#Mywriting
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
moodymisty · 15 hours ago
Note
MORTARION X READER HURT/COMFORT!!! MORTARION NOT FEELING GOOD ENOUGH AND HIS PARTNER COMFORTING HIM!!! NOT NECESSARILY SEXUAL; YOUR CHOICE!!!! I AM VERY EXCITED FOR OPEN REQUESTS!!!
Tumblr media Tumblr media
Author's note: I love treating Mortarion with the love he never got <3 This is a bit short but I wanted to do just some tender cuddles that he's confused by Relationships: Mortarion/Gn!Reader Warnings: None, other than brief hints to Necare's abuse to Mortarion
Tumblr media
This is the first time Mortarion has ever been fully unclothed around you, and the feeling he has is...
Unsure.
The scars that litter his body are not subtle, they aren't attractive. He doesn't like you seeing them. He doesn't like you seeing his bare skin at all, it feels unnatural to him, but the scars are what aggravate him the most. They don't have stories of hard won battles and brawls for honor.
They're scars from Necare; Exploration. Long straight incisions along his sides, his stomach, his throat, his back. They don't have a story of courage and standing stalwart- it's of being chained down, cut open as someone dug and took to see inside; How much he could heal back from.
The one your fingers are brushing against he remembers vividly. The coldness against his back, the way he dug into the skin of his chest. You caress it like it's just something curious, laying against his side with his arm pressed against your back.
You'd manipulated his body into this pose; Mortarion doesn't... He doesn't know how any of this works.
How to be intimate how to be romantic, he researched books on anatomy, not how to care for another. He felt angrily stupid when you pushed his arm around to lay in the nook you'd made, but the other options were either yelling at you and pushing you away, or admitting he didn't know.
So he sat in moronic silence and let you manipulate him to your liking, until you found a reasonable spot.
You continue to fiddle with the smaller of his scars, cheek pressed against his bare skin. It's so dark in the room that he can barely see that your clothes are all gone, but he can feel enough of your bare skin against his that it still triggers that feeling of shock in him.
It's such a foreign feeling to him, but he allows it. If only because he never thought that such a luxury was even possible. On Barbarus to see skin was so rare, to touch skin even more so.
He didn't think the broken remains of his body were worth touching, either; Underneath the protective thoughts of not needing such things.
It was far easier for him to deny himself than it was to feel it and thus the loss; Though now that he has your affection, there wasn't much that could tear it away. Other than himself.
He feels you push against him harder, gathering what little warmth he produces. He feels the gentle brush of your hair against his skin when you lay your head against him.
He can hear your heartbeat- you aren't asleep yet. But it's slowing, you're drifting off. He's glad for it, he doesn't know how much more of your affection he could take tonight.
He doesn't deserve it, but at least for a moment he could pretend he did.
95 notes · View notes
dominikandrosky · 3 days ago
Link
62 notes · View notes
nottanothercritter · 3 days ago
Text
fearne calloway has always had quick fingers and a habit of finding the pieces that were not to be found. it's no different when the pieces become strings in her nana's loom. and maybe she spends more time there the moment that nana allows her to, just to study and watch, and maybe she finds her friends' threads. and maybe she takes her hell-branded, fire-marked claws and twists orym's thread around her finger once, twice, thrice, before letting it unfurl again.
and maybe when orym comes to visit, her nana gives her a long look and grabs her lantern with a sigh. fearne knows she is impressed, even if orym's servitude would have been an easy debt to settle with the way he comes around anyway. fearne is certain her nana will delight in an orym who is there of his own free will far more than whatever strange orym he sold himself as in desperation. fearne knows she certainly will.
51 notes · View notes
bellysoupset · 1 day ago
Text
The Belly Rub
"Are you meal prepping?" Max overheard Wendy ask Vince and he used his elbows to raise himself on the couch just in time to see her hug her boyfriend from behind and plant a kiss on his back, Vince moving his body so Max could see dozens of plastic containers being filled up with food.
"He clearly cannot cook," Vince scoffed and Max rolled his eyes, falling back down on the couch.
"He clearly can hear you," he said, loudly, and heard Wendy giggling and Vince letting out a huff.
"Weren't you sleepy? Sleep," Vince said, roughly, but his voice was coated with good humor and Max closed his eyes with a smile.
Honestly, he wasn't even a little bit sleepy. However telling Vince and Wendy that the super elaborate lunch Vince had put together for them was upsetting his stomach felt a little too humiliating on top of everything, so again he was just hoping he could nap and maybe the couple was going to get a hint and get out of his house-
"Hey," the couch jostled as Wendy sat down next to him and Max opened his eyes. Who was he kidding? He didn't want them to go. Never had his place felt as inviting as it did now, "is your foot bothering you?"
Max shook his head, curling up his good leg in order to give her space and Wendy leaned forward, resting her elbow on his knee and her chin on her knuckles, "you're very pale."
"I'm fine," Max forced out, hoping his words drowned out the angry gurgle from his stomach. It was churning, but not really digesting and he was fighting the urge to burp, despite knowing it was incredibly counterproductive to his don't-throw-up agenda.
Wendy squinted at him and behind her Vince finished putting away the pots and started washing his hands. Like a true Italian, he considered rude to eat without a shirt and had put it back on despite it still being a little humid, much to Max's disappointment and, he assumed, Wen's too.
A cramp went through Max's belly and he squeezed his eyes shut, feeling clammy and nauseated. He pulled himself up, unable to keep the charade, and heard Wendy let out a scoff.
"You're feeling sick," she deduced. Max opened his eyes in time to see her move closer, hands outstretched, ready to touch his stomach, only for her cheeks to suddenly turn strawberry red and her hands to freeze mid-air.
He cupped a hand in front of his lips, muffling a sickly little burp, "I'm sorry... Excuse me," it was out of character for Max to excuse his burps, but so was having a hot girl almost draped over him when he was feeling this sick... Said girl who looked like she was having a stroke.
"Wendy?" Vince touched her shoulder and she startled, letting out a little squeal and jumping up, a nervous chuckle escaping her.
Max raised his eyebrows, nausea forgotten for a split second as he watched this weird uncanny scene that was Wendy all flustered and pushing away from Vince.
"Sorry, I- uhm," she tugged at the neckline of her oversized shirt, "he's not feeling well," Wendy tattled, to Vin, who was staring at her with an equally shocked expression as Max, "I'm guessing lunch...?"
Vince turned to look at him, letting out a sympathetic sigh, "that's why you said you were sleepy?" he asked, sounding disappointed, "dude, you could've just said you didn't feel well, I know you have a sensitive stomach..."
Max's cheeks were burning. He wished a hole would open under him and the ground would swallow him, a desire that Wendy clearly shared judging by her nervous pacing.
"I'm fine," he said defensively, curling up as much as he could, which was a mistake, because it forced up a sick burp. Wendy let out a little giggle, turning around to cover her mouth and Max frowned at his lap, feeling incredibly self conscious.
He had been sick around Vince before, even in front of Wendy too, but it had been different. He didn't have a gigantic crush hanging over his neck like a guillotine knife, to begin with, and Vince didn't know about it and Wendy wasn't acting super fucking weird.
Vince's gigantic bear paw came to rest on his stomach and Max let out a shout, that was more of a squeal than anything, "what are you doing....?!"
"How did you get so bloated so quickly?" Vin raised his eyebrows, surprised and Wendy moved around, marching towards his bedroom while saying:
"Would pepto help? I saw a bottle on your nightstand-" she disappeared before Max could answer. He let his head fall back, while Vince pressed softly around and pushed up yet another burp, this one much deeper and brassy.
"This is so humiliating, please just kill me..." Max groaned, causing Vince to chuckle.
"I'll let you rub my stomach in the future and we'll call it quits," he promised, smoothly, and continued to rub in a clockwise motion over his shirt.
Max wasn't sure when was the last time, if ever, he had gotten his stomach rubbed. He wracked his memories, but couldn't come up with a single instance and his body corroborated the point, little cramps erupting under Vince's soft touch, clearly not used to the touch.
"You gotta burp," Wendy told him, softly, circling the couch and sitting on the coffee table, passing him the bottle. He felt a pang of thankfulness that at least she wasn't babying him enough to bring the medicine on a fucking spoon.
"I am," he said sourly, taking a swing of the bottle and grimacing at the sweet taste. He drank Pepto almost weekly and at this point had almost a reflex gag response to the taste, "you two are so damn weird..."
Vince snorted at that, eyebrows jumping and a little smirk tugging at the corner of his lip as he looked past Max's shoulder, to Wendy, as if they were sharing some inside joke.
"Sit up-" Wendy pushed Max's shoulder and slid on the couch behind him, all bossy, "lie down now-" she pulled him down and he let out a happy sigh as his head was cushioned by her thighs, much softer than the scratchy texture of his couch, "better uh?"
Her fingers started to comb through his hair and Max closed his eyes, refusing to look at any of them, turning on his side and bringing up a string of little burps as Vince continued to rub his stomach.
His hands were warm, even through the t-shirt fabric, and he seemed unbothered as his fingers pushed in and caused all sorts of gurgles to move around.
Max shivered violently as another wave of nausea washed over him and he could taste lunch all over again. It didn't help that since Vince had meal prepped, there was the lingering smell still... He gagged, pressing a hand to his mouth and heard Wendy say something, as he half sat up in order to lean out of the couch.
"Shhh," her nails ran on his scalp and up his back, "take a deep breath, you're okay..." she reached over his head and took a metal bowl from Vince's hand, holding it in her free hand, "just in case, okay?"
Max nodded, swallowing convulsively against another gag and then falling back down on her lap. He took a measured breath, then squirmed and touched his own stomach, shaking his head, "too... Too upset for you to rub..." he mumbled to Vince, who nodded and patted his thigh.
"Alright, I won't touch," he promised, "you good?"
Max nodded, but didn't dare open his mouth. He licked his lip, blowing out another little burp under his breath... Then shook his head and raised a hand. Vince immediately understood, taking his hand and pulling Max sitting up in one swift movement.
Wendy retrieved the bowl from the ground, holding it up under his chin, "Max?"
"Sorry..." his voice was all distorted and he spat the saliva pooling in his mouth, "sorry, it's-" a gag interrupted him and planted his hands over Wen's on the bowl, squeezing the receptacle and pressing it to his chest. A wet burp brought up a mouthful of his lunch and Max gagged loudly, squeezing his eyes shut and coughing several times before a much bigger gush came up.
He let out a groan, the pressure in his stomach immediately diminishing, although the awful swirly sensation was still there.
"Here," Vince had grabbed him a glass of water and was holding some paper towels in his other hand, a wrinkle between his eyebrows that Max was starting to realize was not him being angry, but worried.
"M'good-" Max vowed, taking the water and swishing it in his mouth, spitting it in the bowl, before taking another sip, "I'm alright..."
"Can I clear this up?" Wendy asked, moving her hand not holding the bowl to push his hair back, tucking it behind his ear, "are you done?"
"Think so..." His cheeks burned, "I'm sorry..."
"Don't even worry about it," Wendy rolled her eyes, moving up from the couch and Max folded forward, muffling a burp in his fist and taking measured breaths.
"I'm sorry about hurling lunch..." He grumbled, to Vince, who let out an audible scoff.
"Don't apologize for being sick, Daniels," Vince patted his back softly, "so... Do you want a belly rub or...?"
Max's whole face wrinkled up with a smile, he couldn't fight it, butterflies and complicated feelings be damned, these might be the coolest people he had ever known. Wendy returned to the couch just in time for him to collapse back down on her lap, letting out a little surprised noise as Max spread out and closed his eyes.
"Yeah, alright. A belly rub would be nice..." he said, throwing an arm over his face to hide his smile, not that it seemed to stop Vince at all from noticing or Wendy, who started stroking his hair back again.
"Soooo bossy..." She giggled, making him smile even more.
---------------
"Hey," Vince wrapped an arm around Wendy's waist, stopping her as she buzzed around Max's small home. It was night by now and she should be getting ready to go over to Vin's place, to get a good night of sleep, but instead Wendy was tidying up the place as if she was paid to do so, "c'mere."
Wendy melted immediately, slotting herself between his legs and Vince took a step back, sitting on the couch and pulling her to sit on his lap. In the distance, he could hear Max snoring inside the bedroom, passed out thanks to the meds.
"Are you alright?" he asked, pushing Wen's hair back and cupping her face, "you've done a lot, I don't think I can thank you enough."
She rolled her eyes, leaning in to kiss him, "I can think of several ways," Wendy whispered against his mouth, causing Vince to snort. For a second he had forgotten who his girlfriend was and it was incredibly relieving to know she'd always stand up for herself.
"Well, draft me a list," he squirmed under her, getting comfier and continued to stroke Wendy's cheeks, "you look tired, honey."
"Well, the past day was a lot and I drove-" she started, but Vince shook his head. If it was anyone else he'd believe it, but Wendy normally had energy enough to power a small town, this exhaustion around her eyes wasn't just from the impromptu road trip or dealing with Max's shenanigans, it was something else.
"No, you look worried, and not about Max," he twisted one of her hair strands, the wave tickling his fingers, "did something happen?"
Wendy's eyes widened, but she shook her head quickly. Vince squinted at her, "Wendy?"
"Nothing happened," her voice went up a note, as it did when she was lying and Vince frowned, continuing to pet her hair, "really, nothing happened."
"Uh-hu," he pulled back slightly, "talk with me? What is it, honey?"
She chewed on her bottom lip, averting her eyes and playing with his free hand, which was resting on his lap. Her fingers were dainty, tracing over his index, "I can't tell you," Wendy mumbled, "you don't have to worry, I just- It's not my place to talk about it."
Vince's frown deepened. He was relieved it was nothing pertaining his girlfriend, but it was worrying that it was about someone else in his friend group and he didn't know. Not for the first time he felt a pang at being so far away.
"Wendy-"
"Vince," she raised her head, eyes locking onto his, "I can't."
She was dead serious and Vince nodded, moving the hand that was cupping her cheek to her neck, then her back, rubbing it up and down, "Okay," he said after a split second, "alright... That's okay."
Wendy slumped against him, relieved, wrapping her arms around his neck and letting out a little giggle as Max snored once more, "he's like a chainsaw," she whispered, while Vince let out chuckle.
"I'm just about ready to smother him in his sleep," he confessed, lips pressed to Wendy's shoulder and she giggled at that.
"I forgot you wake up at every little noise," Wendy combed her fingers through his curls, mentally making a note he should cut them soon, "are you planning on crashing his couch all week?"
"At least until he gets used to the crutches," Vince scoffed, "I don't wake up with you snoring."
"That's because I don't snore," she berated him, tugging on a handful of hair and pulling his head up for a kiss, "have you told Luke about... About you coming back to Welton?" her voice was a whisper now and Vince shook his head, pressing his nose to the palm of her hand.
"No," he breathed in, "I'm going to, soon. I have an interview there next week, for a teacher position."
"Good," she traced his nose with her finger, then his mouth, "you also have to tell Max, Vin... You keep pulling him in, you gotta take some responsibility for when you leave..."
"I know," he nodded, nibbling at her fingertip, "after I get an answer from the job, I promise. I just worry he might pull back completely, you know? I don't want that to happen..."
"I know," Wendy pouted, "but he's an adult, you have be upfront about it. "
"I won't make the same mistake I made with you," Vince reassured her and Wendy bit down a smile, rolling her eyes and leaning in to kiss him, harder, this time pushing him down on the couch.
"If I was a more jealous woman, you'd be fucked for saying that," she whispered in his ear, cheekily, continuing to make out with him and Vince's hands moved from her thighs to her ass.
"Oh yeah?" He turned his head to whisper in her ear, keeping his voice low, "and if I was a jealous man I'd be pissed over you crashing out this evening," he bit her earlobe, making Wendy squeal and hurry to muffle the sound against his shoulder, "maybe I am jealous, actually."
He wasn't, really. It had been shocking to see Wendy so flustered over someone else having a tummy ache, when normally she was a pro at separating her fetish from real life, but after the initial shock, Vince had felt more amusement than anything else.
In fact, the only reason he wasn't teasing her further on the issue further was because this was Max's living room and they should not even be making out there, let alone discussing such things.
Wendy giggled as he turned his head and captured her lips once again, biting his bottom lip and wrapping her arms around his neck, "no, you're not-" she grinned, leaning back on his lap so he had all the access in the world to plant a bunch of kisses on her neck, slide his hand under the oversized shirt that was hanging on her like a dress, "not at all."
"Uhm," Vince closed his eyes, smiling and fiddling with the back of her bra under the shirt, letting the elastic fall back against her skin, "maybe I'm not."
44 notes · View notes
quanzb · 3 days ago
Link
33 notes · View notes
buildmeafairytale · 5 months ago
Text
Just thinking about a chubby farm girl who has never gotten much attention from the boys in her village or neighboring town. Some of them even pick on her, fegning interest only to turn around and laugh with their friends. She grows into a shy but sweet woman, with a full life of friends and family. She does not have a romantic life and only pretends to be okay with it.
One day she leaves her home to visit a friend who lives in a different village. A much less...human village. Her friend warns her about this, but leaves a few details out.
It's an orc stronghold. Her best friend moved into an orc stronghold.
She trots up on her horse and ohhhh boy. The guards at the door to the stronghold are young, close to her age. Young men who are given an easy task of keeping track of who is coming in and out, and to help anyone in need.
At the sight of this soft woman, their eyes jut out of their head and they basically make that 'ahhh oooo gah' noise.
Que all of the single orcs trying to court her during her stay.
6K notes · View notes
carlyraejepsans · 1 year ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
so who's excited for the valentines day UTDR newsletter.
5K notes · View notes
xiaq · 8 months ago
Text
I remember the first pride I ever attended: seventeen, half terrified, half bolstered by reckless bravery. In the parking lot, I painted my eyes in pink-purple-blue using the review mirror. On the walk to the parade route, I purchased a flag with cash and tied it around my neck like a cape.
I remember crawling up onto a metal electrical box on a street corner--violently hot against my bare skin in the Texas sun. I remember the heat didn't matter once the parade started, once I caught a handful of thrown beads, a crown, a fan. Someone passed me a bottle of bubbles and I blew them out over the crowd as not one, not two, but three church floats bedecked in crosses and rainbows marched past. I remember feeling like I could breathe for the first time maybe ever. But I also remember walking back to my car at the end. Giving away my crown, my fan, and my flag to two kids in a wagon, trying not to let my pathetic envy show as I met the eyes of their smiling parents. I cleaned the paint off my face in the same parking lot I applied it.
I kept the necklace--cheap and plastic and dangerous. I kept it for the first fifteen minutes of my drive until my anxiety demanded I pull into a gas station and throw it away.
I went to work: a four hour shift I'd said was eight. It was one of the few times I ever lied to my parents unless you counted the pervasive, quiet, lie of omission that lasted another decade.
Today, I got ready for another pride with my husband. I wore my denim vest with its collection of queer enamel pins. We walked together from our house to the parade route. At the end, we walked back together in a crowd of other pride-goers.
I texted my parents pictures without fear.
And this time, I took my beads home.
2K notes · View notes
inotakumagf · 1 month ago
Text
find me in the future
✶ sylus qin x gn!reader
Tumblr media
word count ✺ 2.1K
summary ✺ you wake up next to sylus. the only problem is that you don’t know how you ended up in his arms.
warning ✺ teeny tiny bit of angst, but it all works out in the end. description of injuries & fighting. i was very inspired by would you fall in love with me again? from epic the musical and s2e7 of arcane iykyk.....sylus is so soulmate-coded. reblogs & comments are very appreciated! :)
Tumblr media
You wake to a warm body pressed against your back. You nuzzle further into your plush pillow at the feeling, resting your hand over the strong arm across your waist. It's almost enough to lull you back to sleep. But your eyes snap open, and you jerk away. Now that your brain is not muddled with sleep, you remember that you went to bed alone. Because you have no one to share it with. 
“Sweetheart? Is everything alright?” The voice is rough with sleep, but very familiar. 
You sit up, turning to stare at the figure that was spooning you from behind. You fumble for your nightstand to flick on the switch of your lamp. It takes you a moment to find the switch and when you do, you squint at the brightness.
You blink at the man staring up at you. It’s Sylus. You know Sylus. But why is he in your bed? Why is his arm reaching out to rub against your skin? And why is he staring at you like you hung up the stars?
“I…” You don’t know what to say. He’s not the type of person to just show up in your bed uninvited. Did you go out drinking, without remembering? Did you…? 
“Did you have a nightmare, sweetheart?” He sits up and pulls you into his arms, running his large hand over your skin in comfort.
You watch as he does so, staring at the way his hands knead over you with so much familiarity. That’s when you notice the band on his ring finger. 
Your eyes widen in surprise. He’s married? You’ve never noticed him wearing a ring before, and you feel discomfort settling in your stomach at the sight of it now. He has a spouse, and yet he’s here with you.
Sylus presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Darling, I can practically hear you thinking hard. What’s wrong?”
“I can’t…” Your heart is hammering at a fast past as you try to remember how you got here. Why can’t you remember, and why is Sylus still touching on you so sweetly? The last time you had seen him, you were visiting the N109 Zone before your mission. There had been no kisses or sweet talk then. 
You rub your hands over your face roughly, and the pressure is enough to confirm that this is not a dream. Cool metal contrasts over your warm skin, and when you stare down at your hands, it starts to click together in your head.
There is a ring and wedding band on your ring finger to match Sylus’s. He runs his hands over yours soothingly, and you can see just how well his hands mold into yours. Your breath hitches with emotion.
Your confusion overwhelms you. You’ve barely been able to hold a conversation with Sylus and suddenly you’re married to him? 
The man drops his head to your shoulder and presses kisses along the skin until he reaches your jaw. “Sweetheart, you’re worrying me. Are you falling ill?”
He leans closer before pausing. His crimson eyes find yours. You can feel the warmth of his breaths. Just an inch more, and you’d be kissing him. You feel heat rush over you at the thought. You can’t lie and say you’ve never thought about what kissing Sylus would feel like. But even after becoming friendlier with the Onychinus head, he’s never indicated any affection towards you in that way.
“Is this alright?” He whispered against your skin.
You hesitate. This Sylus wants to kiss you, but only because he thinks you’re his spouse. You are an entirely different person than who he believes, and the thought of kissing him under questionable circumstances feels wrong.
You pull back slightly. “Sorry, I just…I don’t think I feel well.”
He smiles softly at you, an expression you’ve never seen on him before. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. Shall I fetch a cool towel for you? Or some tea? What can I do to make you feel better?”
You open your mouth to respond, but the sound of a radio crackles to life. You can hear a baby screaming. Your body is on high alert at the sound, but Sylus just chuckles and throws the duvet off of his side of the bed.
He leans over to press a kiss to the top of your head and says, “Rest. I’ll check on Josephine.”
When he leaves, it takes you a full moment to recover. Josephine? Not only are you married, but you have a baby girl too? How could you forget something like that? Once your mind clears, you follow Sylus out of the room. It’s hard to navigate the unfamiliar home, especially in the dark. But you follow the wailing of the baby to a nearby room. The door is slightly ajar, and you can hear Sylus’s deep voice.
“I’m right here, peanut. Nothing will ever harm you, not with me to protect you. I don’t suppose you’ll finally let me sing you to sleep? I swear I’ve been practicing.”
Even though she can’t understand him, baby Josephine gurgles a response.
You push the door open the rest of the way. Sylus is standing over a crib with a one year old in his arms. He turns at the creak of the door. The little girl has your hair texture in a silver shade that matches her father. You step closer slowly. You lift your hand to run the knuckle of your index finger over her smooth cheek. She turns her head so that she can gnaw on your finger. You smile softly at her.
“You should have stayed in bed, I can lull her back to sleep. You’ve had a long day.”
You stare down at the baby and then up at Sylus. You can feel tears accumulating, so you look back down to hide them. “I just wanted to see her.”
Sylus shifts Josephine so that she’s cradled securely in his left arm, and he uses the other arm to bring you close to his side. He kisses your forehead and keeps his lips there, causing your eyes to flutter shut. You could get used to this very easily. 
You would have never thought that the stoic and grumpy man would ever behave like this. You wish you could remember how you got to this moment, if only to understand how Sylus’s attitude towards you could change so drastically.
It's not that he is hateful or rude, he’s just very closed off, and all your attempts at getting to know him better are always shot down. 
Sylus sighs and mumbles into your skin, “You don’t have to tell me what’s bothering you now, but promise you’ll come to me if you need to let it out. I hate seeing you so upset.”
You nod as much as you can in his hold. Josephine has fallen back asleep with the gentle rocking that Sylus has been doing, so he lowers her back into her crib.
Once she’s down, he turns to you and sweeps you off your feet. You gasp and wrap your arms around his neck to steady yourself. You shoot him a glare, but he just chuckles and nuzzles his nose into your skin. 
“‘M sorry, darling. Come on, let’s go to bed.”
You rest your head against his chest, drifting off to the sound of his beating heart.
Tumblr media
It feels like only a moment has passed when you wake, flinching at the pain that overwhelms your body. Strong arms cradle you against a solid chest. It takes a second for the ringing in your ears to clear, and you can hear someone talking.
“Mx. Hunter, can you hear me? You need to stay awake.”
Sylus is looking down at you, brows furrowed in concern. You’re in the same position as you were moments ago, except you’re outside and in so, so much pain. You must have been hit in the chest, because each breath you take is a short gasp.
“What…happened?” you wheeze out. 
“Mephisto was flying above when he saw your fight with the Wanderer. He told me that after it hit you, you disappeared for sometime.”
Your mouth goes dry. “Disappeared?”
“The Wanderer was an Elite Herte Knave. Worrisome creatures, because of how they alter time and space with their attacks. It must have displaced you somewhere nearby, because you returned as soon as I defeated it.” Sylus’s tone of voice is back to the stiff way of speaking that you’ve been used to. He won’t even look you in the eye anymore. 
“You can put me down,” you mumble. “I can walk just fine.”
He glares at you. “Oh, you’re fine, are you? When I found you, I thought you were dead because of how still you were. You can’t rush into a fight like this with little regard for your safety. It’s irresponsible, and I’d expect more from a Hunter of your caliber.”
The stark contrast between how Sylus spoke to you before versus now makes your heart sink. Even now as you’re injured, he finds time to scold you. Had the Herte Knave manipulated your mind and made you see a future you could never have? Is it that cruel?
“I’m sorry,” you apologize quietly. You’re angry at yourself for thinking that what you saw could be anything more than an illusion. 
His eyes lock on you instantly. Sylus takes in your subdued demeanor, and he sighs. “I apologize for my tone. I was…worried about you. I don’t want to lose you.”
You stare at him, and it’s his turn to look away. “I mean, we can’t have Linkon City’s finest Hunter dying, can we?”
“Can you put me down now? I need to get back to headquarters to give Captain Jenna my report.” You want to get away as fast as possible, if only to defuse your embarrassment.
Sylus’s hands tighten around you. “You’re in no shape to go anywhere, especially not back to work. Let me take care of you.”
“You don’t need to do that,” you argue. “I can go to the hospital.”
Sylus stares at you with a look you can’t decipher. “If…that’s what you want. I apologize. I considered calling the Association to tip them about your state, but I worried you might be too wounded by the time backup arrived. I can bring you to Akso Hospital and…I won’t bother you again.”
Your brows furrow. “What? You’re not–I don’t want that.”
“Then what can I do? Ask, and it’s yours.”
“Why are you acting so weird?” Your frustration has only gotten stronger with each vague response from Sylus.
“I understand that you’re uncomfortable around me, so I’ll leave you alone,” he says, looking anywhere but at you.
You grab his lower jaw and tilt his stubborn face towards you. “I don’t want you to leave. Why would you think that, after everything?”
He lets you squeeze his cheeks, staring at you with a strange look in his eyes. It’s almost…vulnerable.
“You don’t want me to carry you, or treat your wounds,” he practically whispers. “And you’re always angry at me. I’ve clearly overextended my welcome in your life.”
You stare at him, mouth agape. “You’re…you can’t be serious. I thought you hated me. I thought you were tired of my behavior. I’m always provoking you.”
Sylus shakes his head, “I’m…sorry. I don’t intend to be so gruff all the time. I enjoy your company, and your antics.”
Your treacherous heart is beating a million miles a minute. “Then…”
He smiles, and you're relieved to see him nearly back to normal. “Then I’ll patch you up at my home. And,” he hesitates for a moment, “perhaps you can stay. Until you’re healed, of course.”
He waits for your answer, large hands tightening their grip at your thighs and over your side. You want to sink into the touch, and intertwine your soul with his if it were possible.
“Yes,” you say breathlessly. “I think I should.”
Sylus smiles, and you almost feel his relief. “Good,” he murmurs.
His eye catches something, and his lips pout in thought. You look down to see what has caught his attention. He’s staring at your hand, where there are cuts and bruises left as evidence of the Wanderer attack. But what stands out against all of those wounds is the band of indentation on your ring finger. Your breath catches as you stare at the mark, running your thumb over it gently. You smile, leaning your head against Sylus’s chest.
You don’t know what your future holds, but you know for certain that you want—need—Sylus in it.
902 notes · View notes
remuslupinslittleslut · 9 months ago
Note
hiii lovely! could you do a poly!marauders one where the reader wakes up needy and decides to relieve herself by grinding one of the marauders' thighs, leading to her being slowly and passionately fucked by all of them?
I think maybe I need to work on following instructions, I just took this and went with what turned me on at the time, hope you enjoy anyway 🩷 I think I'm not that good at slow and passionate....
Masterlist.
Tumblr media
James had his tongue buried in your pussy, your hands tugging at his hair, back arched and hips grinding down against his face. You shuddered as the edge of that one cliff came closer and closer.
Waking up was a disappointment. No James between your thighs (which was always a disappointment). It hadn’t all been a dream though, your hips had been grinding against something, only, not James’ tongue. Sirius was laying behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, your hair tickling his cheeks where it lay, pressed into your neck. His thigh was shoved between yours, and you realized you had been using it, in your sleep, to get off against. Sirius had beautiful thighs. Fleshy. They weren’t quite as good as James’ face, but not that far off. The memory of your dream fresh in your mind, along with the lovely thoughts of Sirius’ thighs, you decided to keep going, using his thigh to rub your clit against.
It took a few moments to get that really good feeling back, your orgasm having slipped away as you woke up. You tried to replay the dream from your inner eye, focusing your every thought on the feeling of James’ tongue against your clit.
Sirius’ arms wrapped harder around you pulling you closer, thighs flexing from between yours.
“Morning love,” his raspy voice murmured into your neck. “Having fun?”
“Mhm,” you hummed, hips moving in tandem with the flex of his thigh. “Ah- so much fun.”
You couldn’t help the moans escaping your mouth as his hands moved to your hips, guiding you against him, lips kissing down your shoulder.
“Such a pretty girl, getting off against my thigh, even in your sleep?”
“Y-ah-yes.”
Using his grip on your hips, he stilled your body, stopping your hips from moving, making you whine out in protest.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, lips against your ear, “just wanna be inside you.”
“Nghh,” you groaned, unable to wait a second longer for the feeling of Sirius’ cock inside you. Pushing your hips back against his crotch, you tried expressing your want without words. Thankfully, Sirius was used to your antics and lifted the hem of your shirt, fingers finding your already dampened hole, pushing in softly, spreading slick around, readying you for him. Grinding back once more, your body told him to hurry the eff up.
“I’ve got you babe,” he murmured, “just gotta get you ready.”
Only a few seconds later, he pushed down his own underpants, freeing his cock, giving it a few pumps before pushing your side slightly, moving you to lay partly on your side and partly on your tummy. Taking one strong hold on your hip, and using one hand to line himself up, it wasn’t long before he pushed himself inside of you, letting a loud groan out.
“Fuck, babe, feel so good,” he said, hips thrusting against your backside. “What got you this wet huh? Did you have a nice dream?”
Your cheeks burned; getting off against one of your boyfriends was one thing, telling him about your wet dreams about your other boyfriend was different. But Sirius felt so good inside you, and you knew he’d enjoy it if you told him, so you bit back your embarrassment and told him.
“Ye-ah,” your voice came out broken, his thrusts were more passionate than usual, long and languid strokes, taking his time, but you still struggled to speak through it. “I dreamed– that – oh – Jamie was – going down on me – he’s so – go-od at that.”
The hand on your hip squeezed harder as Sirius’ other came around to squeeze your tit.
“He really is good at that, maybe he should do it now, huh?” His words made you moan. “Jamie? Will you take care of our girl? She needs your mouth, I think.”
You hadn’t even realized that James and Remus had woken, but it wasn’t surprising; you weren’t exactly being quiet. When you met his eye, James looked at you with so much love in his eyes, adoration written all over his face.
“Sure thing,” he said, quickly looking over your shoulder to meet Sirius’ (whose hips had slowed down even more) eye. Looking back at you, James leaned in for a quick kiss and a “good morning, love,” before he dipped down along the bed, settling in between your thighs, hands caressing your milky skin.
As James got to work, tongue lapping with skill at your clit, Sirius kept moving his hips, dragging the head of his cock against your walls, reaching the most lovely places of your center. Just like you had in your dream, you reach your hand down to grab a hold of James’ hair, grinding your hips against his mouth and chin. Unlike your dream, though, you were also grinding back against Sirius, who stopped moving his hips, allowing you to get yourself off using him.
“Damn, babe, you’re so hot, so beautiful for us, so good, getting yourself off huh? Using my cock and Jamies’ face like the little cockslut that you are? Yeah, doing wonderful my love,” Sirius murmured against your neck, the grip on your hip having gotten softer, allowing you to move at your own accord.
James, whose mouth was slightly occupied, only hummed in agreement, as his tongue swirled around your nub.
Knowing how much his words affected you, Sirius kept talking you through it.
“Good girl, that’s it, does it feel good? Is Jamie doing well? D’you like my cock inside you? Are you gonna let Remmy have a go after you’ve milked me? Gotta take care of out moony y’know– fuck, look at him, watching you, he thinks you’re so pretty, our pretty girl, doing so well, are you gonna come? Gonna come all over me, and Jamie? Ready and open for Rem?”
He spoke absolute filth into your neck and ear, nipping at the skin, licking and biting at it, it sent shockwaves through your body, and you could feel that edge getting closer again. You did as Sirius said, looked at Remus, who had now sat himself up, leaning against the wall, pants pulled down to his thighs, hand around his cock, pumping slowly, eyes roaming over your body, you face, your tits, where Sirius played with your nipple, down to your core, where James’ head was stuck between your thighs as your hips ground against him.
It was all so hot, and as Sirius kept coaxing you to come, you finally did, hips stuttering and thighs squeezing James’ head. If you weren’t in the middle of an orgasm, you might be worried about hurting him, though he didn’t seem to mind.
“Pretty girl, doing so well,” Sirius said, moving your hair out of your face as your body kept convulsing. “Lay down on your tummy for me, babe.”
You did as you were told, and Sirius moved behind you, without ever pulling out completely. Straddling the backs of your thighs, he squeezed your arsecheek hard before he thrust himself inside you. It was almost too much, the cock you had just came around still being shoved inside you, but it also felt good, and you knew Sirius was close and that the feeling of him coming inside you would be worth the overstimulation.
“Hurry up Pads,” Remus groaned. His hand was no longer wrapped around himself, but rather around James’ now soft cock. It wasn’t the first time he’d come untouched from eating you out; in fact, he often did, but Remus would always enjoy taking one more from him, tugging at his soft and aching member, forcing him to give up just one more orgasm. “My turn soon.”
Trying to speed up the process, always ready to please Remus, you tried squeezing your walls around Sirius in time with his thrusts, tensing your muscles and using that grip to milk him dry.
You were rather successful. It wasn’t many seconds before he grunted as he came inside you, hips stilling and head falling down to kiss the back of yours.
“Thank you, love,” he murmured, before pushing himself up and off of you, moving to lay beside you. “Go ahead, moons.”
Remus flipped you over, apparently done with James’ spent cock.
“Hi darling,” he said, sitting next to you, face leaned down to kiss you. “Sleep well?”
“Morning Remmy, yeah, I did, you?” Your voice was still airy, still affected by your orgasm.
“Slept like a prince, baby, loved waking up to your little moans about Jamie’s mouth,” he teased, leaning away from your face and straddling your chest. “Are you gonna let me fuck your face now, baby? It won’t take long, promise, just need your mouth right now.”
His words felt like a mocking of your dream and your words about James, but it was sexy nonetheless, turning you on again, leaning your head back against the pillow and allowing your mouth to fall open. Instead of answering verbally, your tongue fell out and you relaxed your throat, showing Remus that you were ready for him.
“Such a good girl,” he said, raising his hips and feeding his cock into your mouth.
Focusing on your breathing and staying still and laxed for him, you allowed his cock into your mouth, his hips already stuttering from the feeling. His one hand was around his base and the other laid against your cheek, sometimes moving his cock to push against your cheek, feeling it with his hand.
Normally, you wouldn’t allow Remus to fuck your face like this, his cock was too big and it always bruised the back of your throat, but he did say he would be quick – and he was. The hand against your cheek wiping away the first set of tears running down your face, and it was as if the contact of thumb and tear pulled him apart because he was spilling inside your throat, cock slightly vibrating, and spurting come, filling your entire mouth.“Now that’s a good morning,” he murmured as he moved to lay beside you, kissing your entire face, licking into your mouth and tasting himself on your tongue. “Let’s get cleaned up, I’ll eat you out in the shower.” He added as a response to your groaning, not ready for the day to start.
3K notes · View notes
thedragonkween · 9 months ago
Text
King Baldwin IV Headcanons! ♔🤍♕
Tumblr media
A/N: So, here we are. I could not resist this mysterious and tormented king's charm. His silky voice makes me dream! These are some headcanons I've collected off the top of my head. The Reader is implied to be female and married to Baldwin IV. Please, do feel free to hit my inbox to ramble about our king because I'm literally dying of pining and yearning.
tags: female!reader x baldwin iv of jerusalem (from kingdom of heaven); reader is married to baldwin iv of jerusalem; fluff; slight angst towards the end
wc: 1150k
reccomended songs to listen to while reading: "Summertime Sadness" by Hildegard von Blingin; "Right Here" by Ashes Remain; "Blood, Sweat, Tears" by BTS (orchestral version)
"Many are the tales of the King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem and of his Queen. Despite the varying accounts of their deeds, each one of them agrees on one aspect: the King of Jerusalem loved his Queen dearly, and the world is richer for it".
Baldwin IV is mysterious, intense, valiant, noble and utterly devoted to you, his Queen. But what does this devotion look like?
Firstly, he would believe in you like no other and would always be ready to give you his best advice whenever the weight of your responsibility becomes too much. Foreign rulers would soon learn of your qualities - there would hardly be a piece of correspondence where the King of Jerusalem does not praise the intellect and insight of his dear wife. He would glance at you from time to time, while you both work at your desks sharing the burden of paperwork, silently thanking God for having sent him not only a beautiful, but reliable life companion as well.
He values your opinions greatly and has the utmost regard for your views on political, military and state matters. Disagreements happen, yet your overall values are aligned, which is why Baldwin understands your vision and where your point comes from. During the discussions regarding complex decisions, he would let you speak and explain, then he would offer his honest thoughts on the matter, should he see another, different way from yours. 
Playing chess is a favorite way of spending quality time together in your chambers, away from the chaos of the court. If you know how to play and are proficient at it, he would delight in the thrill of challenge, as he would finally have found a true equal. If you do not know how to play, he would teach you with patience, taking pride whenever you make an unexpected and astute move. He would be such a nerd while he explains the rules to you and would be delighted to see how your mind works when devising a plan.
"Congratulations, dove. You have a checkmate."
Tumblr media
I can also see Baldwin taking you on long rides, if his health allows it. He would sweetly check the reins and saddle on your horse before mounting on his steed and leading you away to enjoy the cool early morning breeze, before the heat of Jerusalem becomes too sweltering. You would have a nice and secluded spot to enjoy and to pretend that you are a couple of young lovers without responsibilities and crowns weighing on your heads.
Your presence brings him safety and comfort, which is what would convince him to remove his mask when he is alone with you and the physicians. He would especially love to rest his head on your lap as you gently caress his curls while the physicians tend to his skin. It is a sacred moment. He does not know how he went so long without your presence during this delicate time. Speaking softly to each other, you would distract him from the pain with talk of your hometown, fairy tales from your culture, or even simply reflecting on a happening of that day. On these occasions, you learn how to best take care of him, watching the physician tend to his arm while you tend to the other, delicately dabbing the cloth over his wounded skin. Baldwin feels so protected and safe in your presence. He thinks you are God’s greatest gift to him.
Now, jealousy. Baldwin knows he boasts the honor of having an exquisite flower such as yourself to call his own. As do powerful men and courtiers from distant lands. Many covet your loveliness as one would a precious gem. Should one of these foolish people try to take you from him or even stare at you for too long to be considered proper, they would be met with a pure force to be reckoned with. Should a knight’s eye linger on you for too long, he would be quick to put him in place in his signature glacial, elegant way. Before long, everyone learns not to disrespect the Queen consort of Jerusalem.
“Perhaps you would have understood my point, had you not been so insolently ogling my wife”. He takes out his whip. “On your knees. You will pay for insulting the Queen”.
Tumblr media
He would protect you with his life. He swore to protect Jerusalem and, as its Queen, that includes first of all you. Should a courtier doubt your devotion and mistake it for thirst for power, or should he learn of an orchestrated attempt on your life, he would waste no time in employing his best forces in your service to defend you.
His enemies and templars alike fear him, yet with you he is as gentle as the morning breeze that gently caresses Jerusalem. This powerful king who makes armies tremble and kingdoms shake is the same person who holds and kisses your hand (when in public, bringing your fingers to the lips of his mask), who silently admires your loveliness from afar and sighs to himself, who longs for your warmth after a tiring day. 
He would write you letters. Lots of them. And not always when he is away. Maybe he just liked the way the sun reflected in your eyes that morning. Or maybe when you helped a servant, he was moved by your kindness. Your every action inspires him, so much so that he has to let out his thoughts on paper. You have a pretty wooden box brimming with delicate papers penned by Baldwin in your honor. He is not only the King of Jerusalem, but also the king of pining, of yearning. Even when he has you near, he yearns for you.
I love to imagine him letting you accompany him to battle. He would love it too, in theory. You make him so strong, the both of you would be quite the sight, meeting your enemies head on, as one, donning your best armors. Yet, at the same time I cannot imagine him resting easy knowing that a loose arrow, a desperate soldier seeking glory for killing the Queen of Jerusalem, or fatigue and sickness could take you from him. It pains his heart to be parted from you, yet he cannot risk your safety. Instead, Baldwin would trust you with ruling the kingdom. He has absolute faith in your intelligence, willpower and cleverness, especially after all he has taught you about running the realm. He longs for you every second he’s away from Jerusalem, yet his heart is at peace knowing his kingdom is in the most capable hands.
When he feels that his time on this Earth is nearing his end, he calls for his most trusted advisors, including Balian and Tiberias. He would ask them, almost begging, to protect you always, at all costs, when he is no longer there to do so. Balian and Tiberias would exchange a quick glance to each other, vowing to respect their King’s wish until the very end.
“Protect her. Please.” “Always, my Lord”.
Tumblr media
Poems, songs and stories would be written in honor of your love even centuries after your passing. Many tales would speak of Baldwin IV of Jerusalem and his Queen. Different pieces of art, such as paintings and ballads, would inspire people from all over the world to find a love as devoted and unshakable as yours. Until the very end.
All in all, to love Baldwin means knowing your time together is limited. As is the time of all creatures on Earth. He would beg you to go on after his passing, to live for him. He shall wait for you and protect you from above. Until the very end.
1K notes · View notes
thedreamlessnights · 10 months ago
Note
Since requests are open, here's my suggestion: I recently revisited my old mythology book and found one of the myths about aphrodite bathing in a lake and blinds some pervs that sneaked up to watch her. Now, the reader might not have the powers of a goddess but you know what she does have? A dagger-happy vampire boyfriend more than willing to shank unwanted peeping toms (in his defense, he actually asked if he could be there, so no harm done here). Idk, I just like the idea of the reader having scary dog privileges and Astarion not minding looking menacing/scary while doing so
Thank you so, so much for this request, anon. It's an absolutely incredible concept, and it fits Astarion so well! I had such a fun time writing it, and I really hope you enjoy the result!
For Your Eyes Only
Astarion x F!Reader - NSFW
Content warnings: Mentions of brief, non-consensual voyeurism. Somewhat graphic violence, as well as mentions of blood, degrading terms, and the description of an injury and death. Explicit sexual content, including: oral sex (receiving), penetrative sex, fingering, multiple orgasms, blood drinking, and ear play. Tags: Takes place post-Cazador, some point in Act 3. Includes mild spoilers. Established relationship, a bit of emotional hurt/comfort, and tender smut.
Word Count: 5.8k
Tumblr media
After the darkness and chill of the Shadowlands, the heat in the city feels suffocating.
You missed the warmth dearly back then, trudging through despair and gloom, thinking of nothing but the inevitable relief of the city. Your bones always ached something awful in that foul place, never warm enough to ward away the icy air. Now, though, it occurs to you that you hadn’t fully appreciated the cold when you had it. 
The sun that streams down from the skies is blistering - scorching, even - and without reprieve or relief. Sweat courses down your neck, soaking the collar of your shirt. Your socks are damp inside your boots, and where the leather meets your calves, they’re chafing. 
Gods, what you wouldn’t give for a bit of that chill again. Even with the achy bones.
What’s worse is the mud, somehow. One would think that Baldur’s Gate would be scarce on its share of the stuff, but it’s everywhere. Tracked up from Rivington, puddling in the streets, clinging to the bottom of boots.
Granted, your boots have seen more than their fair share of mud since the nautiloid: sticky, wet, warm. It’s seeped into socks and splattered across new armor, stained some of your favorite nightwear. Sometimes, when you’ve finally settled down for dinner, you’ve been able to taste it. No amount of scrubbing rids you of the earthy, bitter taste for long. 
The mud in front of you is different, though. By all accounts, the heat should have baked everything at least somewhat dry, but this puddle remains. If it can even be called a puddle, really. The gloppy, wet mess looks more like a pond, and completely blocks the only path ahead. Even the edges of it remain entirely liquid. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it’d just rained.
A quick glance at your map confirms what you’d feared; this is the only nearby route to your destination. You’re on the outskirts of the city. Rock walls line either side of the path, too steep to climb. You know for a fact that Shadowheart had recently used your last Potion of Flying. Either you lose hours of progress to get Gale from camp so you can cross, or you’ll have to proceed through this stupid pond.
Astarion watches you eye the mess with a dramatic flick of his wrist. “Oh, by all means, darling, you go first!” he exclaims, raising a brow. “It won’t be me jumping in that slop.”
Karlach frowns at the mud’s appearance, tapping the toe of her boot against the surface. It ripples at the movement, brown waves gently sloshing against the surface of the nearby stone. “Can’t be that deep, right?”
“I don’t know,” you reply. You’re aching for a stick or loose branch, something to measure it, but there’s nothing around. Just grass and stone, the scalding sun on the back of your neck, and the muddy pond directly in the middle of the path. 
“I say we go back,” Shadowheart urges. “I don’t know about any of you, but I’m not keen on dirtying myself.”
“We’d have to backtrack through hours of traveling,” you point out. “There’s no other way forward. I’ve checked the map.”
“Fine,” she relents, crossing her arms across her chest. “You go first, and we’ll follow behind you. Once we’ve seen it’s safe, that is.”
And, hells, you do not want to step foot in there. Not one bit. Still, do you have much of a choice? Your feet are already aching from the day’s walk. It would be devastating to lose all your progress. So, no - you really don’t have a choice, not if you want to get those Netherstones and stop the Absolute in time. The quakes in the city have only been getting worse.
“Alright,” you finally reply, your voice stronger than you feel. 
You step forward, pressing your right boot against the mud, then apply your weight. Your heel breaks the surface with a terrifying rush of movement, and your leg instantly slides down into the muck - much deeper than you’d thought, deeper than it should be. When your foot hits the bottom, sticky, cold mud splatters up, painting your shirt, neck, and parts of your face. 
Suddenly, the day isn’t quite so warm.
When you finally muster the courage to look down, your right leg is submerged up to the knee, soaking through your trousers. You can practically hear the sick squelch of it making its way into your socks, squishing between your toes.
“Urgh,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as you attempt to pull your leg up. “Disgusting.” But it won’t budge. In fact, your squirming seems to be making you sink down even further. You try to shift your weight, but your balance is uneven with one leg in and one leg out. You’re dangerously close to losing your footing, and every bit you struggle threatens to tilt you face-first into the makeshift mud pond. In a prime moment of idiocy, you plant your other foot in the mud for support, and find your bottom half completely unable to move.
“What a brilliant idea,” Shadowheart says. “Now you’re stuck.”
“Thank you, Shadowheart,” you grit out, sweat dripping down your neck as you attempt to twist yourself around. “I had no idea!”
Karlach steps behind you, laughing a little. “Come on. Up you go, soldier,” she says, leveraging her arms under yours and giving a quick tug. You’re expecting the mud to release you, but it doesn’t. Your legs don’t budge - not even an inch. 
“What in the…?” she mutters, giving another pull. This one has more force behind it; when she tries to haul you up, white-hot pain sears up through your ribs, ripping an agonized cry from your lips. No matter how hard she yanks, the mud’s grip only tightens around you. It’s beginning to feel like you’re a brittle piece of rope in a vicious game of tug-of-war. 
“Shit! I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “So, so, sorry!”
“What are you doing?” Astarion asks, his voice suddenly sharp. “You’re hurting her! Put her down!”
“So she can get sucked further into the mud?” Shadowheart asks. Her voice is lined with fear now, which is scaring you more than anything else about this miserable situation. “We have to get her out!”
But it quickly becomes clear that no matter how hard Karlach pulls, it’s useless. Every yank is agony, and you only sink further and further. Tears stream down your cheeks from the pain, and your spine feels like it’s gained a good two inches from being stretched, but still nothing. No give at all.
Eventually, Karlach lets you go. Your body plops down in relief, but the mud is somehow deeper than it was before. It’s up to the bottom of your ribs now. 
“Fuck me,” she pants, wiping her forehead. “What should we do?”
“How should I know?” Astarion’s face is drawn, more pallid than usual. His lips are pinched into a line. He should be telling you I told you so, making jokes - and you know he would be, if he were anything but absolutely terrified. Your panic is bad enough with the heaviness of the mud on your chest and lower body, but the look on his face? That tells you it’s even worse than it feels.
 “Step back,” Shadowheart instructs quietly. “I have an idea.” 
Once the two of them are out of the way, she steps forward. Stretching out her hands, she mutters an incantation into the air. In seconds, the slight chill of the mud surrounding you becomes sharp, painful ice that burns against every exposed inch of skin it touches. A very muddy shade of ice, but ice all the same. 
Karlach’s axe crashes through the surface and it shatters, breaking around you. After another hit and a moment of digging, she finally has you out: freezing, still covered in mud, and very sore - but alive.
“Thank you,” you manage, choking out the words between your shivering.
“Never say I didn’t do anything for you,” Shadowheart says, smiling a little. She lets out a breath of relief, the tension bleeding from her shoulders. “Now. Turning around, are we?”
Tumblr media
By the time you get back to camp, you’re the most uncomfortable you’ve ever been in your life. You’re wet and cold and exhausted, caked with dried mud that pulls at your skin when you move. It’s in your hair, on your face, and in your shoes, squelching with every step. The feeling makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Your ribs are sore and achy, and - on top of all of that - you’ve lost a good day’s worth of travel. 
The only thing you want is to fall into Astarion’s arms, but he wrinkles his nose when you come near, holding out a finger to stop you. “Oh, no you don't,” he says. “Bath first. Then you can talk to me, darling.”
It seems no amount of persuasion is going to change his mind, so you head back to your tent and grab a number of supplies - soap, sponges, a towel, and a change of clothes. Your trusty knife for protection. The river is bound to be freezing, but it’s better than sponging yourself down and hoping for the best. 
Thank the gods you’d found a decent pair of boots in an abandoned house today, because the ones that are currently plastered to your feet will take days to dry out, even in the hot sun. When you get to the nearby river, you don’t even bother to take them off before you plunge them into icy water, sufficiently drenching them until you can furiously loosen the mud enough to slip them off and toss them onto the riverbank.
The rest of your clothing gets the same treatment: the trousers which slowly pull away from your skin, the shirt that’s splattered with mud and covered in it up to the waist. Your hair will no doubt be a disaster, too. 
You’re still sitting in the soaking-wet clothes when you hear the sound of a twig snapping behind you. Your hand instantly grabs for your knife, ready to throw it at whatever threat might be in the woods as your eyes sweep along the trees. 
Nothing. You find nothing.
“Darling,” comes Astarion’s voice. He slips out from the shadows, immaculately clean, gazing down at the weapon in your hand with a lifted brow. “Planning to render me dead twice-over?”
“You scared the living hells out of me, Astarion!” you snap, sucking in a shaky breath. The blade drops from your loosened fingers, softly thumping against the dirt. “What are you doing out here?” 
He steps closer, taking a seat on a nearby log. “You were taking ages to get clean,” he whines, sprawling out his legs in front of him. “And, unfortunately, our companions haven’t had an argument all night. How else am I meant to entertain myself? So here I am. Trudging through the woods for your company.”
“You could give me a warning next time,” you reply, still a little jarred. “I thought you were someone hoping to catch an eyeful.”
A smirk flickers across his lips. “Oh, but I am,” he says. “Do you mind terribly?”
Against your will, your cheeks heat, and his smile widens. “I don’t mind,” you say. “Not if you behave, that is. Hands to yourself.” 
“I’ll be on my very best behavior,” he promises. Leaning forward, he prods your boots, wrinkling his nose at the sight. “Gods below. Those disgusting things should be burned.”
“I have an extra pair.” You move to tug your shirt off, but it’s clinging to you. “Gods damn that stupid mud pile. I should have asked Gale to use a cleaning spell.”
“Oh, please,” Astarion says. “He’s been sulking in his tent all evening. Apparently, being asked to blow yourself up by an old flame doesn’t do much in the way of socializing.”
The shirt finally pulls free, and it’s clear that your smallclothes have received the same treatment as the rest of your garments. Gods, you really should have asked for that cleaning spell. This mud is going to take ages to get out.
“Hand that here,” Astarion says, motioning for your shirt. You toss it to him, and he inspects it closely before setting aside.
“What?” you ask. “What were you looking for?”
“Oh, darling, nothing,” he says. “That’s my ‘to be burned’ pile. We’ll get you a new one.”
You’d argue, but you aren’t very attached to your current outfit - and besides, after weeks of trekking through wilderness and Shadowlands alike, it’s falling apart even without the mud. 
“Do what you want with it,” you grumble, finally pulling off your smallclothes. “That shirt was barely surviving anyway.”
You glance over your shoulder and find him observing with a raised brow, slowly taking the sight of you in. You must look like a mess, but you’d never know it from the glint in the eye, or the complacent smile that plays upon his lips. Heat stirs low in your belly, simmering under your skin. Later, you tell yourself. When you aren’t covered in filth.
You lather up the soap on your sponge, scrubbing away the mud the best you can, but the damned stuff takes ages to get off. By the time you’re finally clean, the silvery moon is high in the sky, and your skin is beginning to prune.
Astarion makes a small comment or two, but mostly seems content to watch you in silence. His gaze burns over every inch of exposed skin, leaving phantom heat wherever it stalls. All you want is to get out of this damned river and touch him, but you’re determined to get every bit of the mud off before you do, and it’s taking much longer than you’d hoped.
When you’re finally presentable, you start on cleaning your filthy smallclothes. The soap is slippery, making it difficult to do much scrubbing, and the water alone is doing hardly anything. 
Astarion watches you struggling, huffing as you nearly drop the soap bar in the river. After a moment, he lets out an exasperated sigh. “Dearest, you do realize that it would be much easier if you-”
But his words suddenly cut off. His head snaps toward the woods, and every nerve in your body burns with fear. In the span of seconds, he’s lunged forward, grabbed your knife, and darted after the sound. 
Not a moment later, there’s a loud crash - some form of impact as he tackles whatever it was that he heard. You instantly push yourself out of the water without thinking, numb, your heart pounding in your chest as you stumble into the forest after him. It only takes a few steps in before you see it: a man on the ground, Astarion’s knife to his throat.
Your stomach churns, and your skin prickles in the air’s chill. How much had he seen? How long had he been standing there?
Astarion is shouting something at him, and the stranger is struggling against his hold, but it’s useless. He’s a scrawny, weak little thing, no match for Astarion’s lithe, nimble strength. No amount of twisting or fighting dislodges Astarion’s grip. After a moment, he finally gives up, cackling like an old hag as his head plops down against the dirt.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now,” Astarion hisses, anger contorting his features.
In response, the man spits in his face. “She’s your bitch, is she?” he croaks. “You can take a turn after I’m done with her.”
Astarion snarls in response, gripping the man’s collar and pressing the blade deeper into the skin until it draws blood. 
“Wait,” you call, stepping closer. “Don’t.”
Astarion blinks in disbelief, sitting up, careful to keep his weight on the stranger underneath. “My love, you can’t be serious,” he says. “You want to spare this-”
“Spare?” you echo, cutting off his words. “Who said anything about sparing him?” 
Something glints in his gaze as he takes in your words. “Darling,” he drawls, his tone admirational. “By all means.”
He hands you the knife, and you kneel down next to him. It’s heavy in your hand, cold and smooth as you run your finger over the flat edge of the blade. You stare at the shimmer of it for a moment, entranced, somehow calm in the midst of this chaos. Then you slam the bottom of the hilt into the man’s nose.
There’s a sickening crunch before he screams, blood streaming over his mouth and spilling down his chin. Even after last night’s feeding, Astarion tenses up at the smell of it, but the curl of his lip tells you that he won’t be drinking from this piece of absolute refuse.
When the stranger reaches over and grabs at your arm, you almost don’t even realize - you’re so caught up in your own mind, in the weight of the knife in your hand. Then his nails dig into your skin, and everything hits you at once.
The freezing night air. The stinging, throbbing pain that flares through your skin as he claws at you, unable to do much more. The feel of Astarion’s hand, gentle but firm, prying the knife from your grip. It happens before you can even react - a swift slice of the blade, slitting the man’s throat. Dark blood, gushing from the wound and onto the dirt below.
For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of your breathing. Sharp but shallow, straining in your chest. Jagged air that flows in and out, but it does nothing to stop the increasing amount of black in your vision. 
You’ve fought and killed more people than you can count so… why does this feel different? Why here, why now? You’ve nearly died before, so why does the scrape on your arm feel like it’s much more than that?
Then Astarion’s hands envelop your cheeks, blissfully cool, and the panic and pain seep out all at once.
“Darling,” he’s saying, half-breathless, “are you alright?”
You manage to nod, and some of the concern leaves his eyes. He runs his fingers over the scrape on your arm, and you wince. “We need to get you patched up,” he murmurs, his brows pinching together.
“Don’t take me to Shadowheart,” you choke out. She’s already done you enough favors, and you won’t be able to stand her disapproving gaze if you disturb her rest after today’s fiasco.
He huffs. “Stubborn little thing,” he mutters, but he doesn’t argue. 
Instead, he heads back to your supplies by the river. When he returns, he wraps a towel over your shoulders, and it’s only then that you realize you’re naked. Completely, utterly naked. It had been bold of you to break that bastard’s nose in the nude, but… well, it hadn’t been your intention.
He’s dead now, though. He’ll never look at you again.
Astarion sweeps you up into his arms and carries you out of the woods along with your clean change of clothes, holding you tight against his chest and leaving your soiled clothing behind. 
You can’t find it in you to care at the moment. You’ve scrounged up plenty of clothing along the journey; those torn, stained things won’t be missed. Not to mention, if you ever need more, Astarion will gladly steal you some new ones.
He takes you to your tent, and you’re grateful to see that everyone else has turned in for the night. Anyone awake to see you would inevitably have questions, and this only affirms your decision to avoid Shadowheart - if you woke her up to heal a minor scrape on your arm, she’d be seething. 
And though she’d undoubtedly be sympathetic after hearing the cause, you don’t think you can muster up the words to tell her what’d happened.
After he’s carefully set you down on your bedroll, Astarion yanks the flap of your tent closed and reaches for your pack, digging through the contents until he’s found some bandages. His grip is gentle as he takes your arm and swipes some remnants of a healing potion over it. You’ve been through this dozens of times, but you can never seem to shake the urge to wince as it sets in - the potion stings just a bit before it soothes, a sharp tingling that fades into a sweet, balming relief. 
You’ve calmed down some, warming up in your tent with him, but Astarion’s hands are shaking as he wraps the wound. His brows are pinched together, his swallows are thick and strained, and he can’t seem to meet your eyes, even when he’s done bandaging you up.
“Astarion,” you murmur. “He’s dead.”
He stills in place, jaw clenching as he inhales sharply, still not meeting your gaze. Instead, he glowers down at the tent’s floor, his hands balling into fists. “He deserved so much worse than that,” he snaps. 
You don’t argue with him. Instead, you let him fuss over you, taking the time to smooth through your wet hair, plucking out remaining leaves and twigs from the woods. He gets you into a warm, fluffy robe - only the gods know where he’d managed to find something like that - then pulls you close, his thumb stroking over your cheek. You rest your head against his chest and close your eyes, listening to the soft sounds of his body working under his skin. No heartbeat, of course, just the quiet churn of his movements, the rise and fall of his ribs that’s become habit to him. 
After a moment, he takes your face in his hands, just as he had in the woods - but when you meet his gaze, there’s a sharp intensity in his eyes rather than fear. He takes you in little by little, tilting your head up to brush his fingers over the fading marks on your neck. 
Then he leans in, and you catch the smell of him you know so well, lingering on his skin like soap. Bergamot, rosemary, brandy. It’s what you associate most with him, that sweet, sharp scent that bathes over you. When his lips finally meet yours, the kiss is rough and desperate, heated and aching. His fangs scrape over your lip, grazing the delicate skin but not breaking it. His tongue slides into your mouth, and his hand returns to the back of your neck, tightening his grip.
One of your hands fix into his shirt as you lean into him, nipping at his lip. You shift your free hand up into his hair, tousling through the soft, silky curls before gently tugging. He groans and pulls you closer, and - gods, it’s incredible. Warmth drags down your spine like a hot coal, searing and addictive. You squirm a little in his grasp, shifting until you’re straddling his hips, and he pulls away to kiss down your jaw, murmuring soft words into the skin.
When he gets to your chest, you let him untie the robe and spread his hands underneath, peeling the fabric off your shoulders, fingers slowly warming as they trail down your back. His hands settle on your waist as he kisses you again, mouth soft against yours.
Gods, you need him. You’re already soaked, and he’s barely even touched you.
You can feel him hardening underneath you, his movements growing desperate, his breathing labored. You grind your hips against him and he lets out a strained noise against your lips, shuddering. He pulls away, examining your expression as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. 
The movement is tender and incredibly sweet, but you’re hardly patient. You’ve been wanting him ever since he sat on that log in the forest, gaze roaming over every inch of you. You let out a soft whine, attempting to tug off his shirt. He does absolutely nothing to help you.
“Astarion,” you breathe. “Please.”
“Hm? Did you want something, darling?” he asks, the desire in his voice betraying his otherwise casual tone.
“I want you,” you tell him, rolling your hips again in search of the friction you so desperately need. “Please. I want you.”
“Easy, love. You have me,” he replies, brushing his thumb against your lips. Your heart swells with a fondness that would threaten to make you cry if you weren’t so ridiculously needy.
And finally, thank the gods, he takes off his godsdamned shirt.
You run a hand up his shoulder, then into his hair. You’d once thought that he was using a special shampoo - his hair was so soft, it seemed the only explanation. Then you’d seen him with the same shampoo you were using, and you’d practically wept with envy over his ridiculously perfect genes. Even now, as you run your hands through the silk-soft curls, you don’t understand it. 
Then you trace up the line of his ear, and he shudders, leaning into your touch. When you gently massage the tip of his helix, he lets out a soft, seeking noise and his eyes flutter shut. Hells, you swear that you can feel him growing even harder beneath you. Another roll of your hips and his eyes slowly open again, half-lidded and glazed with desire. His hands firmly grip your waist, and there’s the briefest sensation of falling as he rolls you back onto your bedroll, tucking the pillow under your head.
He kisses along your clavicle, nosing down your ribs, humming against your skin. Feather-light brushes of his lips meet your ribs, then your breast, pausing to swipe his tongue over your nipple before he proceeds downward. When he arrives at your navel, your legs automatically spread open for him, and he lets out a hum of approval. He takes a leg in his hand and kisses up the thigh, warm, sharp kisses that trail up to the place you want him most.
He starts off slowly - a long lick over your clit, a quick swipe of his tongue before he settles between your legs, propping your thigh over his shoulder and starting a maddening rhythm. After all this time, you really should know how much pleasure to expect - but after everything, after his confession in the Shadowlands and the fear with Cazador, this still feels… new.
And Astarion is very, very good at what he does. He seems to know exactly what you want before you do, before your mind can put it into tangible thought, and before your body can even search for it. He works a finger into you, then two, and you’re left gasping and squirming as he sets an agonizingly slow pace. After a moment, he speeds up, just where you want him, perfect, perfect-
And then he pulls away, and the look on his face practically shouts that he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Of course he does. He’s always been a tease. His fingers continue their work, languidly dragging in and out of you as he speaks.
“You know,” he says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, “back at the river, this was all I could think about. Getting my mouth on you. Watching you come apart piece by piece.”
Gods, he’s been direct before, but never that direct. Frankly, you’re surprised you don’t come then and there. Instead, you clench hard around his fingers and whimper, rolling your hips in time with his movements.
“Astarion,” you pant, unable to coax your mind into forming a coherent reply. “Gods, Astarion.”
He hums in response, flashing you a wicked grin. “That’s it, darling,” he encourages, shifting his fingers until they’re brushing against a spot that makes your vision black out. “Say my name. Let everyone hear you.”
You manage a laugh that quickly fades into a soft moan. “The entire camp will kill me if I wake them up.”
He nips at your thigh. “Let them try,” he muses. “They’ll have to get through me.”
He lowers his mouth between your legs again, and your head falls back against the pillow. It’s an embarrassingly short time before your muscles start to tense up, wiring you with pleasure from head to toe. One of your hands fixes in his hair, pulling tightly as white-hot pleasure sparks through your abdomen, and oh, gods, you’re coming-
Your vision cuts out again. Your mind fuzzes over, drunk with pleasure, leaving you shuddering, clenching around his fingers, moaning into your free hand. 
You know he’d prefer to hear you, but if you actually disturb any of the others, you’ll die of embarrassment. One day, the two of you will have your own house with a real bed, and you’ll be as loud as you want. For now, you muffle your cries into your fingers and tremble through your climax.
Your body floats weightlessly for a moment in what must be Elysium, until you finally rejoin yourself and find your limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Astarion huffs, placing a final kiss on you until he crawls upward, kissing up your chest again. 
He’s still holding himself back - you can see it in the way he moves, in the tension of his muscles and the coil of his shoulders. There’s a fire in his eyes, a hunger that you recognize so well. When he reaches your neck, you instinctively tilt your head, allowing him access to his usual spot. 
For a moment, he hesitates, his warm breath fanning over the skin as your pulse hammers in your throat. Then he groans, grinding himself into your leg as he bites down, chasing his pleasure against your thigh as your blood spills into his mouth.
You know this routine so very well by now. The sting of the bite, and the numbness that follows. The ebb and flow of your blood, filling his mouth. The slight dizziness that comes before he pulls away, swiping his tongue over the bite for one final taste.
“Gods,” he pants, gripping your shoulder. Then, to your utter disappointment and confusion, he pulls away. “Wait here, my sweet. I need to - I’ll be right back. I promise.”
And before you can protest, he’s scrambling out the tent. For a long, numb moment, you stare at the tent opening, wondering if you’re dreaming. The silence of the tent grates on your ears, echoing the sound of your breathing until you can barely stand it. Then he’s pushing inside again, a scroll in hand as he closes the tent.
“Do I want to know what that is?” you ask.
“A scroll of Silence, darling. I’ve been saving it.” He flashes you a grin, murmuring the incantation as the scroll shimmers in his hand. Pure Weave, confined into parchment. 
You don’t hear the spell take effect, but you feel it. It’s a thickness in the air, a heaviness in your movements. 
Astarion doesn’t waste another second. He pushes up to kiss you, and it’s messy - your tongue against his, the sting of sharp teeth, your hand in his hair and his hand on the nape of your neck. There’s the taste of metal and herbs: your blood mixed with the remnants of a healing potion. He spreads your legs with his knee, then sits back on his heels and reaches down to undo his trousers.
You study him for a moment. The crease of his brow. The alabaster of his skin, sculpted out like a statue from marble. 
If you were an artist, you’d make him your life’s work. You’d chip out his every feature little by little, painstakingly working away at the stone to define the look in his eyes when he tells you he loves you. You’d spend ages carving every wrinkle, every line, every perfect imperfection. The touch of it would be cold, like him, but it could never compare to how he looks as he settles over you, eyes blown dark with desire. 
He inches closer, still on his knees, and takes hold of your thighs, lifting them up to meet his hips before gently easing inside of you. He lets out a sharp exhale as he slowly presses deeper, his grip shifting to your waist.
Nothing could compare to the way it feels as he fills you up inch by inch, murmuring praise, telling you how beautiful you are for him. “Darling,” he bites out, gritting his teeth at the pleasure. “If anyone ever tries anything like that with you again, I’ll tear them to shreds.”
You laugh a little, breathless, delirious in the delicious stretch of him inside you. “I won’t stop you. I just might ask to break their nose first.”
He shakes his head, but a small smile plays on his lips before he straightens and starts his rhythm. Slow, even thrusts that leave you grasping at the blankets beneath you, trying to steady yourself in the waves of sensation. He stares down at you, half-drunk on your blood, lips parted and his cheeks flushed.
“You feel incredible,” he breathes. “Gods. You’re incredible.”
Your eyes don’t quite know where to land. They never do. Now, they flutter over his abdomen, taking in the sight of the muscles that ripple and contract with the rolling of his hips. The droplets of sweat that slowly build on his skin, glimmering like crystals. 
His jaw clenches, and his pace starts to quicken, and the feeling of him inside of your aching cunt is just so godsdamned good. His cock stretches you out like it was made for you, and soon your lungs are hardly filling with air. You can’t think, and you can scarcely breathe. All you know is that you’re not going to last much longer.
You tug at the blankets and shut your eyes, and he lets out another soft, aching noise as he thrusts deeper, faster, filling you up, the slick sound of your arousal echoing through the tent and mixing with the heaving of your breaths. You clench around him and he groans, shifting the angle of your hips, rhythm frantic.
“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for me, darling.”
And you do. Your body clenches around him as you cry out, back arching, pleasure overtaking every thought but one: Astarion. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion. Your breaths scrape shallowly through your chest and ecstasy burns through every inch of you, every nerve - until you feel paralyzed. Content, thoroughly fucked and sated, but paralyzed.
 You’ve just started to come back to your senses when Astarion follows you over the edge, a moan tumbling from his lips that sounds remarkably like your name. His hips thrust a few more times, chasing after his pleasure, clumsy movements that slow to a halt as he shuts his eyes. He shudders, then slackens, carefully pulling out of you before he wraps his hands around your thighs and gently lowers them back to the bedroll.
You can barely move, still lost in the aftershocks of pleasure as he cleans you up, smoothing the hair out of your face as he lays next to you.
“You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to ask Gale to make us another one of those scrolls.”
And, gods, all you can do is laugh.
1K notes · View notes
pastorpresent · 4 months ago
Text
Logan, who rolls his eyes at Wade's constant moving and squirming in their bed. Logan, who grumbles at him to shut up during the night when they are both trying to sleep because Wade won't stop rambling nonsense. Logan, who growls and shakes him off whenever they accidently end up intertwined in their sleep.
Except then Wade ends up on a merc job that runs through the night and Logan can't fucking sleep.
At first, he isn't sure what the problem is. He did his usual routine, set up the pull out and climbed under the covers, looking forward to a night with the bed to himself.
He then proceeds to toss and turn for hours. His brain won't shut off enough for him to fall asleep, and he can't get fucking comfortable. It's driving him insane, and he lies there for hours, utterly frustrated because he is tired. He's exhausted, actually, and yet he can't fall asleep and the why of it all doesn't hit him till about 3am.
The bed isn't creaking softly under Wade's constantly bouncing leg and shifting positions. There's no running commentary that quietens his own thoughts enough to let him drift off. There's nothing warm and solid that smells like Wade to wrap himself around during the night when his body is craving touch the most.
He gives up with a growl, flicking on the TV and relenting to the fact he wasn't going to get any sleep tonight. His brain won't shut the fuck up repeating Wade's name like a damn mantra, and his body is practically vibrating with anxiety over the fact the merc wasn't next to him right now where he was supposed to be.
(Ridiculous and possessive, he scolds himself. Wade is his own damn person, and he has more important stuff to do that be Logan's emotional support teddy bear. Not to mention he's over two hundred fucking years old, and shouldn't need an emotional support teddy bear.)
Wades gets back at six in the morning. Logan can smell the thick scent of his blood before he actually sees him, and he's already up and at the door as Wade enters silently.
He almost jumps out of his skin when he sees Logan standing there waiting for him.
"Fuck, peanut! Warn a guy next time! I thought you'd still be sleeping," Wade says, pulling his mask off, clutching his chest dramatically.
Now that Wade's here, standing in front of him after Logan spent the last eight hours craving his prescence to a nauseating degree, he doesn't know what to say. Doesn't want to freak Wade out with his own stupid attachment, settles on a "you okay?"
His voice cracks, and Wade looks instantly worried, taking a step into his space.
"I think I should be asking you that," he frowns, and Logan shrugs, tries to keep his tone light and casual as he replies, "couldn't sleep."
It comes out the opposite of light and casual. The heaviness of the emotion there is embarrassing and obvious, and Wade clicks on without any further clarification.
Logan cringes, waiting for the jokes. Waiting for Wade to gloat about making it so he can't sleep without him, and the thing is Logan would take it all on the chin. Would accept every condescending word if it meant that Wade would just come to bed with him.
Except Wade's face goes soft instead, and he's tugging off his blood stained gloves and lifting both hands to cup Logan's face. His expression is... fond, and Logan wants to tell him he doesn't deserve it, but instead he just kind of melts into the touch. Into Wade's warmth. His smell. It's intoxicating, and a better distraction than any bottle Logan had ever found himself at the bottom of.
"I... come to bed, please? I'm so tired," Logan mumbles, and Wade smiles.
"There's no where else I'd rather be, sweetheart. Let me shower off the blood and I'm all yours."
Logan's anxiety spikes a little despite himself, and he's scanning over Wade with concern, "are you definitely alright?"
"Immortal, remember? I'm completely fine peanut, but if you want to join me in the shower to examine me yourself I'm not complaining," he wags his non-existent eyebrows, and Logan snorts.
"That shower would never fit the two of us."
"Is that a challenge?"
And he isn't sure why, but the warm familiarity of their back and forth sends him into a fresh wave of emotion again, and he finds himself pulling Wade in for a hug before he could chastise himself for even wanting it.
Wade hugs him back tight, running a hand over his back, "so no more overnight jobs?"
Logan grumbles his disapproval, and Wade chuckles in his hold.
751 notes · View notes
musicallisto · 3 months ago
Note
hello beloved I hope your shoulder surgery goes well!!! as a little distraction can I please ask for a franco colapinto x driver!reader, enemies to lovers? love u and thinking of u always xoxo
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
· · · · ♡ BOOM, CRASH! (fc43)
… starring franco colapinto x f!driver!reader ... 2.4k words ... in which you get into a nasty crash, and the first person to visit you in the hospital is the last guy you'd ever imagined being worried about you. ... warnings for crash, hospital, injuries, blood, nothing too graphic i think! reader is a bit of a bully tbhh but it is a cutthroat sport 😌 ... if you haven't noticed already, these are all very self-indulgent for me, and this is no exception.
Tumblr media
Ironically, the last words you remember telling Franco Colapinto before you barrel into the wall at turn 12 were “Don't crash it.”
“What?”
“Don't crash it,” you repeat pointedly. “Logan wasn't exactly irreproachable in that regard. Budget cap's drawing closer.”
Your smile is wide but dulcet, not quite reaching your eyes, and your teeth are sharp and gritted. To any inopportune cameras that would be pointed at you right now, you only look like a well-meaning driver giving your rookie teammate advice before his second-ever F1 race... but neither you nor Franco miss the electricity crackling in the hallway outside the driver rooms.
“What makes you think I'm gonna crash it?" the Argentinian bites back, all fluttering eyelashes and wolfish smile. Unfazed, as always. Grinds your gears like little else can. "If anything, you be careful to not crash into me. Since I'm starting ahead on the grid and all.”
“Right, I forget it's your first time in Baku. You'll see what I mean soon enough, anyway.”
Your steps lead you down the hallway and to the garages mechanically, a path you've taken dozens of times, wearing different colored suits, following behind different teammates in stride. And this year's Williams blue would've suited you perfectly... if it didn't come attached with the pretentious goofball traipsing behind you.
You don't even bother looking back when you speak again. You raise your chin and brace yourself for the artificial lights of the pitlane.
“Good luck, or whatever.”
“It wouldn't kill you to be nice, you know?”
“Wouldn't kill you to know your place.”
The door handle creaks beneath your gloved hand, drowning out whatever it is Franco mutters in Spanish on the other end of the hall—”re amargada la piba esta” he mumbles to no one but himself—, and at last you are safe, at peace in the nervous bustle of a garage entirely devoted to you.
Sure, getting a new teammate midseason is a tough predicament to find oneself in: a whole new dynamic to establish, a whole routine to fall into. And newbies always get the chance to make good first impressions; not the girl who’s been sitting in the car for two years. You’d told yourself you wouldn’t mind it—Carlos Sainz will be snatching your first driver privileges next year anyway—but it would be easier to comply if the aforementioned new teammate wasn’t an annoying pain in the ass, flirting and laughing his way through the paddock with that detached nonchalance that believes everyone must be wrapped around his finger, and then having the gall to outqualify you on one of your favorite circuits. On his first-ever time there!
So yes, maybe it’s your ego taking up too much space in the tight cockpit of your Williams, obscuring your vision. Maybe it’s the disastrous grip you’ve reported twice now on the radio—Okay, Y/N, we heard that and we’ll get back to you.
Whatever it is, somewhere around lap 20, your car oversteers into a wide spin right as you enter the rapid turn. The steering wheel snaps out of your hands, and it’s like a giant strangles you with all its might for a blink of an eye, barely even a second.
You only know you’ve hit the wall—hard—from the ringing in your ears and soreness of your jaw. What used to be your front right tire lies in front of your smashed wing, rubber and carbon scattered pitifully. Your finger shakes when you lift it and press the radio button.
“I’m OK… I think.”
A flash of red catches the corner of your eye. You’re not sure if it’s from the flag being waved outside of track limits, a Haas zooming past in the corner, or… it’s hot, and viscous on your eyebrow, dripping into your eyes. You bring your hand to your forehead, where your helmet is crushed inward, just above your left eye. Smashed into your forehead.
Then everything kind of blurs together. You vaguely feel someone helping you out of the wreckage, their distant yapping about concussion symptoms not helping your light-headedness at all. You think you slip out of consciousness for the first time then, on the track still, because your next memory is of an ambulance—or what you assume to be an ambulance, you’ve never ridden in one before, and you even think to yourself this new procedure is pretty excessive from the FIA, the medical car was quite sufficient—and then it’s back to nothingness until you wake up for good on a stretcher, hooked to some sort of medical tube—perfusion?—as you’re being ushered into a quiet hospital room.
The nurse who visits you is sweet, filling in the blanks in slow, accented English. The gash to your forehead is pretty deep, but nothing the surgeon doesn’t see at least once a week! (At that, you lift a groggy hand above your brow bone, where you feel a thick bandage.) A few stitches later and you’re good as new, though the blood loss and concussion combined left you pretty weak, and justify keeping you in observation for the night. It’s just protocol, you’re probably used to hospital visits in that line of work of yours, she jokes—and you know you’ve recovered almost all your mental acuity because you get offended at that. No, you don’t usually crash. In fact, you haven’t all season…
And it had to be today of all days, in Baku… after you told Franco to not crash it.
When the nurse leaves the room with the promise she’ll be back in an hour, you let out a long, dreary sigh. Fernando Alonso’s grainy voice over the radio comes to mind. ¡Karma!
Night falls quickly outside your window with nothing to kill time but your phone. After catching up on the race results—somehow you’re too exhausted to feel irritated at Colapinto’s points finish—and posting a reassuring Instagram story for your followers, you’re left to the mercy of your ruminating thoughts. Sleep is impossible to catch; the adrenaline of the race hasn’t worn off yet, and you’ve been knocked out so long now you’re desperate to leave this stretcher.
You’ve just about decided to call the nurse for an early discharge when a shadow appears behind the door’s little windowpane, hesitates for a second, and then knocks. Medical personnel wouldn’t bother; it’s probably your family, or maybe even Vowles, or…
“Hey, how… che, estás hecha mierda.”
You tense immediately when you catch the brown waves of hair and unmistakable accent as Franco walks into your hospital room. He looks genuinely stumped, like he hadn’t expected to see you in such bad condition, so much so he forgets to shut the door behind him.
For some reason, the sight endears you. Makes you want to take him in your arms, feel his realness in this hallucinatory evening. What a ridiculous thought!
“Stop it with the Spanish,” you protest, devoid of your usual fire however. “Maybe it works on your fangirls, but not on me.”
“I said you look like shit.”
“Oh.” You look him straight in the eye, the silliness of the situation dawning on you, and against all odds you start to laugh. A real laugh, more than a chuckle, one that sends phantom pains stabbing through your sore abdomen. “Well if that’s all you’re gonna say, you can stick to Spanish! I don’t want to hear it.”
What did the nurse say about the anesthesia’s side effects? Do they include feeling a little glad and relieved to see your detested teammate? To know he’s the first person to check up on you?
Whatever the reason, you’re laughing, absurdly, and so is Franco, chuckling to himself as he closes the door and drags a chair closer to your bed. His eyes crinkle like a little kid’s, and that’s when you notice his disheveled appearance. Cheeks a little flushed, hair tousled like he’s just run a marathon, he’s wearing a crumpled-up Williams shirt, no doubt the first thing he could get his hands on after the race. It hits you then that he’s probably just off media duties, and the fact he’s alone, with no team delegation in tow, indicates he left early. Just to get to you. To make sure you were alright.
You are a competitor, but you aren’t a monster. The idea Franco couldn’t be bothered to wait for James, or anyone else, tugs at your heartstrings.
“Thank God you told me not to crash it, huh?” he teases between chuckles.
“Shut up.”
“Careful, Y/N, the budget cap is coming for you,” he wiggles his fingers over your face like a looming ghost.
You turn your head away to face the wall, huffing in exasperation, but a throbbing pain traverses your skull, and you wince. Franco’s eyes darken, smile fading into a grave expression.
You rarely see him like this outside of the helmet. It’s novel, but it’s welcome. Almost attractive, in a way.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I… My helmet smashed into my forehead. I was bleeding pretty bad, apparently, they had to stitch me up. I got concussed too. Aren’t helmets supposed to absorb these hits?”
“Concussed?” he repeats, and holds out his hand in a peace sign. “How many fingers?”
You stick out your tongue at the Argentinian, flipping him the bird.
“And now?”
“Ah, come on, don’t be so mean,” Franco chuckles, scooting a little closer to your stretcher with his chair. Unfazed, as always. But this time it doesn’t peeve you; you’re rather thankful for his cheeky banter, actually. For a moment, in the blur of cold white lights and carbon fiber debris, you’d started to fear you could lose it for good. “We were just starting to become friends!”
“That’s because I’m concussed. I don’t want to be friends with you, we’re rivals.”
“Well the whole rivals thing isn’t working very well for you lately. Maybe you’re better off being friends with me.”
You roll your eyes, but the gnawing anxiety that roars in your stomach whenever someone pits you against the rookie stays quiet for once. Perhaps you’re still under the influence of the tranquilizers… or perhaps those brown eyes holding you in their light, tender in a way you’ve never seen them before, make it harder to get mad at him.
“I’ll consider it.”
And you don’t mean it just yet, but you don’t don’t mean it. What do you even hate Franco Colapinto for? Stealing the spotlight from you just two weeks into his career? Flirting with every living being on the paddock except you? Or forcing you to up your game and face your fears?
A stabbing pain crushes your skull all of a sudden, and you shut your eyes, teeth gritted and muscles taut, to try and breathe it out… to no avail. When you open your eyes, Franco is staring at you, brows furrowed in that same serious, concerned expression that sends a wholly different type of pins and needles through your body.
“Everything alright?”
“No… The painkillers. I need another ketoprofen,” you whine, squinting your eyes against the harsh hospital lightning.
“Should I call the nurse?”
“No, they’re on the table over there,” you gesture blindly. “There’s a glass too.”
Only sounds inform you of what’s going on once you close your eyes, faint lights and colors barely piercing through your eyelids. The rustling of fabric, then someone fumbling with cardboard and pills, your sink opening, and then cautious footsteps stopping at the edge of your bed.
“Here.”
You take the pill between weak fingers and fight with all your might to sit up straight in the bed without moving your head… but the soreness and exhaustion from the race and surgery overpower you. So much for neck strength.
“I can’t,” you huff out in defeat. “I can’t tilt my head.”
“It’s okay. Take the pill,” Franco orders softly, and you put the drug on your tongue, too tired to raise the outrage of him bossing you around.
Slowly, carefully, Franco brings the rim of the glass to your lips, and you drink all that you can, training your attention on the medication going down your throat—and not on your teammate’s intense gaze fixed on your mouth, nor the proximity of your bodies or his slightly ragged breath.
“Thank you,” you exhale when you’re done.
Luckily for him, he has his back turned to you when you speak, setting the empty glass down on the table, so you don’t notice his bashful smile. He’s never heard you so docile, affable, even, and though he likes it when you bite back… it feels great, too, to know there is a way to pierce that armor of yours.
“Franco,” you call out to him, neither of you missing how this is one of the first times you’ve called him by his first name. “Do you mind… staying? Just until James or someone else gets here. It gets so boring.”
He spins on his heels in disbelief, scrutinizing you in search of mockery, or irony, or your usual callousness… but all he reads is earnest and the slightest hint of embarrassment, all he sees is your outstretched hand. So he brushes it with his, not daring to hold it purposefully just yet. Like he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome into your bubble.
“Yeah, sure. But only so you won’t get bored.”
“Of course,” you smile faintly as he sits back down on his chair. Your eyes meet in newfound amusement, maybe even temporary fondness. “Don’t go around thinking I like you.”
“Me? I would never. We’re rivals.”
You give a small appreciative nod, and after some instants of silence, clear your throat and ask him to recount the end of the race. Just as you expected, his storytelling is dramatic and entertaining, interspersed with words he doesn’t remember how to say in English and the unmissable zest of grid gossip Franco always brings to his tales. You chuckle, gasp, and pester even, as much as you can with your aching skull and limbs… and barely notice the minutes ticking by, or how you wish the rest of your team would never show up, your distaste for Franco slaking.
Maybe you can be persuaded into liking his presence, after all. So long as he stays out of the car, though… and remains your personal nurse.
Tumblr media
… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)
604 notes · View notes
bellysoupset · 2 days ago
Note
Oooh maybe some house moving planning with Bella and Luke where she thinks she's nervous about the move but actually she's sick from something she ate?
this was supposed to be a mini fic 😭
------------------
"Come here," Lucas grabbed Bella's wrist, pulling her close and throwing his trench coat around her shoulders, forcing her arms into the arm holes, "there you go..."
"Happy?" Bella pouted, as he tied the belt by her waist, synching it in, "have you sufficiently babied me for the day?"
"Just barely," Luke opened a smile at her frustrated question, grabbing the belt loops of his trench-coat and pulling her closer, pressing a kiss to his wife's curls, "this is me being measured."
The ginger let out a scoff, rolling her eyes, but wrapped an arm around Lucas' waist and waddled with him on the side walk of Welton street. After yesterday... They had barely talked about it, it was too fresh and Bella wasn't any good with the big emotions. All they had done after coming back from the hospital was cuddle in bed, Luke petting her hair as she intermittently cried, shedding a couple tears himself, then they had pushed the matters aside and focused on the house.
Their offer had gone through, the news came during lunch, much to their chagrin. Such weird timing. By dinner Lucas had hoovered uneasily at the bathroom doorway, clearly filled with questions, until Bella had angrily waved him off.
There wasn't much to be talked about, she had decided. They were on the same page, about starting a family, about not wanting a pregnancy now, but one in the future. It was tragic and she was sad and that was it, end of story.
"Hey," Luke nibbled at her ear, "we should shop for our dining room," he gestured to the furniture store and Bella let out a huff, hiding a smile against his shoulder.
"Because we throw so many dinner parties," she said sardonically, "and I cook so well."
"Can you think of a better place to learn than in our ugly yellow kitchen?" Lucas grinned back at her, taking her hand and pulling her inside, "we'll do cooking classes together, baby."
Bella let out an offended noise, "the kitchen isn't ugly!"
"It's hideous," he pulled her further in, "a relic from the fifities."
"It's charming," she smiled as Luke wrapped her up in his arms and they continued to walk around the store. About halfway through of them walking, an attendant stepped forward to ask if they needed help.
She was in her mid thirties and all bright smiles, spine all straight as she looked over Bella's head at Lucas, since he called so much attention with his height.
Bell rolled her eyes as Luke mentioned them looking at dinner tables and got them roped into a full tour of the store. As they passed by the kitchen, though, she spotted cookies and her stomach growled loud enough that both Luke and the attendant heard.
"I'm sorry, how rude of me... Would you like some cookies?" The lady held up her tray and Bella took two for herself, then pushed two in Luke's hand, checking the woman's name tag. Sheila.
Sheila kept dragging them around for twenty more minutes and Bell was amazed on the woman's relentless attitude. Bravo for spotting the most gullible of all her clients, because if it was up to Lucas alone, they'd have taken half the store by now.
"No, I don't like that," Bella took Luke's cookie from his hand, before he could bring it up to his mouth and took a bite herself, "it's too... modern."
"She likes antiques, Victorian stuff," Lucas explained, passing Bella his last cookie and pressing a kiss to the top of her head, "think vampire."
Bella rolled her eyes, but she was smiling, more busy devouring her snack than paying any attention to the employee trying to extort her husband. Luke had enough money to burn, if he wanted to buy those dumb armchairs, then so be it.
It was their house, after all, right?
"You didn't like a single thing?" Luke whined as they stepped out of the store, him now holding several papers that made him the proud owner of an ugly as hell armchair, a king sized bed that apparently was non-negotiable no matter what Bella thought about the size and a vintage inspired fridge that she had to admit was quite adorable.
"i liked the fridge," Bell shrugged, intertwining their fingers and guiding him away from the store, "and not that she was flirting with you, Mr. Atwood."
Lucas' opened a huge, smug smile, "she was not!"
"Uh-hum, whatever you say, Mr. Atwood," Bella mocked Sheila's drawl once again, giggling and leaning against his arm, "we gotta buy bubble wrap and boxes before going home. Tape too."
"Whatever you want, Mrs. Atwood," Luke mocked her right back, moving his arm so it was wrapped around her shoulders.
Three hours later they were sitting in the living room of their cramped little rental, boxes all around and trying to sort through the mess. For such a small place, it was surprising how much stuff they could fit in it.
"Here," Luke took the glasses from her hands, "let me bubble wrap it before you break it."
"I'm not an ogre, you know?" Bella pouted, but she didn't really fight him. There was a weird ache in the middle of her stomach and she wasn't sure if it was nerves, now that it all felt real, or something else.
Lucas seemed unbothered and that bothered her.
"Didn't you like this place at all?" Bella asked, fiddling with her pants. She hadn't changed out of her destroyed jeans and was now regretting it, wishing she was in sweatpants, "you seem so happy about moving out."
"I liked this place alright," he shrugged, confused, "I'm just excited about the new house, aren't you?"
Luke one, Bella zero, she thought bitterly. She squinted at him, undoing the buttons of her jeans and kicking them off with a frustrated groan. When he raised a quizzical eyebrow, Bell simply shrugged, "it was squeezing me... Of course I'm excited about the new place, I picked it, you're the one who hurled all over it."
He let out a chuckle at that, rolling his eyes, "just marking the territory, Bells," Lucas placed the glasses inside the box between his legs, "why are you pouting, baby?"
"I don't know," Bella winced, getting up from the ground and pacing the small space, crossing her arms, "I guess I- I'm just worried...?" her stomach squeezed at that and Bell took it as a sign. Yeah, worried was the right word.
"About the house deed?" Lucas frowned now, "if you don't want it to be in both our names, we can put it in just yours... Would it help...?" he sounded wounded and Bella flinched at the idea she was hurting him mere twenty hours after they had just gone through hell together.
"No, it's not that-" she felt clammy and claustrophobic, "it's not that, Luke, I just- I guess it's packing everything and moving and then there's- There's this whole situation-" she gestured at herself, causing Lucas to glare at her.
"Bella-"
"No, stop, before you go on with the it's not your fault speech, I'm not saying that, I just-" Bella fanned herself, feeling nauseous, "I think it's just so much and I don't feel prepared for this at all..."
"Hey," Luke got on his knees, crawling closer and grabbing her hands, "Bell, I know it's a lot, but we've been through worse before, right? We might not be the best adults out there, the smartest and most prepared, but we do alright."
Bella let out a watery chuckle, wrapping an arm around her stomach as a whole new wave of nausea caused her to get covered with cold sweat, "we do alright..." she agreed, planting her hands on her knees and breathing out slowly, until her heart calmed down and her racing thoughts stopped.
Luke was still watching her and he opened a bright smile as she raised her thumbs up and kissed the top of his head, "we're good enough at this, right?"
"Yep," he tilted his head back so she could kiss him upside down, "sit down, you look ready to topple over, Bell."
Instead of helping, at all, with the wrapping of the glasses, Bella sat on the couch for another ten minutes, before deciding she what she really needed was a shower.
immediately Luke's head snapped up and she couldn't help but think of those puppies who cried when separated by a door, "I'm fine," she stressed, although that wasn't exactly true. Her panic had lessened considerably, but the clammy sensation had fully morphed into nausea, "I'm going to take a shower and head to bed, I'm tired."
"I'm just gonna finish up here," he reached up without moving from the ground, squeezing her hand, "don't lock the bathroom door."
"Aye, captain," she rolled her eyes, squeezing his hand back and walking the short distance to the bathroom. Once inside, Bella braced against the sink, pointedly avoiding looking at the toilet.
At least one good thing about everything happening at once, they'd be out of this place soon and she would have no bad memories to avoid in the new house.
Her stomach gurgled, unhappily, and Bella splashed some cold water on her face and her nape, grabbing her long hair and wrapping it around itself on a knot on the base of her neck. A soft burp rolled up, followed by another and another... She spat some acid in the sink and let out a groan, tasting the cookies all over again.
Bella lowered her forehead to the granite of the sink, wrapping an arm around her stomach and taking slow, measured breaths. There was no way she had gotten food poisoning from four measly cookies...
"We need wine glass- Bell!?" Luke had entered the bathroom without knocking and she could hear his panic loud and clear at finding her folded in the middle like that, "baby, baby, baby, what is it?!"
"Shhhh-" Bella groaned, wincing as he touched her face and forced her to straighten up, "I'm fine-"
"You're pale as hell. What's wrong?" Luke was the one to talk, considered he had gone from his normal creamy color straight into bunny-white, "sit down, baby-" he pushed her on the closed toilet and Bella rolled her eyes, pushing his hands off her arm.
"I think the cookies didn't sit well, that's all," she groaned, glaring at him as Luke crouched down between her legs, extremely worried, "stop looking at me like that, Lucas."
"Sorry, I- Cookies? What cookies-"
"From the store?" she grimaced and pressed a fist to her mouth, muffling another wet belch, "they're not sitting well..."
"Jesus Christ, Isabella," he let out a relieved sigh, lowering his head all the way to her lap, "you nearly gave me a heart attack."
Her stomach churned, sending up a splash of acidic sludge and Bella swallowed it, shuddering, "and I'm gonna puke on your hair if you don't move," she warned, her words sticking together and tugging lightly on Luke's hair.
He let out a little hysterical chuckle, pulling back and then jumping as he realized how serious she was when Bella gagged and squeezed her hand over her lips, whole body convulsing.
"Oh shit, okay-" he moved out of the way so Bell could kneel before the toilet and threw the lid up, grabbing her hair just in time as she heaved again and a sludge of chunky brown vomit hit the water.
"Eww..." Bell whined, sniffling and clumsily reaching for the flush, the movement pushing up another wet burp and causing her to freeze, panting over the water. Luke cringed, planting a hand on her forehead to support her head and the next minute her whole body went forward with yet another productive gag.
Bella coughed several times, spitting in the water, "flush..."
He obeyed with an amused huff at the demanding tone, "all out?"
"noOURp-" a sick burp came from the depth of her stomach, but didn't bring anything with it. Bella white knuckled the porcelain, mouth open and drooling over the water.
Lucas bit down on his lip, "Bell?"
She removed a clammy hand from the toilet, pressing it on her stomach and massaging up another heave, this one productive and much more watery, "I-I-...." Bella panted, before she projectile vomited another watery stream and then collapsed to the side, against Luke's chest.
"All done?" he reached in blindly, grabbing a wide of toilet paper and wiping her mouth and chin, "baby?"
"So gross," Bella's voice was several notes too deep, "your little flirt poisoned me."
Luke let out a startled chuckle, pressing a kiss to her clammy forehead and rubbing her arm, throwing the dirty toilet paper inside the bowl and pressing the flush, "don't be silly, with the cookies she offered both of us?"
Bella groaned at the movement, wrapping an arm around her stomach and curling up against Luke, "yeah, an elaborate plan to get rid of me..." she slid down on the bathroom floor in order to press her face to his thigh and Luke let out a groan.
"Bellaaaa, the tiles are cold- C'mon, baby, the bed is not even that far-"
"Do you have no love for your wife?" She groaned, pinching his thigh, "you want me to get up? When I just got sick? When my belly hurts? Lucas?!"
He let out a snort at her tone, "you're such a huge baby," he rolled his eyes, grabbing her arms and forcing her up, picking her up like a toddler, "there we go-"
"No romance. At. All," Bella scoffed, hiding a smile against his shoulder and locking her legs behind his back as he tried to lie her down on the bed, "cuddle me."
"Don't you want me to get you a bin?" Luke asked, falling on top of her and chuckling when the bed jostle caused her to gag and groan, "yeah, that's what I thought, babe."
"Alright, fine..." she unlocked her legs, letting him go, "but hurry back!"
39 notes · View notes
steventhusiast · 1 year ago
Text
i’ve seen a lot of fics where steddie are in a secret relationship before the events of season 4, and then they reveal themselves by accident-ish when they reunite or in the hospital, and the one ive seen the most is eddie kissing steve and outing them when they find him in the boathouse after he realises hes threatening his own boyfriend.
and i love that, but what if it’s steve that reveals the relationship in a pretty similar way.
max and dustin tell him eddie’s missing, and he immediately reveals that he knows eddie well just from the amount of worry and anxiety that takes over him. he knows exactly where reefer rick lives because he makes sure eddie tells him where all his dodgy drug deals happen so he knows where he last was if he goes missing.
and then they get to reefer rick’s, and steve goes straight to the boathouse, followed by the others. he slams open closets and hastily looks under tables, and then notices the tarp on the boat and there is absolutely zero hesitation in his movements he just grabs the tarp and pulls it back because he needs to find eddie, he has to be okay.
and eddie is under the tarp and steve basically melts. eddie doesn’t have time to threaten steve because steve manhandles eddie out of the boat and just holds him, first pulling him in so they’re chest to chest and can feel each other’s heartbeats, and then he leans back to look at eddie’s face. eddie won’t meet his eye, so steve adjusts to hold either side of eddie’s face and force him to look at him. eddie’s eyes are wild.
“hey, i’m here.” he assures, and exaggeratedly takes a deep breath for eddie to copy.
“stevie-“ is all eddie can say, his voice cracking hard, before the tears spill over.
“oh, baby.” steve pulls eddie back in, cradles his head with the back of his hand, and presses a kiss to his hair.
and then dustin says something like ‘okay what the fuck is happening here’ and ruins the moment.
3K notes · View notes