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0oolookitsme · 6 months ago

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Baby, We're Fireproof

Yes bestie, you are on the right blog and yes, I did write some angst!! Hahaha hope you enjoy!

Verse - Singer!Harry x CEO!Y/n

Word Count - 2.1k

Warnings - some insane making-out at the end ;)

Harry has been writing an album, and while Y/n wants to go easy on him, she just can't adjust to his absence and the fact that he has abandoned their relationship. But Harry is quick to realise his fault and remind her that they're fireproof.

In the quiet of the night, Y/n found herself tangled in a web of thoughts, questioning her feelings curled up into a ball on the huge bed.

Harry was yet again, not home. It had been a week since he started coming home later and later. He said it was because he was very close to finishing his new album, and Y/n wasn't quite sure if he realised that whatever he was doing out there, was beginning to put a strain on their relationship.

She wanted to be mature and let him be, knowing his profession was way different from hers. But the question, 'would he have adjusted like this, for this long?' plagued her thoughts.

The corners of her eyes were moist, and she only felt smaller and smaller as the night rolled on. It was pouring outside and even though the balcony was closed, Y/n could still hear the noise, and it only made her more aware of the static silence looming in the house right now.

She wanted to stop thinking so much, knowing that she was going to reach conclusions even she wouldn't believe herself in her right mind. But when she closed her eyes, sleep didn't come and when she opened them, Harry still wasn't sliding into the bed, next to her.

But she must've dozed off amidst her misery because she woke up the next morning with Harry's body tangled with hers, with his head in the crook of her neck, one arm under her head while the other one remained draped across her stomach and his legs twisted like ivy around hers.

She was sweating profusely. So, she got right up and lowered the AC's temperature so that Harry wouldn't wake up drenched like her. Surprisingly, there was no sleep in her eyes. She felt as awake as she'd been in the early hours of the morning.

Climbing down the stairs with nothing going on inside her head, she got herself a hot glass of water with some added lemon juice and went to sit on the sofa in the living room showcasing the sunrise.

Her shoulders were tense, eyes dry and unmoving. She knew there was going to be an argument between the two of them when he'd wake up. But that's okay, because they truly needed to talk this out before things went spiralling a little too far.

She was ready to sort this out and get the tension over with, but she still had that nagging feeling that he might leave the house without bidding her goodbye, leaving behind a mere note mentioning that he loved her and would miss her in the studio, while she'd be in the shower, preparing herself to sit and talk to him.

But that wasn't going to happen today -- she wouldn't let it.

Soft pads of footsteps perked her ears up, but she didn't turn to see him. She just knew that he was rubbing his eye with a knuckle, something that she'd want to disapprove of him for and he would make the faces at her that she found ridiculously funny and had grown to love.

But then she felt warm hands press against her eyelids, closing them and a mouth breathing near the nape of her neck.

"Why are you sitting down here, hm?" He spoke rather quietly, as if not wanting to disturb the peaceful silence. But the rasp in his voice definitely punctured it.

"I think we need to talk," softly, she held his hands and lowered them so they sat intertwined with hers, upon her collarbones. "Please," she whispered, her tone begging him to listen to her and not distract her.

But he was seemingly working well because her eyelids were still shut.

"Well, we can after I have some cuddles with you," he pushed the topic under the rug, knowing that once they'd be done, the both of them would probably be running late.

"No, H," Y/n said sternly, eyes flying open as she pulled on his arm for him to come in front of her and sit. She didn't say much when he just sat on the coffee table in front, opening her legs and putting his closed ones in the space between.

"Say," he said, his eyes set on hers with a nonchalant expression, but Y/n could read the tension in every flexed muscle of his arm and the tightness in his set jaw.

Y/n took a deep breath then. The only thing easing her nerves was the earnest look in his eyes, like he was willing to sit and actually sort this out.

"Don't you think that we haven't really been spending any time together, as of lately?" She spoke just as slowly as her breathing was.

He only nodded at that, albeit little tensely, urging her on.

"I feel that that has been putting a strain on our relationship."

He was still for a couple seconds, or maybe minutes, Y/n wasn't sure.

"I feel the same, babe, I truly do feel the same."

Y/n sensed a but coming, so she didn't speak.

"But I can't really help it, not for a while," he sighed, and Y/n's gaze lost the softness that had been glazing her eyes.

"You're writing an album, and I'm willing to understand how tough and exhausting that must be, but you can't just abandon us for that," she spoke with nods and shakes of her head, her voice rising a level higher.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

"I've really been trying to be easy and not go on biting at you for not spending each breath of yours beside me, and it should've been easy but it's not because," she stopped to take a breath, one that shuddered. "Because you used to do that, and now you're suddenly not and I'm sorry that I haven't adjusted to it as quickly as you have!" Her brows rose, adding to her words like she was trying her all to make him see the point.

"And I understand if that's too much to ask from you right now, but at least speak with me or spend some time with me because this is a relationship, Harry!" She wanted to stand up and to pace around, but his hands were on her knees, and she didn't want that loss of contact.

Taking a breath to calm herself a little, she crossed her fingers with his again. "It's like we're mere roommates," she began, looking into his tired eyes, noticing his dark circles for the first time.

She didn't even know when they'd first appeared.

"I didn't realise that," he took a breath as if it was suddenly hard for him to speak. "I didn't realise that, that - that's what I'd been doing," with slumped shoulders, he lowered his gaze.

"But I -- you didn't put in any extra effort, either," he insisted, shrugging his shoulders. "You could've visited me at the studio or asked me to stay for a while longer or - or, I don't know!" He finished frustratedly, flailing his arms.

"Oh?" She said before thinking, then took a long breath. "Alright, I agree that I should've done that. That this isn't a one sided thing since it takes two hands to clap," -- she slumped back, crossing her legs -- "but wasn't it you who left while I was bathing, not even bothering to bid me goodbye for the day? Or to send a text mentioning that you were going to be late or that you were ordering food in the studio itself?" She almost suggested.

"I'm sorry about that, I wasn't thinking straight," he said clearly, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb.

"So why did you begin kissing me and fucking me every time that I tried to bring up the issue?" She said, maybe a bit more roughly that she'd intended.

"I wasn't doing it to shut you down, the hell?" He looked as if she'd accused him of robbery. "It was just mere coincidence! Yes, I should've stopped when you began to talk but you fell into me as well, didn't you?" He was standing up now, a frown settled deep between his ungroomed brows.

"I missed you every second I spent away from you, it was you who I was thinking about constantly so pardon me if I was exhausted out of my mind and wanted to spend some time with you!"

Y/n gaze was the guilty one now. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that," she accepted, her throat too dry for her to gulp.

"I just, I can't believe you'd think so low of me," he sighed. "But it's alright, okay? I know we were both frustrated and not thinking straight," he sat back down and held her hands again.

With his thumb and index finger, he softly gripped her chin to coax her eyes into meeting his.

"Forgive me? I promise I will never write songs about you again," his frown turned into a grin, and he leaned in to hold her gaze when she broke a smile that melted into laughter.

"I hate you," she mumbled, moving to sit in his lap with her arms wrapped around his shoulders, uncaring about the risk of the coffee table holding their weight unsuccessfully.

"Yeah, I forgive you as well," he chuckled, pressing a chaste kiss upon the lobe of her ear.

"Just, don't forget me," she sighed, wrapping her legs around his waist when he picked her up.

"I really made you think a lot of things, didn't I?" He spoke like he was apologising. "I'm really sorry, love."

He was carrying her up the stairs when she pulled away from the nape of his neck to look at him. "I'm sorry too," she said genuinely, holding his gaze.

"It's okay," he whispered, opening the door to their bedroom by pushing against it with his back before he pushed her onto the bed, climbing in after her and bringing with him the blanket which he wrapped the both of them in, holding her tight against him before he whisked himself away to hold his phone.

"Let's take today off, but don't forget to bring in fresh ideas, tomorrow then!" He said into the recorder and sent the voice message, sliding his phone in his bedside drawer then and lying back down, facing Y/n.

They stared at each other for a little, before Harry broke a smile, making one crack on Y/n's mouth as well. “Baby, we’re fireproof,” he said, smugly grinning, and making her laugh.

"Kiss me, you fool," she gritted with a scrunched nose, grinning widely until Harry hurried to seal their mouths together, the force causing her to move her head back a bit.

His scent suddenly filled all of her senses, him being all that she could see, feel, hear, and smell. The same vanilla scent with a light hint of some cinnamon and some woody scent that she’d been missing so terribly.

His tongue fought against hers until she gave up and he finally had the full access to her mouth. His breath hot against her skin bringing tingles under her skin, and making blood rush to her cheeks and fireworks erupt inside of her.

Backing away to catch his breath, Harry let out a hoarse chuckle when she came forward in the chase of his lips, causing their noses to smush. Licking his lips, he looked at her mouth for a second too long, seeing a kiss she always let him steal. Cupping the back of her head, he pushed her mouth to his’, relishing in the feeling of just how down bad he felt for her.

Slowly, he pushed her until her back was flush against the mattress and he was hovering above her, his dainty necklace resting on her neck as he claimed her mouth again, his palms slipping under his shirt that she’d been wearing and making their way around her body without much hesitation due to the map of her body inscribed among the lines on them.

Her back arched off the bed, pressing her abdomen against his’ while his knee parted her thighs to press up against her core. And as she slumped down into the mattress, the friction between her legs had her swaying her hips for more.

His hands grazed around her abdomen and stomach, caressing her back before he realised that she didn’t have a bra on. Groaning into her mouth, he pulled back to catch his breath.

Still heaving, a smirk pulled the right corner of his mouth upwards.

“Look at you, getting mad at me just because I was writing too many songs about you in the studio,” he teased, and before he could’ve taken another breath, his eyes rolled back as she pulled on the curls near the nape of his neck, and pushed him right back to her mouth once a breath or two had filled their lungs.

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senseofnewness · 6 months ago

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So we all know Art Donaldson is a whiny bitch right? Do you think he'd have an impact kink? Like he says something that annoys reader so she taps his cheek. Do you think he'd be turned on by that?? I saw that gif of tashi holding his cheek and he's looking up at her and UGH it's all I can think about

oh you know his tiny underwear is all wet and sticky as soon as the palm of your hand touches his cheek

MDNI, 18+, tw : BDSM

Art had never been a violent man. He believed violence was for those who couldn't communicate. Therefore, he never imagined that it would become such an important part of your relationship. His father had always taught him that there wasn't a worse coward than a man who hit a woman. Plus, he loved you way too much to ever hurt you. The thought of raising his hand against you was unbearable. However, imagining you doing the same to him did not trouble him nearly as much.

The first time he realized the effect violence truly had on him was after a fight. It was the first big fight of your relationship. Sure, before that, playing rough-and-tumble with you had always made him hard, but he had always blamed it on you straddling him, not on the fact that you were holding him in a chokehold.

That night, you had gone out with your friends to the club and had come home just before sunrise, barefoot, with your shoes dangling from your fingers. Art was well aware of your whereabouts, you weren’t the sneaky type. You had been having so much fun that time had slipped away, and you had completely forgotten to text him. As you unlocked the door to your apartment, you were startled to find Art standing in the dark hallway, arms crossed over his chest. Though you weren’t officially living together back then, he had a key that he often used to sneak into your bed at night. "It's late." He muttered through clenched teeth. You had never seen such an expression on his face, a mix of worry and anger that sent shivers down your spine. "Artie, I'm so sleepy..." You mumbled, staggering towards the bedroom. "Where the hell were you?" He raised his voice, trailing right behind you. "I was at the club, like I told you." You answered, grabbing a makeup wipe and leaning unsteadily in front of the mirror. "With who?" He demanded, his questions becoming more persistent. "My friends." You said, wiping off your makeup. "Did you get fucked?" His question made you turn to face him, mouth agape. What was he trying to get at? "What? No!" You replied, shaking your head, the movement making you feel dizzy. He stepped closer, invading your personal space. "How am I supposed to trust you when you're dressed like a slut?" It only took a second for your hand to land on his cheek with a loud smack.

He looked at you in shock, his hand instinctively flying to his burning cheek. Guilt washed over you immediately. You knew you had made a mistake the second your palm made contact with his face. Hurt and alcohol were a dangerous combination for you, and you wanted to apologize, even though he was just as much in the wrong. While your slap had hurt him physically, his words had cut you deeply. As his cheek reddened, the sting radiated through his entire body. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, goosebumps crawling on his arms. His nipples stiffened, and his cock was in the exact same state : hard.

He felt like he was losing his mind, unable to get his body to follow his thoughts. He had been worried sick and you had hit him. Logically, his cock should have been the last thing to react. His brain had obviously sent the blood rushing to the wrong part of his body. Yet, he couldn’t deny it, there was something undeniably sexy about the way you had smacked him, the heat of your rage burning through your eyes. And the sting. Oh, the sting.

You turned away, avoiding his gaze as silence settled between you. You couldn't bear to see his wounded puppy expression. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you from behind. He murmured an apology, his voice laced with regret as he confessed how deeply worried he had been, how he had lost control of his emotions. You apologized as well, promising never to raise your hand against him againThe anger that had filled the room was gone on both ends, leaving a void that quickly filled with desire on Art’s side. All he wanted now was to feel you, for you to show him how unfounded his fears were, how stupid he was for doubting you. He yearned for you to tell him that no one else could ever make you come like he did. He had tightened his hold on you, his swollen cock pressing firmly against your ass. That night, he had fucked you, his mind haunted by the memory of that slap.

The next big fight was the moment he realized just how fucked up he truly was. This time, it was you who were struggling with insecurities. Both of you had traveled out of state for a tennis tournament, and you had noticed his gaze lingering a bit too long on a fellow player on the TV screen. It would have been one thing if she hadn’t been present at the event, but you had caught a glimpse of her at the opening party. She was even more stunning in real life, and it bothered you how Art’s eyes had followed her so intently. She was his type, and you knew it. A tennis prodigy with a captivating presence. It irked you how they shared this connection. "Do you want to fuck her?" You asked, glaring at him as he sat on the couch, engrossed in a live broadcast of her match. "Who?" He replied, his eyes still glued to the screen. Who? Who was he kidding? He had his eyes on her! "That cunt!" You yelled, pointing angrily at the TV. He looked at you, confusion evident in his eyes. All he had done was watch a tennis match, and he couldn’t understand the reason for your sudden outburst. "No!" He quickly responded, trying to calm you. You pointed at the corner of his mouth. "Lie better next time. You're drooling." You snapped. Who would drool? She was dreamy. He sighed deeply, realizing that no explanation would satisfy you. You were determined to vent your frustration, and he would be the victim of it. "And why not?" You had continued, bitterness lacing your words. "You seem to enjoy watching her in that tiny skirt." She had perfect, endlessly long legs, and her skirt lifted just enough with every breeze to reveal the underside of her ass cheeks. But he had not even noticed her outfit, too engrossed in the game. "She’s so much better than me." He frowned at your words. Being angry with him was one thing, but putting yourself down in front of him was another. No one was allowed to talk badly about his girlfriend, not even you. "Stop it." He had said firmly, standing before you with his arms on his hips. "Why don’t you want her? You already fucked her?" You questioned him, your jealousy pouring out. You knew the tennis world was a small one, and there was a chance they might know each other from previous competitions. But you had to admit, you mostly weren’t making any sense anymore. All you wanted was for him to reassure you, to tell you that you were the only one and that no one compared to you. Not even Tashi fucking Duncan.

That was when he saw it, the fierce, raw rage in your eyes. It was the kind of look that made his pulse quicken and his cock throb in his pants. He craved that sharp, intoxicating sting once more, the one that haunted his thoughts every time you had sex. He longed for you to become physical again, to give him that intense, electrifying sensation that both frightened and thrilled him.

"Yeah..." You seized his jaw with a firm grip, forcing him to meet your gaze. Without hesitation, you kicked him in the groin with all your strength. You felt him crumble under the impact, a pained whimper escaping his lips. Before you knew it, he dropped to his knees before you, begging for forgiveness. He apologized profusely for his past, for sleeping with her, for not having saved himself for you, the love of his life. He vowed never to so much as look at her again. The truth was, he had never really spoken to the woman, let alone slept with her. But some things were better left unsaid. The sharp, throbbing pain in his lower abdomen only made him grow harder, the ache sending electric jolts straight to his tip as he started to leak. He could believe he had came in his boxers like a teenager. He looked up at you as he slid your sweats and panties off. The most sincere apology he could offer was to demonstrate just how much he adored you. He carefully spread your labia apart, his warm tongue eagerly exploring your slick folds. A moan escapes your lips while you pressed your foot firmly against his crotch, almost crushing it with your heel.

Now that he had experienced bliss twice and understood how to provoke it, the only thing on his mind was finding ways to infuriate you. It had begun with him lavishing compliments on other women in your presence,celebrities, friends, strangers, it didn't matter who. He barely paid them any real attention. What mattered to him was the sharp sting of your slap that followed his complement. Nothing made him come quicker than that.

In reality, you had quickly caught on to his little scheme. The Art you knew and loved had changed dramatically, gone was the sweet caring boy you knew, his behavior became more and more provocative. He had started pushing your buttons intentionally, always seeking confrontation only to reconcile moments later. At first, you had thought it was a craving for make-up sex. However, you had noticed the tent in his pants each time you struck him, it was clear that it was the fighting itself that excited him. More specifically, the rougher, more violent aspects of your arguments seemed to thrill him. Now that you understood his desires, his attempts to provoke you no longer frustrated you. Instead, they entertained you.

Two could play that game, after all.

You wanted to be a good lover for him, to inflict pain in the safest and most considerate way. Although you had heard about masochism, you knew little about it. So, you decided to google it to learn more. Most of the results centered on BDSM, explaining that spanking was one of the most common practices within it. So you had begun incorporating it into your fucking, delivering a sharp smack to his ass whenever you found his thrusts lazy. With each forceful slap, he would return pounding into you like a maniac. True, he wouldn’t last long after that, but you didn’t mind. The sight of him on top of you, eyes closed, mouth slightly agape, and a flushed, eager expression on his face, was more than enough to push you to the edge.

On his side, he continued to comment on every little thing he thought might drive you up the wall. From the way you looked, to the way you talked, to the way you ate, he had even criticized your favorite brand of cereal.

One day, he blurted out. "You look just like your mother." You nearly burst into laughter but managed to hold it back. Were you dating an idiot? Of course, you resembled her! Still, you turned to him with wide eyes, stretching the muscles in your hand as if preparing for something. "What did you say?" You demanded, feigning anger. "You look like your mother." He repeated, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he stared at you. You slapped him, and in the exact moment of that sharp, stinging contact, he came.

One day, as you joined him in the shower, he remarked. "Did you gain weight?" The comment hurt deeply, especially when he followed it by pinching your stomach. You looked into his eyes with a mix of hurt and determination. Grabbing a towel, you wetted it under the stream and then sharply struck the back of his thighs with it. The loud smack echoed through the bathroom as he let out a pained moan. You had never used anything other than your body to inflict pain, but with the towel in hand, you felt a rush of power, not guilt. Maybe because he also deserved that one.

Another day, it was : "That color looks hideous on you." He actually loved that color on you. His comments were becoming more and more absurd. Nonetheless, you punched him in the gut, and as if on autopilot, he grew hard.

At times, you felt like the worst girlfriend on earth, torturing him. Yet, when you watched him nuzzling into your hand, his lips tracing the lines of your palm as he begged "More...", you knew you were doing this for him. He seemed to enjoy every second of it. And while you weren’t particularly fond of the roughness, you took pleasure in seeing Art so completely submissive to you.But now, you could see that he was running out of ideas. In bed, he had begun to babble incoherently, throwing out a stream of desperate, half-formed barbed comments for you to smack him around while you rode him. It seemed like the time had come to stop pretending you were oblivious to his newly discovered kink and to address it openly. "You know." You said softly, your voice laced with amusement. "You can just ask for it."

#i'm saying this with all the love in the world but he's the worst #art donaldson #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #challengers smut #challengers fic #challengers fanfic #challengers fanfiction #challengers #ask

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gilverrwrites · 15 days ago

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hopefully you're still doing these umm <<3 love you, hope you're feeling better soon totally feel you on the period stuff rn...😔

but emoji prompts for brucie, hal and/or jason (1 or all if you want)

❤️, ⏰, 😴, 🚨, 👄

i hope that's not too many!!

Hal and Jason are under the cut!

Bruce

❤️ making love headcanon

Bruce doesn't make love to you nearly enough for his liking. It's his favourite form of sex, every night he wants nothing more than to come home and show you how much he loves and appreciates you. Every morning he watches you climb out of the bed to prepare for the day and he thinks about kissing every inch of your skin until you agree to get back under the sheets with him. But rarely does he have the time to make good on his desires, or the energy, or the headspace. So he settles for quick romps in the shower, or lazy screwing when he gets home from patrol at 5AM when you're still half asleep and remains ever grateful that you never demand more for him.

⏰ fave time of day to have sex

Sunrise. Not always, often times he is exhausted and beat up and he just wants to sleep in your arms, but other times when he comes home from Batman duties, he's high on the adrenaline and desperate to let off some steam.

Any other night he hates when you wait up for him, but not those nights.

😴 falling asleep after sex

Bruce rarely falls asleep before you do, even when you're retiring at the same time. It's ingrained in him, not to let his guard down around others, even the people he trusts most. So usually he lets you rest your head on his chest, and watches you fall asleep first, no matter how weary he is, and once you're safe and sound and fast asleep he’ll doze off.

🚨 sex that sent me to the ER headcanon

[Repeated] The one time you managed to convince him to fuck you in the batcave. It had been a long night, he’d been craving your touch, he just wanted to get lost in your body. He’d been letting his mind drift, picturing it when you appeared to him, just like a mirage, in the sleek black nightwear he’d bought just for you.

“Bruce, please, I’ve missed you. I need you.”

The moment you were in reach he grabbed you, pressing you to the desk of the bat-computer, absentmindedly forgetting about the freeze gun he’s apprehended from Mr Freeze hours earlier. You managed to accidentally push in the trigger, freezing your thigh in the process. Fortunately, you came out the other side with all your limbs and minimal skin damage.

👄 making out headcanon

Bruce can make out really sloppy. He's got the movie-style, breathtaking, paparazzi-ready kisses down to a T. But in the privacy of your shared home, Bruce isn't really one for making out. Even when things are getting heated and the kisses are coming hot and heavy, tongues stay in your own mouths.

Hal

❤️ making love headcanon

It was a picnic under the stars, your face lit with the green glow of the candles he'd constructed, as you rolled around together on the gingham blanket. There was grass in your hair and starlight in your eyes as you smiled at him, ecstasy on your face.

That was the first time he considered the sex with you to be love making, that was the moment he knew he loved you.

⏰ fave time of day to have sex

Hal’s favourite sex is celebratory sex. He likes to be the big hero, likes it when you slide around his dick, kiss his neck, caress his hair, and sing his praises to reward him for a job well done. This can happen at any time of day really, the universe could come under threat at any time, and Hal will cum under you shortly after.

😴 falling asleep after sex

Hal is cuddly after sex. It’s a frequent occurrence for him to fall asleep with his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his hands cradling you close. It’s also a frequent occurrence for him to snore right into your ear and drool straight onto your chest, especially if you’ve really tired him out that night.

🚨 sex that sent me to the ER headcanon

Despite what people may think, despite the fact that Hal risks his life every single day, Hal is actually very on it with safety. Not that he doesn't take risks or enjoy the thrill of doing something dangerous and exciting with you, he’s just very on top of making sure it's done right. Any injuries that may occur in the bedroom department are far more likely to be caused on your end. Be you getting cocking and asking him to give more than you can take, tearing your internal walls or asking him to carry you high into the atmosphere only to trigger some kind of panic attack.

Whatever it is, Hal will get you the right treatment and tease you mercilessly afterwards.

👄 making out headcanon

Hal’s handsy when he makes out with you. At first, it was just about learning your body, in and out; finding the spots and the pressure that makes sense you want more. Nowadays he knows exactly where to touch to goad a reaction out of you and he likes to let his fingers linger just inches away.

He has such an endearing laugh, it's hard to stay annoyed at him when he laughs at you for grabbing his wrists and putting his mischievous hands exactly where you want them.

Jason

❤️ making love headcanon

Jason considers all forms of sex with you to be love making. Because he loves you. He wouldn't ever want to have sex with anyone else, no matter how soft or how kinky. Every time he gets you off in the bathroom with just his hands, whenever you get on your knees for him and take his cock to the back of your throat, all the role-play, the dry humping, the phone sex, all of it is love making to him and you can tell it by the look in his eye.

⏰ fave time of day to have sex

The evenings. Specifically, before he goes off to do his Red Hood thing. It's when he's at his best stamina wise, and he likes to give you a proper farewell, something to remember him by should things go sideways, or just something to think about while you're alone at night, a memory to keep your bed warm until he gets home.

😴 falling asleep after sex

Jason isn't much of a sleep cuddler, but he likes to be touching you in some way. It puts him at ease to feel you, to know you're safe and sound beside him. So he likes to rest his hand on the small of your back, or your thigh, or to hold your hand through the night.

🚨 sex that sent me to the ER headcanon

[Repeated] Jay was getting a little too excited, a little bit rough with the foreplay as he carried you to your bedroom, in stints, pressing you to the walls, the stairs, the doors to kiss and grind on on you. To strip each other of your clothes. It was a short-sighted accident when he whipped you from the wall, planning on carrying you through your bedroom door frame only to slam your head into the jam.

You were fine of course, just a bump, but he wasn’t taking the risk of leaving you with an untreated concussion or anything like that.

👄 making out headcanon

Jay likes it when you're on top. He likes it when you straddle him, wrap your arms around his shoulders and kiss him like you've been starved of affection. He's messy too, it's like he's trying to eat out your mouth, with his tongue down your throat. All that spit making salacious, wet echoes. He holds onto your hips, so tight, like you might abandon him any second, guiding you to grind on his tree trunk thighs as he practically devours you.

Smut Emoji Prompts

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larvasmoon · 2 months ago

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In a Glass Darkly

Pairing- Fem!AstarionxFem!Tav / AstarionxFem!Tav Word count-8,4k Ratiing- 18+ Tags- Female Astarion, oral sex, biting

Ao3 - Masterlist

Astarion finds a mysterious belt in his bag. Things take an unexpected turn when he tries it on...

It’s a frosty night in Neverwinter, and she is shivering under her mantle, walking by the avenue with his hand in hers. He knows it’s stupid, that his fingers can’t warm her own, and that he is as cold as the snow that comes down swirling in front of their eyes.

And yet, he keeps holding it.

Greedily. Selfishly.

His palm presses further in her skin, fingers intertwined tighter, as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear or be ripped away from him at every street corner.

She looks at him from under her hood, nose and cheeks growing red because of the freezing air, smiling so prettily in the bright store fronts.

And like a moth who just wants to share her light, he aches to draw closer.

He bends down, gently cradling her face in his other hand, and presses a firm kiss at the corner of her lips. He lingers there, sheltered from the noise of the busy street, nuzzling against her cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair.

The smell of burning wood, from the fire they’ve lit the night before. The lingering perfume of the rose water he likes to put in her curls when she’s just out of the bath.

I love you so terribly, he thinks, nose pressed right under her ear, as if he wants to inhale all that she is, trap her in his lungs and keep her there, forever.

A drunk tiefling man bumps into him, staggering and barely standing on his two feet.

“Oi, find yourself a room will ya? Pfff those horny youngsters,” he grumbles to himself before disappearing in a nearby tavern.

He’s about to turn around and catch up with the horrid boor when she tugs on his hand, very softly, silently asking him not to make a scene. If she hadn’t held him back, he would’ve taught the man a few lessons, the kinds that would’ve left him all bloodied and cold for the simple crime of interrupting the kisses he was giving her.

“He’s right, we’re in the middle of the street, Astarion,” she protests, still snuggling in his neck and hiding her face into the thick fabric of his scarf, “Let’s find somewhere to spend the day.”

His arms close around her waist, and he pulls her body flush against his, resting his head on her shoulder, “Just a little longer, darling.”

They have been traveling for a tenday now, walking all the way from Mirabar to Neverwinter, after hearing rumors of the ring of the sunwalker’s gift being in the Jewel of the North. Their journey through the Crag Mountains has been particularly tiring for her. Every day at sunrise, after hours spent on dark steep mountain paths, they would set their camp in some cave or abandoned home. As soon as he'd laid their bedrolls on the floor, she curled up in his arms, pressed a soft kiss to his lips, and eagerly welcomed the embrace of Sehanine.

One that would forever be refused to him now.

As he holds her in the middle of the busy avenue, she melts into him the same way she would at night and he knows that she is getting slumberous. When she looks up at him again, her dark eyes are heavy-lidded, unfocused.

It awakens some primal urge in Astarion to protect her, take her somewhere warm and comfortable, but he doesn’t dare to move yet, simply stays wrapped around her like a blanket. He lovingly strokes her hair, wishing he could give her everything she has ever wanted.

A big house with a lovely garden, blooming flower beds as far as the eye can see.

A wide bed with heavy blankets and plush cushions, on which he would make love to her for hours and hours.

Warm and delicious dishes on her table every time her stomach starts to growl.

Little children running around, with the same eyes and smile as her.

A nice stroll on a warm and sunny summer’s day.

And yet here he is, dragging her through all of Faerûn, forcing her to flee the sun and walk in the gloom, searching for a cure he has very little hope of finding and letting her use her magic to the point of exhaustion—What has he ever given her, except for doom and pain ?

“Is something wrong, love?” she asks, each of her gentle words turning into little vapour clouds in the cold midnight air, “You are frowning again.”

Her warm hands come up to mirror the way he had touched her just before, lightly moving along his brows and forehead to get rid of his sullen expression. It draws a smile out of him, the simple feeling of her fingers following the lines of his face, as if she could shape a better version of him with them.

A lighter and worriless one.

For a moment, he almost thinks she could.

“I have never been better, my sweet,” he says against the skin of her palm, turning his head to the side and laying a kiss there, “Let’s head to the Driftwood tavern, they have wonderful rooms and comfortable beds, or so I have heard. You need all the rest you can get.”

He wordlessly grabs her bag, throws it on his shoulder, takes her hand in his again and sets off. The tavern is not too far away, at a corner of one of the main streets of the Blacklake District. The façade of the old building is inviting, adorned with pretty stained glass windows and arched double doors, warm light pooling out of it and into the snowy streets each time someone new enters the place.

Astarion makes quick work of getting one of their finest rooms, there is nothing that a few of his charming words can’t buy in this world. He flatters the owner and the great taste with which the place is arranged, swiftly compliments the way she is dressed and the pretty pin in her red hair, until she finally gives him the key to the “Grande Suite” on the highest floor of the inn.

Once they are upstairs, he helps Tav undress and clean up in the large tub of the adjacent bathroom. He gently brushes and braids her hair until she almost falls over, dozing off while he finishes tying her plait with a ribbon. Even in sleep, her hands reach for him, they gently yet persistently tug on his shirt until he lies next to her under the covers. Astarion chuckles and obliges, tucking her under his arm and idly playing with her hair until her breathing is finally deep and even.

He stays like this for a long time, minutes or maybe hours, slowly losing all sense of time. Behind the closed curtains, the sun is going up and the city is awakening after a long and cold snowy night. People are laughing and chatting in the corridors of the inn, getting ready to leave for the day. Each of the steady beats of her heart against his silent one is a comfort, a grounding melody that keeps him present and tied to reality.

But no matter how hard he tries, he cannot trance.

His mind is still racing, unable to let go of the idea that he doesn’t deserve her, that all the love she pours into him is like water in a broken jar. It leaks and drips out of every crack and split in his shattered being, wasted on someone that won’t receive it or reciprocate it the way it deserves to be.

After a little while, Astarion silently slips out of her arms and drapes the blankets around her, quietly heading to the main room to sit in front of the fire in one of the armchairs. Gloomy and discontent, he plays with one of his daggers, spins it between his pale fingers time and time again, while thinking about the things he could do to prove his love to her.

He is supposed to be good with his words. He has spent most of his long life sweet talking people, manipulating them into following him back to his master’s palace, but when he is with her, they are never quite enough. All of his “I love you” sound fake and phoney to his own ears, they have no value in the mouth of a man who has said it too many times without actually meaning it.

Each day is different since the end of their adventures. They find new paths to climb up to, new dangerous leads to follow, new places to call their home, but Astarion’s feelings are unwavering. He so desperately wants to find a way to show to her that she is in each and every of his thoughts, even the darkest and saddest ones. Something that would convince her that he can no longer imagine a life in which she is not adored by him. A token of his everlasting love.

His eyes land on his travel bag, negligently laying against the wall alongside Tav’s. It reminds him of all things he has looted along the way, on all of the foes he has killed and on the many corpses he has stripped of their possessions. There’s a pretty ruby ring he has kept there for a few months now, the perfect size for Tav’s ring finger…and the perfect fit for a wedding ring.

He frantically rummages through his packsack, laying on the carpeted floor the many trinkets and jewels he has collectionned over time. Countless sapphires or crystals, hand-crafted wooden boxes adorned with little pieces of nacre, pearl necklaces and diamond rings, messily scattered in front of him like he is searching through a pirate’s treasure chest.

“Ah, there you are, you pretty thing!” he exclaims, happily looking at the way the light reflects on each of the facets of the big red stone it is adorned with.

He can already picture it on her hand, shimmery and red like a drop of blood on her smooth and soft skin.

Astarion is about to put it all away again when something catches his eyes at the very bottom of the bag, something he didn’t even remember having in the first place. It sparkles in the dark, eerily shimmering as though it is not exactly glinting in the light, but rather shining on its own. He hesitantly reaches for it, his fingers skimming across the cold metal of what seems to be a clasp.

As he unfurls the mysterious object, Astarion discovers that it is a very beautiful belt, a finely crafted accessory, worthy of a duke or a king. The leather band is adorned with a river of rubies and emeralds, of all shapes and sizes, fastidiously sewn in the middle of gold thread embroideries. He inspects it very closely, looking for any trace of the magic he felt earlier, but apart from its undeniable beauty, it’s just one unremarkable belt.

Another stunning piece of clothing that must have caught his eyes. Nothing more.

He vaguely remembers the way Tav used to spend hours lecturing him on the caution one has to exert when stumbling upon a new object, something he never really managed to do. He’d steal some fineries on a dead man and recklessly try them on, spinning on himself and making a show of proving that they looked better on him than on their previous owner.

"Please be more careful, Astarion. What if this thing is cursed? What if there’s some spell tied to it? Let me take a look at it before putting it on. It’ll save us a lot of trouble … "

This time is no different, and while she is carefree and sound asleep in the next room, he impulsively tucks his shirt in his breeches and tries the fancy thing on. He happily hums a tune to himself as he pushes the leather band through the golden buckle, completely unaware of what is about to happen.

It’s barely noticeable at first, a slight buzzing feeling in his limbs that he doesn’t acknowledge, too busy admiring the way the belt hugs his hips.

And then, all of a sudden, it strikes him. Searing hot and electric like thunder.

A wave of scalding heat that travels through his body, from head to toe.

“Hells!” he breathes, realizing with horror that he truly has been deceived by the accessory's gorgeous appearance, “I need to take this off quickly!”

His entire body jolts, all of his muscles spasming and aching, as he falls to his knees. The world spins and blurs in front of his eyes, and suddenly he is so dizzy that he can’t even sit straight. He slumps to the floor, his legs flailing around when the leather horrifyingly tightens around him. There’s a spiral of fire underneath his navel, a sensation that is neither pleasurable or painful, but somewhere in between. It tingles and it itches, turning and twisting deep under his skin, where the belt encircles his body. Astarion groans, uselessly tugging on it with clammy hands, but it’s all pointless.

Like so many times before, he cannot do anything to save himself.

His eyes turn to look at the closed bedroom door, he wants to scream, to call for Tav, but no sound ever comes out of his mouth.

A veil of darkness slowly falls over his eyes and he feels himself dangerously slipping away, losing consciousness.

When Astarion opens his eyes again, he is still lying on the floor, blankly staring at the embers of the dying fire in the hearth.

He quickly gets up before furiously patting his waist to see if the belt is still there.

And to his horror, it still is.

What did that thing do to him ?

As he thoroughly inspects his body, he imagines all the terrible ways in which it could have altered his appearance or violated his physical integrity.

Giving him a dragon tail.

Covering his skin with countless dark scales.

Gracing him with an extra leg or arm.

Or god forbid, messing up with his hair and dashing looks!

Nothing feels different at first and it takes him a few seconds to notice the way his clothes don’t fit him anymore. His sleeves are too long, his breeches are tighter around his backside but feel too wide around his waist. Everything sags and slides off of his figure.

It’s only when he looks down to tie the laces of his ruffled shirt a little tighter that he finally understands. There, standing still in front of the dim glow of the lit candelabras, he can clearly see the way the neckline hangs unusually low on his chest, down to his stomach, generously exposing his chest … Or what should have been his chest.

Two pale breasts emerge from under the frills instead, round and dainty.

For a moment, he thinks he is hallucinating or dreaming, that it is merely a side-effect of the crippling fear he felt just a little while ago. His shaky hands glide over them, weighing the supple and sensitive flesh, making it move and bounce against his ribs, until he eventually comes to the dreadful conclusion that it feels too real to be an illusion. Then, he anxiously tugs on the waistband and notices that things also changed quite a bit down in the confines of his pants.

His manhood is nowhere to be seen.

“No no no, this cannot be happening!” he starts panicking, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace like a caged lion, “What in the sweet hells am I supposed to do now? I should’ve left this stupid belt where it was!”

Even his voice is also considerably different— higher pitched than it was before but still slightly lower than Tav’s, rich and warm toned but undeniably feminine.

His eyes frantically dart around, looking for something and anything that could be of use to undo this mess. What if he cut through the leather and forcibly took the belt off?

Astarion grabs one of his daggers, determined to violently tear his way through it, even if he has to hurt himself in the process. He has already placed the blade against his belly, its sharpness digging both into the band and into his skin, when he hears a hushed sound next door. The wood board creaks and soon, the door cracks open.

Right when he thought things couldn’t get worse, Tav appears on the threshold, all messy hair and sleepy eyes.

“Astarion? I heard a loud noise,” she says, rubbing her eyes and yawning, “Is everything alright?”

He quickly turns his back to her and crosses his arms on his chest to hide the evidence of his condition.

“Of course, my love,” he coughs, ridiculously trying to lower his voice and mimic what used to be so effortless, “ I’m sorry I woke you up, go back to sleep, I’ll be with you in a minute.”

There’s a beat of silence before he hears her draw closer, her naked feet silently treading on the floor behind him. Her scent washes over him and he almost instinctively turns around to find refuge in her arms.

“You are obviously not okay,” she gently says as she lays a warm hand on his shoulder, “You’ve been acting strange all day.”

He grows tense, restless, when she bends over to try and see his face. She is so close that she could see the way he is drowning in his own clothes, or notice the way his voice doesn’t even remotely sound like him anymore.

“Astarion,” she asks again, more insistently this time, “Please, talk to me.”

He knows that he is only buying time : he won’t be able to hide it from her for long and he doesn’t know how to handle this problem on his own. His lover also happens to be wonderfully stubborn, she won’t leave him alone until she knows what is troubling him.

“Promise me you won’t laugh or get angry, darling,” he finally answers, nervously fumbling with the seam of his ill-fitting night shirt.

“You’re starting to scare me.”

He stiffly turns around to face her, waiting for her to scold him for his carelessness.

But, strangely enough, the rebuke never comes.

Tav’s eyes grow wide at first, she looks him up and down a few times, frantically staring at his chest then at his hips before looking up at his face again. After a few seconds, her gaze settles on his half exposed breasts and she goes red as a beetroot.

“Gods above,” she gasps, doing her best to look him in the eyes but failing abysmally, “What happened ?”

“What a pleasant surprise,” Astarion thinks, suddenly a little less worried about the whole endeavor. He simply did not expect her to be so … enthralled by his new appearance. There’s a glint in her eyes that he has learnt to recognize. It reminds him of the nights they spent around the campfire all those months ago, back when he was still courting her and back when she still blushed whenever he looked her way. Now, whenever she is giving him that particular look, it doesn’t take long before her clothes are off, and he has his mouth or hands on her.

“Well, a very unfortunate accident might or might not have taken place while you were asleep,” he giggles, taking a few steps towards her, until he is so close he can smell all the oils she rubbed on her skin earlier, while it was still wet and flushed from her bath.

Notes of lavender and vanilla gently float in the air.

She shakily points at his belt before letting out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t tell me it’s because of this belt that you are wearing. Where did you even find it?”

“I have no idea, darling. All I know is that I forgot I had it in my bag and when I tried the wicked little thing on, ta-da ! It had a little surprise in store for me.”

He dramatically gestures towards his body, like he is a magician doing a trick on a stage and he is the main attraction of his own show.

“If I’m right, there’s a bad news and a good one,” she solemnly declares, comically stealing a few more glances at his chest before continuing her very serious explanation, “ If I’m right, this girdle is probably a very rare cursed item. I read about it in a book a long time ago, and it completely changes the wearer’s sex. Now, the good news is that it’s not irreversible.”

“So what is the plan? What do we do next?”

Her eyes follow the motion of his lips while he talks and he wonders if they changed as much as the rest of him did. “Would you like a little taste, my love ?” he internally laughs, ready to give her a long and thorough kiss nevertheless.

“A remove curse spell should do just fine,” she sighs again, quickly heading back towards the bedroom like she is suddenly eager to put some distance between them, “I think I have a scroll in my satchel.”

He trails behind her and pensively stands near the bed while she kneels on the floor, looking through the few spell scrolls that she always keeps in her little leather bag.

“There, this should be enough to turn you back to your old self,” she says after a little while, proudly holding the rolled piece of paper in her hand, “Come, I’ll free you of whatever this is.”

Astarion closes the distance between them and, once again, she cannot help but blush under his gaze. Her little heart hammers in her chest and blood rushes to her face, cheeks tinged with pink.

She is about to unfold the scroll and read it out loud when his hand shoots up to curl around her wrist.

“Wait, don’t use it yet, darling.”

Now that he knows that there is a remedy, a way out, his outlook on the situation is changing.

A single lecherous thought is at the forefront of Astarion’s mind.

Why not enjoy this while he can? He’d be an idiot not to make the most out of it.

He wants to make love to her in this body, he wants her to touch him while he is in this shape, he wants to know what it feels like for her when she comes on his hand or finds release while he thrusts inside of her—

“Why?” she asks, abruptly bringing him back to reality and interrupting his lewd thoughts.

When he touches her again to cradle her face in his hands, there’s a shakiness to his movements, a hint of uncertainty in the way he holds her. His thumb tenderly traces her lower lip and he leans to press a small yet lingering kiss there. Entirely chaste compared to the way he would usually entangle his tongue with hers, take his sweet time to savor her.

“Have you ever been with a woman before?”

The words hang in the air, like another kind of spell, bold and electrifying. They make her drop the scroll that she had in her hand, and hungrily chase his lips in return.

“I have,” she says as soon as their mouths separate, puffy from how passionately she threw herself at him,“It doesn’t matter to me, I don’t really think about such things.”

This is not uncommon amongst elves, he knows it. The great sexual freedom of his people extends far beyond such futile considerations, many of the elves he has crossed paths with in his two hundred years of existence were versatile lovers. Seeking pleasure in the arms of whoever caught their eye or stole their hearts : in men, in women, and in all the beauty that lies in between.

“I know that look in your eyes, I’ve seen it a thousand times before,” his delicate hand traces her collarbone and the soft swell of her bust under the collar of her night shirt, “You want me.”

Tav leans a little bit more into him, pupils all but blown under the shadow of her long lashes, and something about this all affair suddenly becomes unbearable.

“Would you please teach me, darling? What feels good,” he murmurs, taking her hand and languidly placing it under his shirt, pressing her palm on his naked breast, right above where his beating heart should be, “I want to know more about women’s heavenly anatomies… and about yours.”

The sensation sends thrills of pleasure down his spine and he lets out the softest of sighs. Her eyes roam his body, unbashful. If she could undress him with them, he is pretty sure all of his clothes would be gone by now. Magically torn off his body by whatever enchantment resides in those spellbinding irises.

“Are you sure this is what you want, Astarion?” she quietly asks, moving her fingers to gently toy with his nipple under the thin cotton fabric, making him throb in his pants.

The sensation is unfamiliar, unsettlingly delectable, but he gladly welcomes it, already entrusting her with all that he is.

He drags her closer by the hips, brushing his lips against her jaw and neck. "I am, if the fact that I’m so turned on I could come right now is any indication.”

It’s all the answer she needs before she urgently shoves him onto the bed and straddles his hips, like she has so many times before. She only stops to clumsily take his shirt off his back and bare his chest to her hungry eyes.

“You need to tell me if anything feels uncomfortable, alright? And I’ll stop right away,” she blurts out, barely leaving him enough time to nod before she captures his mouth in a searing kiss again.

Astarion’s fingers greedily glide through her braid, unmaking it, untying one more long lock of her hair each time her lips hypnotically moves against his. How many times has he thought while embracing her that he will never ever grow tired of the way she feels ? He could be at death’s door, graciously offered by the gods to experience one very last earthly pleasure, and he’d still choose to have her like this all over again. Every single one of the kisses she gives him always simultaneously feels like it’s the first and the last one she’ll ever give him. Unmatched in its glory and desperate in its fervor.

Tav pushes him down in the cushions and he lies under her, deliciously at her mercy.

Offering his body to her, naked from the waist up, trembling with desire.

He grumbles when her lips eventually leave him, traveling down his chest instead. She occasionally likes to lick or kiss his nipples during sex, butthis feels entirely different. Her warm palms slide on the sides of his bust, pressing his boobs against her face so she can grace them with a few precise and hot swipes of her tongue. One obscene moan echoes in the room when she takes his nipple in her mouth.

Sucking and rolling it between her plump lips.

It takes him a bit of time to understand that he is the one making that sound, that he is throwing his head back and lifting his hips off the bed each time glides her tongue over his skin.

How prettily she makes him chant and sing without even getting him out of his pants.

Two dark eyes lift to stare at him. The fluttering flame of the lit lantern on the nightstand eerily reflected in those black pits, ablaze with lust.

His lover shifts on top of him and her long and untamed hair make her look like one of those goddess statues, in the hushed darkness of some abandoned temples, tall and magnificent when their crowned heads reach the sky. Astarion wants to worship her, kneel at her feet in boundless reverence, but she isn’t done bestowing her graces upon him yet. She won’t allow it.

“You’re so beautiful, Astarion” she breathes, admiring her work with a devotion that is not unlike his, caressing his skin like he is made of a celestial material that a mortal like her shouldn’t be allowed to touch, “ Then and now… You always were and always will be.”

The sight of her like this, perched on top of him, disheveled and divine, is almost enough to make him tumble over the edge.

And she hasn’t even touched him properly yet .

Her thumbs draw little circles on his nipples as she continues to hold his boobs in the palms of her hand. “Look how red and wet they are, so out of place in the middle of all that milky white skin. Makes me want to tease you until they are all aching and bruised.”

Nails scraping the sensitive skin of his ribs and belly, her hands skim over the belt and settle on his clothed groin. One of her fingers dips down to trace it, rubbing the fabric of his underwear and pants on his sweetest spot.

“I wonder if you would look the same down here,” she whispers, sliding down the length of his body to lie between his opened legs, “If I licked you again and again and turned you into a quivering mess.”

She has a mouth on her, in every sense of the term. The things she says wrap around his body as he pictures them in his mind, like a sensuous and depraved phantom touch.

“Why don’t you see for yourself, my love?”

A dangerous smile settles on her lips and in a flash, she leans back and rips his pants down, throwing them somewhere on the floor behind her. She leans on his naked thigh, her long curls draping over his knee, tickling him as she lays tender and featherlight kisses up his leg. It’s sweet and it’s wicked, the way she keeps torturing him with the feeling of her cheek and mouth nuzzling against his skin.

Leaving him wanting more. Never quite giving him enough of her to satiate his hunger.

Astarion starts to squirm, growing impatient under her ministrations, but she seems to be purposefully ignoring what’s under her nose, literally. She chuckles, nibbling and biting his mound as she finally parts him with her fingers. Still making an effort not to touch him anywhere that feels good.

Dazed and limp with desire, he distantly hears her say that he looks gorgeous, pink and dripping with arousal.

But it is all starting to be too much for him, he wants her so much it’s painful. All of his muscles tense and contract every time she caresses any part of his body.

“Darling,” he says, half a groan, half a complaint, when she resumes her little game and denies him his pleasure once again.

“You did this to me so many times, remember ?” she asks, tentatively hovering above the apex of his thighs, “Touching me everywhere but where I wanted you to, making me wait for the moment you would finally kiss me between my legs. I’m merely giving you a taste of your own medicine.”

Every time she talks and breathes right above his pulsating slit, he twitches and moans a little.

“If you say please, I’ll consider it,” she smirks, unconsciously inching a little closer already.

He grips the sheets in his clenched fists, unable to go on without her touching him in some way anymore.

“Fuck fuck ” he rumbles, glaring down at her before finally giving in to her request, “Please, darling. For the love of god, please put your mouth on me.”

And miraculously she does.

He releases one long indecent moan when she finally takes him in her pretty mouth, sucking relentlessly, until the room is filled with wet vulgar sounds.

The pleasure he feels in this body is a thumping ecstasy, like something taking flight in his lower belly, fluttering its wings in his core. Both the butterfly and the flower lie between his hips, dripping with morning dew when she kisses him with her tongue.

It’s messy and he keeps waiting for the moment it’ll finally fly away and sore higher, reaching the great and promised euphoria.

If it’s what it feels like when I go down on you, he confusedly thinks, his head lolling to the side when her fingers leave his hips to gently prod at his entrance, I should do it every single day.

“You said you wanted to know more about a woman’s body. Allow me to show you something, a little place you will adore, hm? ”

She rests the side of her devastatingly beautiful face on his thigh like she did earlier, patiently looking up at him. Waiting for him to say that she can put her fingers inside him, he realises.

Astarion reaches down, cradling her cheek in his palm, wiping her soaked chin and mouth with his thumb.

“I’m all yours, darling. I always am, do what you will with me,” he huskily says, chest heaving and voice breaking along the edges.

Tav smiles, so tenderly that he almost wants to drag her up and have his ways with her already. The rest be damned.

He has no time to delve on that thought before she is back on him again, her index deliciously finding its way in his warmth, pressing inside as she endlessly laps his clit. Then, she adds another finger, creeping a little higher with every up-and-down motion of her hand. Fabulously stretching and filling him up.

There’s a specific spot that she hits after a little while, so far inside it might be not too far from his cervix, that makes him tremble and say incoherent things.

Sluggishly going on and on about how heavenly she feels; how her lips are heavenly when they press on whatever part of his body; or how her hands must’ve been blessed by the goddess Sune.

Astarion gasps as she latches on him one last time, and suddenly, here it is.

The orgasmic delirium of his release.

Nothing rushing out of him like it usually would. Just fireworks inside. A few powerful wing strokes in the gloom of his new anatomy.

So intense that he doesn’t make any sound, simply convulses time and time again, while she helps him fly through his high a little longer.

When his mind clears a little, she is straddling him again. Still completely dressed against his naked body, looking at him like he is the most glorious thing she’s ever seen.

“So how did you like that? Not disappointed?” she says, smoothing out a few of his silver curls and gently caressing his face.

He giggles like she just said the stupidest of things, incredulously shaking his head. “If I’m disappointed? Darling, that was … amazing.”

It is dark enough for them to leave the inn and roam the city once again, it has been for quite a little while now.

But Astarion is not ready to go yet.

It is his turn to give her pleasure now and nothing will stop him from making love to her for a few more hours.

“So amazing in fact that I’m dying to see if I remember what you showed me correctly,” he adds, flipping them around until he is on top of her, “Would you help me make sure of it, my love?”

Her shirt is the first thing he peels off of her, crushing his nose in between her boobs to bathe himself in her scent.

The one that lies underneath all of her perfume, the primal scent of her skin and blood, the distinct aroma of her body that he would recognize everywhere. In a crowded street. In a room filled with strangers.

Her pants and underwear slide off her legs as he is already pulling her first moans out of her.

He is about to slide her legs on his shoulders, ready to feast on her, when she speaks again.

“Bite me, Astarion,” she says, and his hips involuntarily thrust against the mattress, chasing a friction that is now completely out of reach.

Her legs open a little wider for him, the veins of her thigh quickly pulsating under the soft unmarred skin. He has never bitten her there yet, it is still a blank canvas, ready for him to leave his mark.

“Please,” she persists, nudging gently on his head to get him closer to where she wants him to sink his teeth.

Desire has only barely left his body that it is back, stronger than before, as he presses countless desperate and hurried kisses right where he is about to make her bleed.

“You know I can’t refuse you anything, my love.”

The bite is slow, unhurried, affectionate in its own brutal way, and they both moan when blood starts to rush in his mouth.

These days, he has learnt to take his time when he feeds on her, lingering as long as he can against her, petting her hair, caressing her skin, hugging her tighter. This time though, his touch doesn’t aim to comfort or soothe her.

No, this time he almost makes her come with his hands while he drinks from her. Playing with the hood of her clit until it swells with desire, hungrily watching it pulsate under his finger.

When his teeth leave her skin, Tav whines, slick and spread in front of his bloody mouth.

He’s had his fill of her and yet, Astarion still wants to devour her, in more ways than the ones he already has.

Red trickles down from the raw bite and onto her inner thigh. Dripping down on her slit and mixing with the small glistening river that is already pouring out of her.

It makes him shudder, his scarlet eyes glowing bright in the dim atmosphere, staring in awe at the ways she oozes blood and liquid pleasure. Before she has time to move or shy away, he hungrily plunges his tongue inside her. His eyes roll in the back of his head when he tastes her blood and her wetness all at once. She is everywhere, on his tongue, around his fingers, endlessly running down his throat. He vaguely hears her moan prettily again, too engrossed in his task and half-delirious from how infatuating she is. Soon, she comes into his open and sucking mouth again, reverently calling his name time and time again. Her hand tightens in his curls, thighs violently shaking against his cheeks, twitching as he continues to eat her like a maddened beast.

With each new flick of his tongue she sighs and groans, overstimulated.

“Where is the scroll, my love ?” he asks, kissing his way up her belly, smearing blood around her belly button and chest, until he sloppily finds her mouth again. Making her taste herself on his tongue.

Their breasts press against each other, pillowy and sensitive, and he relaxes further into her.

How perfectly their bodies mold against each other when he is like this…two sides of the same coin, two mirrored reflections, two works of art traced from the same model.

“Somewhere on the floor.”

Tav’s touch travels between their bodies, past his hips, until she is drawing circles there once again. She voraciously licks and nibbles along the column of his throat, her fingers rhythmically moving in and out of him while she abuses his nape, deftly playing with this new and sweet part of his body.

“I want to be inside you, darling,” he begs in her hair, out of breath and blinded by pleasure,“ Please, get this damn belt off of me. I want to move inside you until you see stars, I want to make you come on my cock.”

She lets out a shuddered breath and fumbles in the dark, bending down to look for it. As soon as she finds it, she says the words, loud and clear. The girdle starts to shine again, and she unbuckles it from his hips with shaky hands, clumsily sliding it off his hips and throwing it away on the floor.

The transition to his old body isn’t as scary and spectacular as the transformation was. It’s like an expansion, a big breath taken after long minutes spent underwater, a soothing wave washing over him and his scorched body. He slumps against her with a groan, toes curling against the sheets when he’s finally back into his original form.

The soft press of her lips on his forehead is the first thing he feels, and the gentle words she speaks against his skin are the first thing he hears, “Welcome back, love.”

Her wide and wet eyes skim over his features, admiring his face with a fondness that is not lost on him. His heavy and aching length falls against her lower belly, leaking with precum, as they lovingly stare at each other.

“Already hard?” Tav chuckles, smiling up at him in the way that makes the pretty dimples on the side of her mouth more visible.

“What do you mean 'already' ? I always want you, whenever, wherever. You just have no idea how much—”

Pleasure unexpectedly coils in his belly as she takes him in her hand again, coaxing a low growl out of his chest when she languorously slides her fingers up and down. ��Show me then.”

She could make him come like this, just a few of her expert caresses, and he’d reach his climax again. For what feels like the hundredth time of the night.

It is not exactly what he has in mind though.

Tav moves to unhurriedly fondle his back and hips, caressing every bit of skin while he kisses her long and hard. When her hands land on his ass, she deliciously squeezes.

A renewed invitation to make love to her.

He doesn’t resist for long, she looks far too beautiful for him to be able to. Hair spread around her on the sheets, a pearly sheen of sweat on her feverish skin, her soft thighs impatiently draping around his hips like a new sort of magical belt.

The bed creaks under them when he enters her, inch by inch, with a few slow and sensual thrusts of his hips. Deeper and further every time.

“As much as I loved our little 'experiment', this is still the way I like you the best,” he whispers against her cheek, peppering little kisses everywhere on her face, “Sprawled under me, legs spread open, all flushed and ready to welcome me.”

A few drops of sweat trickle down his spine as he tries to contain himself, relishing in the way she is tightly wrapped around his length and body. Gods, he wants to move harder into her, find the sweet spot that she showed him earlier and make her sob.

But she is still trembling after her orgasm, shivering in the afterglow. He keeps an excruciatingly slow rhythm for a little while, up until he feels her growing restless, hips lifting off the mattress and meeting each of his thrusts with one of her own.

“I just thought of another way to put what I learnt into practice,” he says, lewdly licking the shell of her pointy ear to make her twitch and spasm between her legs.

“How?” she asks, a sound that is more akin to a breathy moan than a word.

“Like this.”

He swiftly slips out of her and turns her flat on her belly. As much as he likes seeing her face while he makes love to her, admiring the way pleasure washes over her when she comes, this is much better for what he has in mind.

The headboard violently slams into the wall as he settles into her again in one perfect thrust.

“Ah-ah-Astarion,” she moans into the pillow, her ears and nape taking a lovely pink shade, “What-”

One of his hands snakes underneath her body, pressing firmly on her lower belly and lifting her backside up in the air. He kneels behind her and angles his hips slightly differently, rolling them against her times and times again until he hits that delicious spot inside, the one that made him wail earlier.

So deep that he feels like he is melting away into her skin, disappearing into her body.

She has never made such beautiful sounds before, a string of choked and melodic moans in the middle of which he thinks he hears his name from time to time.

Tav is the first to come, stringing him along towards the edge and screaming “ I love you ” so loud that he is sure everyone in the inn is hearing her.

How scandalous… he thinks, bending down to kiss her back and prolong her ecstasy, loud lovemaking in broad daylight, I hope the owner likes what she's hearing.

They fall on their sides, facing each other again, legs entangled and foreheads pressed against each other.

“So much for letting you rest…” he jokes, staring at all the little specks of green in her irises, like moss on a forest’s soil.

She laughs, a warm and comforting sound that is enough to silence most of his fears and worries.

“This is resting in my vocabulary.”

Her heart is so loud he could almost believe it’s his own, thumping hard against the blood-stained sheets. Astarion wouldn’t be surprised if loving her made it beat once again some day, she always makes him feel so very… full of life.

Maybe the cure was never in any of the countless realms and cities they have visited, maybe it was in his arms. All along.

“You gave me such a fright,” she sighs, curling against him, like a little ball of sunlight, “but it was fun, you were so very dazzling with that belt on.”

“Which Astarion did you prefer, darling?” he laughs, curling one strand of her hair around his finger, “I could put it back on if you liked the other version more.”

She looks up at him to answer, taking his face in her hands and giving him countless little small kisses. On his nose. On his temples. In the middle of his eyebrows. On his cupid’s bow.

“I love you just the way you are, intensely, deeply, irrevocably,” she says, a light so bright in her eyes they almost look golden, “I wouldn’t have you any other way, you silly silly man. Don’t you ever doubt it.”

Why do you always read into me like in an opened book ? Why do you always say the things I so desperately need to hear ?” he marvels, wondering how a wretched creature like him ever managed to win the heart of a woman like Tav.

“So please let’s sell this cursed thing, tomorrow,” she says, hugging him a little tighter, before chuckling again, “Even if your boobs were truly glorious.”

“I love you too, darling,” he whispers in her ears, her hips buckling under his hands, “so much that those three little words are never quite enough to express what I feel for you.”

His thoughts drift back to the ring he left on the floor earlier, the little jewel that would mean more than the countless sweet words he could croon to her.

“There’s something I’d like to give you,” he says, reluctantly loosening his hold on her and getting up, “Just a minute, my love.”

Astarion hurries back to the main room to fetch it, all buttnaked and glorious. He ridiculously searches through all of the little treasures he has left scattered in front of the fireplace earlier until he finally gets hold of it. Anxiously wondering if tonight is the right night for any of this.

When he comes back, she is still all stretched out and naked in the crumpled sheets of the bed in which he just made love to her. She playfully stares back at him, like she expects him to show her another one of the weird items he keeps in his bag, something that would get them into another sex-crazed frenzy.

He kneels at the feet of the bed instead and her eyes grow wide and teary.

“Will you marry me, darling?” he says, voice growing hoarse, presenting the ring to her in his trembling hand. “I know that life by my side isn’t exactly blissful at the moment, that all I can offer to you are run-down tavern rooms and countless nights spent wandering through all of Faerûn but — Would you still stay with me now and forever? I have aimlessly roamed this land for more two hundred years now, enchained and enslaved, wondering what the true purpose of my existence was. And then I’ve met you, I’ve known you, I’ve loved you. And I could go through each and every of the things I had to endure all over again, all the pain, all the sufferings, if only I had the certainty of meeting you on the other side of hell. You make all of my hardships meaningful. You are the light I did not expect to find in all of that darkness.”

A few tears silently fall down her cheeks, her lips trembling as she tries to speak a few times. At loss for words.

“So will you keep shining down on me or not?” he asks again, and she frantically nods, giving him the brightest smile he has ever seen her make.

The bed creaks so loud when she hops down from it that he is sure it’s broken. She throws herself against him and he almost falls back on the floor, awkwardly resting on his forearms while she buries her face in his neck.

Sobbing, laughing — or both at the same time, he is not sure.

“Yes,” she starts repeating again and again, choking on her tears, “A thousand times yes, Astarion.”

He kisses long and deep, until she is all out of breath, laughing in his arms like she just had one too many glasses of wine.

Drunk on love.

They spend the day and the following night in bed that night instead of looking through the city for the ring of the Sunwalker’s gift, holding each other through the darkest hours, trancing and dreaming about a future that doesn’t seem so out of reach anymore.

In the sun or in the dark.

But together, forever.

#female astarion #Fem!Astarion #Bisexual Tav #astarion fanfic #bg3 #astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #astarion fic #astarion fanfiction #astarion smut #baldur's gate 3 smut

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asherthehimbo · 27 days ago

Text

Homesick

pairing: traveling photographer! Hongjoong x local! reader

wordcount: 718

warnings: uhm, one or two suggestive sentences but like thats it, mentions of alcohol and going out drinking, ( gender of reader not specified but like involves cutesy texts so take that as you will)

notes: guys i love Mico sm and this song BEEEN stuck in my head so here you go. I AM busy working on Guardians and Bloody sunrise but this was a short little drabble I had since I've been suprisingly busy so its easier for me to write this format than full length chapters rn

Hongjoong is a traveling photographer, his habit of drifting from place to place quite literally in the job description, yet to him there's no place like home. He can never be away from home for more than a week, gets this bubbling anxiety in his stomach that twists in all the wrong ways. He likes home, he likes his own studio where he can secretly work on music without another person's judging ears, he likes his home built darkroom, refusing to develop the photos of his work, when needed physically, anywhere but there.

He's made quite the name for himself, ‘the photographer who gets bored of places easily’, while it may not be the truth, he lets people believe it because it's less embarrassing than the fact that in all honesty he just gets homesick. The title has people scrambling to employ him, thinking he's some sort of elitist artist if he deems himself better than a place after a few days, which isn't what happens, but watching his bosses for the contracts scramble to try and have him stay, to show why they're place is the best has its benefits.

Yet his favorite benefit of all has to be you, a local hired by the same company that hired him to help guide him through the town. He's spent four days with you already, his flight back home leaves tomorrow and while usually around this time he'd be missing home desperately, the thought of returning, of leaving this town, leaving you, hasn't crossed his mind once since he came here, since he met you, until you brought it up, “Wanne go out to celebrate your last night here?” your words were like a punch to the gut, a reminder that this wasn't home, that to you he was just a tourist, a man with a job, to you, he was your job.

He agreed, of course he did, anything that would have him spend more time with you. In all your drunk babelings, all your compliments and teasing flirting, never once did you ask him to stay. It was all his alcohol filled mind could think about, how the words might fall from your lips which he so desperately wanted to kiss. He wanted you to ask him to stay, to beg him to stay. He must've run though a thousand different scenarios on how you would, if it would be spur of the moment, right before he had to leave for the airport, if there would be actions or words leading up to it, if you'd ask pleadingly, or if you'd ask breathlessly between kisses- the last one was his favorite. Yet you didn't. The night dragged on, he crashed at your place, woke up the next morning to you smiling down at him who was sprawled out on your couch.

You drove him to the airport, you saw him off, not once did your smile leave your lips, not once did you show an inkling of want, of yearning, of needing him to stay the way he needed you too. He arrived home with your name still on his tongue, no- not home. Hongjoong stood in front of his house, but it did nothing to cure the homesickness, not when it only started the moment he had entered the plane gates, when you had disappeared from his sight.

“Hii Joong ₍ᐢ.ˬ.⑅ᐢ₎ lmk when you get home safe! I hope I made your time here enjoyable, if your ever back in town id be happy to show you around some more, get some rest much love (づ๑•ᴗ•๑)づ♡”

your text message was like a shock to his system, on one hand he had your number, you'd willingly reached out to him ever after you were done, you'd checked up on him, it made his heart race. On the other hand, it was formal, it was an invitation to use you as a guide again, not a friend, nor something more, the message was a formality, one probably sent to all your clients, that made his stomach drop.

It didn't matter, he’d make sure he was back in your hometown, he'd make sure to see you again, he'd make sure to make you his. He didn't get this good at his job by giving up.

Ateez masterlist | Navigation

Permanent Taglist: [open] [4/30] @idkwhatto-namethis @leezanetheofficial @seongsangssbitch @urlocalmultigroupfan

#Spotify #kim hongjoong x reader #ateez kim hongjoong #kim hongjoong #ateez fluff #ateez scenarios #ateez #ateez au #ateez x reader #ateez fic #ateez fanfic #ateez hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong

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farthest-harbor · 13 days ago

Note

Please infodump about the Nick headcanons :3

I have more!

Nick always wanted to be a dad. He dreamed about it with Jenny, imagining raising a child with her. When he lost her, he gave up on that dream and figured it wasn't for him. With the action-filled life he leads, it would be tough to have a family anyways. But if you decide to adopt synth Shaun, Nick will immediately step in as a dad figure. He will teach Shaun life skills, take him on adventures, read to him, show him how to repair gadgets, and play with him. You will see a very sweet side of Nick you never knew before. Shaun will make him feel young again.

Nick is torn between being a city guy and a country guy. Obviously his work keeps him in the city and he's got excellent street smarts, but when you take him with you to places that are more peaceful, like Sanctuary or Acadia, you watch him relax into the tranquility of nature. He loves a good view, and since he doesn't need to sleep, he likes to watch sunrises and sunsets while enjoying a smoke. Sometimes he misses the sounds of birdsong from before the war.

He isn't much of a singer, but sometimes you can catch him humming softly along to something on the radio, usually Billie Holiday. His voice is low, warm, and rich, and mostly in-tune. If you like to sing along to the radio, he will listen adoringly, even if you're tone deaf. He badly misses the times when music was easier to come by, when almost every house had a turntable and a record collection. There's so many half-remembered favorite songs floating around in his head from the old days that he'd love to reminisce about with another person who remembers prewar times.

He hates the Silver Shroud show with a passion, thinks it's corny and juvenile, and is terribly embarrassed if you take on the Shroud's voice and mannerisms when you take up the role. He will visibly cringe if you do the voice and will probably make fun of you about it later. Despite this, he still likes Kent Conolly, for reasons he can't entirely explain, but he does think Kent has terrible taste.

Nick likes both cats and dogs but is more of a cat person. He's reserved, independent, and intelligent, and enjoys those same qualities in a pet. But Ellie would never allow a cat in the agency, it's enough of a struggle already to keep it organized, so if the two of you adopt a cat, it will probably live at Home Plate or wherever your home is.

He's kinda old-fashioned about relationships. If you're together long enough, he will probably propose, unless you do it first. He will try to scrounge up a ring for you somehow, either make one himself or scavenge one from an abandoned house. He would want a quiet, private ceremony with just the two of you, maybe a couple close friends, just to make it feel official. While marriage doesn't mean anything from a legal standpoint in the postwar world, it just feels right to his prewar sensibilities. A ceremonial proof of his love and commitment to you. He'd probably want to have the ceremony somewhere tranquil and pretty, maybe near Sanctuary, but would be happy to marry you in the Diamond City chapel if you asked, or anywhere else of your choosing.

Nick is entranced by the ocean. I think he only saw it for the first time when prewar Nick moved from Chicago to Boston. It felt impossibly huge, beautiful and powerful. He couldn't get enough of it. He has a bit of a reckoning on the boat ride to Far Harbor, though, when he experiences firsthand how violent, cold, and cruel the ocean can be. It rattles him a little. Still, whenever you're by the ocean, you'll catch him staring thoughtfully out at the breaking waves and the distant horizon. He just can't seem to look away.

These were fun, thanks for asking! Feel free to ask again anytime :)

#headcannons #my hcs #nick valentine #nick valentine fallout #fallout nick valentine #nick valentine x sole survivor #fallout 4 #fo4 #fallout #sole survivor #fo4 nick valentine

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sameschmidtdiffname · 11 months ago

Note

Hey I love your work so much!!

I was thinking of maybe a Mike Schmidt x reader where the reader is all like “I’m not good enough for you, I don’t deserve you” stuff and then like Mike makes it up to the reader to show them that they are more than enough 🫶

Sure, but it's gonna hurt!

Blue Sunrise

Mike Schmidt x Gender Neutral! Reader

Summery: All is well, yet you aren't. A fact that disturbs and irritates you so, even if it shouldn't.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no use of gendered pronouns for Reader, SFW with brief mentions of smut, pre-established relationship, set during the movie but that's honestly not very relevant, hurt/comfort, Reader and Mike both have PTSD, this isn't projection, bed rotting, depression, self-loathing, night terrors/nightmares, panic attacks, sleep deprivation, mentions of medication, lack of self care, slight self-harm (scratching), breakdown, nosebleed.

Notes: *in sonic snapcube dub voice* heyyyyyyyyyyyy what's upppppppppppppp it's meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (STOP!!)

▪︎◇{¤♧■♧¤}◇▪︎

6:34 A.M.

The dawn is gentle, the sky a soft blue behind the thin, cheap blinds that cover the bedroom window not that far in front of me. If I wanted, I could get up and open the window, revealing the surely beautiful and gorgeous sunrise that waits for me just outside the blinds.

But I don't. And I won't.

Birds sing gently outside, waking up and fliting about here and there. It's my favorite part of the day, quite frankly. When I can, I open the window to allow in the fresh, cool air, moist with the morning dew, unmuffling the bird's songs as I drift off to sleep, my schedule mostly in tune with Mike's for his night shift. Sometimes I manage to stay awake to greet him when he returns home. It's always nice when I do. His smile is lazy, his strides long and slow as he makes his way to the bed, peeling off his work clothes and crawling under the covers with me. Sometimes he'll press himself against me, his lips finding my neck as his hand dives between my thighs, his fingers trained on one goal as he murmurs against my skin how much he's missed me. Sometimes I wake to this.

There's a part of me that wishes he'd do this today just so I wouldn't have to think.

The lock on the front door rattles as someone attempts to insert a key into the hole. It doesn't matter how long he's lived here or how he uses those keys every morning, he still takes a moment to make sure he's using the right one, and on the first try he usually isn't. So it takes him a solid minute to unlock the door and enter the house. If we had dogs, they'd surely drive us insane from his routine. It slightly drives me insane already. But I'm technically not even supposed to be awake, so I never mention it.

When Mike finally enters the house, the first thing I hear after the satisfying break of the doors seal ringing throughout the living room is a deep sigh as Mike's backpack lands in front of the coat rack. He should be quieter about setting it down. I would be. But I think he assumes we should be so deep in sleep it really wouldn't matter, and it honestly doesn't make much noise. Just a slightly dull 'thud' against the thinly carpeted floor.

Next I can hear his car keys land in the bowl they're meant for. Again, he's a bit too loud with it all. At least, while people are sleeping. But it's not really a bother. In a way, I like it. It gives me a routine to memorize, his sounds before he'll trail to our room and come press himself against me.

The rocking recliner creeks softly as he sits in it, lazily undoing the laces on his boots before he tosses them towards the coat rack. And next he'll duck his head into the fridge I'm sure and look for the leftovers I put into a big bowl for him to warm up - which he won't, because he's a psychopath who likes cold food. - and then when my alarm goes off, he'll come to wake me up, rising from the old couch where he's very quietly reading his book while he eats and do whatever he has to do to prevent me from slipping back into sleep. He's very good at that job. Especially when he uses his tongue.

But today there's a break in the routine. Today, his footsteps are padding towards our room, the door quietly opening as he slips in. I can hear him let out a soft sigh as he tugs on his hoodie, pulling it off and then discarding of his jeans, which muffle the clack of his belt buckle as he slips them off. Left in his undershirt and boxers, he crosses the room to open the blinds and the window, letting in the fresh air and leaning against the thin windowstill for a moment. Now, I can see him.

He looks rested, a little more than he should for having just finished a night shift. I keep telling him he's going to get fired, but he always wiggles his way out of that conversation. The bags usually under his eyes aren't too deep this morning, which while problematic is relieving. His skin is pale blue from the dawns light that pours into the room. His dark curls are more thick on the top of his head, clumped together from him not brushing them after his shower. He must've used too much conditioner, because his hair also looks thicker than it usually does. The breeze blows his oversized pale blue shirt against his chest as he leans forward, allowing his eyes to close as he takes in a deep breath. It feels like an overly private moment. Like I've intruded by watching him. I don't see him like this much when he isn't alone. When he's with me or Abby, he's alert. Somewhat on guard. It's like he's watching us to make sure we're okay. He's too used to things falling apart in an instant. But when he's alone, physically or emotionally, the walls crumble away to reveal a man who enjoys peace. Who smiles softly as he bends down low, resting his chin upon his arms, letting the dawn greet him and being the supposed first in the house to greet the dawn. And I feel like a stalker for watching him. A scene that feels as if I've stolen what will now only exist deep in my mind for when I want to remember one of the few times he has truly ever looked at peace with the world. It's a scene out of a painting. As private as a prayer. I should grant him more privacy, but I don't. In a captivated and enchanted way, I can't.

I'd never tell him this, but in this moment he looks like his mother. And not in the sense of him being her son. No, based off of the few photos I've seen of her in more private, intimate instances, like when she was holding a very small Mike on her lap on his second birthday, or when Mike's father had stolen a photo during their honeymoon when she wasn't looking, Mike looks just like her. Quiet, serene, not hiding anything from anyone because there's no need. At this moment it is just him and the gentle, late winter breeze that makes my nose begin to sting. He's beautiful. Just like she was.

The moment comes to an end, and now it is just a moment that exists only within my mind as his eyes open. The blue dawn brings out the green in his eyes that's usually hidden by artificial light that overpowers the amber, turning them mostly black in some instances. That's the color I thought they were until I saw him in proper daylight. His long lashes bat once, twice in an almost sleepy manner as he shifts his focus, now turning his head to look at me. I shut my eyes quickly, my canines biting into my tongue to force myself to keep a straight face. But it's too late. We made eye contact, even if it was only for a second, and now he knows I'm awake.

"Sweetheart?" He whispers softly, his voice low and slightly gravelly in the way it always is. His 's' and 't's just a tad sharp, clear as always when he speaks. I hear the floor groan as he pads towards me.

I don't speak. I'm not supposed to be awake. I should be asleep, he would rather I was asleep. I tried to be asleep.

He stops in front of me, I can hear the floor groan louder as he crouches in front of me. He's trying to decide if I'm awake or not, if maybe he'd been tricked into thinking we made eye contact. But something convinces him he hasn't, and the bed sinks as he places a hand upon the mattress to support his weight while he kisses my temple.

"Hi," he whispers against my skin, placing another kiss just above the curve of my brow. "Good morning." He places another kiss on the space between my brows, his lips now trailing up to the middle of my forehead. "You look so pretty like this."

Like what? My skin shining with oil, my nose dirty, my body heavy from not having moved?

Something makes him pause when his lips find my cheek. He keeps his lips pressed against my skin for a moment before he pulls away, licking his lips as he looks closer at me.

"Hey," he whispers softly, a finger finding my chin. "Open your eyes."

I don't want to. When I do he'll instantly know what I've been doing, and I don't want to handle it. I don't want to deal with it.

His hand slips under my head, between my cheek and my pillow.

"Sweetheart, your pillow's wet," he says in quiet surprise. "Open your eyes, talk to me."

Hesitatingly, I obey. Cracking my eyes open and trying not to reveal how horrid the dryness in them feels after allowing them rest for a few moments after keeping them open for what could have been hours at this point. Mike's face is inches from mine, his brows furrowed in concern as his eyes scan for other obvious signs of distress.

"Hi," I croak in a tired, unused voice as I try to pretend all is well. Mike unfortunately knows better.

"What happened?" He asks concerningly, taking in the tone he does whenever Abby is upset, fretting over me like I'm an injured child as both of his hands cup my face, his lips finding what he's confirmed are thin, itchy and salty tear tracks, placing several, feather-light kisses along them.

"Nothing," I answer honestly, my voice still cracking. "I'm fine."

"Your eyes are red, baby," he says softly, pulling away to look at me again while his body inches closer. "You look like you've been crying for hours."

Ha. I wish. If I had been, maybe I'd feel better about everything. But instead, I've been lying here since Abby went to bed, feeling numb and dead internally as I willed myself to be upset about anything. Work, bills, the color of the walls. I'd succeeded maybe twice, little tears streaming down my face for a minute or two. But then they would stop, and it would feel as though I couldn't cry. Really cry. Like there was some emotional, maybe physical block preventing me from just truly letting all of my emotions out in a possibly hysterical fit. One that would mean I could connect to my humanity. I don't know what's wrong with me. So, instead I just say "I haven't cried."

Mike opens his mouth to call bullshit, but his brow furrows tighter as he thinks. "What's wrong?" He asks again, now lifting my head to allow one arm to slip underneath so I can lay upon it.

"Nothing," I answer again, truly unsure of what to say. "I'm really okay."

And I am. Work is fine, I am fine. Friends are fine. I don't have entitlement to be upset.

"Is it another episode?" Mike asks softly, now pulling his body onto the bed to lie next to me, fully committed to being partner of the year over here. Ugh. Great.

"No," I answer quickly, averting my gaze. Mike's hand cups my cheek, his body cool compared to mine. I'm soaked in sweat from sleeping - read: laying motionless on the bed since 9:30. - in too warm of clothes in too warm of a room under too warm of blankets. I probably stink. Meanwhile the morning air makes Mike feel refreshing. He's perfect. I'm a mess.

"It's okay if it is," Mike says softly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of if-"

"I'm not having an episode," I say firmly, cutting him off as though it will solidify my statement more than his if I finish mine first. "I'm just not."

I don't pretend to be perfect. I'm not, and I never will be. I know that's okay. I know episodes happen, and that I'll be okay. I've been so much better lately on my new schedule. I'm working, I'm happy.

I have absolutely no good reason to be in the midst of a depression episode. One where the memories won't leave my mind, where I can't sleep, can't think about anything but the past. It plays in my head over and over again, and I can't stop it. Even though I try. I read, I journal, I bathe. But I don't feel real. People don't feel real. Mike is disorienting in the sense that he is the only thing that truly feels real. Where the pale color of the sheets seems hypnotic, his slightly tan skin contrasts to remind me this place really does exist. The furniture and details of the room seem as real as something from a video game, renderings that aren't as realistic as they could be that blend into the wall more as you look. Flat. Nothing. But the freckles on his nose are real. Strikingly real. Overly real. It's as though someone took their time to place each one, carefully deciding their color, their opacity, their placement. I want and love each one, but at this moment they slightly torture me by drawing me into a comforting trap.

"I haven't had an episode in over a month, I'm better," I attempt to say in a firm, solid voice. But I'm too tired, too worn out. My chest burns both from anxiety induced heartburn and how shallow my breathing has been for the past several hours. Mike looks sad, and I hate that. Deeply.

"You have been doing better," he says softly, like a reassuring parent. "I've seen that. And I'm so proud of you."

But I still have this. I'm still like this. I still can't have people wrap their arms around me from behind because I'm instantly taken back to when it would end in me collapsed on the ground, panting, crying, calling out for help that just wouldn't come. I still can't wear shirts with too tight of collars because it always end with me half naked, ripping the shirt off while hyperventilating. That was how I had to tell Mike. For our first Christmas together he bought me this beautiful turtleneck, knowing I liked the style but didn't own many. A dark evergreen color, affordable but a lovely tight-knit material, I adored the thing. But the moment the shirt was over my head, the neck felt like a hand suffocating me, and though I tried to tolerate it fie as long as I could, it only took one casual graze of his hand along my back to send me reeling into a corner, hyperventilating, sobbing, blubbering like a terrified child as I clawed at my neck while he tried to get it off of me.

'I'm so proud of you.' The statement feels like a backhanded reward. It feels as though I'm an idiotic child who just can't learn their ABC's or basic fundamental math. It feels like I'm a small toddler surrounded by adults looking at me full of pity in their eyes while they think 'well, you'll never be normal by any means. But maybe one day if you're lucky, you'll work in a Subway.' But they don't tell me this. They just praise me for existing. 'You woke up today! You put on clothes today! You didn't kill yourself!' It makes me want to scream. Yes, even at him. I want to grab him by his shirt and scream until my voice is shattered 'don't praise me for the bare minimum! I'm not a child!'

But I know he's not. I know he feels the same way when he slips back in progress as well. There was a solid month last year where Mike's insurance refused to pay for his sleep medication due to some paperwork slip and such, something they eventually realized was a complete blip on their end. But that month was hell for Mike, who could barely sleep well even with the medication. His easy smirks were replaced with cracked lips, skin raw from constant biting. His eyes were filled with paranoia from lack of sleep, and worse were the night terrors. Mike didn't even know he was still capable of having them, usually sedated by his meds well enough that if there was a nightmare, he just stayed asleep. At worst he'd wake up in a haze, maybe a very short yelp if anything. But without his meds, it was screaming. Constant screaming. There were nights he would wake after only an hour and he'd start, his voice shrill and reverberating off the walls as he thrashed in the bed. You couldn't console him, touch made him worse. When it happened, you simply had to leave the room and pray he would be okay. The episode could last anywhere from five minutes to an hour, and you would know it was over when all you could hear was broken sobbing, quiet and childlike in nature. Then I would return to the room, and there he'd be. Sometimes wrapped in blankets, sometimes his shirt torn off of himself. Usually sitting either in the dark corner of the room or on the floor of our closet. Red, angry marks would trail along his skin from clawing at himself with his uneven nails, some of them being actual cuts he'd managed in his terror. I'd carefully clean his cuts with cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide while he silently stared ahead, too ashamed to speak or make eye contact with me. And too terrified to sleep again.

Sleep deprivation didn't help, either. One day I saw him with a Redbull stuck in his hand, seemingly never empty despite how much he drank from it. At first I thought it was one, than I realized it was three, then I realized I didn't really know what number he was on. It was surprising how well he could take the new, unusual load of caffeine that tastes sickly sweet without so much as a twitch of an eyebrow. I didn't realize he was trying to starve off sleep until the next morning when his leg was bouncing a mile a minute and he was snapping at every little thing. That day he had a breakdown over dropping an unpeeled onion. And that's when it slipped out.

I didn't judge him. I was terrified for him, but I didn't judge him. And I could tell the same was true for him when I would have my slips, though mine looked different. Mine looked like a lack of self care and rotting in our bed, staring pointlessly ahead until he would lift me off the bed and carefully guide me to a warm bath, where he'd gently wash my skin with a soft rag like I was a newborn while I stared ahead at nothing. At this point we had learned to tell the oncoming signs of each others episodes, and how to starve them off. And if we couldn't, how to help each other through them.

Usually, I don't mind. But today, it hurts. It all hurts.

"Have you eaten?" Mike asks me gently, his thumb gliding over my cheekbone as he wraps me in his embrace, careful of where he places his hands on my person. Like I'm a bomb.

I don't want to be treated like this anymore.

"Yes," I sigh in an irritated voice, like it's the most inconvenient thing he should ask me such a question. But I haven't. I feel empty and yet too full at the same time, and guilt pounds behind my left eye with the ferocity of a headache that I can't just mother myself.

Mike doesn't believe me. He'll pretend he does, but the press of his lips betray him as he takes a deep breath in like he's trying to tell what wire to cut next.

"Would you like to have breakfast with me?" He asks softly, his thumb still stroking just below the raw corner of my eye. It burns. All of it.

'No,' I snap in my head. But I just tighten my jaw and press my own lips together.

"I'm not really hungry, but thank you," I say in a tight voice. Now he's going to pretend that's okay, and he'll go get his breakfast. Then he'll pretend he can't finish it all, joke lightly and say I gave him too big of a portion even though he eats like he's still a growing teenager, and offer me little bites as he "tries" to finish the rest, then eventually trick me into finishing it. He isn't slick, and I'm not a child.

"Hey," he says in a light whisper. "I was thinking maybe we could go out today? All three of us? Or I could call Max, see if she'll watch Abs for a little bit so we can get away?"

Distraction. Cute. I don't need it.

"That could be nice," I admit through half gritted teeth, not meeting his eyes. "Where to?"

"Anywhere," he says too quickly, obviously relieved to have a straw to grasp at. "Your choice."

Guilt twists in my chest like an alien creature settled in my lungs, burning as it begins to slither its way towards my throat to suffocate me on its wrath. He doesn't need to do this. Can't he see how well I'm doing?

"How was work?" He asks me in an attempt to keep me talking. Mike doesn't like silence, not like this. Not really any time. There's always noise throughout the house, whether it's a show on in the background or white noise from his cassette player. He can't stand silence. Especially from people.

"Work was..." Fine? The usual? Non-eventful?

"Good," I decide. Mike presses his lips together again. Stop doing that.

"Yeah?" He asks in a slightly tight voice.

"Yeah," I confirm in a tighter voice.

"You didn't... call out or anything?"

My bottom left back molar feels like it might snap from how tight my jaw is. "Why?" I ask, venom unintentionally creeping in.

"Just asking," he says quickly.

"Why?" I press harder, wanting to know who told on me. Abby hasn't even had the chance to speak with him.

'It's because he knows your patterns,' I think. 'He's trying to gage how serious this is.'

"Maybe we could go out for breakfast? We can wait until Abby wakes up, go get some Waffle Hous-"

"I'm not having an episode," I snap quickly, more harsh than I intended. My tone makes him flinch slightly, his eyes shutting for a moment as he takes another breath in. Now I'm scared he'll pull away.

"We... don't have to talk about this right now," he says softly, opening his eyes again and wrapping his arm around me tighter. "Let's just focus on breakfast."

The guilt pounds in my kidneys, which are sore since I haven't left the bed since I laid down after putting Abby to sleep, but I did have a full water bottle around 3:00 in the morning. It's not Mike's fault I backtracked. He's just trying to be nice. I'm the asshole here.

"I'm sorry," I say in a small voice, dropping my gaze and biting my tongue between my canines again to stop the tears that are now willing to come freely to burn my eyes during such an inappropriate moment.

"It's okay," Mike says softly, placing a kiss on my forehead. "Don't even think about it."

'Don't even think about the fact he's just trying to be a decent person and you can't even say 'thank you,'' a grating voice in my head chides me. 'What, you're too good for a free meal?'

"I'm sorry," I repeat softer, my nails digging into my wrist that I'm holding to keep control over myself. Mike's hand is searching for mine, ready to pry it away to prevent me from doing what I need to to prevent the waterworks.

"Hey." Stop with the 'hey's. "I said it's alright, you're okay."

It's all bad. Everything's bad, and it's not going to get better. I keep thinking I'll get better, I keep thinking I'll be okay. But every two steps forward is one step back and I can't keep doing this redundant bullshit for the rest of my life. Am I going to be 40 at the office Christmas party sneaking off to freak out in the bathroom because something triggered me and I just can't get a grip on things? Am I even going to make it to 40?

Mike is comforting me, cradling my head to his chest and rocking me back and forth. And his shirt is wet. I don't like that his shirt is wet, it should be dry. Why is it fucking wet?

"It's okay," he's whispering in my hair while horrid choking sounds come from somewhere around us. Maybe the other room? "You're alright, it's okay."

I'm aware it's alright, I'm aware it's okay. Why are you wet? Why does my head hurt?

"I can't- sleep," my voice chokes out between guttural sobs, my face pressed into his chest. "It's all nightmares."

Oh. Shit. That's me. The wetness, I did that. My bad.

"I know, it's okay. How long?" Mike asks softly. What, are you gonna call my therapist?

"A week," I moan into his chest. My ribs expand with each recycled breath I steal from against his chest, and I can feel him trying to gently tug me away so I can get one with fresh, cold air instead. I don't let him. My lungs burn more. "They just won't stop."

"It's okay, it's only temporary," he says softly, his hand pushing away some of the blanket to relieve me of the boiling warmth underneath. The cold air is refreshing against my skin, even through my clothes are soaked with stinking sweat.

"No, it's not!" I cry hysterically into his chest. "They don't go away. None of it goes away. I want it to go away!"

He's nodding, rubbing circles on my back as I grip his shirt hard enough it may stretch.

"It'll get better. It did for awhile," he reminds me.

"But I'm back here. I always end up back here. I was doing so good!" I sob, feeling the wetness on his shirt begin to slightly thicken, probably due to snot. I try to sniff it back into my sinuses, but I think that just draws his attention to the new fluid he's covered in.

"That's okay. You'll do even better next time. And if you don't, that's okay too." Don't say what I think you're going to say. Do not. Michael, I'm serious, don't- "I'm still proud of you."

Fuck. Ooooooff!

This is the real release of my emotions. Now I'm gasping, choking, sobbing, making horrible sounds that sound like a European ambulance siren wailing through the streets to announce someone's dying on the way to the hospital. My head throbs with the pain from the heavy crying, and I may give myself a nosebleed from the passion of it all. And Mike, his patience thick and durable, just holds me through it all. Letting me soak his shirt, dirty his skin, grab at him blindly while I wail like a spoiled child, just repeating the phrase over again. 'Proud.' What pride. What honor to be had at such a breakdown. Yes, very understandable.

"I should be better," I sob into his chest. "You deserve better."

"What?" He laughs lightly, and at first it feels mocking, but then he's pulling my head away fron my soaked enclosure and his eyes are so gentle for a moment I know the light laughter is simply from surprise. Then his eyes widen and he's back in parent mode.

"Don't leave me. Don't leave me!" I choke out while gripping his shirt. At first he thinks I'm talking about our relationship, then he realizes I'm not letting him pull away.

"Sweetheart, you're bleeding," he gently explains. "Let me wipe your face. I just need tissues. I'm not even leaving the bed."

But that's too much. Let me bleed, let my head throb, let this headache take the vision away in my eye from how bad it hurts. Let anything happen so long as I can stay in this moment. Don't break the spell. Don't let me go numb again.

"Don't leave me," I cry pathetically, my eyes all scrunched together in the same manner as wailing infants, my grip on his shirt not breaking. Sure enough, there on the wet spot of his shirt is a dark stain of blood that should hopefully come out if we wash it fast enough.

"Let me do that," I'm saying as I try to peel off his shirt now. "Let me wash it."

He's gently guiding my hands away. "Don't worry about it," he says gently, kissing my hands and wrists like they might break even from the delicate graze of his lips. "Let me take care of you."

He does this all the time. He always takes care of me. I should do more. Be more. For him.

"You deserve better," I choke out, feeling like I may suffocate from the tears. Mike's brows furrow in concern, and he grips my chin very carefully as he makes me meet his eyes.

"Hey, no. Get that out of your head, it's all okay," he tells me softly, staring at me like if he can't verbally convince me, his hard stare will do the trick. "I don't want to hear you talk like that."

"I should be better," I repeat, my crying lessening slightly as I try to hold eye contact.

"You're getting better," he reminds me. "This is the happiest I've seen you since we met. You'll get back to that. Hell, you could feel the same way tonight. It's okay. Take a day off. We all need one, even normal people," he says softly, stroking my hair as he kisses my forehead. "Can you just let me take care of you in the meantime?"

No. Go away, let me rot.

"We can still go out for breakfast," he offers gently. "I can still call Max, or we can all stay in. I'll set up a nest in the living room so you can watch TV. Works you like that?"

Stop. Stop being nice to me, stop trying to make me feel better. It all just feels awful. I don't want this guilt, someone takes it away.

Mike must sense my overwhelmed emotions, because he places another kiss on my forehead before asking if he can clean my face again, and this time I say yes. He pulls away, which is still upsetting but less so. I don't make a deal out of it this time at least. He opens a drawer, searching for wipes and pulling them out before turning back to me.

"Do you want to sit up?" He asks gently. I bite my tongue to prevent another mocking thought directed towards me and nod. Bones crack as I do, my kidneys hurt worse. But at least I finally moved.

Tears still streak down my face as Mike wipes away the snot and blood, his large hand gently cupping my face as he does. There's a soft smile on his face, though I'm not particularly sure why. And when he's done, he runs his thumb along my bottom lip before placing his own lips on top of mine. They're chapped, one spot raw from excessive biting. But there's still some leftover chapstick on them, and it tastes like grapefruit.

I tug on his shirt, one hand sneaking under it to feel his cool skin underneath. He gently takes my wrist once more, then pulls away. A silent rejection. He knows that I'm just looking for a distraction from my emotions, and in a moment he'll offer a much healthier one. He does discard the shirt, leaving his chest bare, but only so that he doesn't smear my fluids back onto me as he pulls me in for another embrace.

"We'll be okay," he promises. "Everything will be okay."

"What if it's not?" I ask in a quiet, strained voice.

"Then it'll be okay later. You can take time to not be okay," he says.

There's a short silence before either of us speak. And when I hear his voice hitch in the way it does when he's about to say something, Abby's alarm rings crystal clear in her room. Then the sound of a truck rattles by on the road in front of the house. Birds continue to sing. And my pours feel so clogged I'm sure my skin will be lashing out for days.

But it'll all be okay.

¤▪︎{♧}▪︎¤

"Can we have some fluff to reco-" no. Suffer.

Taglist:

@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 @jhutchissupercool @laurrrelise. Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

•▪︎Masterlist▪︎•

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spacequokka · 1 month ago

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What More (Can I Do)

Pairing: bff!Felix x Reader Genre: College AU, fluff, angst Rating: G Summary: When he refuses to let you spend another minute alone. Word Count: 1.3k Warnings: Bookworm gets dragged outside, the horror. Not so secret pining.

A/N: That's right, another title ripped from a Christmas song. This one's too easy, though.

Felix had always been the adventurous type with an enthusiasm that seemed to spread like wildfire. But this year was different. After a grueling college semester, you'd become a hermit, buried in textbooks and self-doubt. You'd turned down his last three invitations to hang out, and he missed you something terrible. With Christmas approaching, he refused to let you spend another minute locked away. He'd drag you outside kicking and screaming if it came down to it.

On Christmas Eve, Felix arrived at your apartment with a bright red scarf and an armful of hot cocoa to-go cups. "Come on, _____! You can't avoid socializing forever," he said as he wrapped the scarf around your neck. Once you were sufficiently bundled up and armed with hot liquid, he tugged you from the warmth of your home and out into the brisk air of dusk.

As you strolled through the neighborhood, festive lights twinkled like stars against the night sky. Felix pointed out various displays—the houses adorned with candy canes and reindeer, while others featured animated snowmen that danced to holiday tunes.

"I wonder what their light bill looks like." He mused as he took a sip of his cocoa.

You thought about it, doing some quick math in your head. "Has to be at least 300 bucks. I doubt they cut them off before sunrise."

"Jeez." He chuckled. "Too rich for my wallet. I'd rather spend the money on some elaborate dinner. Speaking of which," he turned to you, "Chris is expecting us to stop by tomorrow. He's saving a plate for you."

You ducked your head, avoiding the warmth in his gaze. "I don't deserve it. I just dropped off the face of the earth without a word to anyone. I'm a shitty friend."

He put an arm around your shoulders and guided you along. "You are not. We understand what it's like to get swamped with work. Adulting is hard as fuck, and I think you're doing a kick-ass job." He rubbed your arm. "It's okay to prioritize things, and as your best friend, it's my job to make sure you don't forget you're not alone. I'll always be here to pull you out of your little bubble."

You looked up at him and waited until he was looking at you to say, "Thank you, Lixie. You're the best."

"No thanks needed. Just remember this when it's me hiding away from the world. I'd want you to come save me, too." He smiled brightly, making you smile too, something he'd missed and didn't realize he'd come to depend on.

Felix led you towards the town square where an enormous tree stood tall and proud, draped in thousands of glittering lights. The square was alive with families enjoying hot chocolate and carolers singing familiar tunes. He thought he heard you humming along, but when he looked at you, you were drinking the rest of your cocoa with a smirk.

"You know what we need?" He pulled his phone out of his coat pocket. "A selfie! Jisung and Minho have a bet going on about how long it'd be before you'd be a certified shut-in. Being able to say 'I told you so' to Min has to be the best gift a person can get." He pulled you over to the tree and pulled you close. His cheek felt hot against yours as he positioned the camera to capture the gigantic tree in the background.

"Is that the real reason you came over?" You asked jokingly before smiling when he snapped the picture.

"What? No, of course not." He looked at you. "I missed you like crazy. Hanging out with the guys is great and all, but you have a spot in my heart too, y'know." He looked away with a shy smile. "Hyunjin said I looked like a lost puppy without you around, and though I was a little offended at first, I realized he wasn't wrong." He shrugged. "Jeongin mentioned his family wanting to do a Christmas lights tour and I kinda just ran with that."

You gently bumped his shoulder with yours. "It's okay, Lixie. I know you love me."

He froze for a second, panic turning his veins to ice and sending his heart galloping in his chest. When you turned away and looked at the tree with an awed smile, he realized you weren't serious. The panic turned into a familiar yearning he'd learned to live with long ago.

"I didn't realize I missed this…connection with living life. Feels like I'm exhaling stress and loneliness and I feel so amazing." You turned back to him, eyes alight with joy that hadn't been there when you first opened the door. "I don't think I'll ever be able to thank you enough."

You held out your hand, and his heart stuttered. He took it without a second thought, immediately savoring the feel of your skin against his. Felix would never say it out loud, but this moment, that look in your eyes, would be the best present he'd ever get. He was sure of it.

When you spotted the cafe famous for its cookies, you turned to him with a hopeful smile. He didn't need to say anything, a simple nod was enough to have you pulling him towards it. Over steaming cups of coffee topped with whipped cream and two warm large chocolate chip cookies, you opened up about your struggles with studies and how you weren't sure you could endure another semester like the last one. Felix listened intently, offering encouragement and brainstorming ways to get through the next semester without getting overwhelmed.

"I think the most important thing is remembering that you're not alone." He touched your hand. "You have the guys—Seungmin's good at tutoring. You have your teachers and counselors. And most importantly, you have me. I may not know the answers, but I'll do everything I can to help you find them. It's okay to lean on others for support. You're not weak or incapable. It gives others a chance to show you how much they care. Just like you do for us."

God, he didn't mean to make you cry. He dabbed at your tears with his thumbs, then pulled you in for a hug. As your choked sobs dialed back to quiet sniffles, he understood just how bad things had gotten. With a cloud as heavy as the one over your head, it made sense that you'd closed in on yourself. What else could a person do? His precious flower was wilting under the downpour. He couldn't help himself as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. You sighed deeply and pulled away.

"Thank you," you whispered. "I needed this more than I realized. Doesn't feel like I'm carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders anymore." Your smile was a little watered down, but he didn't mind.

He grazed your cheek with the back of his hand. "Anytime."

As you walked back home under the shimmering streetlights, he could tell you felt lighter than you had in weeks—filled not only with holiday spirit but also with renewed hope for yourself and the coming year. Every time you looked at him, there was a genuine smile on your face that made you more and more endearing. It was hopeless for him. He'd never be able to shake his feelings for you.

#knaughtyornice #kvanity #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #felix fluff #stray kids scenarios #skz scenarios #stray kids imagines #skz imagines #felix x reader #felix scenarios #felix imagines #stray kids angst #skz angst #felix angst #rating: g #i might give him a hea in the future

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19calicos · 6 months ago

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i know where to look — kuroo tetsurō ˎˊ˗

✶⋆.˚ chapter thirteen: on the kitchen floor ( 𖦹 )

currently playing: seagirl by king krule, raveena

word count: 726

cw: language, i'll kill you + i'm dying + kms jokes, alcohol mentions

kuroo thinks he's dying when he wakes up – for more reasons than one.

even before he opens his eyes, he can feel the way his head is pounding harder than the bass from a speaker. should've seen this coming, he thinks, since the first memory that comes back is him taking a shot or two within the first ten minutes of arriving at their apartment per oikawa’s impulsive self-invite.

after all, kuroo needed some liquid courage if he was going to try to be normal around them after that night at the skate park.

he hadn’t stopped thinking about it, the way they slipped their fingers in his so easily, how it made him short circuit. the mere thought of it tints his ears and cheeks pink and renders him breathless from how familiar they were, how right it felt when he sleepily fit his head in the crook of their neck before they went home.

it's still dark out when he finally gathers the strength to open his eyes. kuroo blinks once, twice, and then a few times quickly in disbelief.

it's them, and he's holding them while they're peacefully asleep, and they're snuggled up to him in this little couch like it's the most natural thing in the world. it takes everything in kuroo to keep breathing steadily so that he doesn't wake them up.

they're an angel.

his heart is on fire when he drinks in the way the moonlight spills onto them, lines of gentle beams through the window panes illuminating their face, and his hands and arms on their waist, and how they were breathing in sync, unforced and natural.

he's not stupid: kuroo could tell this is the result of a few too many shots, and all he wants now is to be able to do this sober every night in a real bed, his or theirs.

and if kuroo was pink before, he’s red now when another memory floats back to him.

i love you rings in his head, slurred but clear, like slanted and messy handwriting. he remembers he said it first, and although blurry in his mind, he can see the look on their face.

he can’t quite put his finger on it. it was a mix of hope, but also heartbreak. elated, but hesitant. conflicted.

and then kuroo remembers them saying i love you back with a lump in their throat and a falter in their speech, persisting despite the road blocks.

but he also remembers how they took his hand with both of their own, lacing their fingers again with their other hand on top as they rested into him on the couch, legs swung over his lap. kuroo could feel it still, how they blanketed him in their warmth like that, and how he rested his head on top of theirs as he listened to their unsure mumbles. their actions indeed were louder than words.

but i know you don’t mean it. you’re too good for me. i can’t love you back right.

in his 4am grogginess, kuroo isn't sure what they meant by that. he’ll gladly accept their love however they’re able to give it to him. he'd give them everything, if they were willing to accept him.

were they saying they’re not enough for him?

a glance at his watch tells him there's still a couple more hours until sunrise. he considers carrying them to their room wherever it is, but kuroo is scared of the smallest move nudging them awake. he's sure that the hangover he's dealing with right now – which was temporarily muted by the feeling of them in his embrace – could be worse for them in the morning, so maybe it's better if he just let them rest.

no, he wants them to rest. and he wants to keep being able to hold them like this. and he wants to care for them and tell them everyday he loves them as they are, and he wants them to know that.

he knows he says it all the time, but all this love really might just kill him. he'll tell them before his heart bursts into flames, though, just how much he really loves them.

as kuroo lets his eyelids droop, strong arms securing his hold on them, he plants a kiss on their forehead.

all he wants in this moment is to be theirs.

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⟢ skater cat fan club got home around 3am, kuroo first woke up around 4am

⟢ atsumu was doing his best to be sneaky with spying on kurooyn. yn isn't sure if kuroo noticed him but they definitely did, and when kuroo got up to go use the restroom (everyone had a hangover, he didn't question why atsumu was on the floor #KingsMindTheirOwnBusiness) they smothered atsumu with a pillow

⟢ suna actually bought breakfast for everyone but kurooyn were gone literal minutes after he got back. he did bring yn's breakfast to them at ace before he went to class

⟢ kuroo is very much the type of person to overthink tones and punctuation in text messages

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bcdrawsandwrites · 6 months ago

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[ID: A Team Fortress 2 fanfic banner in the style of the game's achievement icons. A tattered yellow-white ID card is shown on a gray background. On the left side of the card is a stylized portrait of Miss Pauling, and on the right of the card is a stylized globe. On the right of the banner is the chapter's title in yellow-white, reading "CHAPTER EIGHT: IDENTITY THEFT" /end ID]

Flickering

Fandom: Team Fortress 2 Rating: K+ Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship Characters: Spy, Pyro, Miss Pauling, Medic, Heavy, Scout, Sniper Warnings: General references to trauma Fic Description: After the events of the comics, the mercs try to go back to how things were, but it’s never that easy.

Spy can see his teammates going through their own struggles… but something seems to be very, very wrong with Pyro in particular.

And since no one else seems to be doing anything about this, Spy makes it his mission to get to the bottom of what is troubling Pyro. For no particular reason.

Beta Readers: @mechmolar, @gonturan0, @junuve

---~~~---

Chapter 8: Identity Theft Summary: In which Spy makes use of his disguise kit.

---~~~---

Once again, Spy found himself staying on-base overnight. The drive out to the bookstore and back had been quite enough time on the road for him, after the little sleep he'd gotten the night prior, so he opted to stay rather than make the trip back home.

Fortunately the Pyro had not attempted another absurd bonfire that night, so those who chose to stay were able to sleep as well as they could. Which, for some, was not as well as might be hoped.

Spy woke before sunrise to the sound of voices—Medic's was the first he could identify, calm and authoritative and mildly annoyed, while the second was Heavy's, a low, quiet rumble. While normally he would not bother eavesdropping at such an early hour, the smell of blood from his dreams lingered in his nostrils, and he could do with a brief distraction. So, slipping out of bed, he crept to the door and listened.

"...have spoken with Herr Engineer about this, and no, it is not possible."

"Da, I know this."

"Then you did not have to wake me up at four in the morning."

"I did not mean to wake Doctor up. Only to check."

"That will not be necessary. If I am ever in mortal danger again, I will be sure to let you know."

Silence. No footfalls followed.

Medic went on, lowering his voice. "If it makes you feel better, you're not alone. That schweinhund keeps showing up in my nightmares."

"This... does not make Heavy feel better. Would like to help."

"You can do that by letting me sleep." The Medic sighed. "Tell you what—I can train Archimedes to come get you if there is a problem. Would this make you feel better?"

"...Da. I think so."

"Good. I can also prescribe you something to help you sleep."

"Maybe. Will see." A pause. "Goodnight, Doctor."

"Yes, good night."

Finally Heavy moved away, while Medic shut his door.

Spy stood for a moment, wondering if he should ask Medic for some sleep medication as well, but shook his head. No, he just needed to sleep in his own bed again, is all.

Yawning, he trudged back to the other side of the room and slipped into bed.

Everything was fine. They would be over this soon.

—-

Upon entering the mess hall, Spy abruptly remembered the events of yesterday when he found it near devoid of chairs and with multiple of his fellow mercs standing about awkwardly. Sniper lurked in a corner, nursing what was surely not his first cup of coffee; Engineer leaned against the doorway to the kitchen, eating a plate of eggs and bacon; Demo knelt awkwardly next to one of the tables, leaning his head against it; and Soldier sat in the only chair, shoveling burnt pancakes into his face.

Sighing, Spy turned away—perhaps today would be a good day to rest at home.

"The chair problem's bein' corrected," Engineer said, and Spy looked back at him. "Miss Pauling said she'd come deliver them herself."

Spy raised an eyebrow. "Good to know, but strange she would make the delivery herself."

Engineer shrugged. "I don't question these things."

"I don't expect you to," Spy muttered as he stepped past him and into the kitchen. Perhaps it would be beneficial for him to stay around a little while longer, if it meant he could speak with another potential source.

Breakfast went by quickly enough, and he hoped it wouldn't be much longer before Miss Pauling arrived. He had no desire to hang around the other mercenaries for the time being, and retreated to his bedroom, cracking open the window so he could hear Miss Pauling's vehicle when she arrived. He'd grabbed his book from his smoking room, but upon entering his room, he found his gaze drawn to the mirror.

Spy set down his book on his table and stood before the mirror. In one swift motion he whipped out his cigarette case and opened it. His gaze fell not upon his cigarettes, but the disguise kit. A few quick taps and a puff of smoke, and he found himself staring at the Engineer.

"Yee-haw, I struggle to pay attention to anything that is not made of metal!" he said mockingly in the Engineer's voice.

Rolling his eyes—invisible beneath those stupid goggles—he tapped the disguise kit again a few more times. A puff of smoke later, he was adjusting Medic's glasses. "I give pointless diagnoses and extremely unhelpful advice, and my lab reeks like a badly-maintained zoo!"

Spy shook his head, glancing down at the disguise kit again and looking through a few more disguises.

He paused.

He could, of course, turn into dead people. It was part of his modus operandi in battle—killing one of his enemies and then disguising himself as them in order to either sneak around or kill more of the enemy team. But...

For a long moment he stared at the name on the device, and, after a brief hesitation, hit the confirmation button.

When the smoke cleared, he was staring at Beatrice, the pyro of the former gray team. The disguise included her mask, but he removed it in order to stare at that face he remembered seeing what felt like a lifetime ago—the gray hair, the burn-scarred face, the singular eye. Yet... no, she still didn't look quite right.

Spy thought for a moment, then replicated a calm, smug grin.

There she was.

He would not soon forget that smile, nor the way it had twisted her face in dark, eager excitement as she looked at the Pyro.

"I like a challenge."

Spy shuddered as he spoke the words in her voice.

Admittedly, he sometimes felt joy at seeing his own enemies in pain. He might occasionally twist the knife—quite literally—but for the most part, he just did his job.

That was not, he knew, the case for this woman. This woman, who, when charged to interrogate them, asked Soldier one question before continuing to torture him, very clearly must have taken pleasure—joy, even—in what she did.

So what had she done to Pyro?

Spy lowered his head in thought. Off the top of his head, he knew what could be done to hurt most of his fellow mercenaries. Soldier, who took joy in his own torture, would have taken a severe blow to being told that he was not a true member of the United States armed forces. Heavy valued his family, and would potentially bend under threats made toward them. Engineer would be pained to see his hard work destroyed—not merely his beloved buildings, but his blueprints, which allowed him to rebuild them. He could go on, but there was no point. He knew what could hurt the others.

He did not know what could hurt Pyro—what had hurt Pyro. What had drained its life of color. What had brought it down to the point where if it dared to make a noise, it would degenerate into a panicked mess.

Looking up, he stared into Beatrice's eye.

"What did you do?"

He arranged her face into the same smug grin he saw the day she tortured Pyro, the day she died. And again he repeated the words he remembered her saying:

"I like a challenge."

Realization hit him like a sniper's bullet, and the disguise faded in a puff of smoke, leaving Spy staring wide-eyed at his own reflection.

His chest began to burn, and he stumbled over to his chair. A cigarette soon found its way into his mouth, hoping to cloud his disturbed thoughts, but his hands searched for his lighter, only to come up empty.

A motor rumbling outside interrupted his dazed thoughts, and initially he wondered where Sniper was off to before he remembered. Jumping up from his chair, he looked out the window and spotted a truck pulling in front of the base, and a familiar purple dress on the person stepping out of said truck.

Drawing in a breath, Spy straightened his jacket and exited his room. Perhaps he could talk to Miss Pauling about this—she may know something that he didn't.

But as he neared the front of the base—

"—I mean, you didn't have to come all the way out here just to see me, Miss Pauling!"

"I didn't. I came out here to deliver this myself because I knew if we sent someone else, you guys would shoot the delivery driver. ...Again."

Scout and Sniper had met Miss Pauling at the door, the latter sizing up the furniture in the back of the truck, and the former flexing his arms at every opportunity.

Scout shrugged. "Well, while you're here—"

"While you're here," Miss Pauling countered, "why don't you help me haul this stuff in." As she was turning away, she added, "Hi, Spy."

Scout looked over his shoulder, only to do a double-take. "What's with you? You seen a ghost or somethin'?"

Abruptly Spy realized that he'd been staring, and that the blood had drained from his face. But Scout was already shrugging and stepping out the door, followed by Sniper, who gave Spy a knowing look as he left.

"Yeah," Scout was saying outside. "I don't blame you for wanting first row tickets to the gunshow!"

"Oh! I'm going there with Heavy in a couple weeks, actually."

Gritting his teeth, Spy stormed into the mess hall, and, from there, into the kitchen. While normally he wouldn't bother with such menial tasks here, he removed his jacket and slipped some rubber gloves over his usual ones and began to wash the dishes that had been left to pile up in the sink. It would get him out of their way, and give him something to do while he waited for Scout to stop bothering Miss Pauling.

The sound of chair legs shrieking against the floor soon let him know that they were replacing the chairs in the mess hall. Above that, he could hear Scout's attempts at flirting, which might have amused him had it not made him remember a more dazed version of Scout's voice cracking jokes, when—

"Hey—hey! Heavy! Since when are you goin' on a date with Miss Pauling?!"

"What is Scout talking about?"

Seizing his opportunity, Spy yanked off the rubber gloves and whipped his jacket back on before hurrying out to meet Miss Pauling. He skirted past the utterly stupid argument unfolding in the mess hall and rushed out the front door, where he caught Sniper and Pauling both hauling in a new chair for the lounge.

"Miss Pauling," Spy said, and she gave him a grunt of acknowledgment. "May I have a word?"

"Yeah, sure, just let me—"

Spy approached one of the free sides of the chair and helped lift it up, bearing some of its weight.

"Oh, thanks!" She gave him a relieved smile, and the three of them carried the chair through the base and into the lounge, where they set it down. Wiping her brow, she heaved a sigh. "Sheesh, Pyro did a number here, huh?"

"Yeah," Sniper said, leaning against the chair. "Like I said, you shoulda' seen that bonfire it made!" He gestured with his hand in an attempt to indicate the height.

"Actually," Spy cut in, "that's what I wanted to talk with you about."

Miss Pauling raised an eyebrow. "The bonfire?"

Spy gave a quick look around—he hadn't seen Pyro yet today, but he didn't want to take a chance that it was anywhere nearby. Frowning, he motioned for Miss Pauling to follow him outside.

"Is it the furniture?" she asked, bewildered, as she followed. "I'm sorry, Spy, but we can't afford stuff that's as nice as what you have in your smoking room for every—"

"It's not that," Spy said as they stepped out the front door again. He looked back to see the Sniper had followed them out, but there was no reason to send him away. "It's... about the Pyro."

"Pyro?" Miss Pauling echoed. "I mean, it's not that weird for it to be setting fires."

"No, it's been acting strange. More violent on the battlefield, and strangely silent. It... managed to communicate recently that it no longer sees color."

"Oh, man..." Miss Pauling's brows knit with sympathy, and she lowered her head for a moment, only for it to shoot back up. "Oh! Do you think this is from whatever the enemy pyro did to it?"

"That is exactly what I think." He automatically tried to take a drag from his cigarette, only to remember it wasn't lit to begin with. With a growl, he tossed it to the ground and stomped it. "While I have yet to figure out the specifics of what happened... I may have figured out at least one of the details."

Both Miss Pauling and Sniper leaned forward in interest.

"Pyro has been silent, but I do not think it wants to be. However, whenever it does vocalize, it falls into a panic."

Miss Pauling looked down in thought, frowning. Meanwhile, Sniper hummed, and Spy wondered if some gossip about the incident at Medic's lab had gone around.

"Furthermore," Spy went on, "the enemy pyro took an interest in our Pyro when that idiot Soldier let slip that it could not talk."

He let that sink in for a moment. Sniper's brow furrowed, while Miss Pauling's head suddenly shot up, her eyes wide.

"I believe," he said, eyes narrowed in disgust, "the enemy pyro may have punished it for saying anything other than the information she desired."

Sniper scoffed. "That's ridiculous. Pyro can't talk—not with normal words, anyway."

"Exactly my point. She—"

"She saw it as a challenge!" Miss Pauling exclaimed, her face going pale. "She wanted to see if she could force Pyro to talk!" She wrapped her arms around herself. "Poor Pyro..." After a moment, she straightened, jabbing her thumb at the truck behind her. "I mean, all this is still coming out of its paycheck, but still."

"Bloody wankers," Sniper growled. "But what'd they even do to it?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Spy said, and looked at Miss Pauling. Sniper followed his gaze.

"...Wait," he said, pointing at Miss Pauling. "You knew about my birth parents, and where I came from. You gotta know something about where that bloke came from, or what it even is."

Miss Pauling winced. "Look, the Administrator wouldn't even tell me about it, so I'm as much in the dark as you are. Heck, she only told me about your parents because they were a lead on the world's remaining Australium."

Gritting his teeth, Sniper turned away.

"Surely there must be something you know?" Spy asked.

"Yeah—a lot! Just nothing in particular about Pyro, other than that it's not human." She rubbed her forehead. "Look—Medic might know something—"

"His knowledge is limited, as Pyro does not cooperate with examinations. What little he does know is classified."

"Ah, right. Just between him and the Administrator, huh?" Heaving a sigh, she tipped her head back. "Look, Spy... I'd really like to help you—or help Pyro, anyway—but I'm not sure what I can do."

"Well, Miss Pauling, given your unique position, I think there might be something you could do to retrieve the information I need. Even just to persuade the Administrator to—"

Miss Pauling gave a forced, humorless laugh. "Yeah, that's not gonna happen. Sorry." When Spy gave her a look, she softened. "No, seriously, I am sorry. But with how badly everything went with that last mission, I—" She cut herself off, and swallowed.

Spy looked at her for a moment, and she looked back, and he nodded slowly. "I understand."

"Thanks," she replied, her shoulders drooping. "I hope Pyro will be okay. It's nice of you to look out for it."

Spy shrugged. "It was merely a mission I gave myself, since no one else was looking into it."

Feeling the hair rise on the back of his neck, he knew Sniper was staring at him—for what reason, he didn't know, but he would not look back.

"Great!" Miss Pauling smiled, oblivious to the tension between the two mercenaries. "Sniper, could you help me get the last one?"

"Sure thing, mate." The Sniper followed Miss Pauling over to the back of the truck, but as he passed, gave Spy another look—one that seemed to say, we need to talk.

Absolutely not.

Frowning in thought, Spy hurried back into the base, heading down a few hallways until he neared the medical wing. There he stopped, looking around to make sure there was no one else around. There was no sign of anyone else heading this way, and, creeping up to the doors and listening, he could only hear Medic's voice speaking softly to Archimedes.

Casting one last look to assure himself he was alone, Spy whipped out his disguise kit.

A moment later, Miss Pauling burst into the lab. "Medic—? Oh, good, you're here."

Medic looked up, his eyebrows raised, while Archimedes fluttered up to the ceiling and Aristotle squeaked. "Ah, Miss Pauling! Good to see you!" the Medic said, smiling as he strolled up to meet her. "Finally come for your follow-up appointment? I've almost got the blood type separation technique worked out—"

"Uh, no, not today. I'm in a bit of a time crunch—since we set up office again, the Administrator realized she's missing some of the mercenaries' medical files, and I haven't had the chance to come out here until now."

Medic sighed. "Very well," he said, turning toward his filing cabinet. "Which ones did you need?"

"Just Scout, Soldier, and Pyro," she replied.

"Oh, you're in luck! I just updated Pyro's file recently."

"Yeah, great." Distractedly Miss Pauling looked around the lab, her eyes falling on Aristotle's, which were narrowed at her suspiciously. "Oh, uh, is... that the monkey you got from—never mind."

"Ja, he is!" Medic smiled as he went through the folders. "Say hello to the lady, Aristotle."

Aristotle hissed and scampered up to Medic's side.

"Now, now, that's no way to behave around patients like Miss Pauling!" Turning around, Medic wagged a finger at the baboon. "Only the bad patients. Now!" He held up the papers and looked up at Miss Pauling. "I'll make some copies of these and send you on your way. Stay here."

Miss Pauling held out a hand to protest, but Medic was already hurrying out the door. She watched him leave before turning back to Aristotle, who continued to glare at her. Then, in a deep, masculine voice that was not Miss Pauling's, she said, "What are you staring at?"

Shrieking, Aristotle scampered up on top of the filing cabinet and hid behind a pigeon nest.

Sighing, Miss Pauling crossed her arms, looking around the lab as she waited. Hearing the door open, she spun around. "Thanks, Medi—" The word caught in her throat.

Sniper stared at her from the doorway, holding out the copies of the medical records. "Looking for these, ya bloody wanker?"

"Uh, hi, Sniper!" She gave a nervous grin. "What are you doing here?"

"Dragging you out before Medic gets back." With that, he grabbed Miss Pauling's wrist and yanked her toward the doors.

"Sniper, what—?!"

His head whipped back to look at her. "Medic nearly chased the real Miss Pauling out the door to hand her these. I offered to run them out to her myself." He rushed her out the med bay doors and further down the hall, taking a couple turns before he slowed.

Meanwhile, Spy's disguise faded as he yanked his sleeve away from Sniper's hand. "I hope you've been washing your hands," he grumbled, dusting his sleeve off.

"You're welcome." Sniper stopped, and turned to face him.

"Now..." Spy reached for the papers. "Hand them over, bushman."

Sniper held the papers further away. "Tell me what this is about first."

Spy glared. "You already know what this is about."

"Oh, I do. It's you I'm not so sure about."

Rolling his eyes, Spy made another grab for the papers, only for Sniper to hold them away again. "You heard what I told Miss Pauling. I'm on a mission to find out what's happened to Pyro, and you are currently withholding vital intelligence for said mission."

"Yeah, you keep tellin' yourself that," Sniper said, his voice low.

"What are you talking about?"

Sniper leaned in closer, and Spy leaned back. "Funny, ain't it, how the one you decide to buddy up with is the one who can't talk back. Can't ask you what's wrong, or what you're running away from."

Anger bolted down Spy's spine. "Are you accusing me of being a coward? You're the one who hides in one place for an entire match!"

"You know that's not what I'm talking about, Spy." Even with his sunglasses, it was clear that Sniper was glaring at him. "Don't you. Or d'you have it buried so deep you don't even remember what you're buryin' anymore?"

"Stop talking nonsense and give me the papers!" Spy growled, making another swipe for them.

This time, Sniper let him snatch the papers, and leaned back. "...You really don't know, do you?"

Quickly he folded the papers and shoved them into his inner coat pocket before they could be grabbed away again. "What?"

Sniper went quiet for a long moment, before shrugging and turning away. "Nothing. Guess maybe you'll have to dig it up on your own."

Spy glared after him, but he was already heading away. He wasn't going to be digging anything, thank you—not in his suit, anyway. Instinctively he dusted off his sleeve again and hurried back up to his room, where he hopefully wouldn't be bothered any further.

Once safely in his room, Spy whipped the papers out of his pocket, unfolded them, and sat at his desk to read them over. For a moment he was confused at Soldier's papers being at the top before he recalled he'd asked for three of the mercs' medical records to avoid suspicion. He set the pages aside, and his eyes brightened at seeing the Pyro's class logo printed on one of the pages. He'd read this one before, when he'd first sneaked into Medic's lab, but now he had free access to all the information he needed. Setting aside the first page, he looked at the second.

His eyes were immediately drawn to the large text, reading:

DO NOT attempt to clean skin!!

Brows furrowed, he skimmed some of the writing after that, but there was no further information written on this point. Of course, he should have expected that—these were mainly for the Medic's reference, after all. Still, the other notes might prove useful. There was a recent date written, followed by more information:

Patient has submitted to a partial physical! Can be bribed with candy.

However, patient strongly resisted blood pressure and thyroid tests, likely due to recent trauma/shellshock. (Will try again later.)

"Goggles" seem to be a form of eyelid. Dense transparent lenses protect eyes beneath. Seems to be incapable of blinking.

Spy paused for a moment, and shuddered.

Heart rate elevated, though may or may not be due to anxiety. Normal heart rate unknown. More examination is necessary!

The notes on that page ended there, and Spy nearly crumpled them in frustration. Instead, he read them over again, his eyes drawn to the larger text once more. The previous page had noted the layer of soot coating Pyro's body, which Spy had witnessed himself. Could the soot be a protective layer? Or, perhaps, attempting to wash Pyro's skin resulted in injuring whatever poor sap attempted it. It did have a higher body temperature than normal—warm enough to burn someone, perhaps?

There was something there, he was sure. But what, he didn't know.

Sighing, he set the page aside, only to realize there was more beneath it.

Name: Jeremy—

Spy knocked a vial of ink over the papers, by complete accident and nothing more.

Some time later, he exited his room, and nearly bumped into the Pyro. Before he could stop himself, he held out the crumpled, ink-stained papers. "Here," he said. "Take these and burn them."

Pyro perked up and took the papers, but stared back at Spy, tilting its head.

Spy snorted. "How often does anyone give you kindling?"

Pyro stared at him a moment longer before turning back into its room, fishing its lighter out as it went. Spy watched it go, until it shut the door behind itself. With another sigh, he made his way down the stairs, only to stomp his foot on one of the steps.

That was his lighter!

#tf2 spy #tf2 pyro #tf2 sniper #miss pauling #team fortress 2 #tf2 heavy #tf2 medic #tf2 scout #my art #my writing #fanfic #flickering fanfic #OKAY! here's another chapter!#we've got three more after this

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