tangy, though an undertone of sweetness caused your spit glands to release. Ben wasn’t a moaner— typically quiet, but he knew that you needed praise to feel confident in your actions. Releasing what sounded like a gentle groan, Ben looped his hand behind your hand and began pushing you down further. “Now take it halfway. That’s it, that’s right. You’re doing real good f’me, doll.”

Peering up at him through your lashes, you hollowed your mouth out to squeeze the sides of him. While your tongue worked the underside of his shaft, focusing on the vein that ran up and down the base, you analyzed the way his lips twitched when it felt good. Ben’s hand stayed behind your head, controlling your movements and just how much of his cock he would allow you to take. When he thought you were ready for more, he pushed you down, letting you sputter around the shift, gasping for air through your nose.

“See?” Ben clicked his tongue, lifting his hips just enough to have you gagging and lurching around him as you took him deeper into your mouth. “That’s why you have to train for it. Can’t take someone like me in one go, sweetheart.”

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shotmrmiller · 11 months ago

Note

but Riley actually sniffing you out on a walk though and is so excited to see her second favorite human. See? His dog loves you so so much. You can't make Riley sad by never seeing her again. She was already so sad when you didn't come back after Simon came home. Maybe you should just move into the spare room for when Simon inevitably has to report back to duty.

Okay but he pays you extra to fill up his fridge with groceries a week before he comes home. Works for you.

Except he never gets back on time. There's always a delay at work, keeping him there for much longer. You don't question it because it's not your place... but the vibrant green, crisp bell peppers are gonna spoil. The cilantro is wilting, unused. The tomatoes are over ripening. What a shame :(

Luckily for you, your boss is incredibly generous. He tells you to just eat whatever's about to go bad. Wouldn't want to waste all of your hard work. Even says you can use his kitchen.

It feels weird but your frugality wins in the end. You make yourself some tasty meals, even Riley gets a nibble or two. (All dog safe. She doesn't get any if she sits in the kitchen while you're cooking nor begs. We have house training and you also feel like Mr. Riley would skin you alive if she picked up any bad habits because of you.)

This is where Simon shows you off, passing his cracked phone around the table in mess hall. Look at how cute you are beating eggs. Delicate pink tongue poking out from the corner of your lips as you concentrate on peeling potatoes. He should buy you an apron, would hate for your clothes to get stains that'd be hard to wash out. Maybe some dish washing gloves too. Although the soapy, warm water does make your palms look incredibly soft after washing dishes.

How would they feel around his throbbing cock?

Simon exudes pride, sunken eyes glimmering behind his chipped mask when his boss admits that your food does look pretty damn good.

Tha's my girl. She knows tha' the way to a man's heart's through his stomach.

#simon riley is DELUSIONAL #AND NO ONE KNOWS #he's been dating you for a year in his head

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norrisradio · 3 days ago

Text

EVERY VERSION OF AFTER

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “You’re as beautiful as the day I lost you.” - how to train your dragon 2 (2014)

ᝰ PAIRING: lando norris x reader | ᝰ WC: 1.6K ᝰ GENRE: angst with hints of fluff, exes to ???? ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: for those of you that don't know, httyd is probably my favorite movies of all time, and angst is my favorite genre to write. so to kae, who said i would rue the day i decided on this event: gotcha :) ꨄ︎ requested by @tsunodaradio !

send me an ask for my line by line event.ᐟ

It has been exactly 1 year, 4 months, 23 days, and 7 hours since Lando last saw you.

(Not that he was counting. Because he definitely wasn’t. Of course not. He just has a really good memory — sharp, like new gravel, like the sting of saltwater in the skin splits you don’t notice until later.)

He had convinced himself it wouldn’t sting when it happened — seeing you again — that time would have rubbed the sharp edges smooth by now, left only the faint echo of something sweet-then-sour on the back of his tongue. He’d told himself, once or twice, that maybe he’d even feel nothing at all.

But now, standing half in shadow at the edge of the paddock, one glove half-pulled on, he sees the way your silhouette cuts through the haze of the late afternoon sun — and just like that, all those lies he told himself crumple like pit lane flyers in the rain.

You’re here.

Not a memory. Not some phantom that occasionally slipped into his dreams when he was too tired to build walls.

You’re actually here.

And you look—

God.

You look the same in all the worst ways.

Same tousled hair you used to fix without looking, fingers raking through it like it was second nature. Same frayed lanyard slung around your neck, credentials bouncing softly with every step. Same old charm bracelet you once swore was lucky, though you never said why. You still wear all black like it’s armor. Still scribble in a battered notebook like the words might run away if you don’t trap them fast enough. Still bite the inside of your cheek when you’re focusing too hard.

He wonders, with a sudden, absurd pang, if you still take your coffee with that stupid almond milk that he used to swear tasted like stale bread. If your fingers still get ink-stained when you’re writing fast. If you still hum under your breath when you’re editing late at night — low, tuneless, like you don’t realize you’re doing it.

But he doesn’t move.

Can’t.

Because you haven’t seen him yet.

And he’s not ready for the weight of your gaze.

You were a motorsport journalist even before him. That’s what you always told people when they asked — how’d you meet? how’d you end up in the same orbit?

“It wasn’t because of him,” you’d say, brows raised, voice cool. “I was already in love with the speed before I ever looked twice at the driver.”

But the truth is: it was a Tuesday. It was raining. Your first interview with Lando was supposed to be quick — just a few filler quotes for a mid-season feature. But he’d kept talking, even after your recorder stopped, about nothing and everything: the pressure, the boredom, the way the silence of hotel rooms scared him more than high-speed corners. And you’d listened — not just nodded, not just smiled politely, but really listened — and when you said, “You don’t have to be interesting all the time, you know,” he’d looked at you like he hadn’t heard that before.

And somehow, over time, his life started folding around yours like a page dog-eared in the wrong place. Fast food between flights. Shared playlists. Long walks at night in places neither of you would remember the names of, just the feel of the cold and the buzz of something unspoken between you.

There was this one night in Austria — the kind of night that lives in your ribs long after it’s over. It had rained earlier, but the sky had cleared by the time you slipped out of the hotel, shoes in hand, damp pavement hushing your footsteps.

Lando had followed, of course. No jacket, just a hoodie too thin for the altitude, arms crossed and shivering like he expected you to take pity on him. You didn’t. You just laughed and said, “You’re the one who insisted on following me out here, dumbass.”

He had grinned like he always did when you called him that — like it was a term of endearment you didn’t quite want to admit to.

You ended up on a hill just outside the city, the kind with tall grass and no real trail, only the ghost of one worn into the dirt by the feet of whoever came before you. There were stars overhead — real ones, not just the ones you’d gotten used to on racetrack ceilings and behind camera flashes. You lay side by side in the grass, fingers barely touching, your body curled toward his like muscle memory.

“I used to think I’d hate this kind of quiet,” he said after a while, voice low, eyes tracing constellations he didn’t know the names of.

You turned your head toward him. “And now?”

His lashes fluttered. He blinked slow. “It’s….nice. Feels like love.”

You didn’t kiss him then. That had already happened hours earlier — fast, breathless, against the door of his room when you’d come by to “drop off an extra press schedule” like it hadn’t just been an excuse to see him one more time. No, this wasn’t the kind of moment that asked for a kiss.

This was the kind that asked for stillness. For warmth. For someone who made the silence feel less like absence and more like a place to rest.

Later, when the chill started to bite at your hands, he’d taken one of yours and tucked it under his hoodie, against his chest. You’d felt his heartbeat there — not racing, not wild — just steady. Solid. Like he was anchoring himself to you. Or maybe the other way around.

“I wish we had more nights like this,” you’d whispered.

He’d said, “Then let’s make more.”

Like it was easy. Like time would always bend to your will. Like love was enough.

And maybe, for a little while, it was.

But love — real love — doesn’t always arrive gently. Sometimes it barrels in with all the weight of two people trying to outrun who they are. And Lando, for all his charm and humor, was still afraid of stillness. He was a man made for motion. And you? You started to feel like the one thing that made him pause.

At first, that felt like a gift.

Later, it started to feel like a burden.

The breakup wasn’t one big blowout. No plates thrown. No screaming. No grand betrayal.

It was quieter than that.

Quieter, and somehow crueler.

It was a Tuesday again — a different city, different rain — and you’d sat across from him in a hotel room that smelled like expensive soap and exhaustion. You were trying to finish editing a piece about an endurance race while he scrolled absently through his phone, laughing at something a teammate sent him. And you looked at him and thought: he doesn’t know I’m slipping away from him.

So you said it.

“I don’t know who I am with you anymore.”

And he blinked. Didn’t understand.

Thought maybe you were just tired. Maybe it was the stress, the schedule, the job.

But you’d already packed the version of you that used to fit beside him into boxes in your mind. Already rehearsed how to walk away without looking back.

You left two days later. You didn’t cover Formula 1 again after that.

He thought, maybe, it was your way of erasing him.

He didn’t know that you had cried on the plane. That the reassignment was coincidental. That fate sometimes just has really shitty timing.

Now, back in the present, you glance up from your notebook and freeze.

Your eyes meet.

And it’s worse than he imagined.

Because you don’t look angry. You don’t look heartbroken. You don’t even look surprised.

You just look like someone who knows how to brace for impact.

He offers a smile. It feels awkward on his face, like a borrowed shirt that doesn’t quite fit.

You don’t smile back.

You walk toward him — slowly, carefully — like he’s some sleeping animal you’re not sure won’t bite.

“Lando.”

“Hey.” His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’m freelancing now,” you say. “MotoGP piece. Didn’t think our paths would cross.”

“Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Weird how the world works.”

You nod once, curt and professional. Then, after a beat, you hold up your recorder.

“Can I ask you a few questions for the article?”

And that’s what really kills him. That you can look him dead in the eye, after everything, and ask for a quote.

“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “You gonna twist my words again?”

That gets something out of you — a quiet exhale, the ghost of a smirk. “Only the boring ones.”

There it is. The flicker of you. The version he used to love so hard it made his chest ache.

He looks at you for a long moment.

Then says, softly, “You haven’t changed a bit. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse.”

Your eyes don’t waver.

But the pen in your hand stills.

You stare at him like you’re trying to find the lie in the sentence.

But there isn’t one.

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again.

“I’ll leave that one out,” you say, voice tight. “Too sentimental. Doesn’t suit the piece.”

He doesn’t stop you when you walk away.

But later — hours later, long after the interviews end and the paddock starts to clear — he finds a note folded beneath the windshield wiper of his rental car.

Your handwriting, unmistakable. The same slant, the same loops.

One line.

I never stopped loving you. I just stopped knowing how to stay.

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meimei-archives · 4 months ago

Note

Wait cause I would love to see body party part 2 either there being sneaky behind closed doors when no one around or he wins a match and she’s has a surprise for him back in his hotel room

BODY PARTY PT2!:: rafe cameron

WARNING! :: professional!boxer!rafe, manager!reader, descriptions of; fighting, bleeding, and cleaning up injuries. (m&f!receiving )oral, fingering, choking,unprotected sex, slight strip tease, (munch!rafe)

SUMMARY!:: when Rafe gets offered a headliners match against the WBO champion, you decide to grace him with a surprise once your both back at his hotel room you managed to slip into it before bed.

A/N!:: wait I’m genuinely curious if I should make boxer!rafe into a mini series, like bringing him to meet your family for Christmas or something idk, but also, thank you for sending in this idea I love it and I’m sorry it took so long to answer!

You sort of had a reward system at this point. You and Rafe had been seeing each other for a few months now, he was now preparing for a fight that had been pretty hyped up in the press for a while now. They called it a dream match, two of the most talented brawlers within the lightweight division.

Rafe was on the rise for a past injury that set him back last year and now he’s back on the come up. He had taken his spot in the back of the line and had passed through opponent after opponent each fight, earning him his winning streak since his return. He buzzed with excitement taking on the baby face, the guy who was currently holding WBO title Rafe had held in the past and he was hungry for another run with it.

JJ Maybank was one of the hottest guys on the card, you had to consider yourself lucky to be in a main event with this guy. He was a sly dog, talked major shit, he could back it up with his hands, and that was another reason for Rafe to absolutely hate his guts, had it not been for the fact that JJ and Rafe grew up on the same little island of outer banks where they could never seem to mix well together.

You had talked to Rafe just before he was called to walk out to the ring, you find yourself sitting yet again front row this time you could see his family halfway down the row being blocked by Kelce and topper who sit nonchalantly next to your seat as the watch Rafe stand in his corner talking to his trainer and cut men as they retreat from the ring to the sidelines.

You don’t even spare a glance as JJ’s theme song hit for his walk out, the crowd having a mixed reaction, you keep your eyes glued to Rafe who almost like a magnet his eyes were pulled from the referee to you, a small smile finds his lips which earns one back from you. Mouthing the words ‘good luck’ and blowing an unnoticeable kiss to his which earns a grin from.

As the announcer talks about the premise of the match your eyes stick to Rafe’s figure, glistening under the bright lights almost giving your surroundings a sterile look as a small sheen of sweat prickles his skin. The stubble of his mustache growing in as well as the shaggy hair growing in after months with his buzz cut, you can’t help but eye him more as your eyes trail down his body.

The firmness of his chest, his sculpted abs that satisfied every itch in your brain perfectly, and the small happy trail that travels from his navel past his shorts that makes you bite your bottom lip thinking about what’s hidden past them. Sometimes you felt like a perv for how much space you have saved in the corner of your brain with thoughts of Rafe.

Taken out of your thoughts by the ring of the bell and the ref allowing the open space be used to go at it. The sight of the two men crowding the ring with their gloved fists up makes your stomach churn. Rafe had trained so hard for this fight alone, and you doubt he would go down at all. He had the height advantage, knowing he lost a bit of weight to match the blondes weight class for this fight.

The two don’t even bat an eye as they refuse to tap gloves and start slugging their fists at each other, the dull and short lived ‘thunk!’ That follows with every blow makes your body tense and cower. They both were hard hitters, and even if those gloves were there to at least cushion the hits the sheer power behind both of their hits were not made for the receiving end to feel any types of good.

And for some reason as you study the way JJ frolics about the ring casually with no fret and sweat beginning to make his hair stick to his skin he looked as if he was caught off guard with how much Rafe could easily want more after being untangled by the referee or even being pushed against the ropes, Rafe was never the type to back off in a fight, his libido and persistence was not as matched on JJ’s end; who subsequently enough was already succumbing to a swollen eye and bruises patching up on his face and body.

You had all high hopes for Rafe although you need he doesn’t need hope, he looked equally spent within the first round and only a minute left on the clock for their first go, he was breathing heavily with a touch of annoyance on his face, because even with a mouth guard in JJ Maybank has officially found a way to talk shit through the thick rows of rubber that slightly gives him an impediment.

They throw continuous stiff shots at each other, with a mixture of water and sweat flying off of them with each explosive blow to their bodies. You were a big ball of anxiety the second his trainer turns in his seat directly in front of you and mumbles “you think you could step in for me and talk to him. I know you got some advice for him- he takes it the best from you” his words come out slightly foggy due to the loudness of the crowd around you. “Yeah, he looks like he needs a couple of words” you respond quickly as he helps you over the barricade and onto the concrete floor your heels scrape gently making you cringe.

As the time runs out his trainer gives you a gentle pat on the back and gives you hand into your designated corner where Rafe meets you with half concerned eyes. “What’s the matter?” He readers your expression as you put down the small stool they gave to you for him to sit. “Nothings wrong, just came to talk; you gotta keep your head up, this kid likes to keep his low so it’s easier to lay those punches when all he does is retract from the high right hooks you throw” you cup his chin and pour water into his mouth and over his shoulders cooling his skin.

“He keeps trying to lock up with me” he rolled his eyes making you laugh as you guide him to breath slowly and deeply, the cut men rubbing Vaseline on the cuts and bruises forming. “If anything resort to body shots, if he’s backing you into corners head shots, you have the height advantage so it takes nothing for you to swing low” you advice pouring water past his pouty lips as he spits the water into the small bucket a cut man held out.

“Deep breaths, aim low, don’t let him wrap around you, alright?” You say sternly with only a few seconds on the time for their break before they’re ordered to clear ring, you give his chin a gentle squeeze “good luck” you mumbled once more before leaving the ring and using the empty spot next Rafe’s trainer Mike who looks at you with hopeful eyes. “So…?” He asks making you smile “He knows what to do, I think because Rafe is used to bigger guys he doesn’t really know where to focus” you watch intently as they change up the foot work; JJ coming out the corner looking less fresh faced and more sluggish with every step.

Rafe’s shoulders roll back as he takes on his stance with his gloves and head up, and an intense look in his eyes, his energy non-stagnant as they center and throw hooks and blows at each other, and it wasn’t until Rafe had backed JJ into a corner and throwing hooks and jabs straight to his ribs that makes you wince and actually lock into Rafe’s actions.

JJ had his guard up blocking his face with his gloves, and once Rafe knocks one of his hands guarding his face he dropped a mean right hook almost stunning you as your whole body tenses seeing how the young blonde wobbles a bit. Rafe pulls himself away and letting JJ find his footing in the center. You could tell by his body language that the punch square in the face had pissed him off, the both of them carrying fire in their eyes as they square up once more in the center.

Your eyes widen and could barely keep up in real time with the flurries of punches they were exchanging, in the moment it felt like whoever stopped throwing first was ought to be knocked out cold by the end of it, yet the crowd cheers on and they all sat on the edge of their seats in suspense. It was when the bell had rung for the second round to end and teams to flood the ring you watch Rafe retreat to his corner, his skin red with blood gathering at his upper lip you rush up the steps into the ring before anyone else with water and tissue in hand Rafe sits in the all to familiar stool.

“Jesus, you two are going at it harder than people during a Black Friday sale” you joke trying to lighten the mood, Rafe’s eyes don’t leave the opposite corner as his jaw ticks and tighten against his guards you cup his face making his eye look at you sharply before they soften looks up at you his eyes once a stormy blue almost instantly resorting back to their usual icy color. “Deep breaths, put your arms above your head” you whisper to him and he follows your instructions as the hands working with you continue their duties.

“You’re doing good, just keep doing what you do. He looks tired, it’s like he’s only running on adrenaline so keep pressing him; he’s trying to play the energy game and you’re already winning” you speak over the loud music as Rafe listened nodding his head taking in every word. “Do I look like I’m slowing down?” His voice beared genuine curiosity only getting a head shake “if anything you’re fighting like this shit just started. The move with knocking his glove down was smart, if you keep doing things like that I’m pretty sure you’ll win via knock out” you wince at the memory as you could see some of the sweat flying to the mat with how hard Rafe had punched his opponent.

“Okay” he whispered as you use the last few seconds of his break to give him more water and put in his mouth guard before exiting the ring. The match becoming more excruciating as it drags on as the both are exchanging blows and bleeding with busted noses and lips eventually Rafe throwing a nasty right hook to JJ’s jaw that makes him drop to the floor his body slumping against mat the referee immediately checking on the younger boy before calling it and proclaiming Rafe as the winner.

A rush of pride surges through your veins, entering the ring as Rafe pries off his gloves his focus immediately on you as you always down walk up to him with a shining smile that makes your cheeks sore, his lanky arms wrapping around you in a tight hug, as the heavy belt wrapped around his waist; shining and thick, it presses against your lower stomach “I’m so proud of you” your words are muffled as your face presses against his shoulder.

You both pull away keeping a professional mask on in these moments Rafe got to give his final statements on the fight before exiting back to his locker room letting him shower before you clean his cut lip and the small scratches on his face and body. Putting away the small first aid kit you hold his jaw gently “I have a surprise when we get back to your place” you whispered making a mischievous and all to familiar smile tug at his bruised pink lips “yeah?” He asked his fingers fiddle with the large golden ring that encapsulated his finger.

“You didn’t want a celebration party, but I say; me and you just need to have our own celebration” you smirk and rough lets out a husky laugh as he moves to change into more comfortable clothes and gather his belongings as the two of you plan to leave. “What kind of celebration?” His voice finding its usual flirty tone he has when it’s just the both of you “it wouldn’t be a surprised if I told you” you teased as he holds the lockeroom door open for the two of you to leave.

It had never been unusual for you and Rafe to leave events with each other, the public had grown familiar with the close ‘friendship’ between the two of you through interviews and social media since Rafe had begun his boxing career. Privately the two of you had changed the dinamic nature from being friends to an eerie limbo of being domestic and sexual partners with no real label yet.

Checking back in was a breeze as you had booked separate rooms to avoid suspicion; yet you know majority of your night was going to be spent in his room. The dim orange light fixing from the beautiful chandelier that filled the spacious room, the texture white walls detailed with gold paint around the edges, or the large drapes above the one singular window that was covered, and the wall behind the bed as neutral tones of creme and beige with dusty rose gold accent covers the room giving it an almost vintage vibe.

Rafe drops his bags at the foot of the bed frame with an exhausted sigh he takes off his navy blue bommer jacket that covered his polo shirt, you take the jacket out of his hands and set it on the arm chair in the far corner of the room, you grab his arm guiding him to the edge of the bed. “Why don’t you relax hm? I’ll be back in a second” you mumbled as you stand between his spread legs holding his face in your hands gently grazing your thumb over the bruise that was leaving a big purple splotch on his jaw.

“Are you coming back with my surprise?” He asks his eyes lighting up with excitement like a dog who can hear their owner entering the house. “Maybe” you shrug pecking his lips and turning away to the bathroom near the entrance to his room finding the silky robe in a navy blue with his last name on the back with a set of lingerie that hugs you in all the right ways and does every curve of your body justice under his sink where you knew he wouldn’t look.

The robe was actually Rafe’s, it was one of his favorite peaces of gear to match his shorts and gloves, you let the fabric swallow you, being more loose on you than him, you smile at yourself in the mirror as you tie it closed letting it compliment your waist. You give yourself the final touches before walking back out slowly Rafe’s eyes latch on to you with an unmatched ferocity that sends a shiver through your bones.

Walking closer to the dirty blonde haired man it seemed he finally realized what you were wearing as you slowly turn around to show off his last name on your back like a trophy you slip open the robe as you whispered “congratulations champ” as the silk pools around your feet revealing your skin and the warm air in the room shifts. “c’mere baby, let me see you close up” he groaned, his voice slightly slurred as the pain in his jaw twangs every time he speaks.

Holding out a hand to you which you take with no hesitation, putting on a show as you walk with a slight sway to your hips that makes him watch you close and calculated like he was on the hunt and your were his pray who so innocently was frolicking about. When you take up the same space between his legs Rafe’s hands drop from your hands to the back of your thighs groping at the fleshy skin “best surprise could’ve asked for” he mumbled as he presses himself against your lower tummy.

His nose grazing your skin making you tense only to relax at the feeling of his soft warm lips pressing underneath the wire of your bra, the room filled with a distant buzzing and heavy breathing. “Didn’t expect this huh?” You looked down at him as your hand races through his hair, your nails purposely scratching against his scalp making Rafe moan. His weakest point that you had discovered after 2 weeks of sex all over your shared apartment. “c’mon now you’re just teasing me” his voice almost twisted in a whine.

“Well how about you lay back and let me help you relax on your big night” you push his shoulder gently guiding him to rest against the mattress as his buff arms flex as they rest behind his head. You get on your knees as the dull ache is a second thought the moment you begin to unbuckle his belt and pull his boxers and pants down in one full swoop. He was already hard and eager in your grip, the sloppy sounds of your slick palm fisting over his cock.

A small wince leaves his lips and Rafe doesn’t know if he’s palpitating or if hearing his heartbeat in his ears was normal, but the thought loses his the second Flattening your tongue against the underside of his cock you dragged up against the vein running up to the tip— he let out a rich moan that ended with a groan "shit". His head was thrown back against the mattress and his breathing was labored.

His hand rests on the back of your head not moving as he watches you take him deeper and deeper, feeling the way his hips were grinding into your mouth makes you pull away as spit gathers messily at your chin as thin strings of saliva latch from his cock to your mouth making you giggle. “fuck” whispered as you swipe your thumb over his sensitive tip as you lick a long stripe from the base of his cock to his tip swirling your tongue around him before pushing yourself to take him in the back of your throat feeling an impeding gag as your eyes cloud with tears.

Rafe on the other hand felt like he was ascending to a parallel universe pure pleasure, as the slick sound that come from between his legs makes them shake as your hand wraps around his dick filling the space that your mouth couldn’t handle. “fuck you’re gonna make me cum quick” he groaned as his hand travels to cup your face he sits up watch the way you look utterly fucked out just by sucking him off.

His thumb presses against your plump bottom lip as he looks at the way your pretty lip combo smudge on not only your face but his cock, and it makes his head spin. “Wait baby, hold on” he huffs out, pleasure so apparent in his tone as you pulled off his cock you slightly pout looking up at him with smudged makeup and your hair messy, Rafe can’t help but instinctively smile “I want you to ride my face” he whispers as his chest rises and falls and baited breaths as he watches your face twist in confusion yet regardless you stand up stripping yourself of your panties and slowly straddle his lap, he lays back like once before comfortably as he reaches his hands out to guide you over his face.

Groaning at the sight of you glistening wet and ready for him “fuck s’so pretty” he slurs before he sensually licked from your entrance to your clit and sucked with fervor making you moan as your back arches and your hand pushes his face deeper between your thighs. The feeling of his tongue almost as if he had to lick every inch of your pussy his hands grab at your ass making you arch deeper making a raw moan cut through the heavy air “fuckkk Rafe” you squeal as your thighs tighten around him.

His hand travels between your thighs as he continues to lick sloppy stripes against your pussy lazily, you can already feel the trembling in your thighs as your fingers grip harder against his shaggy hair making him hum against you sending vibrations up your body “pull harder, baby” he groans lazily as if nothing could pull him away from latching his mouth onto you and making you finish on his tongue.

Once Rafe could feel the pressure and stinging sensation in his scalp he hums “that’s it, be a doll and cum for me” he groaned against you, your head tossed back as you feel the warm and tight sensation that was growing in your lower stomach, you don’t know how much more you could take but out of pure desperation for release you grind your hips against him.

He placed his hand on your ass, kneading the flesh harshly as the other finds your pussy; groaning into you before easing his finger past your entrance. the added stimulation had you mewling. The sounds you make are music to his ears. He presses his nose on your clit, inhaling your scent deeply before his tongue dives inside your waiting pussy. You pull onto his hair, writhing against his face.

The thickness of another added finger was making you dizzy It feels like you’re high, stomach tightening with each second “you’re gonna make me cum” you whine as if the feeling was pushing you to the edge you look between your shaking this to see Rafe absolutely lost in the taste of you; his eyes rolled back, and his face glistening with a flush to his cheeks and in that moment you melted away with the hot white feeling of your orgasm practically hitting you like a car.

Rafe licks up every trace of your orgasm until you wince and pull away with a whine you adjust yourself to sit on his lower stomach still sensitive yet satisfied. The man beneath you sitting up looking just as clouded with lust as you do, capturing his lips in yours with an unmatched intensity as you taste yourself on his lips.

The rough palm of his hands pulling you as close to him as possible like in any moment you’d disappear. Growing more and more desperate to feel you he pulls away from you with hesitation pressing his forehead to yours. “Lay on your stomach for me baby” he whispered and letting you move with calculated ease as you move to the headboard and grabbing a pillow you can lay down underneath you before arching your back and shiver slightly at the cold air that hits you between the thighs.

Arching your back gives Rafe the perfect sight of your ass. You could feel his palm caressing and needing your skin before giving it repeated harsh slaps that had you quivering. Nothing compared to the beautiful stinging feeling on your skin given by him.

"Want you inside me so bad" you mumbled as your fingers grip the sheets, you were so needy that you were dripping down your thighs and it didn't take much for Rafe to run his tongue over his lips and grab onto your hips pushing his tip against you and pushing into you slowly before bottoming out.

The sharp grip he had on your hips kept you grounded as he set a steady pace that had you panting and moaning. Hearing yourself made your face heat up, dropping your head into the sheets hoping to muffle the pleasure falling from your lips.

"Don't get all shy on me now" Rafe says as his hand pulls your hair into a makeshift ponytail, pulling your head away from the sheets "I wanna hear you. Don't hide from me" he says breathily as his thrusts become more sharp and the sound of him pounding into you was hard not to hear.

"I can't help it. It's too good" you slur your words as you begin to bounce and grind against him to meet his hips. It felt like he was in your stomach and you didn't mind at all, your hands clutching the sheets tighter as he used his other hand to wrap around your throat. As his grip around your throat tightens, you couldn't even gather your words as he hits a spot that has you breathing shakily and your moans are even more louder.

"Right here? Does it feel good here?" He asks as he drags his cock against that same spot again and again "yeah, it feels so fucking good Rafe" you moan as your eyes roll back. The feeling of his sweet lips on your skin as you feel like you're in heaven.

Your thighs are practically shaking at the feeling, pleasure practically taking over your body as Rafe pounds you into his mattress without a single care in the world. Pushing your face against sheets while he becomes sloppy and rougher with every passing second you could feel the pressure in the pit of your stomach growing and waiting to be released.

"I can't take it" you moan as you shake your head "I'm gonna cum" you whimper as you feel warm tears slide down your cheeks. "I think you can baby, you wanna cum so bad right? So take what I give you" he orders sweetly in a faux tone. His thrusts are non stop and you can't help but let the pleasure envelope you.

"Oh fuck" you gasp as the feeling of release comes closer "cum on my cock. I know you can '' he coos at you while pulling your hips into his harder than before tipping you over the edge as your walls clench around him sporadically earning a guttural moan ripping through Rafe's throat.

"I'm close, where do you want it?" He asks as he continues to fuck into you "inside. Please cum inside me Rafe" you beg before you feel the pressure in your stomach let loose "I got you, you're okay" he praised as his fingers rubbed down your spine leaving goosebumps up and down your body.

A few more thrusts slow and deep have your toes curling and sending Rafe into an orgasm struck daze. "Fuck you feel so good" he groans as his hands rub against the red warm skin of your ass. Leaning of you and kissing up your spine as you both bask in your pre orgasm clarity.

You both were practically glowing as Rafe waited until he softened inside you to pull out "you did so good" he whispers sweet nothings to you as he pulls out and watches his cum drip down your inner thighs.

The both of you settle into the bedsheets the body heat coming from the both of you feels comforting, Rafe doesn't want even the slightest bit of space between the both of you as he pulls you by your waist until your pressed flush against his chest.

“Congratulations champ” you huff out making Rafe snicker “thank you” his words are followed by an impending silence, although you do know eventually you would be walking back to your own bedroom with sore and shaking legs but that was something that you would have to worry about later.

As for now you would enjoy his warmth that radiates against your skin.

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