#Holes leather Repairs

[despite-everything]

it always makes me laugh when someone seems shocked by the condition of all my leather. like my stepsister was surprised my boots are so soft but not beat up and im like... uh huh. that's cause i care for them once a month and i re-dye and seal the leather when it gets scuffed

[aetherrx]

Kim gitae with reader who ran away maybe?(strangers to lovers basically) Anything you like as long it has smut 🙏😔

Gitae x Reader | That Strange Man

Disclaimer |fem!reader | Oral | P in V | Choking wc|3.4k Note: Sorry this took so long. I struggle when it comes to writing about Gitae as we don't really know much about him yet. Hope you Enjoy! •─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────••─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────••─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

18+ MDNI | ✦ . 　⁺ 　. ✦ . 　⁺ 　. ✦✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Mexico.

Fucking Mexico.

You’d have slit the throat of any person who’d simply indicated that you would run away, to another country, with your tail tucked between your legs. You were a beast; you were the villain. You weren’t the one that ran, the imbecilic human parasites that surrounded you, were the ones that ran.

They ran from you.

But not anymore.

You were a wounded animal, a dethroned tyrant running from death. That black eyed bastard would get his comeuppance, you’d make sure of it. But, for now, you were stuck licking your wounds in the scorching heat of Mexico, dodging the creepy, slimy looks from rogue cartel members.

To think that the black-eyed bastard had been on your level made you fume with unquenched, fiery rage. You weren’t the only injured rat scurrying away; no, no, no, before that fight ended, you made damn sure to damage the fucker beyond repair, just like he’d done to you, and that jagged scar running down your back.

You sighed, running a hand through your unruly strands as the wind fluttered through, smashing its warm touch against your cheeks. Your legs ached; your temples throbbed with an impeding headache.

You simply wanted this day to end already.

Peeking around, you finally noticed your unfamiliar surroundings, now realising why you were receiving so many weird, slimy looks. The streets in this area all looked very similar, weaving and crossing into one-another, as if they all led to the same centre.

You cursed silently, the sudden realisation that you may have just wondered into the nest of one of the most dangerous cartels in Mexico, which was said to have had its main base in this city.

It was just your luck, to run into the most infamous cartel in Mexico, all because you were stuck in your own head.

This is why you take care to survey your surroundings, dipshit, you scolded yourself, letting out a quiet, scattered sigh as your turned to leave. You could feel holes lasering into your back but chose to ignore it. Better to flee now before more attention is wrought upon you.

Your legs swept rapidly across the cracking pavements, determined to reach the shopping centre and the better side of town, as soon as possible. You may be able to fight, but you cannot fight against a gun.

You could certainly try, but more often than not, gun fights ended with a trip to the hospital or a trip down under. You did not want to be going down under anytime soon.

You sighed with relief as the light churned and burst in front of the last alleyway, your form stepping out into the heavenly light, its beams caressing gently at your cheeks.

You turned to the right, your body colliding into a large, solid wall. You frowned, wincing as your still-injured shoulder smashed into the hard material.

A frown furrowed your brows as you noticed the very warm skin, and very real leather jacket on this supposed ‘wall’. Of-fucking-course. You’re so smart, a wall, she said. You scoffed internally, eyes peeking upwards and clashing with dead, tired eyes.

He’s kind of… handsome. And Korean?

“Oh, sorry,” You apologised in Korean, bowing before you turned to leave. A harsh grip wrapped itself around your wrist before you could leave, causing your eyes to narrow with annoyance. Why do I always have to beat fuckers up in every country I go to?

“Korean?” his timbre was low and grumbly, like a quiet tiger creeping through the night, deadly but silent. His tone brushed over you deliciously, sending a shockwave of shivers down your spine. You could feel that jagged scar running up your back tingling, filling with heat and itching at the sides.

Your head tilted slightly, eyes clashing to meet his again, your eyebrows furrowing at the sudden light twinkling in his dark irises. “Yes?” you answered his question, eyes lowering to his still too-tight grip on your wrist. “Can I help you?” you asked robotically, eyes void and face mostly blank, like always. He watched you with something akin to curiosity across his features, his grip loosening only slightly. You still couldn’t ignore the intimidating aura surrounding this mysterious man, the cold, detached look behind his eyes.

He was a bit like you, really, just harsher, darker and more serious, which you assumed came with age. He looked at least five years older than yourself, with tired bags beneath his eyelids. It made him seem more… enigmatic, in a way.

“Be careful down there,” he stated simply, as if words of protection were foreign to his own lips. You nodded, though filled with confusion, tugging your hand from his completely loosened grip with quite a bit of force.  He looked down at your free hand, eyebrow raised and a hint of curiosity in his gaze, as he stared you down.

You felt almost shy behind the towering walls surrounding your mind, the single place you locked away all and any type of feeling, hiding and cowering in the dark as you put on an emotionless front.

“Thankyou…?” you frowned, tilting away from the strange, towering male. “I’ll… see you around,” you stated simply, finally taking the initiative to walk away, ignoring the continued warm touch against your back, his eyes a never leaving presence until your form disappeared into the far distance, where his eyes could no longer brush with their detached look.

¬

¬

You hadn’t been able to get that strange man’s presence out of your life for the past two months. You’d sworn you’d felt the heavy impact of his gaze over the first few weeks, your eyes peeking at every corner in attempt to find the strangely alluring man.

During the second month, you’d bumped into him again, though you were sure he’d planned it accordingly. “You again?” you murmured, head tilting upwards to peer into his eyes. He’d looked almost proud, as if nobody somewhat normal had ever looked him in the eye without trembling with fear.

You knew who he was now, having searched up Mexican cartels once you’d reached your shabby apartment on the other side of town. There wasn’t a single full-face shot of the mysterious man, only a single snap of the side of his head, his usual slicked back hair brushing against the sliver of skin shown to the side of the shot.

You’d thought of him as dangerous, but you hadn’t realised he’d been the leader, the drug lord, of one of the most notorious cartels in the entirety of Mexico.

“Me again,” he’d stated, eyes peering into yours, almost as if he’d had invisible hands reaching into your Scalera and into your brain, trying to pry it open and reveal all your secrets to him. However, you were no sissy, and you certainly weren’t a weakling.

Not many could say they’d been up against Gun Park at full strength and injured him. Though, he did injure you beyond repair, too.

You brushed thoughts of that man behind, there was no use dwelling on the death threats that made you scurry away to Mexico in the first place.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” He said as he slung you towards the corner of the alley, just away from the shopping centre.

Away from prying eyes.

You nodded mutely. If he put an end to you, then so be it. You’d lived your life, though not much of it, and it’d been pretty ass so far. You’d been scarred and hurt and broken, but you would not let your mind break. It was one of the only things you had left to yourself, and if you had to get murdered to keep your mind your own, unbroken and untouched, then so be it.

“Yet, you aren’t running,” he mused, tapping a finger against your temple as you looked on emotionlessly. “I don’t care for the horror or fear of death. I have lived, and I have died in many ways already. Kill me or don’t, I don’t have the capacity to care or think of it,” you told him stiffly, eyes narrowed, and tone agitated. He smirked, a teasing, out of this world smirk.

You’d felt like you’d been stabbed into a secret, one you and only you’d be able to hold and nurture and protect.

“Come with me,” he ordered, his hand wrapping around your forearm as he dragged you behind him. “Why? Where are you taking me?” you demanded, feet tapping rapidly as you tried to keep up with his pace.

“There is no one in this world I care for, respect or love. But you,” he let out a cackling laugh, a laugh so beautiful, you’d found it hard to continue breathing. Breathtaking. “You, my angel, have somehow earned a slither of my emotion; emotion I do not usually feel.”

He came to an abrupt halt, turning on you as he crowded you against another stray wall. “But that’s the thing about emotion, angel. I’m the monster of your story, and you are the light that smothers me. I’ll ruin you; I’ll ruin you so beautiful, and you’ll simply adore me for it,” he crooned into your ear, warm lips touching and suckling at your lobe and the large expanse of skin beneath.

I’ll ruin you.

You couldn’t help but let out a stray moan as his hand lowers to squeeze against your clothed breast, cheeks heating at the feel of his lips tipping upwards against your neck, an array of goosebumps lighting up across your skin.

His hand lowered beneath your shirt, shoving up inside your bra as his fingers tweaked your nipple. Bursts of pain and pleasure slithered through your charged veins, the throb between your legs growing more and more.

Your cheeks heated even more as you felt the wetness between your thighs start to gather, his fingers reaching down from your breasts to the waistband of your shorts, fingers dipping beneath your underwear as his index finger dipped into your tight cunt.

“Look at you, so wet for me. After all you know about me, what I’ve done and what I do. Your pussy’s weeping for my fingers, for my cock,” he breathed against your ear, his erection pressing against your side, and you could already tell he was big.

“I’m not going to fuck you today, my angel,” he said as his fingers thrust in and out of your soaping pussy, squelching noises filling and echoing your surroundings, proof of your wetness and absolute need for this psychotic man. He added another finger, stretching your tight channel further, his thumb circling your clit, and you couldn’t help but grind against his hand. “I’m going to fuck you dumb with my fingers, make you shake and tremble with pleasure, before I leave you here as if I was just your ghost,” he murmured, his third finger sliding into your pussy, adding and stretching and exploding your pleasure, reaching you to heights you never thought, with just a simple finger fucking.

For all evil this man was, he knew how to get a girl off really good. You found it harder and harder to reign your moans in, eyes rolling to the back of your head as his fingers thrusted deeper and deeper into your tight channel, pleasure coiling and burning in your stomach.

His hands were so big, his fingers stretched you so wide and strong, you were just so full. The heat across your cheeks darkened as your eyes fully rolled back, spine arching into him as you came all over his fingers, a quiet scream escaping your lips at the ecstasy firing through your blood.

“You come so prettily, too,” he hummed, finger beneath your chin as he tiped your head up, forcing your embarrassed gaze to his. “Next time I want you to scream my name as you come all over me. I’ll see you again soon, my angel,” he whispered, his body disappearing from your dishevelled state in a fraction of a second, a single name carrying across the wind.

Gitae Kim.

Your eyebrows furrow, suspicion arising at his rapid speed.

Is he like Gun Park? And that last name…

¬

¬

It had only been a week since then, a total of almost three months since you’d met the man at all. Gitae Kim was a total enigma, one you knew came from the first generation. You’d not a doubt in your mind, that he’d somehow been involved with James Lee, who was only a couple of years older than yourself.

You hadn’t known what to think of the man. You either thought wary or lusty thoughts, neither deterring you from wanting to seek him out, to just see him. It had been as if he’d planted his very own obsession inside of you, your thoughts consumed with him and only him. He was never one to stray from your thoughts, and you needed to see him again.

At least until you left to go back to Korea. You’d felt like you’d recovered enough from your injury and felt it time you go back home. But, before you went back, you just wanted to gaze upon Gitae Kim one last time.

That was how you found yourself wondering down the dingy, shadowed alleyway under the ghastly gloom of the moon. Peeks of light filtered through the small gaps in the building as your feet patted quietly against the concrete pavement.

Your hood masked your hair and disguised your feminine form from any creepers, your stature looking like that of a mans as you traversed through the multiple alleyways, face set into a determined expression as you stalked forward.

“What do we have here,” a slimy male voice crooned from the side of you, his gaze clicking with the other man opposite you. “A little boy’s gotten lost,” The other males voice snickered, just as you felt shivers track down your spine.

Fuck, I didn’t want to be noticed.

In your hurry to get to Gitae, you’d completely forgone your usual masked presence, feet patting loudly and obviously, which had obviously wrought you unwanted attention.

You really didn’t feel like fighting two massive, fully-grown adult males right now. Though they weren’t as menacing as Gitae, you couldn’t help but think they were strong, and that you weren’t at your best. No, you were probably at your worst, even after mostly recovering. Now that you’d reflected, you’d probably barely recovered at all.

Maybe they’ll take me to Gitae. If not, I’ll have to use what’s left of my recovered energy, to take them out.

“You should know better than to come to this side of the city, boy,” one of the goons snickered, their hand wrenching the back of your neck in a tight grip, before dragging you forwards, deeper into the nest of the Cartel.

What felt like eons, but was likely only minutes, finally passed, and you found yourself bang in the middle of the cartel gang. Men of all sizes surrounded the space in a funny-looking circle, and a single man- Gitae – sat on a metal, rectangular box, at the front of the space.

“Sir, we found this boy lurking on the outskirts of our den,” the goon holding you explain, head bowed in respect, as the other goons grip tightened harshly on your upper arm. You could see Gitae’s eyes narrowing on you menacingly, but you couldn’t find it in you to be scared.

You knew this was what he was really like, he was an infamous cartel drug-lord, for one, and the menacing aura that had always followed him like a shadow should have made that fact even more obvious.

Gitae stops in front of you, his hand tugging down your hood. A flash of recognition flies through his eyes, his lip lifting into a rare smirk at the mutters echoing around the space.

“A little Birdy got lost,” He crooned, before his face fell flat and his expression became one of stone. “However, this little birdy is here for me.” His gaze narrows on his followers. “Get to work,” he barked, before grabbing your arm and stalking towards a single door to the right of the space.

He leads you into what you assume is quarters, leading you deep into the home, then tugging open a door hidden in an enclosed corner. “My angel came to find me,” He murmured, his hand holding your cheek as he towered over you.

“I wanted to see you before I left,” You blurted out, cheeks heating at your lack of brain around this one man. “Left?” He asked, tone stoney, while his eyes dragged you into his storm. “I’m going back to Korea,” you said, not breaking eye contact with the menace.

Gitae smirked, “And you wanted to see me one last time?” Despite yourself, and despite his mocking smile, you couldn’t help but nod at his question.

That was before you found yourself flat against soft satin sheets, a red hue flushed across your cheeks, eyes hazed with lust and lips parted into a tiny pout as Gitaes large cocked rammed in and out of your opening.

“Ngh~ slow down,” you whimpered, the sound of obscene squelching filling the room as Gitae rutted in and out of your wet cunt, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, at the delicious stretch of your pussy around his thick cock.

He smirked, lifting one of your legs to rest on his shoulder as he angled his hips, hitting you deeper and deeper with each thrust, until you could almost feel him at the bottom of your stomach. “We all know you’re a slut for my cock, my angel. Shut up and take me like a good girl.”

You could see the haze of lust blurring his vision as his thrust became quicker and sloppier, your vision blacking out for a second, as his hand wrapped around your throat squeezed with an almost gentle pressure.

His pelvis brushed and slid against your weeping clitoris with every single thrust into your squelching cunt, pleasure soring through your veins as your mouth parted with a partially loud moan. The tightness in your stomach exploded, your pussy clenching down onto Gitae’s cock as you came, nails digging into his shoulders and drawing blood as you rode out your orgasm.

Still sensitive, you were overloaded with aftershocks of pleasure as Gitae carried on ploughing into your tight channel, thrusts becoming harder and harder as he chased his own high. A small, gravely groan escaped his lips as he came, the feel of cold matter entering you causing you to explode around his cock one last time.

His still semi-hard cock left your tight cunt, his lips locking with yours as you battled tongues. A trail of saliva connected you before he broke off and moved down your body, head burrowing to peek at your swollen, pink cunt, still flowing with your juices and his cum.

His wet appendage sprung out, licking and sucking at your tender clit. You moaned out in protest, pussy clenching and eyes rolling back at the overstimulation. “Don’t try and protest, my angel. I can see your needy cunt clenching right in front of my eyes,” He crooned into your cunt, his voice vibrating against your sensitive channel as he slipped his tongue into your cunt, his thumb rubbing your clit in slow circles.

That swirling ball of pleasure grew again in your stomach, tightening and tightening as his tongue thrust in and out of your wet cunt, squelching and obscene sounds becoming louder and louder as you moaned and screamed on is tongue.

Your orgasm rushed through you at the added pressure against your clit, your hands reaching to clutch at Gitae’s raven locks as you came on his tongue. “Delicious.” You watched with flushed cheeks as he loomed over you, the residual of your juices marring his mouth and chin.

He leaned over you, lips licking at your juices left on his mouth before his breath hit your ear. “I think I’ve become particularly addicted to the taste of your pussy, my angel. I’ll be coming with you to Korea.”

You had a feeling he’d already been set on returning to Korea before you came into the picture, he’d just decided to take you with him on his menacing mission of destruction.

You couldn’t say you weren’t looking forward to it.

[readychilledwine]

Hi, could you write Tamlin absolutely ruining the reader. What I mean is.... reader and tam are in a relationship, he's been busy with work and reader thinks he doesn't like her anymore so tamlin shows her just how wrong she is...😏

A Hint of Corruption

Warnings - pet/own/master power play dynamics, brief rough oral, punishment play, mention of corruption, bratty behavior, reader really REALLY like fucking angry Tamlin.

"If you don't fucking have time for me anymore, just tell me." Tamlin looked at you in shock from his throne. You felt your chest tightening, eyes beginning to water as he just stared at you processing your anger.

He had not touched you in weeks. He hasn't kissed you in days. He spent hours holed up in his repaired office with other high Lords negotiating trade routes and imports. And when he wasn't there, he was in other courts doing the same thing.

"What, little dove, do you mean by that?" He stepped closer to you, setting that damned crown of antlers and thorns on the throne.

You didn't back down, staring up at him. "It's clear I've over stayed my welcome and you are tired of my presence," a dramatic statement fueled by your anger. "I have clearly served my purpose and you are done with me. So just tell me that instead of leaving me here alone constantly."

Tamlin's face fell into a further look of shock. He had told you what he was doing, that these next few months would be insane and likely lonely for both of you as he worked to reset the glory Spring once had.

Glory you were helping him bring back with your Mother blessed gifts to repair land and grow damn near anything. "Dove," he hand came to your cheek, stroking softly, "y/n, I warned you I would be busy and gone a lot this month. I have been trying to come home to you every night-"

"And yet I go to bed and wake up alone-"

He interrupted you, his pet peeve causing anger to hit him. "I was not done speaking, dove. Do we need a lesson on manners and the behavior of a Lady again?" He began backing you to the wall. "Do you need a reminder of who you belong to? Of who cares for you and this beautiful body?"

Your back hit the window, hands going flat against the glass as the throne room doors slammed shut and locked. "Tamlin-"

Green eyes flickered to yours, a mix of arousal and annoyance shining in them. "I believe you are fully aware we are past first names at this point, pet. Get on your knees."

Submission fueled your brain as he pushed down on your shoulders, gathering your hair before putting into the leather he had around his wrist. "Open your mouth," your hands were on his pant ties already focused on that task until a slap came.

You gasped loudly, eyes watering. It wasn't hard, but it still stung, and you looked up at him.

He had not had to slap you for disobedience in years. Not since he had met you, and this began. You were his good girl. His pretty little pet he constantly praised. Your lip trembled as tears fell. "Don't give me that look. Open your fucking mouth."

You sniffled, doing as you were told and waited. "There she is," two fingers gently brushed your tongue, pushing in and coating themselves in your spit. "You're going to suck my cock while I explain to you, again, what is currently happening in my court and why master is gone so much lately."

You didn't nod, eyes still watering. "You want to be my good girl. Don't you?" Tamlin pushed those two fingers into your mouth and down your throat. "Look at me." Your eyes fluttered up, breathing through your nose as he pushed further, causing you to gag. "I can't wait to fucking ruin you."

You whined around them, sucking greedily now. "No, pet, you have to listen first. You broke a rule, you have to be punished. You understand, don't you?"

Your eyes had glazed over, so focused on sucking his fingers that all you could do was nod. "That's my good girl." Tamlin untied his pants, pulling this cock out and smiled as you moaned at the sight. He had ruined you so beautifully already, but you had been so innocent, so untouched by anything when he found you that every chance to fuck you stupid was new and exciting.

He removed his fingers, using the saliva to pump his heavy cock while you watched. Your tongue was out, waiting for him to give you what you wanted, waiting for him to force you to listen. He placed the head on your tongue and nodded, giving you permission to pleasure him.

"As I was saying before you so rudely interrupted me," he held you down, nose flush against his pelvis, watching as you swallowed and sucked his length. "I have been working tirelessly every damn day to be home to you every night. That means there's going to be a lot of mornings alone since I am constantly winnowing the lands to keep you and your slutty little mouth and cunt happy."

He moaned as he pulled up, watching you take a deep breath, then he slammed back in, laughing as you gagged around him. "I am not tired of you. I am not done with you. I am not planning to just toss you aside, pet. I am busy. You like your pretty dresses and jewelry, don't you? Like having a staff to pamper and wait on you? How do you think your High Lord gets you those things? Do you think they're just here and free to you since you're so damn pretty?"

He began fucking your mouth, focusing on that for awhile before abruptly pulling you off of him and ripping you up by your hair.

You moaned, walking at his pace until he threw you over the arm of the throne and held you down with a growl that warned you not to move.

A loud rip filled the room, followed by a chilly spring breeze leaving goosebumps along your body. "Such a beautiful girl," you could hear his smile as you heard his clothing hit the floor and felt a hand go to your folds. Tsmlin groaned at the wetness he found there, the sweet essence coating his hand and practically pouring out of you. He patted your clit softly, watched as you wiggled and moaned his name.

Gods, he loved you. Every inch of you. Every dip and soft curve of your body. Every laugh. Every noise you made.

How could you ever think he'd grown tired of you?

Tamlin took his now coated hand, running it along the shaft of himself as he ran the head through your folds then sat. "Beg. Beg like the good little whore you are. Beg for my forgiveness and for my cock."

"Master please," a good start. "Gods, please I am so sorry. I'll be a good pet. I'll listen and wait at home. Please just fuck me. I need you inside me, please. It's been so long."

He hummed, hand running your spine and tangling into your hair. "It has been too long, my love. Much too long. I should rectify that." He entered you in one swift thrust. The throne began digging into your hips, brushing them as he wasted no time pounding into you.

He ripped you up by your hair again, forcing your back to arch like a bow for him as he pulled the cord that was your pleasure taunt. "I love you, you spoilt little pet. You fucking know this but come in here to yell at me?" His words matched the harshness of his cock working inside of you. You could help the wetness beginning to pool more and more at each word. "I got help to be worthy of you. Signed trade deals with courts I didn't want to be able to spoil and care for you. I get one full day home this week to get ready for a High Lords' meeting, and you want to come in here running your mouth?"

He changed the angle of his thrusts, hitting that spot deep inside of you. You felt your body going pliant, and his arms moved to hold you up by your elbows, pulling you back slightly. "Tell me you're sorry and let you cum. I can tell you are right there. I can stop right fucking now."

"No!" You felt yourself crying again. The pleasure becoming too much. "I'm sorry I was so ungrateful. I'll be good. Gods, please, my mate, my High Lord, please."

Tamlin didn't stop, speed increasing as each drag stretched your now tightening walls forcing them open and swallowing his cock whole. "Cum. Scream my name for his whole court to know who owns you."

You obeyed. Your mind, soul, heart, and body were his. You were his. He had ensured that the second he started bedding you, ruining you for anyone who may wish to touch you, and he'd continue to ruin you.

He came inside of you, holding you down by your neck again and forcing you into submission as you milked him. "Do not ever come into my throne room acting like that again. I was nice, y/n. I won't be nice next time."

You smiled, looking back at him, and risked it all. "You're so easy to manipulate, Tam. I got the sex I needed just by being a brat for 5 minutes. I can't wait until you see what else I've done."

His face fell, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "You won't be leaving our bedroom tomorrow, will you pet?"

You felt him pull out, smiling as he turned you and picked you up. "Nope," you popped the last syllable before kissing his cheek.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanager @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho

@mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth

[scoops-aboy86]

I Want To (Secret Admirer pt 8)

Finally got to the "drunken confessions" part of day 6's prompt!

wc: 4103 / rated: T / set after season 3 / also on ao3

Eddie’s van has always been a piece of shit, but she’s his piece of shit. Even when she breaks down halfway between the Hideout and Gareth’s house, necessitating a rescue from Gareth’s mom in her station wagon so they can get all of their equipment out before the tow truck arrives. Even when it means he has to really lean hard into dealing so he can come up with the money to pay for repairs. 

Even when it cuts into his writing-to-and-recording-things-for-Steve time. But he had managed to get the tape of Steve’s favorite songs recorded and sent off, finally—no easy feat, since he’d had to learn most of the songs from scratch for this tape. Could’ve done without the Tears for Fears and Wham!, and he’d listened to way too much pop radio in order to get decent recordings to study… but he’d been pleasantly surprised by the request for Queen. He already owned some of their albums. 

Didn’t peg you for a Queen fan, sweetheart, but if anything it makes me even more smitten with you. Quick question though… Stayin’ Alive by the Bee Gees? Is that a nostalgia thing or is there a story there?

Anyway, while poor ol’ Shelob is sitting in the lot behind Thatcher Tires, the guys have helped by keeping their ears to the ground about parties for him to hit up. Jeff is even coming with him to this one, not to help directly but enough of a known associate that he’ll act as a passive form of advertisement, letting interested partygoers know that Eddie has set up shop in the walk-in pantry just off the kitchen. 

And it’s working. He’s basically sold out when someone comes over while he’s got his head down, counting his take so far, and asks, “Hey man, do you still have any weed left?”

Eddie freezes—just for a second. He hasn’t had much direct contact with Steve over the years because it was always Tommy who did the buying, back when the Harrington house was party central. But he’d recognize that voice anywhere. 

He looks up, determined not to fall into those warm hazel eyes, biting the insides of his cheeks hard in an effort to will away the flush that wants to rise in his face. 

“Yeah, sure,” Eddie lies. He has some he’d squirreled away for himself, but whatever. Steve can have it. Can have everything. 

Don’t think about the letter he’d written back to Steve, answering in detail what all two guys can do together. That way madness lies. The kind of madness where he offers Steve something else by way of just dropping to his knees right here in Melissa Sarby’s kitchen pantry. 

Steve grins—he grins at him! And pulls his wallet from his back pocket. Eddie has never been more jealous of a folded rectangle of leather in his life. “Great, how much?”

Eddie tells him the amount and names his price, steeply discounted compared to how much he’s charged everyone else tonight. He can’t get over how good Steve looks, for all that he’s moving a little stiffly, subtly babying his healing ribs beneath a short-sleeved button-up shirt. He’s also wearing, Eddie realizes, fucking makeup to disguise the fading black eye. It’s good work, probably Robin’s. (Jealous again, even though he believes Steve about the platonic thing. It’s just, why stop at envying a wallet, right?) And the shorts he’s wearing… Those cannot be the grandpa shorts he’d written about, hugging his ass in all the right places. Meanwhile, Eddie’s jeans are more hole than denim and his Iron Maiden shirt is the one with the bleach stain and the sides cut down to practically his waistband because it was hot as shit today. It’s still warm, even after dark. 

But wait. Wait. 

Did Steve, still recuperating from his injuries, get dressed and made up just to try and track down an opportunity to switch from painkillers to sweet Mary Jane? Or because, like he’d mentioned that one time, he associates the smell with his secret admirer and is seeking it out as a self-soothing thing? Or did he… Does he know? Did he come to this for Eddie, somehow?

Whatever Steve’s reason for being here, it makes Eddie sweat, but he’s also grateful just to, like, bask. He’s seized by a sudden urge to come clean, to look Steve in the eye and reveal himself as the author of those letters, call him sweetheart or baby or big boy to his face—

“Maybe I’ll see you around the party,” Steve says casually. And maybe Eddie is crazy, or hopeful, or way too in love with the unattainable, but he could swear he hears the last word lifting a little, almost like a question.

Eddie nods his head, says, “Sure.”

And well. Damn. Does Steve know? Is that why he’s kinda sorta asking if Eddie is going to stick around? Or is this just Steve being friendly, because he’s a good dude now?

Either way, even though Eddie’s stock is basically cleared out, now he wants to stay. Which is not to say that he isn’t vibrating out of his shoes with nerves. After Steve exits the pantry, Eddie slips out and helps himself to a couple shots of whatever’s closest on his way through the kitchen—because it’s not like he can smoke his anxiety away anymore, Jesus H. Christ. 

But Steve called him brave, and goddammit if this isn’t an opportunity to seize the day, stare down the barrel of a gun, pee into the wind. He can be brave, right? If he can’t, he might never find out if anything is ever going to happen for real, if they could ever be something, and then the regret will eat away at him for the rest of his cowardly life. 

“Hey man,” Jeff calls when he sees Eddie, threading through the sticky crowd to meet him. “Ready to go?” 

Which is code for: it’s hot and sticky in here and the music sucks, let’s leave. And while all of that is definitely true…

“I think I’m going to stick around a bit,” Eddie says, and holds up his metal lunchbox, waggling it a little. He just hopes his voice isn’t doing anything noticeably weird, either from nerves or the recently downed mystery booze. (He hadn’t taken the time to look at the bottle properly. Definitely hadn’t bothered to taste it.) “If you’re heading out, though, you mind looking after the Shelob Get Well fund for me?”

Jeff shrugs and takes it. “Okay man. Better you than me.”

He’s a good friend. Eddie appreciates him for not asking questions, though that might just be tabled for later. And sure, Jeff was also his ride home, but whatever. He can get home on his own power even without wheels. That’s what legs are for. 

~

Eddie spends the next hour or two cycling between getting his nerve up to approach Steve then abruptly losing it and revisiting the kitchen for more liquid fortification. Every time he spots Steve in the crowd again, he isn’t doing anything in particular—hanging back against the wall and people watching, or drifting by the party snacks, or occasionally chatting with some of the incoming seniors that he must know from the sports teams he’d been on last year. It doesn’t seem like Steve is in any rush to leave, though, so there’s still time for Eddie to prove to himself that yes, he can be brave. 

But after seeing one of the cheerleaders latch onto Steve’s arm, Eddie does another u-turn. The millionth fucking one, probably. This time after getting a refill, he decides to investigate the music situation, see if there are any non-shit options, not even going to fuck with it, probably… It’s very unlikely that he’d intentionally dump his current cup of punch on the tape player just to protect his unhappy ears, cross his heart and swear to Van Halen. 

But no, instead: betrayal. Because his stupid legs have carried him too far from the edges of the room, too close to the dancing, fucked up masses in the middle of the living-room-slash-dance-floor, and he gets sucked in. Holding his cup up high over people’s heads—because he’d rather dump punch that somehow tastes stronger than straight liquor on their heads than splash it on their chests, apparently. Eddie tries to muscle through, resigning himself to a wobbly straight-shot across the room instead, but it’s only a matter of time until someone hip-checks him into some poor bastard.

When it does happen, whoever it is at least has the coordination to catch his drink before it spills. Eddie swallows hard at the sensation of a big hand wrapped around his hand on the cup, and brings his gaze around to meet warm hazel eyes. 

“Woah there,” says Steve fucking Harrington, looking a little worse for wear from sweating through his foundation. Or maybe Eddie is just way too close for his own safety and knows what to look for. 

“Talkin’ to me like I’m a horse?” Eddie blusters, trying to sway back before he gets caught in Steve’s gravity like he wants to. “Bold.”

Maybe it’s the whole room that’s swaying. Maybe he overdid it a bit. Shit, why had he stayed at this terrible party again? Steve, and free booze, but, like… now Steve is here. 

Looking at him. Evaluating. And, after a second, gently guiding him back out of the throng. “Maybe,” Steve replies near his ear while they move. “I’m going to lead you to water and try to make you drink, so I guess we’ll see.”

They make it to the bathroom just as Eddie’s churning stomach decides to make a run for it in earnest. He ends up bent over the sink, sparing maybe a tiny fraction of a thought towards the fact that at least what’s coming up is mostly liquid, shouldn’t clog anything—the rest of his half-offline brain power is going towards not reacting to Steve holding his hair back for him. He can feel fingertips on his scalp, and they might as well be the only things keeping him upright. 

Goddamn traitor legs. 

The next thing Eddie knows, he’s sitting on the closed toilet lid and Steve is pressing the cup back into his hand, rinsed out and full of water now. He raises it to gulp, some of the liquid sloshing out the sides to run down his neck, feels good…

“Hey, slow down man,” Steve says, taking the cup back and leaving Eddie to gasp at the reintroduction of air. “You’re gonna hurl again if you drink too fast.” 

“S’nothin’ left,” he mumbles. Steve is so close… He told Steve that he’s a guy, didn’t he? So it’d be okay if… Oh, but he hadn’t told Steve that he’s him, Eddie. So maybe it wouldn’t be okay. Maybe if he kissed Steve, Steve would think he cheated on his secret admirer, like Lois Lane cheating on Superman with Clark Kent. The idea makes Eddie start to giggle. 

Steve smiles back at him. “What? You figured out you’re not a horse ‘cause I could make you drink?” 

That makes him snort after a moment, because it’s such a dumb joke but also it took him so long to get it. Eddie might have to kiss him anyway. 

He should rinse his mouth first. 

“Nooo,” he drawls, rising up and putting a hand on one of Steve’s several shoulders to steady himself. “I just gotta.” That’s it, right? Yeah, that’s a complete enough sentence. Onward. 

“Where are you going?” Steve asks. He trails after Eddie’s beeline for the sink, grabbing for Eddie’s curls again when he dips to stick his mouth under the faucet. “Hey, don’t drown yourself, man!”

“I’m rinsing,” Eddie retorts, but it gets lost in the stream of water. He swirls and spits a few times, then straightens up and emphasizes again, “Rinsing.” And then he leans into the other man’s touch, because he can’t help himself. Steve is so close and, holy shit. Actually touching him, which has never happened before tonight, and he’s only ever caught whiffs of Steve’s cologne from a distance but it is intoxicating. 

Or… maybe he’s just way drunker than he meant to get. Oops. 

Oh well. 

“How’s my breath now, baby?” he asks shamelessly, dipping closer. Lets his voice drop low and rumbling, and could swear he sees some heat rise to Steve’s less-makeuped cheek. 

“Could definitely be worse,” Steve replies diplomatically. He puts a hand on Eddie’s hip though, like he’s afraid he might fall over without it, and that makes Eddie feel less inclined to pout—because god, those hands. They’re so big, he wants to roll around in them. “Did you drive here?”

“Hm?” Eddie flutters his eyes back open, not totally sure when he’d closed them. He’d been thinking about Steve’s hands. Absently starting to compose a letter about what he’d like to feel them do in his head, out of habit. “No… Had a ride here, was gonna walk home.”

Steve hesitates, then offers, “I could give you a ride, if you can give me directions.”

“A trade,” Eddie murmurs. “You’ve caught my interest, Sir Steve.” As if he didn’t have it already, permanently. With a vague after you gesture, Eddie nudges Steve with his hip in the direction of the door. “To your noble steed, then! For the last child of Ungoliant to trouble the unhappy world has retreated to her lair in Cirith Munson till such time as she can be healed.”

“I have no idea what that means, dude,” Steve says. But he’s got a little grin on his face like he’s not put off by the blatant nerdery, and the hand still on Eddie’s hip guides him along with him with minimal fuss. 

“Sssssecretsss,” Eddie hisses back with a lopsided smirk, because he’s a little freak and Steve might as well see that up close. 

Tomorrow he’ll be mortified, but that’s Tomorrow Eddie’s problem. Right now is Drunk Eddie’s time.

He sinks gratefully into a comfy passenger seat in Steve’s beemer, no weird lumps or stray pokey springs like in his van or any of his friends’ (parents’) cars. Blinks slowly up at Steve while the man buckles him in place, head lolling a little to catch sight of the two moles on his neck, just beneath his jaw, that look like a vampire bite. Licks his lips and rests his eyes for a moment while the world spins lazily around him, then opens them again when the car starts and the radio comes on. 

“Boooo,” he heckles once processed that it’s one of those pop stations he’d been listening way too much lately. Which he’d done for Steve, and this is Steve’s car, but he’d also been suffering through this crap at full volume for days to learn to play it, so it’s not like he’s being unreasonable. “Change stations, Stevie, I’m not—I can’t take it anymore. I’ll puke the blood that’s leaking down from my ears, you don’t want that in your fancy car.”

“Don’t joke about that, man,” Steve replies, but reaches over willingly enough to turn the volume down to almost nothing. “So, where to?”

Eddie mutters directions and promises to flap his hand in the right direction whenever they get to intersections, since he’s sure Steve has never been to the Forest Hills trailer park before. But when he points out turns, it always seems like Steve is already taking them. He turns in the passenger seat to squint at him, the turn signal clicking maddeningly against his eardrums every single time Steve puts it on. 

“How come you know where I live?” 

“I don’t?” Steve glances at him, then back at the road. “I’ve lived in Hawkins my whole life. It’s not exactly big, I know where the trailer park is.”

Eddie stares at him for another minute. He watches the street lights shine on Steve’s face, casting shadows, making him look ethereal at times and unknowable in others, sometimes both. And fuck, he wants. 

But it’s Steve Harrington. They’re in Steve Harrington’s fancy car, barreling towards the moment when Eddie clambers out and says goodnight—maybe not in that order, he doesn’t know yet, but it’s going to happen either way. How many girls has Steve dropped off in this car at the end of a date? 

It doesn’t matter, because they weren’t on a date. Steve had held his hair back while he threw up and is giving him a ride home because he’s a nice guy. Steve… doesn’t know they’ve been exchanging love letters all summer. 

“I need something to listen to,” Eddie blurts out, leaning forward to turn the volume back up and switching over to whatever tape is in. “Let’s see what local white knight Steve Harrington listens to in his spare time, shall we?”

“Oh, uh, I don’t—”

There’s a click and a whir, and the tape starts up in the middle of an acoustic cover of Queen’s ‘I Want To Break Free.’ 

Of Eddie’s acoustic cover, and the sound of his own humming that makes him drunkenly wonder, Is that really what I sound like?

Steve has been listening to the most recent tape he sent him in the car. Eddie can feel his eyes going the size of dinner plates—there hasn’t even been time to get a letter back about it, he sent it that recently. His chest fills up with fizz and nerves because maybe Steve was listening to it on the way to the party, and if so what does that mean? 

He doesn’t move a muscle, barely even breathes, and Steve seems similarly quiet in the driver’s seat next to him. And suddenly (because Steve’s right, Hawkins isn’t a big place, it never takes all that long to get from point A to point B) they’re pulling into the trailer park and Eddie is gesturing stiffly to which trailer is his. 

The car pulls to a stop and Eddie… doesn’t move. His tape is still playing, that one about being head over heels now. 

I’d let you fight my battles too, at least until my ribs get back to normal and then we can both fight both of our battles. You know I’d do that for you, right? If you ever need me. I really like these letters. I really like you.

Love, Steve

… Fuck it. That love is still caught in his heart, pumping the sweetness of it through his arteries and veins with every beat, and he’s dizzy with booze and wanting. 

Eddie turns towards Steve, fumbling to unbuckle his seat belt as an afterthought, half climbing over the middle divider to get even a fraction of how close he wants to be. Hears Steve’s soft intake of breath while he leans in, reaching to cradle the back of his head instead of his left cheek in case that might hurt (because he may be drunk off his ass but he remembers, okay, doesn’t want to hurt his sweetheart) and kisses him. 

Soft at first, the barest hint of trying to be chaste, but one taste could never be enough. The rest of the world is white fucking noise as Eddie licks his way inside Steve’s easily parting lips, seals them together, steals the breath right out of his lungs with the perfect way they slot together. He’s shaking with it, drunk and stupid and floating and Steve’s hands are in his hair again for a much, much better reason this time, kissing and being kissed back. 

~

“Let’s see what local white knight Steve Harrington listens to in his spare time, shall we?”

Steve’s heart jumps into his throat, realizing what Eddie is about to do. “Oh, uh, I don’t—”

For as drunk as he is, Eddie is fast. Too fast for Steve to come up with some excuse for stopping him, and then the evidence of the tape he’d used to psyche himself up for the party floods the car, because… Well, the latest letter was still filling his head, all the ways Eddie had promised he could be good with his hands, and the soothing sounds of guitar and Eddie’s voice kept him at pleasantly equal levels of calm and stirred up. 

He expects Eddie, loose tongued as he is, to say something. Take the opportunity to reveal himself finally and offer some lighthearted quip about their different tastes in music again. Steve, heart still in his throat, wants that, because he’s never been one for hesitating to rip off the band-aid.

This thing between them, the softness and hope of it, is the only thing that’s kept Steve afloat since he’d had to admit to his parents that he’d lost his car keys. He’d written to Secret Admirer—to Eddie—about it, of course, but he might have… minimized a bit. Mentioned them calling him irresponsible, and some of the emotional hoops they’d made him jump through before agreeing to arrange for replacements, but he’d left some things unsaid. 

Like, how he knows how to get a copy of a key made but that requires, you know, something to copy! His parents had kept all the spares when they gave him the car, even though it’s his name on the title—a detail which makes him seem like a spoiled brat if he complains, but he’s always felt like that was calculated. And how he had no idea how to get a new car key made from scratch, and still doesn’t because they hadn’t explained it, just done it.

Or the way he’d been so apathetic for days after that series of phone calls that Robin had offered part of her savings to help him get his own place. “A loan,” she’d explained. “Anything to get you out from under those people’s thumbs, Steve, they’re horrible human beings. They didn’t call back about you having a concussion but they called immediately after getting your message about some stupid keys? That’s the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard about, way worse than a giant spider monster made of melted people!”

Steve just. He needs a win right now. He needs some sort of reassurance that Robin isn’t a one-off good thing in his life. If he and Eddie could just get on the same page and stop pretending that they didn’t both want to kiss each other…

Because he’s been pretending all night, ever since the moment he’d seen Eddie in person for the first time since only half-noticing him in school. Watched him for a while while there were still people crowded around, knowing that it might mean there’d be nothing left to buy by the time he approached and then maybe they’d end up talking. Hadn’t happened, sadly, so he’d stuck around—and damn, he’s glad he did. It seemed like every time he’d caught a glimpse of the man after that he had a new drink in hand, and by the time he herded Eddie into the bathroom his eyes were so unfocused that Steve wasn’t sure he even recognized him until “You’ve caught my interest, Sir Steve.”

He’d wanted to say that the feeling was mutual, but hadn’t quite had the nerve. 

But now Steve is driving in a cold sweat because they’re listening to Eddie’s tape and Eddie himself is stock-still to his right. 

And look, all he’s hoping for at this point is to get Eddie home safely, maybe strike up a conversation as he’s helping the guy inside or whatever Eddie needs, whatever he can get away with. Being able to touch him at the party had given him goosebumps despite the summer heat in general and the thick, humid air inside the house. Selfishly, he wants more, but knows he needs to content himself with breadcrumbs until they make it to the real stuff, not wanting to give away how clingy he can be (if he hasn’t already in his letters). So when he pulls to a stop in front of Eddie’s trailer, he’s glad when Eddie doesn’t leap up and bolt immediately. 

The kiss catches Steve off guard. It’s so gentle and tentative at first, for all that Eddie just about threw himself across the car to initiate it. Just as quickly, it turns hungry, and it’s that hunger that has Steve readily opening, accepting, wanting right back. Eddie kisses him like he’s trying to leave a mark, and he does. A fierce and possessive blaze that’s totally separate from the burn of lingering alcohol, one that doesn’t start to hurt until it ends.

Tag list (ask to be added): @hotluncheddie @lawrencebshoggoth @sofadofax @tangerinesteve @steviewashere

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@bookworm0690 @millseyes-world @live-laugh-love-dietrich @the-tenth-mus-e

[floralpascal]

Could You?

Summary: Having survived your bullet wound, you and Ghost both face the consequences of your deepening relationship as Ghost grapples with the impact of almost losing you. (Set right after the events of Nightmare)

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 4.1k

Rating: Explicit (18+ only, mdni!)

Warnings: reader was hit by a bullet, medical talk, canon-level violence, talk of death, secret relationship, mentions of smut, some hurt/comfort

A/N: Thanks to everyone who requested this chapter! Hope you all enjoy!

Illicit Indulgences Series Masterlist

Ghost knew pain. He could handle the bite of the feeling, no matter how intense or prolonged. He had never hit a breaking point from it. 

But guilt? It cut deeper than normal pain. Guilt was a nebulous feeling - an affliction of the psyche that was impossible to stop and damn near inescapable. It gnawed at him from the inside out, like a poison running in his veins. It haunted his every thought and even found him in sleep. The pain of guilt was damn near unbearable. 

Two weeks. You had been in the hospital for two goddamn weeks. For a while, it had been touch-and-go, your situation fluctuating from dire to stable to dire again as the doctors worked to repair the damage from your gunshot wound. A few days after the incident, they had put you in a medically-induced coma. 

Ghost picked at the peeled plastic leather on the armrest of his chair. He scratched his nail under the dried edge of the plastic and pulled, snapping another bit of it off before flicking the flake to the floor absentmindedly. Then, he began the process again with a new section of the material. As the days had worn on, he had slowly torn a gaping hole into the covering. Each day, the hole in the armrest grew wider, just as the hole in his chest did. 

You laid in the bed in front of his chair, tubes and wires crisscrossing over your body. Your face held none of the defining characteristics of sleep that he had come to know. Instead of peaceful, you looked distressed, your eyebrows now pinched even in sleep. A shade of gray now clung to you, almost as if you were sick. 

“Simon.” 

Ghost looked to the door of your room, following the deep, gravelly voice to a disgruntled Price. He stood in the doorway, his eyes trained on Ghost. He wore simple camouflage fatigues, a change from the last time Ghost had seen him in your hospital room. Ghost also noticed that Price had trimmed his beard since then, as well. 

How long ago had that been? 

“I told you to get out of here,” Price grumbled.

“‘n I told you I’m fine.”

Price let out a huff of air before he moved closer. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, Price looked tired and solemn. He eyed the flakes strewn around the hard linoleum at Ghost’s feet. “Why’re you here? Why’re you doin’ this to yourself?”

Ghost leaned back in his chair, eyes falling back to where you laid. He couldn’t hold Price’s gaze anymore. Price was a quick, calculating man and Ghost was sure that it wouldn’t take more than a few missteps on his part to guess exactly why this really hit Ghost so hard. With the mask and his usual stoic demeanor, he already had a guard against the Captain’s incredible gift for reading people. But Price had adapted, learning instead to read Ghost only by his eyes. 

Lying wouldn’t do. Price would see straight through him if he did. He’d have to give him the truth, just not the entire truth. “This happened on my watch. This is on me, Cap.”

It felt like only yesterday that Ghost had been sitting in a hospital bed just like yours warning you not to get hurt on his watch. Not when you were putting yourself on the line for him. It was a bit of sick irony now that you laid in this bed after taking a bullet for him - irony he wasn’t fond of at all. 

He couldn’t tell Price that you had been in Ghost’s bed only a few nights before that mission. That Ghost had fucked you slowly then, his forehead pressed to yours as he unraveled you. It was the most intimate he had ever been with you. Usually when you fucked, it was hard and fast. Feelings were there, only covered by rough desperation, but this was different. It had been something soft and vulnerable, something that was more than just sex. A wall had broken between the two of you, one that had held you both back from admitting that this was an actual relationship. 

Ghost had long stopped ignoring the fact that he had strong feelings for you, but now he was finding that those feelings had no discernible bottom. The deeper he fell for you, the deeper those feelings ran.

Maybe if Price knew all that, he would understand. But Price couldn’t know. If he did, he would be obligated to report that his Lieutenant had started a relationship with his Sergeant, a subordinate. The fallout would be disastrous. 

“You were watchin’ each other’s six,” Price asserted, his voice even and insistent. Ghost could tell that he was trying to be the voice of reason for him, a role the Captain played well. Even if Price didn’t know exactly why, he could see that what happened to you was eating Ghost alive. “You both did your jobs. Sometimes shit happens and good people get hurt.”

Ghost shook his head. “I’m her superior, my job is to keep her safe. It’s the same thing with the others - Soap and Gaz. I should’a been better than that.”

Ghost had replayed that moment in his mind a million times over. If only he would’ve been better, then maybe he would’ve noticed the gunman’s hiding spot or reacted quicker to take him down. If Ghost had just been better, you might have never gotten hurt.

Price sighed, scratching at the side of his beard as he turned his eyes to you. “Shit like this is never easy when you’re in charge, Simon. You know as well as I do that blamin’ yourself is a dangerous game to play. The only thing you can do is learn from it ‘n move on. I know you two are close but tha’s no reason to sit here torturin’ yourself.”

Ghost bit back a scornful chuckle. If only Price knew how close you truly were. If only he knew that seeing you like this made him feel like the armrest of the chair he sat in - slowly being picked apart piece by piece. 

“Styx is gonna pull through. Go get some rest,” Price said resolutely. 

“Sir-”

“Tha’s an order, Lieutenant,” Price barked. “Out.” Reluctantly, Ghost stood and walked towards the door. As he passed him by the doorway, Price called over his shoulder, “You saved her life. She’s gonna live because of you. Focus on that.”

That was easier said than done. As Ghost pushed out of the room and down the bustling hallway, dodging doctors and nurses as he went, he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that he had only saved your life because you had put yourself in danger for him again. 

It was his job to protect you - both his actual job and his job as the person you were in a relationship with. But he’d failed, and it was you who paid the price. 

It should’ve been him. At least then he would have some peace knowing that you were okay. He could take the pain if only it meant that he would take the pain away from you. 

As he made his way to his temporary room on this unfamiliar base, he could hear your voice in his head chastising him, could see the way your head ticked to the side as you challenged him like you had so many times before. It was a conversation he had with you on more than one occasion. 

“Oh, really?” you questioned, sarcasm lacing your voice. Your head had laid on Ghost’s pillow, only a few months prior, facing him in his bed. “So you can stick your neck out for me, but I can’t do it for you?”

“Precisely.” Ghost’s hand had slid up and down your bare side - the side that would later take the bullet that was meant for him. Irony was a cruel thing in retrospect.

You had narrowed your eyebrows at him, dropping your teasing tone as you leveled your serious gaze. “That’s bullshit, Simon, and you know it.”

At that, he had leaned forward and pushed his mask up above his mouth before he brought his lips to your neck. He pressed the plush of his lips to the sensitive spot at the curve of your neck - the spot he knew would drive you wild. A gasp escaped you as you tilted your head to bare more of your skin to him, your body slowly arching into his touch. 

“You can always stick your neck out for me like this, love,” he whispered against your skin before lightly nipping his teeth at the flesh there. 

An obstinate huff escaped you. 

“Oh, fuck you,” you countered, but your words had held no venom, your voice light with growing lust. It was more a concession to his caress than a genuine jab. 

“You already did that, Styx,” he had teased before rolling you over top of him so that your bare thighs straddled his large hips. Excitement flashed in your eyes as you smirked down at him, your face only inches away from his own. He brought his lips to the shell of your ear as he added, “But you can do it again if you really want to…”

Ghost opened the door to his room, trying desperately to shake the memory from his mind. To shake you from his mind. 

The room was plain and minimalistic. Gray walls, a cement floor, a small closet, a small wooden table, and a rickety single bed that could barely hold his mass were all that the small room contained. For years, accommodations like this seemed like staying in a five-star hotel. Hell, in the field, he considered a clean sleeping bag on the hard ground to be impressive. Although this guest room looked like every other quarters on every base he’d ever been on, it still felt colder somehow. More empty. 

Ghost ripped off his boots before collapsing onto the green bed, the springs groaning under his weight.

What if this relationship with you was a bad idea? Ghost and you had already broken a list of rules a kilometer long, enough to have both of your jobs if anyone ever found out. He would do everything in his power to keep you away from the fallout if it ever did come out. But that wasn’t the issue for him right now. What if this relationship with you was putting you in danger? What if it was compromising the both of you?

You had both swore to each other that you wouldn’t let this affect your work. Even though you had risked your life for him once even before your relationship started, he worried that you had taken that bullet for him because of your relationship with him. Had you done what you swore you wouldn’t?

Ghost had felt the moment he broke his promise: the second you went down, the mission meant nothing anymore. All that mattered was getting you to safety. He had been compromised, let his feelings for you rule him. It was the first crack in his armor, the once-perfect soldier finally slipping. The worst part was that, given the chance, he wouldn’t change a damn thing about how he reacted. He would do it all again. 

There were reasons for the rules that prohibited his relationship with you, just as there were consequences. A dark voice in the back of his mind said that it was his fault. He let this relationship start - let the both of you fall into this knowing damn well how you both felt. He had let the two of you compromise yourselves. As a result, you now laid in a hospital bed desperately holding onto life and he was going out of his mind. 

Just fucking sleep. He just needed to fucking sleep. 

~~~

Ghost found no solace when his eyes closed. He found you there, too. He was lost in the space between sleep and consciousness, a restless and aching plane of existence. He couldn’t tell whether the images he saw were dreams or memories or some odd mixture of both. 

Bang! Bang! Bang!

His eyes snapped open, his consciousness yanked back to the dark, cold room. It was quiet for a moment as he tried to figure out what had woken him.

Someone banged on Ghost’s door again, the knocks hard and fast. 

“Ghost.” It was Soap’s voice that came from the other side of the door, though it held none of his usual energy. It was too somber. “The doctors woke Styx an hour ago.”

Ghost sat up and quickly pulled on his boots again. When Ghost opened the metal door, he found Soap poised to knock again, his fist raised before he froze. Soap relaxed then, dropping his hand to his side. 

“They’re lettin’ visitors in now. I thought you’d wanna know,” Soap told him, his voice low. He appraised Ghost with solemn eyes, his mouth drawn tight in apprehension. It was a rare look for the young soldier. 

Ghost offered him a, “Thanks, Johnny.”

He pushed past Soap, heading swiftly towards the hospital wing of the base. Soap ran to catch up, his boots smacking into the concrete hallway floor, falling in stride with Ghost. 

Soap was quiet until the pair entered the hospital section of the base, the distinctly sterile aroma making Ghost feel sick. 

“LT…” Soap drew cautiously as they traversed the packed hallway. “What happened to her?”

“What d’ya think, Johnny? She got fuckin’ shot.”

Soap rolled his eyes, dodging a nurse that dashed between them as she headed towards some unknown emergency. “Yeah, I know that. I mean, how’d it happen? You haven’t said a word about it to anyone but Price.”

Ghost simply shook his head. 

“C’mon,” Soap pushed, “what happened out there?”

Ghost stopped right outside of the closed gray door to your room. He had known Soap long enough to know that he would keep asking until he got an answer. He might as well pull the band-aid off now. “I had my back turned, a guy jumped out, she shot him, and took the bullet that was meant for me.”

Soap’s face dropped, some of the pieces of why Ghost had kept this quiet finally clicking into place. He tapped the fist of his right hand against the palm of his left hand nervously. The only thing he said was, “Oh…”

“Yeah.” Ghost gazed at your door.

“Well, at least you both made it out of there, yeah?”

Ghost grumbled, “Barely.”

“Ghost,” Soap chided, clearly catching Ghost’s irritation that you’d risked your life for him again, “you’d do the same thing for her. I know you would.”

“Tha’s got nothin’ to do with this.”

“Really? Because I’m pretty sure if it had been you who’d been shot instead of Styx, I’d be standing here having this same conversation with her. The two of you are more similar than either of you will admit.”

Ghost let out a long huff. 

“Just go easy on her,” Soap urged. “I’ll be waitin’ out here. Might call Gaz and tell him she’s awake. Then I’ll go in to see her after you.” He clapped a reassuring hand on Ghost’s shoulder as he passed by him to go sit in the waiting room. 

Ghost turned back toward your door, a knot forming in his stomach. All he had wanted for weeks was to see you awake, but now, the thought of facing you was paralyzing. 

Ignoring his apprehension, he grabbed the cold door handle and turned, slowly peering into your room. Price stood beside your bed, still clad in the same fatigues he had been in earlier, his arms crossed over his chest as he listened intently to you. 

You. You were reclined back on the bed, your hair wild from the weeks spent asleep. Your face showed the weight of what you had endured, eyes tired from the physical strain your body had been under. But you looked alive again. Some of the gray had begun to dissipate from your skin, your normal glow beginning to return. 

Hearing the door open, you and Price both turned your heads to Ghost, your conversation cut short. Whatever you were going to say died on your lips the moment you saw him. When your eyes met his, he felt like he could finally breathe again. 

You were alive.

Price cleared his throat before resting a hand on your shoulder. “We can finish this conversation later. I’m happy to have you back, kid.”

You nodded at Price, your eyes not straying away from Ghost for long. Ghost could barely tear his eyes away from you either. 

Price strode across the room, giving Ghost a pointed look before walking out of your room and closing the door behind him. 

It was quiet for a long moment as the two of you simply took each other in from opposite sides of the room. While you were asleep, there had been so much he wanted to say to you, but now every word was lost. 

You looked relieved to see him, eyes wide like a doe. 

“Ghost…” Your voice was hoarse, almost painfully so. Ghost moved forward to the side of your bed, as if somehow he could fix it, could take away some of the pain. “Price said you were here,” you croaked. “And that he had to kick you out.”

He nodded. He had been by your side for weeks, had seen you almost every day, and yet hearing you talk to him made it sink in that you were really here. You were really alive. 

“He said you were gonna rip that chair to pieces if he let you stay.” You ticked your head toward the chair Ghost had occupied for days. You chuckled a little, but the movement made your whole body tense up, your face screwing in pain. You let out a hiss, your breaths going ragged. 

“Hey, hey,” he soothed, “take it easy.”

“I’m fine,” you claimed, but your voice was only a mock impression of being okay. Pain still drew your lips into a hard line as you pressed them together. It was the same thing you had done when you got shot, almost like a reflex: I’m fine. The memory burned his insides like acid. 

“No, you’re bloody not,” he retorted. 

You huffed out a long breath as you laid your head back on the inclined bed, your eyes rolling up towards the ceiling. You knew exactly where he was going, exactly what was going through his head. You warned, “Ghost…”

“Why?” He asked, voice calm but strained. “Why did you step in front of me?”

You shook your head, your gaze dropping to meet his once again. “Why? You know damn well why.”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“You think it was even a choice? If it was me, would you even have to think twice about stepping in front of me?”

Ghost huffed indignantly, looking at the ceiling. 

“That’s what I thought,” you said lightly. 

“Maybe tha’s the problem,” Ghost growled. You quirked a confused eyebrow at him before he continued. “We said we wouldn’t let this - us - affect our work. This was never supposed to be-”

He cut himself off, frustration marring every fiber of his being as he turned away from you. He couldn’t bring himself to look at you. Relief and pain battled inside of him, the combination enough to tear him apart. It was too much.

The silence hung over the two of you for a long time, the only noise in the small room being the steady, fast beep of your heart monitor. Each beep was a reminder of why this was a terrible idea. It was a reminder of what he had to lose, a reminder of what could be ripped away from him at any moment. He squeezed his eyes closed, his hand coming to grasp the back of the abandoned, torn chair to ground himself. 

He never meant to let you this close to him. He never meant to care like this. 

“Do you think you could go back?” you asked, your voice steady and hoarse. He knew you well enough to know what you sounded like when you were covering up how you truly felt, though. It was too calm, too measured. “Simon, I mean it. Could you go back to the way things were between us before? Because if so, just do it now while I’m hopped up on painkillers. Make it easy for me.”

He could end it now - tell you that it was over like he should have a long time ago. But the damage was already done. Even if things ended with you now, he would never be able to stop the way he felt for you nor stop it from influencing him. He would always care more than he was supposed to. He had already gone so long without you - been on the verge of losing you for weeks - and it was about to rip him to shreds. How could he ever choose to let you go?

With his back still turned, Ghost countered your question with his own. No matter how you answered, he wasn’t sure he could take the sting of it. “Could you?”

Your response was immediate and unwavering. “No.”

Your admission hung in the air, the revelation an indictment of his own choice. 

Then, Ghost said your name. Your real name - the name he almost never used. It dripped from his lips, the weight of it a confession of equal measure. 

He wasn’t strong enough to let go of you.

When he turned around to face you, your eyes were wide. He saw a small flash of relief cross your face, the medicine you were on surely hindering your ability to hide it. A small, weak smile slowly drew at the edge of your lips. “I like the way you say it.”

Ghost walked to the edge of your bed then, the plastic creaking under his added weight as he came to sit on the edge of it with his body twisted to face you. He dropped his bare hand to lightly run his fingers along the back of yours, being mindful of the wires and tubes attached to you. You caught his intention immediately, turning your hand to slowly slip into his grasp. It was quiet for a long time while he ran his thumb back and forth over your skin. Somehow the gesture was more intimate than any night spent tangled with you in bed.

“What do we do now?” you whispered, your head tilting at him. 

Simon met your gaze. Your eyes were heavy, the physical strain you were under taking its toll. 

“You’re gonna get some rest,” he commanded. “Get your strength back. We’ll figure out the rest later.”

You nodded before squeezing your eyes shut. “Think I’m gonna need some more meds soon. This headache is terrible.”

He leaned over you and plucked the remote with the “Call Nurse” button on it from the other side of the bed. Untangling your hand from his, he placed the remote in your grasp.

“You might wanna get out of here before that nurse with the bun comes back,” you warned, your tone light. “I think she hates you for what you did to that chair.”

He rolled his eyes. That nurse had shot him a nasty glare each time she had come to check in on you in the last few weeks. “Trust me, I noticed.”

Simon stood then, his eyes flitting to the still-closed door of your room. In one swift motion, he turned, bent over your bed, pushed his balaclava over his nose, and lightly brought his lips to yours. You froze in surprise for a moment before you melted into the kiss, your lips chapped but insistent.

He had wondered if he would ever get to feel this again. To feel you, the way you ran through his veins like a wildfire. It was too much and not enough all at the same time. It was a reminder of everything he almost lost and everything he still stood to lose.

“Don’t ever do that to me again,” he whispered, his lips still brushing yours with each word.

You didn’t answer. He knew you couldn’t; he wouldn’t like the answer. Instead, you simply brought your cold hand to the exposed flesh of his chin. The feeling sent a shiver down his spine, but it wasn’t because of the cold. 

It was you. Just you.

[theonemeathead]

Sniper x Reader, "Quick Trip"

a sniper x reader smutfic! tw for afab anatomy, the implications of the word 'sheila'. enjoy!

August. One of the hottest months of the year, not to mention it was the hottest day in New Mexico yet. A ceasefire had been called until further notice, the temperature being down right deadly. There was no shade for miles, within the border of the Badlands.

Which just so happened to be where you lived. Your residence, currently, was Teufort's RED base. You had been on base for a couple of years now, you got along with everyone well enough; Some more than others.

Which leads you to the current situation.

You see, Sniper was about to leave on a joint-contract with Scout; Somewhere not nearly as blazing hot. And he was going to be gone for almost two weeks. Clearly, this didn't bode well with you as you stood, with crossed arms, in front of him. You had been begging him all day to let you tag along, but he refused, insistently.

"Mundy, this isn't fair! The AC in the base is broken, you gotta—!"

"I said no, sheila," he cut you off, his tone stern. Of course, you didn't take well to being talked over, especially by your boyfriend. You furrowed your brow, opening your mouth to speak, when you were interrupted, yet again.

"Sick! Ya coming with us?" Ah, Scout. His Boston accent never failed to amuse you, especially with the mischievous glint in his eyes whenever he spoke. He smiled wide, hopeful that you could maybe make the car ride a little less dull. Sniper usually wasn't one for small talk, you were lucky if you could even get a head nod out of him.

"No." "Yes!"

You and Sniper said in unison, he shot you a nasty side eye from behind his aviators. You never understood how Sniper was able to take the heat so easily. He was still wearing his full uniform, boots and all. You had half a mind not to strip naked with how unbearable the temperature was. However, still somewhat sane, decided against that and listened to your better judgement for once.

"Aw, c'mon, Snipes, let 'em tag along! At least they talk," Scout tried to reason, taking your side. Sniper sighed dramatically, grumbling something you couldn't quite understand. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking down at you.

"You're both insufferable. Get in." Your eyes lit up immediately. You had gotten your way, per usual. You clambered into the vehicle, sitting directly in the middle between the other two mercenaries. The black leather seats had definitely seen their fair share of wear and tear, various holes burned from dropped cigarettes, some exposed, yellow foam from the peeling material... But Sniper loved his van. In between your legs was the comically long stick-shift. The handle was slightly chipped away and the design faded from being used so often. Sniper refused to drive anything but manual, because it's 'the right way' he said. With a loud sigh, Sniper had pulled himself in on the driver's side, buckling his seat belt in one swift motion. He clicked the key forward in the ignition, the camper sputtering to life. It was definitely old and in desperate need of repair. The bushman reached forward for the gearshift, his rough hands accidentally brushing the top of your knee as he put the car into 1st gear. Normally, gestures such as this didn't get to you. But, something felt off about it this time.

The first 10 minutes of the car ride turned out to be a bust. Sniper was too focused on the road and Scout was knocked out, cold. The only sound was the distant crackling of the radio and the soft snores from your teammate. You had one exciting moment when Sniper went to shift to 3rd, his hand grazing your leg yet again. You shot him a quick glance, unsure if it was on purpose on not. Sniper wasn't one to tease. You leaned forward with a sigh, slightly turning the dial on the radio to the right. It was set on a classic rock station currently playing a song by Men At Work. You didn't know much about the band, besides the fact Sniper really liked them.

"I love this song." Sniper's gruff voice had come out slightly whispery. You squirmed a little in your seat. Did he always have this affect on you? His Aussie accent had rang through you ears. It was such a simple string of words, but coupled with the fleeting touches, it was... different. About an hour and a half into the car ride, Sniper made the executive decision to stop at a gas station a couple miles up the road. With Scout still asleep, Sniper pulled up to the pump, slamming the breaks to scare the sleeping Bostonion awake. With an abrupt 'oof', Scout was up and ready to fight immediately.

"What—! What is it?! What happened, are we dead??" He yelped, looking around frantically. Scout paused, huffing when he saw that you were all just in park. "You guys are freakin' assholes, I'm gonna go take a leak."

With the 3 of you filing out of Sniper's front seat, you watched as Scout stretched and walked towards the gas station itself. Behind you, Sniper had already unscrewed the gas cap, removing the nozzle and forcing it into the tank. With a simple 'click', diesel fluid immediately began pouring out. Sniper stared at it for a second before abruptly pulling on the handle of the side door of the van, exposing the inside to you. Confused, you looked up at him.

"I told ya I didn't want you coming on this trip, roo." His tone was dark, almost sadistic. Your brows pinned up, a bit of fear beginning to creep through your system. Sniper never took a tone with you. He turned to you, his eyes hidden behind his yellow-tinted aviators. You swallowed thickly, afraid of what was next. "Come here."

You obeyed, stepping closer to him timidly. Immediately, you were manhandled, almost thrown into the back of his camper van. You stared in surprise, yelping as he slammed the door closed behind the both of you. You didn't have time to react before he was on you, his mouth meeting yours. The kiss wasn't pretty or experienced as his teeth clacked against yours, his lips bruising and hungry. He must've been pent up, watching you flaunt yourself around in that low-cut tanktop and those too-short shorts. Just as fast as he had started, he had pulled away. The marksman looked you up and down, as if you were nothing but prey.

"This is the entire reason I didnt want'cha to come, darl'. Just can't keep my bloody hands off ya."

A flash of red was all you saw before you were flipped onto your stomach, Sniper using his long limbs to entangle your arms behind your back. He had you like a wrangled animal, trapped and helpless. He grunted quietly, cursing under his breath as he kept you pinned with one arm. He used his one free hand and made quick work of your bottoms, sliding them, along with your underwear, down to rest just below your ass. You jolted at the feeling of his caloused hand immediately delving into your folds, as if to relax you. A low whimper left your throat, the feeling of his long, thick fingers tracing themselves inside of you, curling to hit the right spot.

You didn't have much time, however, and Sniper knew this. He retracted his fingers, sucking whatever juices was on them off. The clinking of a belt, along with shuffling fabric excited you further. Although you couldn't look back, you could feel him start to guide his long length towards your aching hole. He slid into you, slowly. Sniper wasn't thick per se, but he was definitely long. The head of his cock practically kissed your insides in all the right places. With how wet you were, you didn't need much time to accommodate his size. Snapping his hips into your ass, you could feel every drag of his cock, every pulse and vein. His pace started off bruising, the hand keeping you pinned down began leaving crescent-shaped indents from his fingernails.

There was something primal about this. The heat had burned extra hot that day, and so did your lover, it seemed. He reached his free hand under you, beginning to rub sloppy circles on your clit. Shortly after, you eyes had screwed shut, a line of drool beginning to leak from your mouth. The campervan had rocked slightly with each thrust, your pants and pleas falling upon deaf ears as Sniper used your body. It wasn't long until you tried to warn him, maybe a little too late.

"Mick, I—!" Before you could continue, you had came, your own moan cutting you off. Sniper had a sick, twisted smile, letting go of your arms to focus fully on grabbing your hips. He had started slamming your overstimulated, quivering cunt back into him. It sent shocks through your body, the pleasure quickly turning to pain as it became too much

"Fuck, I love ya, roo. I'm gonna fill ya right up, make ya mine." His thrusts grew erratic, almost sloppy, as a string of curses and praise left his lips as he hilted himself fully inside of you. You heard a small groan, followed by some deep breaths as Sniper came inside of you. With a groan, he pulled out, his cock growing softer by the second. He yanked his pants up, buckling his belt back with extreme ease and skill. There was no time for aftercare. He helped you slide your clothes back up, your trembling thighs sending delight through him. He picked his slouch hat up from off the ground, dusting it off. He held a crooked smile as he placed it atop your head, the hat much too big for you. He had finished pumping gas, screwing the cap back on before leaning against the front of his Chevy.

"Where's Scout?"

"I paid him $20 to piss off somewhere for like half an hour. He'll be back soon, love."

[tyxoxo]

perv!jeno

fourth time trying to get this to show in the tags, i’m so sorry ㅠㅠ

warnings: dubious consent

milf!lover jeno who is such a perverted piece of shit, appears innocent on the outside as he attends his favorite class, just to see his favorite professor in question, you. but on the inside, he’s thought of the dirtiest fantasies, with no ounce of shame that you were twice his age. who could blame his desires, when you looked so fuckable in your professional attire. 

the only reason he hasn’t failed physics is because of his attendance record. without your presence, he would surely have been sent to the Dean’s office for his negligence. 

his chosen seat in the lecture room, elevated in the back, gave him just the right amount of obscurity to palm himself through his denim jeans as he watched you pace back and forth along the ground floor. 

he actually felt sorry for you.

you seemed disheartened by the lack of enthusiasm in your students, their ambition thwarted from the harsh realities of university—student loans, terrible diet, and all the other vices that came with being a young adult.

jeno knew just the thing you needed. someone like him to destress your mind and body. someone like him that would ravage you beyond repair, so you no longer cared about the miniscule details. 

fucked so hard that all you cared about was him, and his raging cock.  

every day he prayed to whatever god just as vile as him, that the slit in your pencil skirt would grow a little taller. maybe even a hole would appear in your sheer pantyhose; he always loved the look of that. 

if you were inquisitive enough to look past his nerdic qualities, you would never go back to men your age. jeno knew he was the entire package.

but jerking off in his dorm room just wasn’t fulfilling his needs anymore. and his roommate got tired of the constant, wet sounds of him beating his dick into oblivion every night out of the week. so much so that just last week the dorm RA held a “wellness meeting” per request of his roommate.

jeno shook his head free of that poor excuse of a therapy session in regards to his masturbation addiction. today was the day that he would approach you after the lecture.

with a hefty sigh, you said your usual,

“don’t forget the discussion post due tonight by 11pm! everyone have a good weekend!”

you knew your reminder wouldn’t hold much weight. there were only a few that would actually participate. but there was only so much you could do.

and it was a well known fact that physics was among the most-hated subjects here.

luckily, this was the last class of the day. and the weekend was just around the corner. you were excited to try out a new cookware set that your daughter brought you for Mother’s Day, even inviting her and her fiancé over for dinner tomorrow as a show of thanks.

as you packed up your laptop, and planner into your leather tote bag, you were surprised to find that the lecture room wasn’t empty yet. 

the last one, Jeno Lee, had just reached the final step along the walkway. 

you paused on your gathering of items, deciding to give your undivided attention in case he had a question or concern.

the only concern you had, was the hard-on poking past his light blue denim jeans. 

it was painfully obvious, and quite intimidating considering his slim stature. 

“is everything okay Mr. Lee?” 

you tried your hardest to keep your eyes focused on his face, even deciding to zero in on his browline glasses to distract you from his groin.

“yeah everything’s fine.”

he stood in front of you like nothing was amiss, casually hooking the single backpack strap on his left shoulder, his other hand resting in his right pocket. 

“if that’s the case, i’ll go ahead and have my leave now. have a good weekend.” 

you failed at making it less obvious that you were dying to get out of the lecture hall. it wasn’t out of distaste, far from it.

rather, you felt disgusting for liking what you saw. everything down to the simple plain white tee, loose-fitting jeans, and light blue Jordans made you rub your thighs together as you stood there. even the veins that tensed along his forearm as he clutched his backpack strap was enough to make your breath hitch deep inside your chest.

fortunate enough for you, your phone buzzed with a notification from your daughter as you made your way to the exit. 

bringing the phone up to get a clearer view of the message proved futile, as you felt his warm hand snatch your wrist, causing your phone to flail out onto the linoleum floor. 

he waited until your back was turned, like the coward he truly was, to go in for the kill. your entire body swung back to face him, with a single yelp escaping your lips as you tried to fight against the whirlwind that was your student.

you winced as he escorted you back to your desk, back arching from the sharp strike to your spine. chest pressed firmly against his own as he let his backpack slip off his shoulders and onto the floor. the third button to your white dress shirt had popped open upon impact, revealing a lacy black bra that was waiting to be ripped apart, much to his liking. 

you were overly sensitive to the stimuli he forced upon you; wrist beginning to sting from his harsh hold, waist feeling singed down to the bone as he gripped you there with his other hand.  

upon opening your eyes, you were met with a being that surely dreamed of this moment. to watch as you felt his dick prod at the middle of your skirt, licking his upper lip in concentration as grinded upwards into your clothed heat.

his blissful expression soon turned to disappointment as your pencil skirt provided too much of a barrier between his swollen cock. 

he would have to take care of that soon.

despite letting up on your waist, all of your thoughts of an escape were in vain as you heard the familiar unclasp of a belt buckle, yet somehow you couldn’t forge a call for help, not when his lips were millimeters away from your own. 

your eyes trailed from his blown pupils to his mouth as he spoke, nowhere near prepared for the filth that fell from his lips. 

“i hope you don’t mind that i give you another one, since you’re already a mom…” 

[boxofbonesfic]

Title: Brave [4 of ?]

Pairing: Orc!Steve x Reader

Summary: You earn your water for the journey to Tarrath—and more importantly, a place in the pack. 

Warnings: 18+ Only, Genre typical violence, Warlord Nomad AU, Dark Fantasy AU, Enemies to lovers, Eventual smut, References to past abuse

“You know what this is?” Carol’s displeasure with your distinct lack of tracking skill is evident as she squats down, poking a finger hard into the dust. You squint as you reach for an answer, knowing you won’t find one. She sighs heavily. 

“This is deer-sign,” she says, motioning for you to squat down like her. You do, the ragged remains of your skirt pooling around you. It’s riddled with holes now, long tears spreading up from the filthy hem that go almost to your knees. The pack isn’t scandalized by the sight of your ankles, however, and your concern for modesty in the face of your very survival is surprisingly low, so you haven’t bothered trying to repair them.

Carol fingers the snapped shafts of grass, their feathered tips bowed low. “You see the way it’s broken? With the prints, you can tell it’s gone this way. If you can’t smell it.” She adds, and you sigh. 

“You know I cannot.”  She shakes her head at your unsatisfactory response, furrowing her brows. 

“How do your people even hunt?” She complains exasperatedly, standing up to her full height.

“Skill.” You answer dryly. “And no small amount of luck, in my case,” you mutter, wiping your hands on your skirts as you stand. “This way?”

“Yes.” 

You’re practically swallowed by the grass, barely able to see over the top of it standing on your toes—so it takes you longer to see it than Carol. Her eyes narrow, ivory white fangs hanging down over her lips as she scents the air and  grins. 

“We’re close.” You can’t smell anything but the dry, hot wind pushing your sweat-laden hair back from your face. What you see, though, are the three-pronged hoof prints in the dirt that tell of the animal that came this way, the tufts of downy coat left snagged on the brush. You pinch the soft hair between your fingers, and sniff it as Carol nods encouragingly. It’s musky, with a distinct animal smell that makes you grimace. 

“Get your bow ready.” You do, pulling it from the strap on your back. It’s heavy; the buckle is almost as big as your head, but Carol had cut the leather down to size for you, slicing off a piece almost the length of your arm with the hunting knife at her side. 

“Show me how you draw. No, not like that. Here.” You feel like a child, the way she scolds the position of your hands when you draw back the string. “Were you an orc wean, you’d have been born with a bow in hand. But I suppose it isn’t abysmal for someone who first held one a day ago.” 

She leads you through the shifting grass-sea, crawling through the dust towards a stunted copse of dry trees. You stay low, mirroring Carol’s low-squat as she makes her way through. She is careful not to break any branches, taking her time to pick her way through the brush as quietly as possible. And therefore, so are you. There is water here—a little. You can taste the way it saturates the air, and a thrill passes through you. Water, here, means prey. 

The two of you stay low, approaching the muddy little pool with baited breath. The air is still, liable to shift at any moment, but Carol doesn’t seem nervous. You are, though, your palms moist and your heart beating so hard you fear everything within a mile can hear it. 

There, on the other side of the pool, is the deer. It’s a fully grown stag, his long, spiraling horns at least twice the length of your arms. There is nothing soft in the grasslands, your father had said, the words scented sour with ale. Everything eats, and is eaten. The stag has short, thick, wiry fur, with a tail that was long, like a lizard’s. You watch as it leans down toward the muddy puddle, snuffling through it with a long, pointed snout.

You draw back on the string as he stands up, nostrils flaring. It digs into the meat of your fingers as you pull back with all your strength and let go, the arrow whistling through the air to strike the stag through the fore-shank. It’s mouth opens too wide as it shrieks, the sound echoing out into the wilderness. 

“Move!” Carol yells as the stag paws the ground with its good leg, bloody foam frothing around its nostrils. It charges only a moment later, turning the dry, hollowed out trees you’d been using for cover into splinters and kindling. You roll away, the metallic stench of its blood strong in your nostrils and your own heart thundering in you ears. You push yourself up to your feet, your hand going to the quiver at your back. 

The stag’s tail whips excitedly behind it as it snaps its jaws, circling you.  You can smell it, the hot copper of its blood, the sweat gleaming on its flanks and the sour tang of your own fear. The stag lowers its head, its horns pointed straight at your chest as it charges. You barely have time to aim, bringing the bow up and loosing the arrow. 

It thuds wetly into the stag’s chest, and with another horrible scream it collapses into the dust, skidding to a stop just inches from you. Your own chest is heaving as you stare at its body, wide eyed. It feels like you aren’t getting any air as you gulp down breaths that taste of hot dust and fresh blood. You watch as the stag twitches in the dust, its chest heaving once, twice, before its amber eyes go dark. Your legs give out, dropping you to your knees in the dirt. 

Carol emerges from the brush on the other side of the stag’s body, but you do not see her, not really, your eyes locked on the thick arrows protruding from its hide like misbegotten horns. She smooths a hand over its eyes, closing them, before she squats over the carcass. Silently, she jabs a thumb into one of its sluggishly bleeding wounds, before crouching in front of you. She grabs your chin, before swiping her bloody fingers down over your cheeks.

She gives you a pleased look as she stands away, and you lightly touch the streaky marks of sticky red she’s left on your skin, your brows furrowing with confusion. 

“You earned them.” She says proudly, painting another few stripes on your forehead for good measure. Carol helps you drag your kill back to camp, a murmur passing through the pack at the sight of you. Steve es sat by the water, his broadsword laid across his thighs as he cleans it. He stands as you approach, and you duck your head as he inspects the stag. Your breath hitches in your throat as he reaches for you, one massive finger sliding beneath your chin as he tilts it up. 

“Let them see your honor, little hunter,” he says, smoothing his thumb gently over one of Carol’s marks. “Let them see.” 

to be continued…

next

[shady-tavern]

A Hero’s Return

Continuation of this little short story. No particular warnings, but let me know if I should tag something.

***

'Ready when you are.'

It felt as though the message was burning a hole into your pocket as you stared at your hero costume. Freshly laundered, repaired perfectly after your fight with that telekinetic villain and just as practical and flashy as before. It shouldn’t be scary.

Your hands weren’t trembling when you put it on, but it was a near thing. It helped to know that Silver was waiting on the other side, not a floating terror ready and willing to kill. If you failed, no civilians would get hurt or killed. You would not die knowing you had been utterly useless, or wake up miraculously to find hundreds of people dead because you hadn’t been strong enough.

You had grown stronger, you knew you had. Enough so, in fact, that the hero association had recently bumped you up to Class B. Which was a little frightening, you had never played in the upper leagues before and while you knew you were part of the bottom crowd of Class B, it was still very different to your comfortable, quiet little Class C.

You took a few deep breaths after buckling the last of your gear in place and you stared at the mirror, realizing that the costume didn’t fit like it used to. You had gained muscle and a bit of weight and…it didn’t look right anymore. The colors seemed too bright, the little fluttery accents you had once added to the design on a whim too useless.

You took another deep breath and turned away from the mirror. Now was not the time to get into an existential crisis over your costume. You could always order a new one from the association later. You grabbed your phone, staring at the most recent message for a long moment, your heart pounding nervously.

'Ready when you are.'

You could hear Silver’s voice in your mind as you read those words, could see his reassuring smile, the kindness in his mercury eyes that didn’t quite manage to hide patient anticipation. He was looking forward to this, you knew. He had been there every step of the way, as you had dragged yourself out of the hole your failure and terror had shoved you into.

You didn’t feel ready to be a hero again, but you had decided that it didn’t matter. You would never feel ready. You could run those obstacle courses and simulations Silver built a hundred thousand times and not feel ready.

'Ready' you typed back and hit send before you could stop yourself. 

The hero association already knew you would return to active duty today. The substitute hero had left the city last night, looking relieved. His stay here had been exceptionally boring, since Silver had refused to challenge him in any way. Aside from bugging him a bit for fun, but his pranks were always harmless.

You flexed your hands and for a moment you felt all the scar tissue pull tight, stitched up wounds and surgery scars and broken bones that had taken months to heal. You weren’t ready, but you were sick and tired of sitting around at home.

You were sick and tired of being scared, of worrying. Of thinking about the next Class A villain that could show up with murder on their mind. You wanted to be a hero, still, even now. You wanted to protect people and help them where you could. You straightened your shoulders and walked forward, projecting a confidence you did not feel.

It was showtime.

*.*.*.*

You watched civilians cackle in delight as they were pelted with marshmallow butts the size of half your palm. Silver was bouncing a bit on his toes at your side, grinning so wide it must’ve hurt his cheeks.

"Well?" he said with a grin. "Aren’t you going to try and stop me? Oh no, darling, dashing hero!" He pretended to fall into a faint, hand theatrically pressed against his forehead. 

He tipped over with thoughtless trust, knowing you’d be there to catch him. And you did, hands pressed against his signature leather jacket as he draped himself over your arms with exaggerated drama. He continued, "Whatever shall I do, my evil soul quivers!"

You couldn’t help but laugh, tension you hadn’t been aware of sliding off your shoulders like water off a duck’s back. When you caught your breath again, looking down, Silver had the softest smile on his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looked far too sweet for someone proclaiming he had an evil soul.

He straightened from his pretend fainting after a moment and tugged his jacket properly back into place.

"Good first day back?" he asked quietly, barely audible over the huffing and puffing noise of his Ass Kicker 50, it’s wheel of used but thoroughly cleaned and disinfected boots merrily pelting butts into the growing crowd.

"Yeah," you answered just as quietly. "Glad to see me again?"

"Of course, darling." His soft smile got a mischievous edge as it grew into a smirk. "But you must be losing your edge, you haven’t even disabled my baby yet."

You couldn’t help but smirk back, tapping a piece of plating. "Dead switch is beneath this thing, isn’t it?"

He looked startled, then cursed and grumbled, actually looking like he had no idea if he was frustrated or delighted and instead settled on a weird mix of both. "I was hiding it so well! How the fuck did you know?"

You gave him a small shrug. "It’s the only place that works and from the way the thing’s set up and built, it had to be in this area to avoid messing with the machinery. And it’s the only plating that’s not bolted down. Pressure opens it, right?"

You pressed down experimentally on one side and the plate popped open easily enough, swinging aside to reveal the big red button. Because of course it was a big red button. That was so very Silver.

When you looked up, his mercury eyes were bright and intense and that elated-frustrated look was still on his face. "And you once asked me why I fight you," he said, his quiet voice carrying a particular tone that you couldn’t quite place. It made you feel faintly flustered, though.

You fiddled with the plate for a moment, before closing it again. "Yeah, well, I’m just glad I’m not boring."

Silver drew up to his full height, actually looking affronted. "Boring? How dare you?"

The smile tugging at your face felt far too earnest and touched by half, but it seemed to soothe his insulted affront.

"I’ll have a conversation with whoever put that thought into your head," he said, pointing a finger at you. "And if it was you yourself, we are going to have a long talk."

Hearing a round of loud, delighted noise from the side, both of you looked over to see a group of goth teens cackling as they pocked little holes between the cheeks of their marshmallows butts.

"Ah, I knew I had forgotten something," Silver muttered and you dissolved into helpless laughter, ending up leaning against his shoulder and gasping for air.

By the time you calmed down, you were out of breath, your belly aching in the best of ways and you reached up to wipe some moisture away. Silver looked very content and happy, standing there and watching the machine pelt away, people jumping to catch the butts wrapped in paper to keep things sanitary. So they could be picked up and still eaten if they fell to the floor.

He was always so thoughtful, you thought, still leaning against him and not moving away. You had no idea what he got out of being a villain - well, aside from tax fraud, a bunch of other illegal activities and some very, very strange substances you were not going to touch, ever - but you were happy to see him happy. He deserved it.

"They needed that too," Silver said in this moment, nodding at the crowd. "This city hasn’t quite been the same since that villain attacked. They’re relieved to have you back and seeing us fight harmlessly should put more demons to rest."

You hadn’t even thought about that, too caught up in your own trauma as you had been. You looked back at the people and you saw that he was right. There was a visceral relief on many faces, a giddiness that was born half out of the silliness of the situation and half out of a release of fear-filled tension.

They had been even more helpless than you had been. Civilians with no combat abilities and absolutely no chance to survive the Class A villain. All they had been able to do was run while they had to watch you bleed and break and still stand up again and again.

Oh. 

A quiet realization struck you down to your core. You had wondered why people had been polite but not overly warm with the substitute hero. He had sent you regular updates on villain activity and how his patrols had gone, even if it had taken you a while before you had gotten the guts to read it all instead of only the summary. 

He had mentioned that people didn’t seem all that curious about him and he had sulked about that a bit.

All this time you had thought that you had failed them, these people who grinned and waved when they saw you. Who didn’t hesitate to call you away from the street and ask for help or offer you sweets or lunch when you had been patrolling for hours. People who let you hold their babies or hugged you when you brought their lost pets back.

But they hadn’t seen a failure that day months ago. They had seen you, standing between them and certain death and refusing to give up, no matter what. All because you wanted to protect them with all you had.

"Hey, what’s wrong?" Silver’s worried voice cut into your thoughts and when you glanced at him, his brows were furrowed. "Why are you crying? Do you need me to switch off my baby and back up?"

"I’m fine," you croaked weakly, though you totally were tearing up. "I’m just glad to be back, don’t read too much into it."

Silver’s face softened with a quiet bit of relief and he hummed in understanding. "I’m glad, too, by the way," he said after a moment. "To have you back that is. I may have been a wee bit lonely."

You raised an eyebrow, glad that no tears had spilled over. "You saw me almost every day."

"But not like this," Silver said. "Don’t get me wrong, I love watching you destroy the machines of the obstacle course or absolutely ace the simulations, but I missed going up against you like this."

You rubbed the back of your neck, straightening from your slouch against him. "You always say things like that with a straight face." You both admired him for it and felt envious. Sometimes you wished you could just simply say what was on your mind as well.

Silver smiled, a little lopsided and crooked. "Life’s short, so who cares what others think," he said. "All I care about is living every day the best I can."

You knew what he meant by that. He had told you a bit more about his fight against Terra after modifying some more simulations for you. You had even seen a glimpse of the patchwork of scars that fight had left on him, many of them surgery scars. He had barely survived his debut as a villain. His ever first fight and it had been against Terra.

"You know, I wanted to make the butts bigger," he said before you could say anything, smoothly but obviously changing the topic. "But there was only so much I could fit into Ass Kicker 50 and that just wouldn’t do."

"Are you going to run out of butts soon?" you wondered.

Silver hummed thoughtfully. "I guess there is a minute of pelting left at most."

The two of you waited until the machine stuttered and began to slow, the wheel of boots no longer finding marshmallows to kick into the crowd. Silver gestured grandly for you to go ahead and you pressed the dead switch with a small smile.

"Well then." He clapped his hands together. "I guess I should say hello to my favorite warden. He is ever so happy to see me every time."

You couldn’t help but snort, then you hesitated. "You know, you could just…go."

Silver actually looked a little insulted. "Don’t ruin my date with prison, my dear." He beckoned you closer with a finger, presenting his hands. "I want to see if I can walk out the front door dressed like a futuristic clown."

You blinked, in the middle of pulling out your cuffs. "What would that look like?"

He smirked as you reached out towards him. "I guess you’ll have to find out." He leaned in as your hands closed the cuffs around his wrists, warm skin pressed to warm skin and cold metal between. "I’ll make sure to make the news for you."

"Alright," you said, bemused and curious in equal measure. You noticed how warm he was, this close to you, your hands covering his. His breath smelled faintly of peppermint. "Come on, there are two new officers on the roaster who are eager to prove you can’t slip past them."

His face lit up. "Oooh, fun." He chuckled, low and menacing and for once sounding like the villain he was. "I do love ruining their day. Shattered dreams taste ever so delicious."

You rolled your eyes fondly, waving the waiting police over. They hurriedly hid the marshmallow butts they were snacking on and bustled over, trying to look important and menacing. Even if Silver was a very polite and very wonderful villain, he was still wanted for a number of crimes and the state really wanted to prosecute him.

"Be gentle with Ass Kicker 50," you told the clean-up crew who came in to tow the machine away to a storage facility. "She’s done good service."

When you looked back over to Silver, you caught the warm, unbearably fond smile as he watched you on his way to the police car. He cast you a wink as he got in, mouthing, 'Clown'. You playfully wrinkled your nose at him and saw more than heard him laugh as the door was closed.

"Um." A soft, hesitant voice made you look over and you immediately recognized the girl who had approached you. The teenager who had nearly died at your side months ago. "I’m very happy you’re back and that you made a full recovery." She thrust out a small gift. "Thank you, for saving my life."

"And mine." One of her friends bustled over, holding a little wrapped gift as well. "If not for you, I wouldn’t have made it."

You felt speechless, accepting the gifts hesitantly and that seemed to open the floodgates. You were swiftly surrounded by people thanking you and expressing their concern and relief in equal measure. Your arms soon overflowed with gifts, flowers from the elderly, drawn pictures from children and baked cookies from grateful parents. It nearly made you cry.

You did cry a little when you got home, sniffling as you sat in a pile of gifts, reading letters and smiling at the graceless but enthusiastic scribbles of a five year old. Suzie was curled up in your lap, fast asleep as a small bundle of warmth.

You taped all the pictures to one wall and pinned the letters to an old, large pinboard you had gotten a few years ago. You put the food away and the flowers into a vase and scattered the rest of the gifts across your flat in a smattering of decorations.

It had mattered. Ever single moment you had felt helpless and terrified had mattered. You hadn’t been a footnote on some document, lamenting a too early death. Because of you, so many futures still existed, those bright, burning lives not snuffed out by a cruel hand.

You would continue growing stronger for them all, you vowed to yourself. Even if you needed Silver to end the fight and save you again, you would be there. Standing between evil and everyone else as many times as it took.

For the first time in months, you felt like a hero again, too.

You dozed off with the news channel on and jerked awake sometime in the early morning hours just in time to blearily watch a repeated clip of Silver, dressed as a sparkly, futuristic clown, moonwalk dancing out of prison. There it was, his famous, Class A skill of getting out of trouble in the most ridiculous ways.

You were chuckling softly to yourself, reaching out to fish your phone from your coffee table. You already had a message waiting for you.

'Watch me, darling.'

You were still half asleep when you answered, a golden feeling like honey on warm bread filling your chest, 'Always.'

You hesitated, then tapped out one more message, 'If you have any more inventions, I’m ready.'

He answered immediately. 'Oh, darling.' It read and you could hear the glee in his voice in your mind, could imagine the way he brightened. 'I was hoping you’d say that.'

You loved this ridiculous, wonderful man so much, you thought, still bleary and half asleep. Your heart felt so full with good things it felt as though it was spilling over to the point where you had to squeeze a pillow, hiding a wide grin against it.

[rilamelafin]

Offer Me That Deathless Death

Fandom: Dragon Age Inquisition Rating: M Pairing: Cullen x Female Lavellan Tags: Body Worship, Victory Sex, Bathing/Washing

[Read on AO3]

~~~

He all but carried her up the stairs to her bedchambers, exhausted as she was. He carried her staff for her, something he would never have imagined himself doing even three years ago, before he had been recruited to lead the Inquisition’s forces. Neddirra leaned heavily on his shoulder, every step leaden and weighted as the heat of battle ebbed from her body. She had saved them all. Again. Corypheus was finally defeated, the hole in the sky repaired with nothing but a scar to show how close they had all been to destruction. At the top of the steps, Neddirra’s knees buckled, and Cullen scooped her up properly into his arms. He set her staff in its place along the wall, carried her to the tub he’d had drawn when news of her victory had reached Skyhold ahead of her, and carefully set her back on her feet.

His hands were light as they set to the task of removing the Keeper robes she had crafted since the fall of her clan. As each layer was lifted, he could see her body growing lighter. The tension slowly eased from her brow. She tried to help, started to lean down to remove her leg wraps, but he gently pushed her hands away and insisted she let him. He knelt before her, a supplicant at her feet, as his hands unwrapped the leather that protected her. He was careful to put her robes and other pieces of her armor on their proper stands — they’d be cleaned in the morning — and in minutes he had her bare before him. Her body was covered in grime — blood and corruption, and viscera — and already-darkening bruises.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes upon.

She was alive. 

Cullen helped her into the bath and sat on the stool beside it, taking a cup to rinse the warmed water over her auburn hair. Her breath left her in a rush, her shoulders sinking lower as he worked soap into a lather in her hair. Flakes of red and black fell, staining the water in the tub. He wetted a cloth and began the slow, tender process of cleaning the battle off of her skin. He started with her back, careful of the angry red mark that burned a line over her shoulder blades, and moved slowly down each arm. With every inch of her pale skin he cleansed and revealed, a piece of her seemed to come back to herself and she relaxed against the back of the tub. She was so tired, drawn thin and empty from her battle with Corypheus high in the mountains. Cullen had only been able to see flashes of light in the distance, green and crimson and terrifying. When Neddirra had returned, triumphant, he had finally been able to breathe again.

Once her skin was clean, Cullen helped Neddirra to her feet and out of the tub. She leaned heavily against him as he drew a towel over her body, gently caressing as he helped her dry. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, her forehead, the tip of one ear — the last one elicited a soft gasp. She tipped her head back to kiss his mouth, lips slow and languid. Cullen’s arms wrapped around her, drawing her as near as he could manage. Her skin was still warm from the bath through his linen shirt, and her hands glided over his chest to wrap behind his neck. She opened her mouth to him, and a low groan rumbled in his chest as her tongue slid against his. He should let her rest, he knew. But her hands tugged at the back of his shirt, drawing it up as best she could, and all Cullen could do was breathe out a laugh against her lips as he pulled back and lifted the shirt over his head. 

Her lips were on his chest the second it was bared to her, tracing over scars, kissing and sucking gentle bruises into his skin, marking him as hers and hers alone. His hands roamed her naked body, feeling for the aches and bruises from her battle, marveled at the strength of her. One hand cupped her breast, and she gasped, breath hot against his chest. Cullen moved his hands under her thighs and lifted her with ease — she was always so light — and she wrapped her legs around his waist. His lips found hers again as he carried her to the bed and gently laid her down into the plush covers. She stared up at him with desire-blown eyes, and a hand trailed down his side, to the hem of his trousers. Cullen gently grasped her wrist and brought it back up to his face so he could kiss her there.

“Allow me to tend to you, just this once.”

Their lovemaking was a place where they were true equals, usually. Tonight, Cullen wanted for Neddirra to just exist in pleasure. She had done so much for him — for the world — he wanted her to stop giving just for one night. His lips traveled slowly up her arm, dotting her skin with gentle, reverent kisses. As he reached the juncture of her neck and shoulders, one of his hands moved between her legs and cupped her there. The gasp and shaking breath she gave went straight to his cock, but tonight was not about him.  He worked her slowly, drawing gasps and sighs and moans from her lips with every pass over her slick core. Her hips canted in time with his fingers. 

Cullen slowed his movements and pressed a kiss to her lips at her responding whine. A promise of more to come. He kissed his way down her body, all lips and tongue — no teeth because she had been marked enough and he wouldn’t add to it tonight — and her hands buried themselves in his hair. She sighed his name as he continued his worship of her. He had learned the Chant of Light in his Templar training. Had he the time, he would recite it in entirety into her skin. He could spend weeks venerating her, and may the Maker strike him down for his blasphemy.  He kissed her inner thigh once, twice, and then his mouth was on her folds, and her voice echoed off the walls of her chambers. 

He could spend hours here, between her legs, tasting her very essence, tongue tracing every line of her while she whispered her pleasure for only him. He groaned into her, and her ankles crossed behind his back, holding him close. Even as fatigued as he knew she was, she was still so strong. His tongue delved into her heat, and he could feel the muscles of her thighs trembling. She was gasping his name now, all but begging him to bring her to release. And who was he to deny her anything? His lips and tongue worked her, sucking and licking gently in just the ways he had learned she liked. Her voice rose, a song sweeter than any lyrium, as she fell apart and he worked her through her climax until she squirmed under him. His jaw ached, but he kissed her folds once more before rising to meet her eager lips with his. She groaned, low and throaty, as she could taste herself on his mouth.

“I love you,” he breathed.

“Ar lath ‘ma.” Neddirra’s hands traced lazily over the scars on his back, leaving gooseflesh in their wake. They trailed down to his pants again, and this time she tugged insistently at them. “Aman na’mis.” He remembered this one. She often said it when they made love, and the memory made him impossibly harder. “Sathan, vhenan.” Please, she begged. Cullen realized she was so exhausted she had fallen back on the language of her people, but he had learned enough in their time together. His trousers were gone in short order, and he blanketed her with his own body. She begged him again in Elvish, and he slid into her with practiced ease. 

The pace he set was slow and languid. He relished in the feel of her, every inch of her skin that touched him. His lips were on her — kissing her throat, her jaw, her lips — as his hips rolled into her. She threw her head back, eyes closed in bliss, no coherent words passing her lips besides his name and a few words in Elvish that he hadn’t learned yet. He kept his pace even and controlled, bringing her to the brink of her climax again. Her whole body trembled beneath him, fingertips bruising into his skin — yet she still never allowed her nails to graze over him after that first time. She shattered again around his cock, voice high and keening, and he kissed his way up her throat again, swallowing her moans with his own mouth. He started to pull back, to finish over her belly as usual, but she managed to hook her legs behind him, holding him in place inside her. Her green eyes seemed to glow in the night as she met his gaze.

“Please,” she whispered. That was all it took, and Cullen’s release washed over him before he could even think to argue. He groaned her name, burying himself deep inside her. Neddirra held him close, whispering sweetness in both Elvish and the common tongue, and all Cullen could do was kiss her. 

As he finally slipped out of her, she dragged him to lay beside her in the bed and curled into his side. Cullen’s arm wrapped around Neddirra’s shoulders, drawing her close, and he pressed his lips to the crown of her head once more before she drifted off to sleep. 

She was alive. She was in his arms. He could finally breathe, knowing she wasn’t facing death and destruction. Tonight, there was no threat to face. No Inquisition to worry after.

There was only them.

[the-golden-comet]

✨🏴‍☠️Find The Word Tag🏴‍☠️✨

Thank you for tagging me here, @aalinaaaaaa ! Always happy to sail the high seas and find some words 💛✨

My words: ring, sing, king, wing (loving these rhymes! ✨)

Your words: bet, set, forget, regret

Back to Peter Hart for this one 🏴‍☠️✨

Ring

The captain’s fingers tapped on the spokes of his wheel as he hummed in tune with his hearty crewmates, the hands covered in tanned-hide gloves that tied at the elbows, resting under the arms of the coat and stopping at the rolled-up shirt sleeves. He tapped his foot as he tilted the wheel clockwise, the golden rings adorning his exposed fingers clanking against the steel supports of the axle and glinting to match the buckle on his brown leather belt. Once a cabin boy, now a fine young captain, this was the tale of Peter Hart, the Golden.

King

“You must be excited….” This mysterious muchísimo raised a curious eyebrow. “….marrying and taking the first steps of becoming a king.”

Sing

Peter Hart chuckled. “Well, aren’t you singing a different tune now? Okay, men. Haul his arse back on deck.”

Wing

The prince was, in Peter’s mind, long overdue for some love in his life. And, as a good captain would patch up a leak in his ship, Captain Hart was set on repairing every hole in the prince’s heart….until the scarring of the hull, the weaknesses and damages……were long gone. For a bird with clipped wings cannot fly, nor sing as freely as his heart yearned to soar in the sky.

I will (gently, no pressure) tag: @gioiaalbanoart , @wyked-ao3 , @alinacapellabooks , @paeliae-occasionally , @agirlandherquill , @badscientist , @dearunreliablenarrator , @coffeexafterxmidnight , @willtheweaver , @aintgonnatakethis , @words-after-midnight , @sableglass , @jev-urisk , @thatuselesshuman , @autism-purgatory , @thecomfywriter , @theaistired , @honeybewrites , @lychhiker-writes , @drchenquill , @theink-stainedfolk , @agirlandherquill , @justabigoldnerd , @noxxytocin , @nczaversnick , @oliolioxenfreewrites , @mysticstarlightduck , @ominous-feychild , @pippinoftheshire , @illarian-rambling , @fantasy-things-and-such , @clevah-girlboss , @worlds-tallest-fairy , @48lexr , @ceph-the-ghost-writer , @smellyrottentrees , @lavender-gloom , @greenfinchwriter , @asassydork , @moltenwrites , @finickyfelix , @cowboybrunch , +open tag for whoever wants to hop aboard! ✨

[heartfullofleeches]

Oh boy i hope this sends, but I've been getting such brainrot from the museum asks and I had an idea for another type of au. We've had security guard reader, owner reader, and painting reader, but i thought of an art restorer/art historian reader. Basically someone who really cares about the artwork itself and the finer details and history of the art and the process of it being created. I think it'd be really interesting having a reader who's job it is to go fix the broken works, think about the attachment that the peices that they fix would have. The art would think reader is so gentle and caring, so careful with them and mending them back to their original state before they where ruined. I still think the rest of the museum would come to love them too, they would hear about how much reader cared and would grow attached too, some may even rip themselfs apart in hopes of having readers loving hands mend them back together creating marks that the reader made embedded into them forever. But I feel like the original peices inside the restoration closet that we saw in the owner reader ask would have a stronger and more protective attachment to the reader. The ones who were thrown into a closet and left to rot inside a dark crowed closet only to be saved by their savior and painstakingly put back into their former glory would never allow anything to tarnish the one who saved them.

"Alright, let's try you again."

You insert the crescent shaped key into its designated hole. Twisting the handle, you wind the clock until no longer able; inner mechanisms taut round the key's bronze teeth. Pulling it free, you wait the results of your experiment with fingers crossed. The clock slowly whirls to life; wooden hands gravitating towards the center of its spilt chest as its head sinks forward. You celebrate your success with a pat on the back; congratulating yourself too soon as everything unfolds before your eyes.

The clock stops halfway through its greeting; body twitching and jerking as it fights to complete its given function. The convulsions and angle it hangs at damages the adhesive keeping its faceplate in tack; the panel falling to the ground with a loud clack. The gears of its left arm snap under the stress and join its other part on the floor. Nearing the end of the cycle, the clock stops moving completely and stands still.

"No. No. No!" You scramble across the floor to pick up the pieces, checking for any damages as you carry them over to the table. You sigh in relief and frustration as you look at the tools scattered across your workspace. "I really thought I had it this time..."

You set the parts down and accept your defeat. Your job was both the occupation of your dreams, and your nightmares. Head of the restoration team for the town's art gala, as well as its sole member. All your coworkers left within the span of the first year, but it's not like you mind. Their departure only left you alone with the art works. Fragments of history and creative minds that you alone had the honor to restore. There were some hurdles with mediums you'd yet to figure out, but you'd tackle them on your own or the begrudging assistant of others. The current object of your fixations was a piece of said status, and you worked until closing to try things your way before the repair team came the following morning. You look at the clock with guilt embedded into your soul.

It was human in shape; crafted of polished wood, glass, and metal. A perfect union between machine and nature. Housed in its torso was a clock hidden behind a leather corset which could be opened by inserting the key into the carved heart on its chest. Its face was made up of the image of a sun with closed eyes and rays over lapped in the center; producing a sun dial when opened. The rays were made of twisted metal and colored glass between each knot.

When the clock was wound, its tended function was to bow before the keyhole as it opened its chest cavity. The action would be followed up by it opening its face so that the sunlight may hit the hidden dial. Its creator supposedly worked by an open window and that was his preferred way to tell the time.

You step back over to it, examining its remaining hand. Only two fingers were in tact, and there was some chipping paint caked beneath its nails. You scratch away the crimson and meet its face with an apologetic smile.

"Well, I know it wasn't ideal, but at least we got to spend more time together today. The guys who can do what I can't will be in tomorrow."

You kiss its steal cheek and grab your things as you head out; wishing the other pieces in the room a goodnight on your way. Poor things. Before you came they were just locked in the storage room to rot or eventually be displayed in betrayal of their former glory. As you walk through the empty gallery, you read over the clock's documents that you had captured on your phone. Its origin was apparently France; belonging to a lonely clockmaker who had dealt with the passing of his family the year prior. Its rumored to have been made in memory of his spouse who had to reminded him that life didn't evolve around his craft. He may have forgotten to kiss them goodmorning each day, but he always made sure it tend to his clocks.

Your phone clatters to the floor as you bump into the door. You try its handle. Locked. Made since due to it being after closing, but that was just rude. Your boss did tell you not to stay after work.... No matter, it's not like you were there for the overtime. You reach into your bag for your keys.

What?

You shake the bag around, but you can't hear their jingling. You search through; shaking the bag harder incase they under all the clutter - but they aren't there. Losing your keys now was probably the worst of times with the recent report of a break in.

"Shit... I must've left them in the office." You hurry back to your post, stopped by a sound from the neighboring hall. It seems like nothing at first - till you make out the laughter. You speed up your return - back at the door in a quarter of the time it took you to reach the front door. You legs ache from climbing three flights in record time, but you didn't feel like going all the way down the lobby to the elevator. Grabbing the doorknob, you overhead part of a conversation as you crack the door.

"The dawn is so far away... I miss them already."

A muffled reply.

"Ah, don't give me that. If anyone feels bad about ruining their hardwork me."

Another, this time in a different tone.

"You're all just jealous. You'll get your turn soon so be patient."

You ease the door open more.

"We'll tell them what you did."

The main speaker snarls.

"You wouldn't dare... As if you had no part in it."

You peer through the crack; ready to face the potential danger, but unprepared for what you witness. It's difficult to see, but you can make out shadows moving along the walls in the same placement as the paintings waiting to be restored. To your horror, you realize they are just that; the object of each piece brought to lift in a different form. Their imperfections carry over. A king's upper face distorted by smudges made by rain water. A maiden's left side burnt off and discolored like a charred piece of paper.

The paintings center their attention of the mannequin in the middle of the room attaching an arm back to their wooden body. The clock. It back talks to its fellow inhabitants as it repairs itself; the detached limb miming a talking mouth.

"All you lot ever do is whine. The bond between Y/n and I is apparent and as powerful as new dawn, but we are all important to them and we must make sure our doors always remain open to them."

You pull your hand away from the door; unsure of your next course of action. Your phone sits in your hand, emergency services at the dial, but this really didn't seem like something they could handle. As if the situation couldn't get worse, the clock doll notices your keys on the table. They pick them up, porcelain eyelids drawing back as they examine the company issued key ring.

"These... are theirs."

The room kicks up in commotion.

"Something of Y/n's? Give it to me!"

"You sound like that Scavenger on the first floor, but for good reason."

"They're mine."

The clock holds up a finger. "Hush. Don't you realize what this means? Since these are here... That means they are too."

It turns its head towards the door. Something tells you that if it could've smiled - it would've. It sticks something into its chest that looks like an amalgamation of scrap; turning the makeshift key as it draws close. With no other choice, you close the door right as its face appears in the crack. Your barricade rattles in its frame as a heavy fist makes contact. You both know it won't last long.

"Y/n... Sunshine~ Open the door. I'm sorry I didn't work right for you earlier. I just want to spend as much time with you as possible. Although you're playing keep away, it feels so good to talk to you. We all have waited to speak with you for so long.."

Through the banging, you can hear their call.

"Don't go... Come in, give us new life so we can use it to welcome you."

"Can tonight be my turn? Make me reborn in your image."

"We love you. We need you."

"This is your home, Y/n." The clock concludes. "Nobody appreciates your craft more than us. Your talents here are worshipped."

Your grip on the door loosens. It slips from your hands before you can realize. You fall to your knees, but there's hands waiting to pick you up. They've always been there - hiding in plain sight, longing for the day they could hold you. With another night at it end in the gallery, their embrace would forever remain.

[spooky-pop]

after looking at star-struck branch, all i can think about is how big the rips in his pants are (respecfully)

this spiraled a train of thought and now i can't stop thinking about branch being so in love with a pair of pants that are hanging on by a thread, and how hard poppy would have to try to get him to just throw them away😭

that's how my boyfriend is about his jeans anyway.. is this a universal boyfriend issue? or just me?💀

Haha YUPP. That's definitely what Branch is like in my AU. His clothes are ripped, repaired, ripped again, all of the sorts. But Poppy loves his style and eats it up bc she loves her punk rocker man. She DOES inspire him to change up his looks some around the time that they marry. Still punk, just less holes and rips in his clothes, more leather and studs (he still hangs onto his old wardrobe tho)

BUT ALSO, my husband used to do that a lot. He used to get huge rips in his black denim jeans and he would keep them until they really fell apart lmao. Same with his shoes! I guess it really is a universal experience :}

[verity-hollow]

Breaking Can Be Healthy

CW:Impact play, rough play

Leather restraints cinch tightly around your doll's wrists. You check your tools before beginning your work. A smack of a paddle, again and again. Until you hear a crunch. The sharp staccato of your open hand across its face. A shattering sound as your gloved fist punches a hole in its stomach. The only louder sound than these is your doll's ecstatic moans as its eyes roll back, grinning deliciously. You kiss your doll and stroke it's hair, whispering how good it was for you. More of your soft affirmations float into your doll's ears as you set to work repairing it. Resin patches for minute cracks, replacement parts for anything you've ruined permanently. Its restraints are removed and your doll collapses into your arms. It cuddles you tightly, the sweetest expression on its face thanks to your soothing voice. Your doll will make it's needs known again some day, it's desire to be broken in order to feel okay. And you will both enjoy the process of breaking and repairing it once more. But you know that it's your support and encouragement that heals your doll better than any physical pain, pleasure, or comfort.

[kyra-mana]

DnD with resident lover

Mother Miranda

Miranda was busy going over a few emails at a table in the library. She was reading a particularly long one, as she fiddled with the corvin ring on her finger. It was Saturday, and she'd normally be going over emails at home, or in her office. But, Miranda required a cold environment and the school's AC was out. Her house wasn't much better. Her daughter was being loud and she couldn't focus. So she called Donna to babysit while she worked. The library would be a cooler place due to open walls and high ceilings, but she would also have guaranteed peace for it was the weekend and the library was a naturally quiet place to begin with. Sadly her peace didn't last long. She kept having to re-read a paragraph because of some incessant giggling. Huffing, she angrily slapped her laptop shut and stuffed it into its case. She quickly stood and stormed over to the source of the sound. Peering into a nook she'd long forgotten about, the sight she was met with, shocked her. In the nook she saw you and Mia? In a room that was coated wall to wall in papers. You two looked so engrossed in the mess that you didn't even notice her presence. Miranda smiled, not a cruel smirk, but an actual smile. She merely walked into the nook and sat down on the floor next to you and Mia, announcing her presence. Two pairs of eyes locked onto Miranda. Your gaze is full of embarrassment, and Mia's full of shock. She raised a brow and smirked.

"What? Can't I see what my students are up to?" You stammered for a response and Mia simply looked annoyed.

"Seriously?" Mia quipped.

"Do you have a problem with my presence, Miss Baker?" Mia rolled her eyes and looked back at the mess of papers on the floor. 

After a few seconds of silence Miranda spoke up.

"Dungeons and Dragons?" Mia nodded "Interesting." She stood and headed for the exit of the nook, pausing at the door frame. "I'll be joining you two next session. Every Dungeon needs a master." Miranda smirked and left, leaving you and Mia stunned.

Alcina Dimitrescu

The music professor was actively storming her way into the library, her frustration palpable. It was a particularly hot Saturday on campus. Alcina usually didn't mind the heat, since her daughters often ran cold in their youth, so the heater was always on in the penthouse. But, the air duct that led to her office was in need of repair, so the atmosphere in the room was particularly thick. She entered the library, setting a stack of papers and a glass of her favorite rouge drink on a table. She sat down with a soft groan. Oh, how she hated grading papers. She's a music teacher, hands on learning is much simpler and by far one of the best ways to learn. But, alas, the headmistress has her orders. Pulling out her half moon glass from its leather case, that sat in her pocket, pushing it up the bridge of her nose. She graded these papers for a while, before a soft giggle caught her attention. She ignored it for the most part until the constant whispers halted her train of thought. She set down the paper she was grading. Standing as she grabbed her glass of wine. She sneaked around the library until her honey colored eyes glanced at something in a small hidden nook. The sight is both adorable and intriguing. You and Mia were sitting on the floor, walls lined with graph paper, a wide smile on both your faces. You had a bad habit of getting on her nerves, but she couldn't deny your determination. Alcina cleared her throat.

"Miss Baker, Miss Lover." You and Mia jumped at her voice.

"Professor Dimitrescu." You stammered. She chuckled at your flustered state and removed her glasses, stuffing them back in the case and into her jacket pocket. 

"So, what is this mess that has you two holed up in the campus library on a Saturday afternoon?" Mia smirked, looking over at you.

"It's called Dungeons and Dragons. It's a fantasy game that only uses pen and paper. The only limit is your imagination." Mia smiled as she held up her character sheet. Alcina hummed in response.

Her eyes scanned over the floor. Heavily analyzing the stacks of graph and lined paper. They eventually set their sights on your character sheet. She read the paper. Something was vaguely familiar about it. It was a female vampire, her hair was short, lushish black curls, amber colored irises, milky white skin. Looking over she read the height and name of the character. “9’6” and “Alicia Dimitri.” She shrugged it off and looked back over at Mia.

"Interesting. Explain to me." She sat down at a nearby chair facing the two of you. 

Mia was busy explaining everything, your soul had returned to your body by this point. You added quick quips and comments into the conversation. Confusion slowly crept up into her eyes, but she saw how invested you were in this. It warmed her heart seeing you so happy. She shook her head and raised her hand to silence Mia. 

"Thank you. I shall leave this up to you two for the time being. But, it's nice to see students actually spending time with each other in person, rather than on that dreadful technology." Alcina sneered, but it was soon replaced with a smile as she stood. Tussling your hair before leaving back for her earlier spot in the library. Pulling out her glasses as she returned to grading the assignments. She may not understand the game, but she so does enjoy seeing you so joyful.

Bela Dimitrescu

Bela was wandering throughout the library. Looking for a book to enjoy her free afternoon with, which was rare due to her many responsibilities as student council president, and over preparer. But, there was no test due, and no student required help because of your overwhelming desire to please her. Her eyes gazed shelf after shelf, looking for a book you recommend to her after a particular night of passion. 'Harry Potter.' The way your eyes lit up as you described and rambled on about the plot. She'd never admit it, but your smile always made her heart flutter and cheeks burn. Her eyes passed over the book as she was trapped in her thoughts. She shook her head, removing herself from her train of thought. She plucked the book from the shelf, 'The Order of the Phoenix.' She groaned at the realization of it not being the first in the series.

"It must be checked out." She huffed angrily and shoved back onto the shelf. 

As she stormed towards the exit of the library, she heard a familiar voice whispering in the small hidden room. She stopped and approached the entrance. She peered inside the nook. Her eyes gazing over the papers that coated the room's walls. They eventually land on you and Mia as you guys sit in the middle of the room. They haven't noticed her yet, you two seem invested in the game. Her eyes locked onto a paper, which she knew was your character sheet by your terrible handwriting. All she makes out in the chicken scratch is, 'Bella.' You rose onto your knees, raising one hand into the air, curling your fingers into a claw, the other being occupied by a book that you read allowed to Mia. Her eyes filled with wonderment as she realized what you two were playing. Dungeons and Dragons. It was a favorite of hers when she was younger, before the incident with the university's headmistress, Miranda. She knocked on the wall, informing the two of you of her presence. Your eyes lit up as you noticed her. You quickly stood up and smiled. 

"Hey, Bela. Do you need something?" Bela's face reddened at your question. She knew what she wanted, but for the first time in a while she was embarrassed to ask for it, more like demand, usually. 

"You're playing Dungeons and Dragons, right?" Your eyes glowed brighter at her knowledge of the game.

"Yeah! Wanna play?" You questioned. By this point Mia was already preparing another character sheet base for Bela, who allowed her cold visage to break as she smiled softly. Joining you and Mia on the floor, sinking into the sea of papers and magic.

Cassandra Dimitrescu

Cassandra was wandering among the many shelves of the university's library. She was searching for another copy of 'Romeo and Juliet' for you since she ruined your copy when she flooded the dormitory. She sipped her coffee as she leaned her weight onto one foot, searching for the book as she quickly read the spines of the book. She grabbed a book off the shelf. It was an older copy, but it'll have to do for her star. Her Romeo. Cassandra's cheeks flushed a soft rose as she thought of the pet names she often calls you. Hers. Her star. Her bright, shining star. She shook her head to escape her thoughts and tucked the book under her arm. She looked back up at the shelf. She wanted to give you a gift, since the night you helped her in her dorm. She knew you were a big nerd. Her nerd. So she made her way into the fantasy and science fiction section of the library. Tracing her fingers along the binds of the books at arms reach as she searched. She plucked a book off the bookcase. She read the cover. It looked interesting. 'Fahrenheit 451.' She hummed as she read the Blurb. After deciding that it would be a good gift, she made her way over to the check-out desk by the exit to check out both books. As she walked, she overheard a familiar voice. She approached the small nook. Looking around the room at the sheets of paper scattered around the floor and pinned to the walls. Her eyes locked onto you and Mia. Your eyes were bright and filled with wonderment. Concentration etched on your face as you thought. You spoke to Mia, something about a potion and a gold payment. Your voice was calm and smooth. It amazed Cassandra how well you could adapt with challenges. As she watched, it quickly became clear to Cassandra that this was an improv of sorts. She leaned against the wall as she watched the show. Quickly getting sucked into the story you and Mia were creating. She smiled, but reluctantly tore her eyes away from you two. Turning away and returning back to her quest of thanking you. She set down the books on the librarians desk. Waiting for her to check out the books. Once that was done she left the library, heading to her dorm. Upon entering her living room, her mind was dragged back to the night you stayed with her. Shaking her head, she put the copy Romeo and Juliet aside and pulled out a roll of wrapping paper. She paused as she remembered the scene from the library. You were so absorbed in your world of paper and pen, it reminded Cassandra how resilient you were. 

Daniela Dimitrescu

Daniela had just returned from her lunch date with her sisters, at this new American styled cafe. She bought an extra milkshake for you. She didn't know what kind you'd like, so she just grabbed a strawberry with extra whipped cream. She knows you normally spend your Saturday afternoons with Mia, doing something that involves a lot of paper. Once she reached the campus entrance, she hopped off her skateboard and tucked it under her arm. As she walked towards the library, being careful of not spilling the shake. As she walked through the halls she wondered why you always preferred her company. While her sisters, annoying, were far more well known and popular compared to her more laid back self. Cassandra was a dramatic diva and best actress in the theater club. Bela was a cold workaholic and the student council president. Hell, even her mother was an option. She's a looker and a hard worker. Daniela was chill, she often drank with Angie and hung with the more chill people on campus. You? You weren't innocent, but you always had this doe-eyed look on your face. It always amazed Daniela how you tended to hang with her best friend, or chill with her. She walked around the library. Admiring the architecture of the library. She doesn't spend much time in the library, so it's a pleasant change of scenery. She eventually found you scurrying away and disappearing into the wall. Confused, she peered into where you seemed to faze into the wall. She peered into the wall, finding a small hidden nook. Looking around, she saw you and Mia setting up something. Coating the walls in graph paper. She watched you two for a few minutes as you set up. She chuckled quietly and stepped into the room. Leaning against the wall

"Hey you two." You jumped and Mia's neck cracked at how fast she looked at Daniela.

"Hey dani!" Mia smiled. 

"What's up?" You chimed in.

"Nothing much. What are you two doing? I've always wondered why one person needed so much paper." You blushed and looked down at the paper covered floor.

"Ever heard of D&D?" Mia said.

"That nerd game?" Mia nodded.

Daniela chuckled and cringed as her hand began to freeze. "Oh! Hey, I got you a shake." She holds out the shake she got you. "Didn’t know what you'd want so I just grabbed a strawberry."

She smiled and sat down next to you and Mia. Watching you enjoy the shake. She leaned against the far wall and closed her eyes. Listening to you and Mia play.

Donna Beneviento

Donna loved the library, especially the grand essence of the university's library. Normally she would get overwhelmed in places like this, that's why the florist she ran was relatively small. But books had a way of making her feel so powerful. The words that were contained in the millions of pages in this library, she nearly squealed in excitement every time she entered the room. She made her way over to a new section of the library. Fantasy. Normally she'd stay in the nonfiction or the occasional horror, but Fantasy was a genre she didn't really enjoy, being the realist she is. But, one day she saw you reading a book called, '1984.' You were often reading it in between rehearsals with Cassandra, when she was working with other members of the theater club, for the upcoming play. She had also seen the cover of the book in her bag when you came to visit her shop for an occasional cup of tea. She met you through her niece, Angie. With her being the social butterfly, and you being her roommate, it would always end up in disaster. But, she was glad her niece could bond with someone over something else, other than alcohol. She knew of a small nook that she'd hide in when she didn't want to exit the grand building, but also be given peace. She plucked a book off the shelf and read the title. 'Weyward.' She found it interesting and approached the hidden nook. She paused upon hearing a giggle and paused, peering into the room. There you were, sitting on the floor with Mia. Surrounded by paper. She immediately recognized the messy organization and stacks of paper as Dungeons and Dragons. She loved the game, despite not being a fantasy fan. She looked around the library and back at you two. She cleared her throat and spoke up. Her raspy voice was barely above a whisper

"Can I join?"

@resident-lover

(Sorry there's no Angie. I had no ideas for her. let me know if you want her or not)