#Or at least twisting the way everything seems

[slytherinsmuse]

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ Between Us | Draco Malfoy ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem! Reader

Warnings: mentions of smoking, not proofread, characters are 18+

Summary: Fluff | A secret kiss with Draco turns into scandalous rumor.

Word count: 6496

author's note: I wrote this a while ago and it has been sitting in my docs forever. Hope you enjoy, it is quite tame. I love Pansy but had to use her negatively for this lol.

The Slytherin common room buzzed with quiet, crackling energy, the kind of whispered tension that always followed a Sorting Ceremony. Shadows flickered along the walls, cast by greenish firelight as the newly sorted students settled into their house. Yet, for you, the warmth of the room felt far from welcoming.You sat alone on a plush, emerald-green couch near the edge of the common room, attempting to focus on the shifting patterns in the fireplace. But despite your best efforts, the constant hum of whispered voices and stolen glances in your direction kept pulling you back to reality.

They all knew.

The rumor had spread like fiendfyre, whispered from ear to ear as though it were some priceless secret. Draco Malfoy and you—seen in a compromising position over the summer, tucked away from prying eyes but apparently not hidden well enough. A secret kiss. Hands in places they shouldn’t have been, displays of affection best suited for the privacy of a room, or at least, that’s how the story had been embellished.You knew exactly where they’d all heard it—from Pansy Parkinson. After all, she had opened her mouth as soon as students had set foot on the train to Hogwarts.

Pansy had always been a thorn in your side, though not by your choice. You weren’t even sure what you’d done to earn her ire; you hardly gave her much thought, and yet she never missed a chance to remind you of her presence. Maybe it was the fact that you had never bent to her snide remarks, or maybe it was that Draco would, on rare occasions, acknowledge you—a simple greeting, an offhand comment about class, a carefully crafted compliment from time to time. Nothing you’d ever taken to mean more, but it had clearly gotten under Pansy’s skin.

For Pansy, it was more than rivalry; it was a personal mission to best you, even if you had never actually joined the game.

And this time, she’d gone out of her way to humiliate you. You were certain she hadn’t just “let it slip” like she claimed. No, she had fed the rumor, stoking it into something larger and more scandalous than it actually was. She’d likely watched with satisfaction as the story spread from person to person until it was whispered in every corridor, every corner of the Slytherin dungeon. The scandal was all anyone could talk about, a new shiny present for the first day of school. Pansy had taken a single, hidden moment and transformed it into a spectacle—a kiss that wasn’t meant for anyone else’s eyes or ears, a small sliver of warmth you’d never expected to find. But now, that moment was tangled with the bitterness of betrayal, tainted by Pansy’s scheming. The entire school knew what had happened that night, twisted by Pansy’s jealousy into something cheap and tawdry.

And the worst part? She was watching you, even now, smirking from across the room, clearly basking in the havoc she’d sown. You kept your expression neutral, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction, but inside, anger simmered low and steady. She might have won this round, but she didn’t know everything. The real memory—the feeling of his hand on yours, the brief escape that had led to that kiss—belonged only to you and Draco.

You could almost hear her voice behind every stare—a hint of triumph mixed with resentment, the sound of it dripping with thinly veiled bitterness. Ever since, everyone seemed to be watching you, judging you, eager to see if the rumors would continue to spark. Just then, the common room door creaked open, and a familiar figure strode in.

Draco Malfoy.

He scanned the room, his gaze as icy and unreadable as ever. For a fleeting moment, his eyes met yours across the crowded room. There was a flicker of something in his gaze—something unspoken, something only you would understand. You weren’t sure if it was regret, amusement, or something else altogether. But before you could even think to react, he turned away, breaking the moment as quickly as it had begun. He crossed the room with his usual elegance, coolly ignoring the whispers, the glances, the tension that only he and you seemed to fully understand. You took a shaky breath, willing yourself to remain calm, and looked back into the fire, your mind already drifting to that night at Malfoy Manor, where it had all begun.

~~~

The grand, looming gates of Malfoy Manor opened before you, casting an intimidating shadow over the path as you arrived with your parents. You stayed close to them, more out of obligation than comfort, knowing that if it were up to you, you’d be anywhere but here. Official gatherings like these always felt stifling—a room full of people dressed in their finest suits and gowns, exchanging veiled pleasantries and flaunting their wealth in subtle but pointed ways. You were expected to fit right in, to play the part as seamlessly as they did. But the truth was, you hated every second of it.It wasn’t that you resented your family or your status—it was simply exhausting. The endless social games, the forced politeness, and the insincerity of it all wore on you, weighing you down like a set of invisible chains. But that was the cost of your family name, and like it or not, you were bound by it.

As you stepped through the manor’s doors and into the grand entrance hall, you plastered on the same polite smile you always wore at these events. Elegant tapestries lined the walls, and every surface gleamed with an almost exaggerated richness, reminding you of the status that the Malfoys prided themselves on. Tonight, they were hosting, and every detail was perfect, as it always was. The hosts themselves awaited just beyond the doorway: Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, flanked by their son, Draco. Your parents greeted them first, exchanging the usual pleasantries with voices dipped in formal tones, before it was your turn.

“Lovely to see you again,” Narcissa said, her voice smooth and gracious, as if she’d rehearsed it a hundred times.

“Thank you for inviting us,” you replied, inclining your head politely, catching Draco’s gaze just for a second. His expression was as reserved as ever, though you thought you detected a flicker of boredom in his eyes—something you could relate to.

With the greetings over, you politely excused yourself, weaving through the crowd toward the bar. If you were going to make it through this night, a drink was essential. A firewhiskey, to be precise. As you reached the bar, you nodded to the bartender and murmured your order. The firewhiskey appeared before you almost instantly, amber liquid glistening in the dim candlelight. You took a long sip, feeling its warmth spread through you—a small comfort in an otherwise dreary evening.

You glanced around, watching the crowd move and mingle. People laughed, their voices tinkling like crystals, but you could sense the undercurrent of calculation behind every word. Families like yours, bound by tradition and expectations, each with their own reputation to uphold. You couldn’t imagine spending the entire evening like this, dancing around meaningless small talk with people who barely saw you beyond your family name.

With your drink in hand, you headed towards an empty couch tucked along the side of the room, half-hidden behind a potted tree with sprawling, leafy branches. It looked comfortable enough, and more importantly, it was out of the way—far from the watchful eyes of your family and the eager whispers of the guests who always seemed far too interested in every move you made.

You crossed the room quietly, weaving through clusters of people, careful not to draw attention. When you finally reached the couch, you sank into it with a relieved sigh, grateful for the brief reprieve. From here, you had a clear view of the dance floor, which was filled with couples swaying to the soft music drifting through the room. The dim lighting gave the scene a kind of dreamy, almost surreal quality.

The last thing you wanted was to be dragged out onto that floor, under the scrutinizing gaze of the entire ballroom. Your family was notorious for presenting you at events like this, encouraging you to mingle and, worse, dance with any boy they deemed suitable. It wasn’t about you, of course; it was about appearances, about showing that the heir of the Y/L/N family was sociable, poised, a proper pure-blood with all the right qualities.

But you didn’t care about any of that. You despised the dances, despised the forced politeness and the looks that always followed you as you were paraded around. People here seemed to watch you as if you were some sort of rare creature—a curiosity to be studied and judged. It felt suffocating, like you couldn’t move without someone taking notice, without someone passing silent judgement.

All you wanted was to make it through the evening with the fewest interactions possible.

Sipping the last of your firewhiskey, you leaned back into the couch, hoping you could remain here, unnoticed and undisturbed. You kept a careful eye on the dance floor, looking out for any sign of your parents. If they noticed you here, alone and sitting out the dance, they’d undoubtedly “introduce” you to some eligible heir from another pure-blood family. It was their favorite tactic to keep up appearances, and you dreaded the moment it might happen tonight.

As you watched, the dancers spun and swayed under the dim glow of the chandeliers, laughter and idle chatter filling the air. The perfect picture of refined elegance. But you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling of restlessness, the sense that you didn’t belong in this world of masks and formalities. You yearned to slip out, to find a corner of the manor where you could breathe without the weight of everyone’s expectations.

You glanced to the side, and for a moment, you thought you saw a familiar face watching you from across the room. Draco, leaning casually against the wall near the dance floor, his gaze fixed on you. He seemed to be in a similar predicament, observing the crowd with a mixture of disdain and detachment. And, if you weren’t mistaken, there was a hint of amusement in his eyes as they met yours.

He smirked, raising his glass in a silent toast, as if acknowledging the shared struggle of enduring an evening like this. You allowed yourself a small smile, nodding back, appreciating the rare moment of understanding.

But just as you were about to settle back into the couch, you caught sight of your mother in the distance, scanning the room—her gaze already narrowing in on you, and you had a sinking feeling she had someone in mind to “introduce” you to. You quickly turned away, hoping she might be distracted by another guest before she reached you, silently praying that you could just stay hidden in your quiet corner.

The last thing you needed tonight was to be pulled into the crowd, forced into more polite interactions, or worse—a dance.

Just as you’d feared, your mother was making a beeline toward you, her arm linked with that of none other than Gregory Goyle. Fantastic. Of all the people she could have chosen, she had to bring him over. Goyle wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but he was far from your idea of ideal company. Throughout school, you’d barely spoken beyond the occasional forced interaction in Potions, and you both had an unspoken agreement to keep out of each other’s way. But tonight, it seemed that the silent truce was about to be tested.

“Y/N,” your mother said with a broad, practiced smile, “I thought you might like to meet young Mr. Goyle. He’s been telling me about his plans for the future, and I thought it would be nice for the two of you to catch up.” Her eyes were expectant, practically daring you to say something pleasant.

You forced a polite smile, nodding at Goyle, who looked equally uncomfortable, his collar slightly too tight and his expression blank as ever.

“Nice to see you, Goyle” you managed, hoping that a few words would satisfy your mother.

But of course, she wasn’t finished. “I was just telling him how much you enjoy dancing.” she continued, her gaze shifting between you and Goyle with thinly veiled encouragement. “I’m sure you’d love a dance with him.”

Your stomach twisted as you imagined the stilted, silent dance that would inevitably follow. A dance with Goyle was the last thing you wanted, and you opened your mouth to politely decline, scrambling for any excuse that wouldn’t offend him or your mother.

Just then, a voice cut smoothly into the conversation. “Actually, Mrs. Y/L/N,” Draco said, his tone impeccably polite, “Y/N has already promised me the first dance.”

You turned, surprised but profoundly relieved to see Draco standing there with an easy, confident smile. His eyes met yours for a brief moment, and you caught the faintest flicker of mischief in his gaze. He offered his hand to you, waiting with the quiet assurance of someone who knew he would not be refused.

Your mother looked taken aback for a second, her plan clearly derailed. But she recovered quickly, nodding with approval. “Well, isn’t that lovely,” she said, her gaze shifting between the two of you with a hint of satisfaction. “Go on, then. Don’t let me keep you.”

You took Draco’s hand, internally cursing the fact that you now had to dance but still relieved to have avoided Goyle. As he led you toward the dance floor, you leaned in, muttering under your breath, “Thanks for that. I thought I was doomed.”

Draco chuckled softly, his hand settling around your waist as he guided you into the first steps of the waltz. “I figured you might need rescuing,” he replied, his voice low. “Besides, you looked like you’d rather disappear than dance with Goyle.”

“You’re right about that,” you admitted, feeling the warmth of his hand on your waist, the steady grip as he led you effortlessly across the floor. “But dancing’s not exactly my idea of fun either.”

He raised an eyebrow, an amused glint in his eyes. “I didn’t think you were the type to hate dancing.”

“It’s not the dancing I hate,” you muttered, glancing around at the people watching you—some with curiosity, others with envy. “It’s the audience.”

Draco smirked, steering you through the dance with ease. “Then ignore them. Just focus on me.”

You scoffed but allowed yourself to meet his gaze, letting the room around you blur into the background. It was easier said than done, but somehow, with his steadying presence, you found yourself relaxing, if only a little.

The music swelled around you, and for a few moments, you forgot about the crowd, the whispers, and the endless expectations pressing in from all sides. The world narrowed down to just you and Draco, moving in sync across the dance floor.

When the music finally slowed to a close, you realized you hadn’t once looked away from him. He released you with a small, almost reluctant smile, offering a polite bow as he stepped back.

“Well,” he said, his voice low and laced with something unreadable. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “No… it wasn’t,” you murmured, feeling a bit of relief now that the dance was over. “But I’d rather not repeat it.”

Draco’s expression shifted slightly, a faint shadow crossing his face as he straightened up, his grip loosening just a bit. “Ah,” he said coolly, his tone clipped. “I’ll make sure not to inconvenience you next time.”

You blinked, realizing he’d misread your meaning. A soft chuckle escaped your lips, and you shook your head, amused at the unexpected flash of offense in his expression. “I didn’t mean you,” you said, placing a gentle hand on his arm to guide him away from the crowd. “I meant this whole… production.”

Draco’s face softened, and his smirk returned, the brief flash of irritation fading from his gaze. “Ah, well, in that case, allow me to make it up to you.” He inclined his head, leading you through the crowd and back toward the bar. “How about a drink to ease the suffering?”

You laughed softly. “Now that,” you said, settling beside him at the bar, “I won’t turn down.”

He ordered two firewhiskeys, and as the bartender slid the glasses across the polished counter, Draco raised his in a quiet toast. “To surviving our families and insufferable company.”

You clinked your glass against his, smiling. “You know, for the record, I actually like your company from time to time.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, looking pleasantly surprised. “Is that so? I suppose I’ll take that as a rare compliment.”

“Take it however you like,” you replied, amused. “But consider it a thank you for saving me back there.”

He chuckled, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “Anytime,” he said, with a hint of something playful in his voice. “After all, we seem to be the only sane ones here tonight.”

You both settled into comfortable silence, sipping your drinks and watching the ballroom from your secluded corner. The firewhiskey was beginning to warm you from the inside, dulling the sharp edges of the night. You felt a slight buzz, a touch more adventurous than you’d felt before. You swirled your glass, savoring the last sip as you casually scanned the room once again.

That’s when you spotted Draco’s usual crowd huddled together near one of the large windows. Theodore, Crabbe, Goyle, Pansy, and Blaise—all laughing and chatting, oblivious to anyone else. Pansy, however, seemed to be the exception. Every few moments, she cast a glance your way, her lips curling in a faint smirk whenever she caught sight of you and Draco sitting together.

You rolled your eyes, turning your attention back to Draco. He was watching the room with a quiet sort of ease, the ghost of a smirk still lingering on his face. You could see the way his gaze occasionally drifted over to his friends, yet he hadn’t made any move to join them. Instead, he remained here with you, seemingly content in your quiet corner, away from the crowd.

Curiosity got the best of you, and you found yourself glancing at him, trying to read the expression on his face. “Not to sound ungrateful,” you said, breaking the silence, “but aren’t your friends waiting for you?”

Draco tilted his head, meeting your gaze, his expression unreadable for a moment. “What, you mean that insufferable company?” he replied with a smirk, echoing his earlier toast. “Believe me, I’m doing myself a favor. I will see them enough in school next month.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Fair enough, but I’m sure Pansy would disagree. She’s been shooting daggers at me since we sat down.”

Draco’s smirk widened, and he took a casual sip of his drink. “Pansy’s always shooting daggers at someone. If it weren’t you, it would be Daphne or some poor soul she deemed unworthy.” He shrugged, his gaze drifting back to you, his eyes glinting with a hint of amusement. “Maybe tonight I just prefer the company here.”

His words sent a spark of warmth through you, and you found yourself meeting his gaze, letting the silence between you linger a bit longer than necessary. “Well,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “I can’t say I mind. You’ve turned this night around a bit.”

Draco’s expression softened, and he leaned back, his gaze steady on yours. “Glad to be of service. It’s not every day I get to rescue a damsel from Goyle and the horrors of small talk.”

You laughed softly, feeling the edges of your reluctance and guardedness soften under the gentle buzz of the firewhiskey and Draco’s rare warmth. You weren’t exactly close with Draco—not in the way his friends were, and certainly not like Pansy always tried to be. Your families, though, had always maintained a certain closeness. Enough that you’d spent more than a few summer afternoons and winter evenings together over the years, learning to enjoy each other’s company in a way that felt natural outside the halls of Hogwarts.

In the tightly woven social fabric of Hogwarts,however,  you each belonged to your own worlds. He had his crowd, and you had yours. You only really crossed paths at the occasional party, or when forced together on a school project. Not that you minded. Draco was pleasant enough company, and you’d never deny that he was easy on the eyes. Not that you have ever thought about pursuing something with him. After the mess of your last relationship, you’d made a rule for yourself: no more romantic entanglements while at Hogwarts. It wasn’t worth the drama and the endless complications. Word had gotten around, of course, as it always did. It wasn’t long before people knew you were unreachable. Boys who once might have tried to chat you up quickly learned that you weren’t interested. You liked it that way; it was simpler, cleaner, and it meant you didn’t have to deal with the annoyances that had come with your last relationship.

But tonight… well, tonight was different. Maybe it was the firewhiskey, or maybe it was the way Draco was looking at you now, his usual cool exterior softening as he took you in. You raised an eyebrow, wondering what exactly was going through his mind.

“You look beautiful,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter than before. “I rarely see you so formal. It’s… a welcome change.”

A faint blush crept into your cheeks, and you chuckled softly, rolling your eyes. “Can’t say the same about you,” you replied, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “I mean you’re always dashing in these black suits. But you always seem to be wearing them. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

He smirked, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with a casual elegance that only seemed to amplify his charm. “Not everyone can pull off the classic look,” he said smoothly. “But I’ll take it as a compliment.”

You shook your head, amused by his confidence. “You would.”

Draco leaned in slightly, his eyes gleaming with something you couldn’t quite place. “I mean it, though. You should dress up more often.”

You shrugged, still smiling. “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t even be here. I’d be home in my favorite old t-shirt.”

“Ah, but then I wouldn’t get to see you like this,” he said, his voice low, almost a murmur. There was a glint in his eyes, something warm and unexpectedly genuine that caught you off guard.

For a moment, you held his gaze, the soft glow of the firewhiskey warming you in more ways than one. You felt a flutter of something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in a long time, a whisper of possibility you’d long sworn off. But just as quickly, you reminded yourself of your own rule—the boundary you’d set for yourself, the reason you were so guarded in the first place.

Still, you allowed yourself a small smile, letting the moment linger a second longer than necessary. “Enjoy it while it lasts, then,” you said, your voice light but your heart suddenly a little heavier.

Draco smirked, lifting his glass in a quiet toast. “Trust me—I intend to.”

A comfortable silence settled between you both, the kind that felt oddly intimate. Neither of you needed to fill it with idle chatter, and yet, the quiet left you with a strange sense of anticipation that made your heart race just a little faster.

After a few moments, you excused yourself, mumbling something about needing the bathroom. Really, you just needed a moment alone—to calm your nerves and shake off the slight fluster that Draco had somehow managed to provoke in you. His words, his appearance, the way he was looking at you… It was unsettling in the most unexpected way, breaking through that carefully constructed barrier you’d kept around yourself for so long.

You took a few deep breaths as you leaned over the sink, splashing a bit of cool water on your hands and pressing your fingertips to your temples. ‘Get a grip’ you told yourself, trying to steady the flutter in your chest. After a moment, you straightened, adjusted your silk gown, and composed yourself as best as you could before heading back out.

But as you opened the door, you found Draco standing there, his hands tucked into his pockets, looking for all the world like he’d been waiting for you. His expression softened as his eyes met yours, a hint of that same mischief dancing in his gaze.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice low.

You nodded, feeling a bit caught off guard. “I—yes, just needed a moment.”

Draco’s smirk widened, but he didn’t press. Instead, he glanced toward the crowd milling around in the ballroom, the faint music and laughter drifting through the hall. “Come on,” he said, his tone casual yet inviting. “Let’s get out of here for a bit. I know a place where we can actually breathe.”

Against your better judgement, you found yourself nodding. You knew you should probably decline, head back to the ballroom, and spend the rest of the night blending into the background as you’d planned. But something in the way Draco looked at you, the quiet invitation in his words, made you reconsider. And before you could think twice, you were following him down one of the manor’s winding, dimly lit corridors, away from the prying eyes and relentless whispers.

The path he took you down was secluded, lit only by soft candlelight and the faint silver glow of the moon streaming in from the high windows. You walked in silence, side by side, his hand occasionally brushing against yours as you rounded corners and ascended a narrow staircase. It was thrilling, a quiet adventure you hadn’t expected, and every step felt like it was drawing you deeper into a moment that belonged only to the two of you.

Finally, Draco led you to a small, secluded balcony overlooking the sprawling, moonlit gardens below. It was a beautiful view, with the manicured hedges and twinkling fountains stretching out beneath you. The night air was cool, and you closed your eyes, taking a deep breath, enjoying the pleasant silence.

Draco leaned against the railing beside you, his gaze shifting from the gardens to you. “Better than the ballroom?” he asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You chuckled softly, nodding. “Much better. Thank you for this.”

He shrugged, his expression softening as he looked out over the gardens. “You looked like you needed an escape.”

Silence settled between you again, but it was different this time, layered with something deeper, something that seemed to linger in the space between you. The usual guardedness in Draco’s gaze had faded, replaced by something warm, almost vulnerable.

“Can I be honest with you?” he asked quietly, his voice barely more than a murmur.

You glanced at him, a bit startled by the sudden shift in his tone. “Of course.”

He paused, his gaze holding yours, and for a moment, he looked almost hesitant, as if weighing whether to say what was on his mind. Finally, he spoke, his voice soft yet steady. “I know we don’t… talk much at school. But I enjoy this, you know—being here with you. Away from everything.”

You felt your heart skip a beat, his words piercing through the careful walls you’d built. It was a simple confession, but something in the way he said it made it feel like a revelation, an acknowledgment of something you’d both felt but never voiced.

The vulnerability in his gaze, the quiet sincerity of his words… It was enough to make you forget, just for a moment, all the reasons you’d sworn off relationships, all the rules you’d set for yourself.

Without thinking, you reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

“I enjoy it too,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Draco’s gaze softened further, and for a fleeting moment, you thought he might close the distance between you. But he held back, his hand resting atop yours on the railing, fingers curling slightly around yours. The night was silent, the world narrowing down to just the two of you, standing together under the silver light of the moon.

Draco’s hand lingered on yours, his touch warm and grounding. He shifted slightly, his gaze still fixed on you, and in that heartbeat of silence, something shifted. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he stepped closer, his hand sliding from yours to your waist. The world around you seemed to fall away, leaving only the soft rustle of the night and the faint glow of the lights from the ballroom below.

You felt the cool press of the balcony railing against your back as he gently guided you closer, his face inches from yours. His breath was warm against your cheek, and every inch of you was acutely aware of the closeness, of the way his hand rested on your waist, holding you in place with a quiet, possessive strength.

His gaze drifted to your lips, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, he hesitated—as if giving you the chance to pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you let your eyes close, leaning into the moment, into him.

And then, softly, his lips met yours.

The kiss was slow, unhurried, each movement deliberate and intoxicating. His hand on your waist tightened slightly, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, his touch tender but undeniably possessive. You felt his other hand come up, fingertips grazing along your jawline, steadying you, anchoring you in the quiet thrill of the moment.

The world outside blurred into shadows, the lights from the ballroom casting faint glimmers across your entwined forms. You were nothing more than silhouettes, melting together under the faint glow of the night, every touch, every breath, grounding you in a reality that felt dreamlike.

Draco’s fingers traced gentle patterns along your waist, his lips moving against yours with a sensual, lingering intensity that left you breathless. You could feel his heartbeat quickening under your palm, mirroring your own. For a moment, it was just the two of you, caught in the stillness of the night, bodies pressed together, lost in the quiet passion of the kiss.

When you finally pulled back, both of you slightly breathless, he stayed close, his forehead resting against yours, his fingers still curled around your waist. The soft, unspoken intensity in his gaze sent a thrill through you, and you found yourself unable to look away.

“Was that against your rules that every boy seems to grumble about?” he murmured, his voice a hushed whisper, laced with quiet amusement and something deeper, something that made your heart race.

You couldn’t help but smile, feeling the last remnants of your guard slip away. “Maybe,” you whispered, your own voice barely audible. “But I think I’m willing to make an exception.”

Draco’s smirk softened, his hand brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Good,” he murmured, his thumb grazing your cheek as his other hand moved lower, resting on your behind. “Because I don’t think I’m quite finished with this evening.”

And as he leaned in to kiss you again, you knew, without a doubt, that neither were you.

Below, a few steps away from the garden path, Pansy stood with the rest of the group, her arms folded tightly across her chest. She tapped her foot impatiently, casting annoyed glances at Theo, who was still taking his time with his cigarette, chatting idly with Blaise and Goyle. They were laughing, nudging her now and then with teasing remarks about Draco, each comment only stoking her frustration.

Pansy barely paid them any attention, her mind focused solely on one thing: the fact that Draco hadn’t even spared her a second glance all evening. They were meant to be close—everyone knew it. She was supposed to be the one at his side, the one who caught his eye, but tonight, he hadn’t even acknowledged her. Glaring at Theo and the others, she ignored their snickering, shifting her gaze to the grand, towering structure of the manor, where the faint glow of candlelight spilled from the windows onto the balconies above. She tilted her head, scanning the empty stone terrace—when she froze.

Two silhouettes, unmistakable even from this distance, stood pressed close together on the far balcony, half-obscured in shadow but undeniably intimate. Her hands clenched at her sides as she watched, each movement between them driving another nail into her pride. She recognized Draco’s frame immediately, the way he leaned in, his hand lingering at the girl’s ass.

And then she knew. She knew who it was with him.

Y/N.

Her jaw tightened, her mind whirling with disbelief and raw, seething anger. It wasn’t just that he was with you—it was the way he was with you, the way his hand held you close, his body language tender in a way she’d never seen. Her eyes narrowed, a plan already beginning to form as she forced herself to look away.

She wouldn’t tell the others now—no, that would be too soon, and it would be too obvious. No, she’d wait. She’d bide her time, keeping this little secret to herself until the right moment came. And when it did, she’d let it slip so perfectly, so innocently, that everyone would know what had happened. She’d make sure the entire school knew just how unguarded you and Draco had been, exposing every secret look, every whispered conversation, and every stolen moment she could piece together. Satisfied, Pansy forced a smile, masking her fury as Theo finally finished his cigarette and turned to her, oblivious to the fire simmering behind her gaze.

In a month’s time, Hogwarts would know exactly what she’d seen tonight—and you and Draco would regret it.

~~~

The memory of that night on the balcony lingered as you pulled yourself back into the present. You tried to brush it off, but the details clung to you—the way Draco’s hand felt on your back, the steady press of his lips, the look in his eyes that hinted at something neither of you had been willing to admit.

And now, here he was, sitting across from you in the Slytherin common room, Pansy’s scathing gossip hanging in the air between you both. She was going on again, her voice sharp and smug, spinning the memory of that kiss into a scandalous tale that sounded so far from the truth it bordered on fantasy. Still, her words settled over you like a cloud, a reminder of just how easily that moment could spiral out of control in everyone else’s eyes.

Then, without warning, Draco cut her off.

“Maybe if you spent more time minding your own business, you’d actually have the details right,” he said, his tone calm but biting. His words stopped her cold, and he looked directly at her with a pointed, dismissive glare. “In fact, I really enjoyed it—and I’d do it over and over again if I could.”

A stunned silence fell over the common room. Heads turned, conversations dropped, and you could feel every pair of eyes fixated on you both. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, you wondered if Draco was serious or if he’d just thrown out those words to put Pansy in her place.

But when he glanced your way, you caught something in his expression—a flash of vulnerability, a quiet confidence that told you he wasn’t just trying to save face. He meant it.

You couldn’t meet his gaze for long, heat rushing to your face as you excused yourself abruptly and left, every nerve alive with confusion, anger, and something else you couldn’t name. You roamed the castle aimlessly until you found a quiet spot to escape the day’s relentless whispers. You leaned against the cool stone wall, letting the silence settle over you, trying to untangle your feelings.

“Y/N,” a familiar voice called softly, and you turned to see Draco standing there, his expression unreadable as he approached.

“What was that all about?” you demanded, your voice low but filled with emotion. “You practically confirmed every rumor Pansy started. Everyone thinks…” You trailed off, too frustrated to continue.

Draco looked at you steadily, his usual arrogance tempered by something softer, something real. “I know. And I don’t regret it,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I didn’t just say it to rile her up, Y/N. I said it because it’s true. That night meant something to me.”

His words struck you, cutting through the haze of your frustration and leaving you defenseless against the emotions you’d buried since that night. You looked away, struggling to keep your composure. “And what, exactly, did it mean to you?” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze.

Draco stepped closer, his hand reaching out to tilt your chin, forcing you to look at him. His gaze was intense, every bit of his usual guardedness stripped away. “It meant that I want more than just a memory,” he said softly. “I want more than just that night.”

You felt a surge of something raw and overwhelming, a mixture of hope and fear tangled together in a way that left you breathless. He was asking for more than just a kiss, more than just a fleeting connection—he was asking for a chance, a real chance.

For a moment, you stood there, caught between the past and the possibility of something real. Part of you wanted to pull away, to put your walls back up and walk away from whatever this was before it grew into something you couldn’t control. But another part, a part you’d tried so hard to ignore, wanted to take that risk.

Finally, you reached up, your hand resting gently against his cheek. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, Draco,” you said, your voice steady despite the whirlwind inside you. “But maybe… maybe I don’t want it to just be a memory either.”

A slow, genuine smile softened his expression, and he leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to yours, his hand still cradling your face. In that quiet moment, the rest of the world faded away, leaving only the two of you, bound by a promise that was fragile yet undeniable.

As he pulled you into a soft, lingering kiss, you knew that whatever came next, you were ready to face it together, no matter how messy, complicated, or risky it might be. This wasn’t just a kiss; it was the beginning of something that neither of you could—or wanted to—ignore.

Likes, reblogs and comments are always very much appreciated! ♡

© slytherinsmuse. please do not copy, claim, translate or steal any of my works as your own.

[bumblebeesfromvenus]

hiiii friend!! I just recently discovered your writing and I am l o v i n g it. If it's not too much to ask, can I request some comfort with soap for a fem!plus size! reader. Maybe reader has really bad anxiety about every day things, or is insecure about her looks? really anything works for me, I'm not picky. Thank you!!

Hello! 🩷

so sorry for the long wait, but I hope this helps you and any other girl who might feel bad about her extra pudge <3

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall 🪞

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Johnny comes to find you upset about your looks. Lucky for you, he always has a way to cheer you up.

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A downtrodden sigh slipped past your lips, your brows scrunched together as you were staring at yourself in the mirror.

Your day was doomed from the start; the second you caught an unflattering glance of your sleepy reflection, the corners of your mouth turned down into a frown, you knew today was only going to get worse.

No matter where you went, there always seemed to be a mirror situated somewhere, only reflecting the worst angles.

Whether it was a tinted window, the shiny surface of a cupboard, or the telly, the image of yourself followed you like a shadow. Your eyes always found the flaws first and overlooked all of your good qualities. Immediately drawn to any imperfections.

The extra fat that cushioned and softened your silhouette, the dimples on your legs, the rolls on your back that deepened when you twisted your body, your tummy that dented your clothes and rested on your thighs when you sat down.

Despite loving and accepting all of these parts of yourself, sometimes a parasite of insecurity and doubt planted itself in your mind for a day. It would eat away at your brain, sending you down a dizzying spiral.

With a huff you grabbed a blanket and threw it over the mirror, successfully covering up the smooth glass.

A much wiser decision than shattering it and living with even more reflections of yourself and bad luck for the next seven years.

You slipped into bed, burying deep into the blankets and pillows, hoping to soothe the heavy ache in your chest. Maybe sleeping would help, you thought.

Yes, maybe it would. At the very least, if would stop any more thoughts, and even if it was only for a moment, you wouldn't have to feel anything at all.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·.

The door fell shut with a thump, followed by a relieved sigh slipping past Johnny's slips as he toed off his boots. The weight off another day at Base lay heavy on his shoulders. At least he wasn't in an active warzone for once.

He dropped everything by the entrance, not caring enough to properly put his shoes away. All he wanted now was to find his soft bonnie lass and let the outside melt away.

Johnny wasn't surprised to not find you in the living room as he stepped further into your shared home. It wasn't uncommon for you to be taking a nap at this hour, but the way absolutely nothing in the house seemed disturb made him raise a brow.

With quiet steps, he made his way to your bedroom and cracked open the door, peaking his head in. You weren't facing him, your form obscured by far too many blankets, at least for Johnny's liking.

Nonetheless, the sight made him crack a soft smile. This was his prove that all he had done and will do was worth it so people like you would be safe.

From the corner of his eye he caught the covered mirror and with a slightly twisting feeling in his stomach he sat down on the edge of the bed, denting the mattress.

"Mo leannan?" He called softly, placing a gentle hand somewhere on your cocooned self.

Your response of a soft grumble made him chuckle. You were obviously not ready to leave your cozy paradise, and he couldn't blame you.

Johnny slipped under the blanket(s) with you, the tension easing from his muscles. He could finally rest his weary bones.

He scooted closer, ignoring how he would be boiled alive under all these layers, and wrapped his arms around.

He was about to rest his hands on your soft tummy, his favorite place for them to be, but as if you were struck by lighting you gasped and tightly grasped his wrists, stopping him in his tracks.

You had never been more thankful to not be facing Johnny, your head hung low in shame.

His brows furrowed in worry, the uncomfortable feeling that sat in the pit of his stomach proving to be an instinct he hoped would be wrong.

"What's wrong? I ken somethin's off." He spoke softly, his faced nuzzled into your hair.

The grip on his wrists loosened and you tucked them back at his side.

Stubborn as ever, Johnny managed to grasp at your hips, needing his hands on you.

"This alright?" He mumbled, waiting for your approval before going any further.

You managed a small verbal confirmation and he immediately pulled you back against him.

"The mirror-" he began, stopping when you tensed beneath his touch.

"Bad day?" Johnny asked quietly, gently rubbing his hands over your hips.

You nodded, your hair moving while he was left staring at the back of your head.

"Hen, let me see tha' pretty face o' yours, will ya?" He promoted gently, teasingly poking a finger in your side.

Your shoulders sagged with a heavy sigh, but soon you were maneuvering yourself onto your other side. You were greeted by empathic eyes and a soft, lopsided smile from your lover, who promptly wrapped his arms around you fully, pulling you into his chest.

You relaxed in his embrace, your head resting right above his heart beat. You let your eyes fall shut for a moment, letting Johnny's warmth and comfort deep into your flesh.

"Whatever is goin' on in tha' clever wee head, it's all lies." He whispered, making you pull your face from his chest, looking up at him with your beautiful doe eyes.

"Ah love all o' you. Every imperfection. Every flaw. Every pound. Ya hear me?" He sounded almost scolding, rasing his brows at you.

It managed to pull a small giggle from your throat and a faintest hint of a smile.

"There she is." Johnny smirked, watching as you rolled your eyes at him. He cupped your face.

"Ah love these round cheeks. Ma wee chipmunk." He cooed, pressing sloppy, wet kisses all over your face.

You squealed, pushing against his chest to get him away from you.

"Ew, Johnny!" You laughed, his stubble scratching your skin.

"Does ma affection disgust you, bonnie?" He accused, grinning. You got a hold of his cheeks and looked at him with a smile.

"No, but... can we try a little less drool?" He winced, his lips forming a thin line.

"Ah'm afraid tha's not possible."

As you took a breath to reply, he surged forward and continued smothering you in sloppy kisses, moving to your neck.

You screeched and laughed, feeling the rumble of his own chuckle against your throat.

Johnny didn't let up, only stopping when you had tears in your eyes and gasping for air. He pulled back and dramatically wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"All tha' kissin's making me tired." He yawned, stretching his shoulders.

"Time for ma favorite pillow." He grinned at you.

"What're you up to?" You asked suspiciously, squinting yout eyes at him.

With a cheeky smile he dove under the blanket, expertly lifting your shirt up at the same time before pressing his entire face into your bare tummy.

"Johnny!" You gasped, followed by a laugh.

His rough stubble was prickling your skin.

Right now, he was just and odd bulge denting the blanket. You lifted the layers and found him smiling up at you, contently resting on your pudgy belly.

"Best spot in the house." He sighed, intertwining your fingers. You chuckled, smiling down at him softly.

"Thank you." You said quietly, running your fingers through his mohawk.

"Anyhtin' for ma bonnie lass. Ah love you. Promise." He replied in a low timber, pressing a kiss beside your belly button.

"I love you, too, Sudsy."

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I hope you enjoyed 😚

Don't forget, you're beautiful just being yourself 🩷

More of Johnny and others -> 💫

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[tokoyamisstuff]

Penance...

...in which Father Anderson makes you repent for the sin of making him fall for you.

18+ | 2,5k. words | f! Reader | not proofread | happy ending

Inspired by -> those <- old Headcanons from @thirstyforlulu that made me feel things.

Warnings: some angst, porn without plot, hatefuck, dom/sub undertones, slut shaming, choking, spanking, seriously this is just pure filth...he asks for consent several times tho.

Father Anderson's unmistakeable steps were echoing through the hallway long before he reached his destination. Just like with an approaching thunderstorm, if you hear it coming, it's already far too late to hide.

His knocks were loud and impatient, bearing a subtle threat that shall you keep him waiting any longer, he might as well tear down the goddamn door. He didn't mind the possibility of anyone hearing what's going on, and frankly he was too blinded by his wrath to even care.

Because now that he made up his mind, not even god himself would be able to stop him.

It feels like an eternity until you finally open, sleepily blinking up to the man that had so rudely disturbed your night's rest. He was wordlessly looming over you, face twisted in rage and something undecipherable. Yet there was no anger, no fear to be detected in your alluring gaze, just trusting confusion.

"Father?" You sound worried, tilting your head to the side as you rub your eyes and for the fraction of the moment, his features soften. "Is everything alright?"

Anderson balls his fists several times, jaw clenched tight as the last remnant of his volition still hesitated to give in to this overwhelming desire. He was torn apart on the inside, but his self-restraint fainted with every passing second in your proximity.

After endless nights of praying, begging god for guidance, he had grown weary to ward off these intense feelings. For decades he fullfilled his holy duty without fail, had never asked for anything before and yet it seemed that in this time of adversity his god had forsaken him.

If the Lord would not answer his prayers, then he would stop trying to renounce what he so greatly yearned for. But once that line is crossed, there would be no going back for either of you.

Well, then so be it.

A desperate groan cut through the silence and eventually his lips crash over yours as he enters, slamming the door shut behind him. The kiss takes your breath away, despite the obvious inexperience there was to it. You gasp when his tongue forcefully splits your mouth open, running across your bottom lips before exploring the inside.

Anderson's chest is heaving as he tore himself away from you, breath visible as feeble mist. You cannot make out his eyes behind the reflection of his glasses, but that wasn't necessary to notice his emotional turmoil.

You were overwhelmed but at the same time incredibly blissful that he had the courage to do what you never would've dared. That initial excitement wouldn't last long however, and before you could even register what happened, the priest had bent you over the next best surface. A bang halls through the room as your head hits onto the tabletop, your body pressed against the cold material at least partially soothing the pain.

"Do ye have no shame, woman?" His tone is unusual cold, sending a shiver down your spine as he speaks. "Dragging a righteous man of faith down to your level is a sin against god."

"Wha-" You still felt dizzy due to the impact, but slowly began to grasp the situation. "But Alexander, I didn't do anything wro-"

"That's still 'Father Anderson' for ye" he reminds, harshly janking back your hair.

How dare you acting all innocent now? You knew exactly what you were doing, all this time!

With the way you acted, presented yourself, spoke around him there's no way he could buy any cheap excuse of yours right now. Every subtle touch of yours made him feel like electric shocks surged through his system, every sweet affirmation only further worsening this tormenting need that could only be quenched by having you in every way possible.

It was sweet torture to be given fractions of what he could never have, and yet giving in would mean losing a central part of himself forever.

When he shall betray his oath, then he'll at least make you pay the price.

Anderson grids, almost snarls as he remembered your past transgressions, wants to make you feel just a fraction of the misery you made him go through.

"The devil has triumphed" he explained coldly, impassive even. "and you are his accomplice. You must be punished for your actions."

"N-No, please- ah!" You bite your tongue to suppress a moan, feeling Anderson grind against you from behind.

"Just look at you" he spat, tone laced with a venom he usually only adressed heathens and monsters with. You wore nothing but a thin, almost translucent nightgown and a string which he provocatingly tugged on, his tongue clicking in contempt. "Is that how a virtuous servant of god is supposed to dress? Pathetic."

Embarrassment washes over you but there was no time to dwell in your pity, since his hands already sneak beneath the fabric, the cold leather of his gloves making your nipples betray you and stiffen under his touch. "No better than a Babylonic whore..."

The implication of both his words and actions fills you with dread.

It is so unlike himself to act this way, as if the sweet, caring man you once knew had been replaced by a cruel lunatic, akin to a feral beast. He frightened you like this, and you anxiously wondered if you'd ever see the real Anderson again. The man that had sworn to protect you, who would never voluntarily hurt you in any way.

He seems far away now.

"I-I really don't know what you're talking abo-" Anderson cuts you off right there, fingers digging deep into the flesh of your hips as he rams them against his clothed cock. You feel him harden as you try to squirm out of his grasp, your writing only spurring him more.

"Don't play dumb. Ye wanted me to do this, didn't ye?" The assassin leans over your shaking body, his breath hot on your ear as he chuckles darkly. "Tell me I'm wrong and I'll stop at once."

You stare at him for a while, completely quiet, before averting your eyes in shame, not denying his accusations. "Knew it..." The man smirks diabolical, tearing your gown apart at the seam in one skilled movement. "This whole time you tried to entice me even though you knew the consequence, yes?"

You were at loss for words. While the priest was right about your indecent attachment, you never planned to take it any further - at least not consciously. Maybe you did act different around him, but that would mean you're at fault for tempting one of the churches most loyal. No wonder he's behaving so twisted, his faith means everything to him after all.

What does that make you?

Tears dwell in your eyes and countless apologies drop from your lips, but they all went on deaf ears.

"No need to ask me" he declares, pointing to the sky. "Tell it to god."

You might have succeeded to make him commit this sin, but at least he'll do it on his terms...

...and right now he wants you to ask for forgiveness until the sound of your pleas would quiet the screaming conscience in his mind.

The priest places a firm hand on your ass, groaning at the sensation. "Lets see if you caught up on your teachings. Recite 1 John, 1:9."

"If we confess our sins, he will for- ah!"

"Wrong" he emphasizes his word with a slap, ordering "Again."

“I-If we- ouch!" you hiss, and your screams are like music in his ears. "No stuttering when you talk about the Lord's gospel. Again."

This scenery repeats several times, with the priest always finding some minor detail to reject your version, all just to dwell into this reverted power dynamic a little longer.

"If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.”

"Amen. Good girl..." he purrs, rubbing the sore flesh of your behind, until his fingers find something else to busy themselves with, fingertips brushing against your folds. "So wet already...you really wanted this, huh? Ye happy now?"

You nod both eager and bashful, the endearing sight almost appeasing him enough to go easier on you...only almost, though. Without warning he pumps one finger inside, a muffled gasp escaping your throat at the action. It works with such ease that he enters another and then one more, the material of his gloves making lewd noices as he prepares you well.

"Don't tell me you've done this before..." You coat yourself in silence once again. He knew very well you were a woman long before turning your way towards religion way later in life. "Tz tz tz...such a dirty, filthy thing in my church..."

You whine and buckle your hips when he pulls out, much to his amusement. His gloves are coated with your juice and he leads them to his tongue, getting a sample of your nectar while he stares you down intensely.

Shit, you taste like heaven.

"Nah-ah-ah..." Anderson scolds as he roams your curves, his finally uncovered palm relishing the sensation of your tender skin against his calloused hands. "Sinners don't get to cum...yet."

The man keeps holding you firmly in place, his other hand unbuckling his belt. You feel his thick head at your entrance, a mixture of panic and fervor rising in your chest.

"Last chance to tell me to stop" he warns, a paradox fondness in the way he speaks opposite to how he's handling you. "N-No...please..."

"Please what?" Growing impatient, you feel his erection twitch as he rubs himself between your thighs. "Speak up."

"Shit- please...I want you, Anderson...ah!" The man lets out a gluttural sound when he buries himself inside of you, slowly stretching your insides.

Bloody fucking hell, you feel even better than he could ever have imagined.

"Such a pretty lil' thing..." he murmurs as he watches you so neatly wrapped around his cock, giving you some time to adjust to his size before he starts moving. "So pretty and mine."

You groan at the pleasant ache, feeling so damn full when he starts violently thrusting into you, showering you with both vile curses and enamored praise.

Anderson keeps you pinned down, wrists twisted behind your back and your head pressed against the furniture. Like in a trance he keeps up this brutal pace, puts all of his pent-up frustration into it as he mercilessly rams into you.

"D-Don't stop...mhh..." His movements become more erratic, but your sweet pleas make him chase this high for you. He keeps hitting a spot that makes you sing for him until he feels your body tense beneath his. You see stars, being reduced to a moaning and trembling mess as Anderson rides you through your high.

The way you moan his name like it's a sacred prayer sends him over the edge shortly after and he stops, ramming into you one more time and spilling deep inside of you.

Anderson remains still, stays like this for a while before he pulls out, watching his seed leaking out and dripping down your leg. Out of a whim he shoves it all back in, keeping his fingers steady against your sensitive hole. "Ye wanted it, now don't ye dare wasting any."

His orgasm had hit him with a force that made his mind go blank, but when the haze in his brain slowly fades, the realization of what he just did made the pleasant aftershock vanish in an instant. Anger boils up in his guts once again, at constant war with the conflicting flutters of his heart.

"...god, I hate you..."

Those words together with his disgusted look made your chest narrow, but you were far too exhausted to have a proper reaction. You want to move and quickly cover yourself, but he's far from done yet, swiftly spinning you around on your back and aligning himself with your entrance again. "I don't think so" he mocks, a sadistic glee present on his features as he presses his thumb on your clit, earning a cry. "We'll continue until you've learned your lesson."

Anderson holds you down by the throat as he shoves himself inside you again, the overstimulation almost too much to bear. You feel like you've been set on fire, clawing on his arm to make him have mercy. And yet he feels your walls clench around him each time he squeezes down on your windpipe.

Indeed, seeing you like this, all messed up and stained with tears, isn't nearly as satisfying as he hoped it to be. Quite the opposite even, he loathes himself for being so obviously unable to be the man you deserve.

Maybe that was what this is about...

All his life he scorned having been born a mere man, since the weight of awareness that came with it was simply crushing. He strived to become an unfeeling tool to implement god's will, and as such he shouldn't have to feel like this.

So why can't he shake off what makes him so undeniably human?

"Stop..." he grids in between frantic thrusts, voice cracking. "Stop...looking at me...like...that..."

Still, you stare at him in awe as if he just personally hung the moon, hand trailing across the arm holding you down until it settled on his cheek. Your lips mutely form his name before curving into a vibrant smile, and he is completely and utterly forlorn at the sight.

Anderson lets out a sob as closes the gap between the two of you again, his mouth covering yours in exasperation. "I hate you..." he repeats, his voice meek and more woeful this time. "I hate how much I love you...shit, I love you so, so much, I-"

"I know. I feel the same, Alexander..." You redeem him with another kiss, both passionate and soothing as you wrap your hands around his neck, hands entangled in his hair. He immediately reciprocates, lifting you up against a wall to be as close as humanly possible. More careful this time he settles for a slow pace, head buried in your neck and tenderly raising blood to the skin, placing a mark of possession.

This time you come undone together in a tight embrace, unwilling to let go even long after the waves of your release ebbed away. Your foreheads are touching and you erupt into relieved laughter, which Anderson cannot help but sheepishly join in.

He begins planting countless pecks to your face, neck, shoulder, wherever his lips could reach, a hint of remorse flashing in his eyes as he caresses the bruise forming on your neck.

"Come." He timidly lets you down on your still wobbly feet, stuffing himself back into his pants. "Get dressed. We need to get going."

"Wha-" you raise an eyebrow at him as he throws the next best piece of clothing your way, almost offended at the lack of aftercare. "Where to?!"

"The confessional." Oh, that man is fucking crazy. "Then let me at least take a shower befo- hey!"

There was no use in arguing, for he had already picked you up again, bridal style this time. "Later" he urges, pressing a wet kiss into your hair and another one to your cheek. "I'll carry you if I have to."

Seems like the old Anderson is back...too bad, since you had just started enjoying this other side of his.

[mer-acle]

You’re gonna hate me for this, but the brain worms were brain worming and the most appalling scenario came to mind.

Athena knew Odysseus wouldn’t be happy to see her, why would he? But never did she expect him to react like this. First he’d simply been shouting at her, scathing insults about how she acted and about how much it hurt when she abandoned him for ten years. He called her a monster, which was ironic seeing what the so called man had done to her uncle, and how even he himself openly referred to himself as a monster. She didn’t consider him wrong, of course, she was quite the monster herself. She always had been. Athena didn���t even flinch when he slapped her, she simply stilled in shock. Though she assumed he’d be finished after that, she was wrong, he was far from finished.

“You hurt me and then come back after everything I went through alone like it’s nothing?!”

“Odysseus-” She started, reaching out towards him

“No! Let me speak, Athena! You don’t get to try and convince me that you’re in the right! You did enough of that when I was a child! Gods I wish I had never met you! You know that?! You ruined my life!” He spat every word with venom. Hatred burning in every syllable and it stung; not because he was wrong, but because he was right. What good had she ever done for him? “Quiet now that I’ve called you out Pallas Athena?” Odysseus taunted cruelly. He taunted her, emphasizing the epithet, the epithet that he knew the story of. Of course he would do that, she was just as awful to him as she had been to Pallas, but still, she lashed out at him against her own better judgement. The pain of having such a thing used against her overriding her better judgement.

With anger burning in her heart Athena attempted a strike at Odysseus with her spear which he blocked, taking full advantage of Athena’s blind emotional state to push back harshly against the goddess, sending her stumbling backwards and unintentionally loosening her grip on her spear. Before she could fully regain her bearings Odysseus slashed her hand, the sharp edge of his blade cutting across her knuckles causing her to drop her spear entirely. Athena hissed in pain and grabbed her hand, she could see the bone of her knuckle on her pointer and middle fingers, and it hurt, nowhere near as bad as her father’s lightning had but it was still painful. “Odysseus, please,” she said gently with hope that after having drawn some of her blood he’d be calmer, “can we talk about this?”

Odysseus growled, more like a beast than any kind of man, and picked up her fallen spear. He regarded his former mentor with the same look he’d given Poseidon before stabbing her right above her heart, and maybe ten years ago Athena would have been ashamed of this but not anymore; she screamed, doubling over and clutching where the spear was lodged into her body.

“Od-Odysseus…” Athena wheezed, looking up at him, her eyes pleading.

To her surprise, he faltered, his cold expression momentarily switching to one of regret and mild horror at his own actions, “… Athena.”

Red and gold dripped from both her new wound and her knuckles onto the ground, “Please, Odysseus… I- I am not mad… just- don’t…”

Odysseus seemed to be considering her words. She prayed that he would believe her, funny thing it is as a goddess to pray, she didn’t even know who she was praying to. Who does a goddess pray to? After a few agonizing moments (for Athena at least) of deliberation, Odysseus grabbed the godly spear by the shaft and twisted it harshly before ripping it out. Athena screamed again before falling back against the wall, leaning her weight against it to keep herself from falling to the ground, and fully expecting him to stab her again the same way he had to Poseidon but to her shock he threw the spear to the ground. “Why didn’t you come?”

He didn’t know. Athena had assumed this whole time that Odysseus knew what had happened up on Olympus, why she never came to free him personally, but he didn’t. Why had he never been told? Was Hermes told to not tell him? She wouldn’t be surprised if he was, Zeus liked to be difficult like that sometimes. Despite the pain she was in from Odysseus’ attack she found the strength to chuckle weekly, “Odysseus, who do you think convinced Zeus to let you go?”

—————

So, how many torches are you giving me for this one?

Wtf

This calls for 600 torches, two windbags, the lightning bolt and the trident

I am so not okay about this

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

Fool - Sandor Clegane x Reader

Summary: You save a man once and despite all it was the best decision of your life.

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Reader

Warnings: Angst, a bit of violence, swearing, Sandor is a dick, not really smut a bit of touchy-touchy.

AN: Soooo... I did a thing... I hope you enjoy it :)

Words: 11 287

The dusk settles thick and silent over the hills, fading the world around you into muted grays and purples. The only sounds are the sigh of wind across the barren moorland and the steady crunch of your boots as you make your way home. The house you live in is a squat, stubborn thing, as weather-worn and tenacious as you have become in these years since your brother left it to you. Just enough land, just enough walls to hold out the loneliness. It’s more than you’d ever thought you’d have, and, somehow, just enough to keep you here.

The moor stretches in rough, empty shadows around you, vast and silent. That silence is part of why you stay; it settles around you like a second skin, a balm after years of watching your brother lose himself to things he’d seen in war. For all the ways you wish you could have saved him, solitude, at least, has kept you whole.

The moor stretches out before you, dark and endless beneath the heavy cloak of twilight. You’re just reaching the edge of your small plot of land when you hear it—the faintest, rough sound cutting through the silence. A groan, low and guttural, catches your ear, half-swallowed by the winter wind. You stop, heart pounding, every instinct screaming to turn back. You’ve heard enough tales of what lies beyond your quiet little corner of the world: soldiers who have no home but war, men who live by taking what isn’t theirs, the dying, the desperate, and the dangerous.

Yet something draws you forward.

You cross the stretch of frostbitten grass, weaving between the trees, and as the shadows deepen, you catch sight of a hulking figure slumped against a tree. He’s half-collapsed, head bent forward, shoulders hunched beneath a tattered, bloodstained cloak. His breath comes in ragged gasps, misting in the cold air.

For a moment, you think he’s dead. He’s so still, his body slouched in a way that seems to defy life. But then, with a low, pained growl, he shifts, bracing himself with one hand in the snow, lifting his head just enough for you to see his face.

And it takes everything in you not to gasp.

The man’s face is a study in harsh contrasts, a brutal landscape of scars and strength. The left side is hideously burned, a grotesque mass of raw, twisted skin that gleams faintly in the fading light. But it’s his other side that holds you captive. The skin there is unscarred, rough from battle and the elements, but it holds the remnants of a fierce, almost unwilling beauty. His cheekbone is high and sharp, his jawline as hard as iron, and his mouth—had he ever known kindness, you think it might have once held a smile.

But his eyes—dark and watchful, flickering with something bitter and broken—pin you in place. There’s a wildness there, something untamed and angry, like a wolf forced into a corner. His gaze is sharp, assessing, as if weighing your worth in that single, searing look.

This man is dangerous. You can feel it in the way he holds himself, even in weakness. There’s something in his bearing, in the raw strength of his frame, that speaks of violence, of a man who’s known blood and pain. And yet, as you take in the curve of his mouth, the line of his jaw, you realize that somewhere beneath the scars and bitterness, there’s a strange, reluctant handsomeness to him. It’s not a softness, not beauty in any traditional sense, but an intensity, a rawness that catches you off guard.

He grunts, a harsh, frustrated sound as he tries to push himself up. His hand slips in the snow, and he slumps back against the tree, his face contorted with pain. Instinctively, you step forward, your own caution dissolving under the faint pull of pity. He hears you, and his head snaps up, his gaze locking onto yours with a ferocity that makes your breath hitch.

“Don’t come closer,” he snarls, his voice a low, gravelly growl that carries an unmistakable warning. “Nothing worth taking here.”

The words are hostile, but there’s a roughness to his tone, a weariness that almost borders on defeat. He’s like a wounded animal, too proud to show his pain, but unable to hide it completely. You feel the weight of his gaze, the cold edge of his mistrust, but something in you softens. Despite his snarl, his threat, there’s a woundedness in him that you recognize, that calls to you.

For a moment, you think of walking away. You tell yourself it’s only logical, that he’s a stranger, a man who looks like he could tear you in two with a single hand if he wanted. But your heart, foolish and unyielding, won’t let you abandon him here.

You take a step forward, keeping your voice low and steady, as if coaxing a feral creature. “You’re hurt. Let me help.”

He looks at you like you’re mad, his mouth curling into a grimace that could almost be a smirk. His eyes hold yours, dark and searching, as if trying to understand why anyone would risk themselves for a man like him.

After a long, tense moment, he slumps, too exhausted to protest. “If you’re going to do something,” he mutters, his voice barely above a rasp, “do it quick. Don’t have time for… pity.”

You swallow, your gaze drawn again to that scarred, angry face, and to the strange beauty hidden within the hardness. He’s a man scarred by life, brutal and battered, but still something about him calls to you. Maybe it’s the strength that radiates from him even in his weakness, or the deep, restless pain in his eyes. Maybe it’s the way he seems like he could have been someone else, someone better, had the world been kinder.

You move closer, your hands gentle as you help him to his feet. He leans heavily on you, his weight a harsh reminder of the raw, unyielding strength in his frame. His body radiates heat, even through the blood-soaked cloak, and as you guide him towards your home, your heart pounds with a strange, nameless thrill.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is the worst mistake you’ve ever made. But as his rough voice murmurs a grudging, bitter “thank you,” you feel something flicker within you—a spark, a warmth that defies the winter cold, that promises something you don’t yet understand.

You don’t know if this man will bring you harm or if he’ll leave you with nothing but regret. But for now, you can’t bring yourself to let him go.

***

The walk back to the house is hard with the weight of his body slung over your shoulders, but somehow, you manage. Once inside, you lay him out on your small, sturdy bed, and your breath comes in gasps as you straighten, shaking out your sore limbs. He is still, barely breathing, but alive. The fire flickers nearby, casting his harsh features in half-shadow, softening the edges of that burnt, brutal face.

You busy yourself gathering water and cloth, setting out to clean the wound. Your brother had insisted you learn a few things about tending wounds, enough to patch up a gash and keep someone from bleeding out in the night. You settle beside the stranger and begin, peeling back the bloody cloth with steady hands, trying not to think about the heat of his skin or the size of his scarred hands. You just clean the wound, murmuring quiet apologies as you stitch the torn flesh, trying to ignore his low groans of pain, even in unconsciousness. When the wound is bound, you wipe your brow, exhausted but satisfied.

Your stomach rumbles, reminding you that it has been hours since you last ate. As you ladle out some stew into a bowl, you look back to the bed. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths, but he’s alive. And tonight, strange as it is, that feels like a small victory.

***

The next morning, you’re awakened by a low, pained grumble from across the room. Your eyes snap open, and you see the man stirring, his hand rising to his side. His face twists in confusion and pain as he tries to sit up, and before you can even think to approach, he’s on his feet, moving with surprising speed and strength, his eyes blazing with something that’s half terror, half rage.

“Easy now,” you murmur, holding up your hands. “You’re safe here.”

But he doesn’t see you. The wild look in his eyes is that of a cornered animal. In one swift, instinctual motion, he reaches for you, his hand closing around your wrist, shoving you back against the wall. His other arm raises, ready to strike, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you meet his gaze, calm, steady.

“Go on, if it’ll make you feel better,” you say softly. “But I doubt it will.”

He hesitates, the haze of panic clearing as he takes in his surroundings. You feel his grip slacken, the tension in his shoulders slowly ebbing away as his mind catches up to where he is. He lets you go, blinking in disoriented silence, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You watch his eyes flit across the room, lingering on the bed, the bowl of stew left unfinished by his side, and finally, back to you.

“Where am I?” he rasps, his voice raw and full of suspicion.

You rub your wrist absently, shrugging. “In a poor excuse for a house, on a plot of land no one would want, with a stew that probably won’t kill you, but I’m making no promises.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, though it could hardly be called a smile. There’s a look of recognition in his eyes, though he quickly masks it.

“You brought me here,” he says, still wary.

“Yes,” you reply, keeping your tone casual, unbothered. “I found you bleeding out on the moor. Looked like you’d had a bit of a rough day, so I figured I’d give you somewhere to pass out that wasn’t a muddy ditch.”

He studies you, his eyes still narrowed with distrust. “And what do you want for it?”

“Nothing,” you reply honestly. “Maybe I just have a soft spot for stray dogs.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, and then, almost reluctantly, he sinks back onto the bed, wincing as he shifts to keep pressure off his wound.

“My… My brother acted like that too,” you say, unprompted. You look away, clearing your throat. “He’d come back from battles all twisted up, thought I was something dangerous more often than not. Woke up with nightmares, sometimes shouting, sometimes striking out.”

The man watches you, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. “I’m not your brother,” he mutters.

“No, you’re not,” you say, shaking your head. “But you’ve got that look about you. Lost, mean…not sure what to do with someone trying to help.” You offer a small, self-deprecating smile, letting out a soft sigh. “It’s all right. Doesn’t hurt as much as you’d think. My stew’s likely to do worse damage to me than you will.”

He lets out a low grunt, but you sense something easing in his posture, a faint crack in the hard shell he wears like armor. He leans back, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks, his tone testing, as if expecting fear or awe.

You shake your head lightly. “A lost soul needing help, far as I can tell. I’m not much interested in the rest, if there’s any more to it. You’re here, you’re alive…well, mostly.”

For a long moment, he holds your gaze, something unspoken passing between you. Then, he nods, almost as though he’s granted you some small, silent approval, and shifts his attention to the bowl of stew. You pass him a spoon, keeping your distance, letting him have the silence he seems to need. The room settles into an easy quiet, with only the soft clinking of his spoon against the bowl and the crackle of the fire.

You know he’ll be gone before long; men like him don’t linger. But for now, he’s here, and maybe that’s enough for the both of you.

One morning, while setting a cup of weak ale by his side, you accidentally call him ser, and his reaction is swift, a growl that seems to rumble up from somewhere deep.

***

The days pass in a quiet, uneasy rhythm, and you begin to learn the habits of the stranger who now shares your roof. Sandor is a hard man, as unyielding as winter itself, his words as few and cold as the frost clinging to the windows each morning. He doesn’t speak unless he must, which you’ve come to find is perfectly fine by him. When he does respond, it’s in a grunt or with a sidelong glare, his acknowledgment as brief and gruff as possible.

“Not a knight,” he snaps, his eyes hard as they settle on you. “And I’m no lord, neither.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender, but a smile pulls at the corner of your mouth, despite his scowl. “Fair enough,” you say lightly. “But what am I supposed to call you, then?”

He scowls at the question, his gaze darkening as though you’ve struck a nerve. It takes him a long moment, his jaw clenching as though he’s forcing himself to speak, before he finally mutters, “Sandor.”

“Sandor,” you repeat, tasting the name on your tongue, trying to decide if he’s telling the truth or just pushing you away with a lie. His eyes hold a hard, unyielding light, a barrier between himself and anyone who might try to cross it. You decide not to question him further. If he’s offered a name, it’s enough.

“Well then, Sandor,” you say softly, meeting his gaze as steadily as you can manage. “Now you know my name and I know yours, so I’d say we’re even.”

“Even,” he mutters under his breath, as if the idea itself is laughable.

Sandor is a man as thorny and unyielding as a bramble bush, prickling with gruff remarks and muttered complaints, yet for all his hostility, there’s a strange comfort in his presence. For years now, your house has been quiet, its rooms filled only with the soft creaks of settling wood and the lonely whistle of wind against the shutters. Now, though, his muttered grunts and low growls, his heavy footsteps against the worn floorboards, feel like a balm to the ache you can’t quite admit. That ache of loneliness, the deep, unspoken grief that has weighed down your heart for so long, eases just a little with his presence.

He heals quickly, each day growing stronger, his movements less labored and his strength returning in steady increments. By the week’s end, he’s able to stand and move without wincing, his rough, dangerous strength a reminder of the man he was before his injury. Relief fills you, tempered by a strange, reluctant dread. Part of you wonders if, once he’s fully mended, he’ll vanish as quickly as he came, slipping back into the wilderness, leaving you to the silence and the solitude you’d almost forgotten.

One morning, with the weather turning colder and the threat of snow looming, you walk down to the neighboring farm to barter for milk. The farmer, a kind, weathered man who’s known you since you were small, hands over the jug with a gentle smile, pressing a few thick blankets into your arms as well, “For the winter,” he says. “Keep yourself warm, girl.”

When you return home, though, the warmth of his kindness is quickly overshadowed. There, hunched over in the center of your small home, is Sandor, his broad back turned as he rummages through your belongings, rifling through cupboards and drawers with an urgency that sends a chill through you. His hands move roughly over your things, his muttered curses breaking the fragile peace that has grown between you.

You stop in the doorway, clutching the jug of milk tightly as you watch him. He tosses aside your few meager belongings, his face set in a hard, bitter line as he digs through your things, as if preparing to leave. A strange, painful mixture of betrayal and resignation rises in your chest, twisting into something sharp. Of course he was planning to leave. He’s not the sort to stay.

But seeing him like this—rummaging through your belongings, discarding your few possessions like they mean nothing—hurts in a way you hadn’t expected. You want to feel angry, to confront him, but instead, a heavy weight settles in your chest, the same hollow ache you’ve felt so many times before. Like father, like daughter, you think bitterly, remembering how your father had always trusted too easily, given too freely, only to be taken advantage of time and time again. He’d been a kind man, giving everything he had even when it left him with nothing, and you were foolishly, painfully similar.

Sandor turns at the sound of your footsteps, his face hardening, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword as if you’re an intruder. His eyes narrow as he takes in your figure standing in the doorway, milk jug still in hand. There’s a harsh, guarded look in his gaze, and it sends a shiver down your spine—an unspoken warning to stay back.

You force yourself to keep your gaze steady, even as something inside you twists painfully. “Planning to leave?” you ask softly, trying to keep the hurt from seeping into your voice.

His mouth twists, a sneer curling over his scarred face. He steps forward, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, the edge of his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t be foolish,” he warns, his tone a cold blade against your skin. “Give me everything you’ve got.”

For a moment, you can only stare at him, the weight of his words sinking into you, bitter and sharp. You swallow hard, fighting back the hot sting of tears as you reach into your cloak, pulling out a small package you’d prepared the night before, just in case. It holds a bit of food, dried meat, and a few dressing supplies you’d set aside for his wounds.

You hold the bundle out, your hand trembling slightly as you offer it to him. “Here,” you murmur, the word barely above a whisper.

He stares at the bundle, his gaze hard and unyielding, and for a brief, flickering moment, something almost like hesitation crosses his face. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual mask of scorn and indifference.

“Your coin, too,” he snaps, his voice like steel. His sword hovers near your chest, a silent, unyielding threat. “All of it. Don’t think I’ll leave a thing behind.”

A hollow feeling settles in your stomach, a weight that presses down on your chest, heavy and unrelenting. You’ve never had much, but the thought of giving up the little you have, of facing winter with even less than before, fills you with a quiet, aching despair. Yet even now, you find yourself trying to reach for something, a thread of understanding, a flicker of humanity in his gaze.

“Please,” you murmur, your voice breaking just slightly. “I… I don’t have much coin. If you take what little I have, I’ll have nothing left for winter.”

He sneers, his mouth twisting with something like contempt, and the weight of his disdain cuts through you, sharp and cold. “Maybe this’ll teach you,” he spits, his voice low and harsh. “A lesson in trusting stray dogs.”

He snatches the package from your hands, his grip rough and unyielding, ignoring the quiet desperation in your eyes. The words hang heavy in the air, a bitter wound that tears open inside you, leaving only a raw, aching pain in its wake. You swallow hard, forcing back the tears that blur your vision, but one slips down your cheek, betraying the hurt you’re trying so desperately to hide.

For just a second, you think you see something shift in his gaze—a flicker of regret, a shadow of something softer. But it’s gone almost as quickly as it came, replaced by the hard, unyielding mask that has come to define him. He shoves past you, his heavy boots thudding against the floor as he strides toward the door without a backward glance, leaving only the echo of his footsteps in the quiet.

You stand there, rooted in place, your heart pounding painfully in your chest, tears rolling down your cheeks as you watch him go, as the last fragile thread of hope slips away, leaving you alone in the silence once more.

***

Winter’s chill settles deep into your bones. It’s an unforgiving season here, the kind that tests everything from your wits to your resolve. Your small house creaks and groans under the weight of ice and wind, and you wonder, at times, if it might be better to go into the village, to stay there until the thaw. But you’re stubborn, more stubborn than you should be, and you’ve come to find a strange comfort in the solitude.

You take up odd jobs at the inn when you can, enough to keep your stores filled. It isn’t much, but it keeps you busy, keeps you from feeling the sting of an empty house quite so sharply. But it’s no joy. The men there are rough, rowdy, especially after a few rounds. They leer and jeer, grabbing at your arm or the hem of your sleeve. You despise it, the feel of their hot breath, their drunken grins, but the coins in your pocket help you keep your head high. You grit your teeth and bear it because you have no choice.

You’ve been keeping company with a new stray—a scrawny brown dog that wandered onto your land and decided to stay, curling up at your feet by the fire each night, his tail thumping whenever he sees you. You named him Fool, a reminder of the soft, foolish heart you’ve inherited. A part of you still aches, still feels betrayed by the man who once sat in that same spot, the one who had sneered at your kindness and left you with nothing.

You’ve come to accept it as part of your nature, something passed down from your father. He had been a good man, too kind for his own good, always helping others even when it meant less for himself. Your brother had hated him for it, berating him every chance he got, calling him weak, calling him a fool. But you never saw it that way. You admired him, adored him. And, though your brother couldn’t understand it, you became just like him, carrying the same silly heart that gets broken again and again.

One evening, just as you’re finishing your meal with Fool at your feet, you hear voices outside—low and ragged, like someone fighting just to breathe. You tense, listening. It’s not the sound of drunken revelry, nor the calls of travelers. It’s something closer, something weaker. Fool growls, his ears pricked as he looks toward the door, his body stiff with tension.

Slowly, you rise and make your way to the door, drawing it open to peer out into the night.

At first, you can hardly believe it. There, slumped against the old tree on the edge of your land, is the familiar hulking figure, dressed in ragged, bloodstained clothes, his face twisted in a half-smirk even as he bleeds into the snow. Sandor. Or whatever his name truly is. His eyes catch yours, filled with that same strange, dark amusement that first unsettled you.

You stand there, frozen, the cold biting through your cloak. He watches you, the smirk faltering as his breath hitches. Blood drips from his side, staining the snow beneath him dark red, and his skin is deathly pale, as if the winter itself is pulling the life from his veins.

“Didn’t… think I’d come crawling back, did you?” he rasps, his voice rough, tinged with something you don’t recognize. “But here I am.”

He laughs, the sound hoarse, pained, a laugh that nearly turns into a cough. It’s as if the sight of you, standing there shocked and hurt, is some cruel joke. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing heavily, then looks at you with a half-lidded gaze, his expression somewhere between frustration and amusement.

“You’re… not going to leave me to die, are you?” he mutters, a taunting edge to his tone. “I know you’re too soft for that.”

For a long moment, you don’t move. You want to turn around, to let him suffer in the cold as he’d left you to face winter alone, empty-handed and betrayed. But that part of you, that foolish heart you can’t quite stamp out, stirs again. You can’t just let him bleed out there, not while you’re able to help. It would go against everything your father taught you, everything you’ve tried to be.

You kneel beside him, close enough to see just how deep the wound is. Your breath forms clouds in the freezing night air, and you shiver as the cold seeps through your clothes. Gently, you reach to peel back his cloak, trying to assess the damage.

But before you can even touch the wound, his hand shoots out, iron-strong despite his weakness, clamping down around your wrist in a crushing grip. He looks up at you, half-delirious, but his gaze is sharp, angry, almost as if he expects you to exact some imagined revenge.

“No… revenge for you,” he slurs, his voice thick with exhaustion. He laughs again, harshly, even as his fingers dig into your skin with bruising strength. “You… thought you’d get to watch me… rot out here, did you? Not… going to give you that satisfaction.”

You wince, the pain of his grip flaring hot and sharp in your wrist. It feels like he’s about to snap the bone. You try to twist free, but his hold is unyielding, as if every last ounce of his strength is focused on this one, foolish grip. The pressure builds, and you can’t help the pained cry that escapes your lips.

His eyes widen slightly, as if the sound finally registers through his haze. His grip loosens, more from weakness than mercy, and his hand falls away as he sinks back against the tree, his breaths shallow, his skin sickly pale. You rub your wrist, feeling the tender flesh pulse with pain, but you swallow it down, forcing yourself to focus.

He’s slipping, you realize. The blood loss is taking its toll, his head lolling to the side as his eyes flutter shut.

And so, once again, you find yourself hauling him back to the house, his weight leaning heavily against you. It’s harder this time—your strength worn from winter’s hardship, from the nights of cold and hunger you’ve endured because of him. You half expect him to turn on you again, to mock you for your foolishness, but he’s silent, unconscious, his head slumping against your shoulder.

As you drag him inside, your heart is a heavy, tired thing, pounding against your ribs with equal parts anger and despair. You manage to get him onto the bed, his limp form settling like a dead weight. His face is ghostly pale, the scarred skin standing out in harsh contrast. For a moment, you just stand there, watching his shallow breaths, wondering what in the gods’ names possessed you to do this again.

This time, you think, as you go to fetch the bandages, this time, if he turns on you, you won’t hesitate. If he threatens your life again, if he makes even a single move to hurt you, you’ll do what you should have done before—you’ll leave him out in the snow. You’re not strong enough to keep making the same mistakes, to keep paying the price for a kind heart in this unforgiving world.

But as you bind his wounds, as you feel the rough heat of his skin beneath your hands, that soft heart of yours, the one your father instilled in you, refuses to harden. You’ve been foolish, yes. You’ve been hurt, and you’ll likely be hurt again. But as you watch Sandor’s labored breaths begin to steady, you know that some part of you would rather be foolish than cold.

And so, for better or worse, you tend to him, wondering, with a tired bitterness, if this kindness will be the last one you’ll ever give.

***

The first thing Sandor feels as he surfaces from unconsciousness is something warm and wet against his face. For a moment, he’s sure he’s lost more blood than he thought, until he cracks one eye open and sees the mangy face of a dog staring back at him, tongue lolling and nose sniffing eagerly. With a low groan, he shifts his head, feeling the ache flare up along his side. Before he can shove the mutt away, you swoop in, pulling the dog back with gentle hands.

“Sorry about that,” you murmur, pulling the dog’s scruffy head back and rubbing his ears to settle him down. “Fool doesn’t know what ‘personal space’ means.”

Sandor raises an eyebrow, a wry smirk tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Fool, huh?” he mutters, his voice rough, still thick from sleep. “Fitting, that. You’re both a pair of fools.”

He can hardly believe it. Here he is again, bleeding and half-dead in your bed, in your home. After everything he’s done—after holding a sword to your throat, stealing what little you had—and still, you dragged him back here, fussed over him like a wounded animal. The stupidity of it, the softness in you that hasn’t been beaten out by life, it boggles his mind.

As he’s about to mutter some biting remark, something stops him. He looks at you properly, for the first time since he woke, and he notices the changes. Your clothes hang a bit looser on you, as if you’ve shrunk inside them. Your cheeks are thinner, a bit hollowed out, and the brightness that once lit up your eyes is gone, replaced by a dullness that tells him of long, hard days, of nights colder and hungrier than they should’ve been.

The smirk fades from his face, replaced by a flicker of something unreadable. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, you speak.

“I… took care of your wounds,” you say, almost formally, as if you’re a healer giving a report. “You’d lost a lot of blood. If you’re planning on walking out again, I thought you might like to know where things are. There’s stew on the hearth if you’re hungry. And, if you feel the need to repeat that goodbye of yours, just… don’t destroy anything this time.”

The words are matter-of-fact, but there’s a thread of sadness running through them, a tired acceptance that pricks at something deep within him. You straighten, brushing off your hands before turning to the door, as if it’s no big thing that he’s here again, as if his threats and cruelty were no more than a mild inconvenience. Your voice, soft and resigned, reaches him one last time.

“I’m off to work now. Do as you please, Sandor.”

And with that, you leave, closing the door quietly behind you.

For a long time, he lies there, staring at the door. The dog, Fool, looks at him curiously, tilting his head as if wondering why Sandor hasn’t moved yet. There’s a restlessness in Sandor’s chest, a knot that twists and pulls, refusing to settle. He’s had people look at him with fear, with hate, with indifference—but no one has ever looked at him the way you do. You looked at him like he’s something worth saving, worth trusting. It grates on him, that look of yours, that damn fool’s kindness that he doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to understand.

He forces himself to sit up, biting back a grunt of pain as the wound throbs in protest. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he surveys the small room. It’s as bare as he remembers—nothing of much value, nothing a sane person would want to steal. There’s a wooden bowl by the fire with the stew you’d mentioned, and though he’s hungry, he can’t bring himself to touch it. Not yet.

His eyes drift to the small pile of belongings he’d rummaged through during his last departure. They’re stacked neatly now, as if you’d placed each item back with quiet care. It stirs something in him—a shame he doesn’t want to feel, a guilt he’s spent his life learning to ignore. And yet, the evidence of your continued kindness, after all he’s done, sits like a stone in his gut.

Grimacing, he looks down at his hands. They’re scarred, rough, made for breaking things, not for accepting the kind of foolish generosity you keep offering. He knows he should leave. But something in the way you looked at him, that dullness in your eyes, that resignation—he can’t shake it.

***

When you return home that evening, you brace yourself to find the place empty again, as you had the last time Sandor left. Part of you expects him to be gone—like some bad dream that you keep waking up from only to find yourself alone, with nothing left to show for your troubles but a sore wrist and a dwindling store of food.

But as you step into the dim warmth of your small home, there he is, slouched on the floor by the hearth, with Fool sprawled across his lap. He looks different in the firelight, softer, though you’d never say that out loud. He glances up at you, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his scarred face, then back down at the dog, his fingers idly scratching behind Fool’s ears.

You’re caught off-guard by the sight. He should be long gone by now. But perhaps he isn’t feeling well enough to travel, not with his wound still fresh. Or maybe it’s just that he hasn’t taken enough to be satisfied—though, truthfully, there’s nothing left here for him to take.

You notice that he’s tried to redress the wound on his side. The bandage is clumsily tied, blood seeping through in faint, angry patches. You want to say something, to tell him he’s done a poor job of it, but who are you to speak? The man would only scoff, maybe laugh, and truthfully, you’re too tired for it. So you say nothing.

With a sigh, you take off your cloak and hang it near the door. Your fingers are cold, stiff from the bitter workday, and the thin chill that clings to your bones makes you shiver. You spent what little strength you had left chopping wood for the innkeeper’s kitchen and serving ale to men with wandering hands and slurred voices. All for a few coppers that barely cover enough to last the week.

Your stomach growls as you sit down, reminding you of the hunger you’ve been pushing down all day. You feel Sandor’s eyes on you, a weight you can’t ignore, but you keep your gaze lowered. Most of what you had went into the stew for him. You’d put in the last of the carrots, a precious few potatoes. He needed it more than you, after all. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

Gathering the scraps left, you prepare a small bowl for Fool, letting him lick at what’s left from the pot. He wolfs it down, not realizing it’s little more than gristle and broth. You lean back against the wall, every part of you aching with exhaustion, and wrap your arms around yourself, trying to ignore the rumbling in your stomach.

The silence between you and Sandor feels heavy, like something you could reach out and touch. You feel his gaze, keen and appraising, but you don’t meet his eyes. Instead, you reach for the small, worn book that rests by your bed, the only one you own. It’s a collection of stories, a gift from your brother, back in the days when the world seemed brighter and he was still full of hope. You run your fingers over its cracked leather cover, a comfort against the cold.

Reading has always been your escape. You loved books even as a child, their pages carrying you to places you could never hope to see. Your brother taught you to read himself, spelling out each word by candlelight until the letters began to make sense. But books are expensive, and now you can barely afford to eat, let alone buy a single new volume. The last coppers you’d saved were gone, taken by the man sitting just a few feet away from you.

As you open the book, Sandor’s low voice breaks the silence, rough and edged with scorn.

“Didn’t know you could read,” he mutters, a cruel smirk playing at his lips. “Didn’t peg you for the scholarly type.”

The words sting, a barb that lands squarely in your chest, and you feel something twist in you, something that snaps like a thread pulled too tight. You bite your lip, trying to push down the frustration, the hunger, the anger that’s been simmering for weeks.

“Yes, I can read,” you reply, the words tumbling out unbidden, your voice barely steady. “I’ve read this book since I was a little girl. It’s the only book I own.”

You look down at the pages, blinking quickly, fighting back the tears that blur the words. But the hurt breaks through, spilling over before you can hold it back.

“I can’t afford books, Sandor,” you say quietly, your voice trembling. “I can barely afford food. And since you stole what little I had before winter, I’ve got even less now.”

The words are bitter on your tongue, and as you say them, the weight of them settles in, raw and unforgiving. Your voice catches as you add, “I hope you enjoyed your stew, because that’s all there is.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Sandor’s face changes, just slightly—something you can’t quite place, something like shame, maybe, or anger. But you don’t give him the chance to respond. You’ve had enough of his cruelty, his smirks and jibes.

Without another word, you set the book aside, pulling on your cloak with hands that tremble from more than just the cold. Fool looks up at you, his eyes warm and concerned, and you give him a soft pat before whistling for him to follow. The dog bounds to your side, tail wagging, as you push open the door and step out into the night.

The night air is sharp and cold, seeping through your cloak as you walk farther from home, past the shadowed trees and thorny underbrush. The stars overhead feel distant, detached from the world below, indifferent to your weariness and grief. Fool trots by your side, his warmth pressing against your leg as if he senses the turmoil churning inside you.

You keep walking, unwilling to return to that small house, the one place that should feel safe. How could it, when inside is a man who, despite your kindness, has been nothing but cruel to you? A man who mocked the one thing you had, the only treasure that connected you to your past. You’re tired of feeling like the world’s fool. The ache of hunger gnaws at your stomach, and the weight of exhaustion pulls at your limbs. You wander until the cold begins to settle into your bones, until each step feels heavier than the last.

Finally, when you can’t take another step, you sink down beneath a twisted old tree, pulling Fool close and burying your face in his fur. His warmth is comforting, his quiet companionship a balm to the loneliness that has followed you all winter. You run your fingers through his fur, whispering soft words to him, trying to keep your thoughts from straying back to Sandor, to the anger and bitterness that make your chest ache.

“Just you and me, Fool,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the dog’s head. His tail thumps softly against your leg, his brown eyes warm with loyalty.

You lean your head back against the rough bark of the tree, staring up at the sky, the endless, uncaring blackness. Your eyes feel heavy, the exhaustion you’ve been pushing down finally seeping into every inch of you. You don’t even realize when your eyes slip shut, your body sinking into a restless sleep in the frigid air.

***

The sound of footsteps crunching through the snow pulls Sandor’s attention. He’s been walking for some time, an uneasy restlessness pulling him to his feet as he stoked the fire, watching the smoke curl up the chimney. You’d gone out without a word, and though he’d fought the urge to follow you, something gnawed at him, a sense of wrongness he couldn’t ignore.

He listens, and then he hears it—a faint, muffled bark. He follows the sound, his heavy boots leaving deep prints in the snow, his breath fogging in the icy air. When he finally spots you slumped under the tree, his stomach clenches at the sight.

“Seven hells,” he mutters under his breath.

The last thing he’d expected was to find you curled up like a wraith, Fool nestled beside you. Your cheeks are streaked with tear stains, and your face is pale, your body curled into a defensive huddle against the cold. You look fragile, too thin, too worn, like you could disappear into the frost.

He kneels down, slipping his arms under you, and curses under his breath at how light you are. Fool trots along beside him, whining softly, his brown eyes worried as he watches Sandor lift you. Sandor feels a pang of regret, remembering the words you’d spoken to him before you left—the way you’d put everything you had into that stew, that last precious meal you’d given up for him.

“You damn fool,” he mutters, anger seeping into his voice as he carries you back, fighting the guilt that twists in his chest. Fool barks softly as if in agreement, trotting loyally beside him as he makes his way back to the house.

***

When you wake, there’s a strange warmth wrapped around you, a thick blanket heavy on your shoulders. For a moment, you wonder if you’re still dreaming, but as you shift, you realize the warmth isn’t just from the blanket.

The fire crackles brightly in the hearth, far warmer than the usual thin flames that you can barely afford to keep going. There’s more wood than you remember, enough to keep the room warm all night. You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and glance toward the hearth, wondering where the firewood could have come from. It isn’t yours; you’d never have been able to afford such a large stack.

You pull yourself out of bed, your legs stiff and cold, and shuffle to the window. Outside, in the faint morning light, you catch sight of Sandor in your small, snow-covered yard, his back to you as he brings down an axe, splitting another thick log with brutal efficiency. The wood splits with a crack, falling to the ground in two neat halves, and he sets another log in its place, bringing the axe down again with a practiced swing.

For a moment, you just watch him, too surprised to move. When you finally step outside, the cold morning air bites at your cheeks, and Sandor glances up from his work, his eyes flicking over you with a dark, assessing look.

“You’re awake,” he grunts, setting the axe down and stretching his shoulders. “Good. Got some food inside for you. And when I’m done here, I’ll give you back the coin I took.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off, his gaze hardening as he crosses his arms, looking at you with something between anger and exasperation.

“Falling asleep outside in the cold. Stupidest damn thing I’ve seen,” he growls, shaking his head. “Do you have a death wish, or are you just that foolish?”

The harshness of his tone stings, but you say nothing, lowering your gaze as he picks up the axe again, splitting another log with a clean, efficient swing. You lean against the porch, too tired to defend yourself, too numb to react to his anger. The weight of your exhaustion presses down on you, but you can’t deny the small warmth of relief at his words, at the sight of the stack of wood growing at his feet.

After a moment of silence, Sandor glances up at you, his expression softer, almost curious. “That book you keep reading,” he says, his voice gruff. “What’s in it?”

You blink, caught off-guard by the question. “It’s… it’s just stories. Tales of old knights and distant lands. My brother gave it to me when I was little.”

He grunts, swinging the axe again, sending another log splintering in two. “Don’t see why a grown woman would waste time with children’s tales.”

A faint smile tugs at your lips, a small spark of defiance as you shrug. “Books are rare. Expensive. I can’t afford more than this one, so I read it over and over. I suppose it just became… familiar.” You pause, a touch of longing in your voice. “If I had a choice, though… I’d like to read something new. Anything, really. A book with tales from the South, or a story about far-off places I’ll never see.”

Sandor pauses, his gaze thoughtful, as if weighing your words. “Stories aren’t going to fill your belly, or keep you warm,” he mutters, though his tone lacks its usual bite.

“No,” you agree, looking down at your hands. “But they give me something to look forward to. Something to hope for.” You glance up, meeting his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve lost so much, Sandor. My brother, my family, everything. The book… it’s all I have left of them.”

He’s silent, his gaze shifting back to the axe in his hands. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps chopping, the steady rhythm filling the air. 

You watch him in silence, the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots, the steady rhythm of the axe. Fool wanders up to you, resting his head on your knee, and you scratch behind his ears, feeling a warmth settle in your chest that you haven’t felt in a long time. You know Sandor could leave any day, take the coin he promised to return and be gone by nightfall. But for now, as he stacks the wood, the house feels a little warmer, the world a little less empty.

As you sit there, watching him work, the weight of loneliness lifts, just a fraction, and you find yourself hoping, for the first time, that maybe—just maybe—he’ll stay a while longer.

***

At first, Sandor stays only as long as his wound takes to close, but as the days pass, he doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave. He falls into a rhythm in your home. Some mornings, you wake to find him already chopping wood or tending to small repairs that you’ve let sit for far too long. You aren’t sure what keeps him here, and you don’t ask, afraid that if you put words to it, he’ll take his leave for good.

One evening, as you stand at the hearth stirring stew, you feel him watching you from where he sits by the fire. His gaze is intense, making the hair on the back of your neck prickle. When you glance over your shoulder, you catch him staring, his eyes following the curve of your neck, his mouth set in a strange, unreadable line.

“Something on my face?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

He scoffs, though you notice he doesn’t look away. “I just don’t get it,” he mutters, leaning back in the chair, his gaze still fixed on you.

“Don’t get what?”

“Why you don’t run screaming when you see me,” he says, his tone rough. “Face like this, most people can’t bear to look at it.”

You stop stirring, turning to face him fully. “I’m not most people,” you say, your voice soft but certain. Slowly, you walk over to him, standing in front of his chair until he has to tilt his head up to meet your gaze. “I don’t care about that,” you murmur, letting your gaze linger on his unscarred side, then back to the marks of fire on the other. “In fact,” you say, your voice dropping to a near whisper, “I think you’re rather handsome.”

His brows shoot up, a mixture of surprise and suspicion flickering across his face. “Handsome,” he repeats, as though testing the word for himself.

You lean down, bracing a hand on the arm of his chair, bringing yourself close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath. “Very handsome,” you whisper, and before he can react, you let your hand slide up his arm, squeezing gently before pulling back.

He shifts uncomfortably, a faint flush rising to his scarred cheek. “Think you’re the only fool in the world who’d ever say that,” he mutters, but you catch the slight twitch of his mouth, the way his gaze softens as he watches you return to the hearth. And when you glance back, he’s still looking, his eyes darker than before, like he’s seeing you for the first time. 

***

After that night, there’s a shift between you, an invisible thread that draws you closer with each passing day. Sandor doesn’t shy from you the way he used to; he lets you touch him, lets your hand linger on his shoulder or arm when you’re talking, even lets you fuss over his bandages, though he grumbles that you’re treating him like some “invalid.”

One night, you sit close by the fire, reading aloud from your single book. Sandor sits beside you, his arm slung along the back of your chair. Every so often, his fingers brush your shoulder, light but deliberate, sending a warm shiver through you. The warmth of the fire and the nearness of him make it easy to forget the hard edge of the world outside.

“Never known someone to be so taken with words on a page,” he murmurs, his voice low as he watches you read.

You smile, leaning against his arm, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt. “They’re an escape,” you say, meeting his gaze. “They take me somewhere I’ll never get to go.”

He watches you a moment longer, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering. “Maybe you don’t need to go anywhere,” he murmurs, his voice softer, almost tentative. “Maybe what you’re looking for’s right here.”

Your breath catches, and you find yourself leaning into his touch, your heart pounding. “Maybe it is,” you whisper, the words barely audible, and for a long, endless moment, you both sit there, your eyes locked, the fire crackling softly in the silence between you.

***

The flirting becomes a familiar rhythm, woven into your days like a song that only you and Sandor know. He’s braver now, bolder, his rough edges softened by the warmth that grows between you. One afternoon, as you wash linens by the stream, he wanders over, watching as you scrub a shirt of his with practiced, careful hands.

“Got no business handling a man’s things like that,” he grumbles, though there’s a glint in his eye as he leans against a nearby tree, arms folded across his chest.

You grin, wringing out the shirt and hanging it to dry. “Well, if you’d quit splitting the seams, I wouldn’t have to.”

He snorts, shaking his head as he steps closer, his hand brushing yours as he reaches for the next shirt. His fingers linger a moment too long, rough and warm, and when he looks at you, there’s a spark of mischief in his dark eyes.

“What would you do without me, then?” he asks, his voice low, teasing.

You pretend to consider it, your own grin widening. “Probably sleep better, eat more.”

He laughs, a rare, genuine sound that fills the quiet air around you, and before you realize what you’re doing, you reach up, brushing a hand over his cheek, feeling the faint stubble along his jaw. He freezes, his breath catching, his gaze fixed on yours.

“You know,” you say softly, letting your hand linger, “for someone so big and gruff, you’re awfully soft right here.”

His lips quirk into a smirk, and he catches your hand, pressing it against his cheek. “Keep talking like that, and you’ll give me ideas.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” you murmur, leaning in, your breath mingling with his. For a heartbeat, you’re sure he’s going to kiss you, but he pulls back, his gaze flickering with a mix of hesitation and want.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he mutters, his voice rough with something deeper, and you can see the strain in his eyes, the fight between wanting and holding back.

“Good,” you reply, not letting go of his hand. “I like a bit of danger.”

***

One night, as the snow begins to melt in earnest and the first whispers of spring reach your small home, there’s a knock at the door. The sound is low, almost hesitant, as if unsure whether to break the silence. Fool barks, his ears pricked, and you pull yourself from your chair, wiping your hands on your apron as you approach.You smile softly when you see him outside.

“Are you going to let me in, or do I stand here all night?” he grumbles, shifting the weight of the sack on his shoulder.

You step aside, too happy to see him for your own good, and he walks into the warmth of your small home, setting the sack down by your bed. The firelight casts strange shadows over his face, softening the hard lines, and for a moment, he looks almost uncomfortable, as if he isn’t sure why he’s here, or what to expect from you.

Without a word, he reaches into the sack and pulls out the first of its contents. When you see what it is, you gasp softly.

It’s a book.

The leather binding is rough, worn by years of use, and the pages are yellowed, fraying at the edges. Sandor sets it in your hands, watching as you stare down at it, unable to believe what you’re seeing. Then he reaches back into the sack, drawing out another book, and then another, until a small pile of them rests in your lap.

You stare down at the books, hardly able to breathe. There are five, no, six—each one a little treasure, worn and tattered but precious beyond words. For a long moment, you can’t speak. You just look at each one, running your fingers over the covers, flipping through the pages, reading the faded titles and tracing the spines. You feel like a child, given the greatest gift you’ve ever dreamed of.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you laugh—a soft, breathless sound that quickly turns into a sob. You cover your mouth, the tears streaming down your cheeks, but you don’t care. In that moment, you forget all the anger and hurt, all the cruelty he’d shown you. You launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck in a fierce hug.

He tenses, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides, but you cling to him, sobbing and laughing, feeling the solid warmth of him under your hands. Slowly, as if afraid to break something fragile, he lets his hands rest on your back, his touch awkward, hesitant.

“You’re… crying,” he mutters, a trace of discomfort in his voice. “What are you crying for? It’s just a few damn books.”

You pull back, wiping at your cheeks, laughing through the tears as you meet his confused gaze. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “You don’t know… you don’t know how much this means to me.”

He shifts, scratching the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. His eyes flicker to the side, avoiding your gaze. “You’re a fool,” he mutters, his voice rough. “Don’t even know why I bothered.”

But there’s something softer in his expression, something that hints at a vulnerability he rarely shows. He watches you, his brow furrowing as if he’s trying to make sense of the sight before him. And then, after a moment, he speaks again, his voice quieter, more uncertain.

“Aren’t you… afraid of me? For real?” he asks, his gaze searching. “Don’t I… disgust you? I know I am not nice too look at.”

You look at him, truly look at him, taking in the harsh lines of his scarred face, the hardness that has been etched into his expression by years of pain. And you realize that, despite everything, you aren’t afraid. You aren’t disgusted. To you, he’s just Sandor.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I’ll keep repeating that I don’t care how you look. It doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that you’re… that you’re kind.”

At that, he scoffs, his mouth twisting with bitterness. “Kind? I put a sword to your throat. I stole from you, left you to freeze and starve. I’m not a good man,” he growls, the words dripping with self-loathing. “And I won’t be good to you. You think I’m some hero from one of those tales of yours? I’m nothing like that.”

You smile, a soft, sad smile, and reach up to cup his face, your thumb tracing the rough line of his scar. Before he can react, you lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. He freezes, caught off-guard, but you linger just a moment, letting the warmth of the kiss speak for the words you can’t find.

When you pull back, you see the shock in his eyes, the raw vulnerability he’s tried so hard to hide. You smile again, softer this time, and settle down on the bed beside him, gathering the books in your lap and turning to show him each one.

“Here,” you murmur, your voice soft as you run your fingers over the first cover. “This one’s a collection of songs. My brother used to sing to me when I was little. He’d make up his own songs, silly little rhymes, and tell me I’d learn real ones one day. I suppose now I can.”

Sandor’s gaze softens as he watches you, a strange mixture of regret and wonder in his eyes.

You hold up another book, a thick, leather-bound tome with faded writing along the spine. “This one looks like a history book. Probably dry and boring, but I’ll read it anyway. Who knows? Maybe there’s something useful in it.”

As you go through each book, you feel his gaze on you, steady and intent, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt, just watches as you trace each title, as you murmur your thoughts, your hopes for each story.

When you finish, you turn back to him, your heart full, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Sandor,” you say again, meeting his gaze with a sincerity that makes his expression soften, almost against his will. “I don’t care what you’ve done. You’ve given me something precious. Something I’ll never forget.”

For a long moment, he’s silent, his gaze searching yours, his rough hands resting on his knees. And then, almost reluctantly, he nods, as if he’s accepted something he can’t quite put into words.

“Don’t go making me out to be something I’m not,” he mutters, his voice gruff but lacking its usual bite. “I’m not a hero. Don’t need your thanks.”

You smile, resting your hand over his. “You may not be a hero, Sandor. But to me… you’ve been something close.”

He shakes his head, but you catch the faintest hint of a smile, a softness that lingers in his gaze as he looks at you, as if he’s finally beginning to understand the depth of your foolish, stubborn kindness.

As the fire crackles softly in the hearth, the warmth filling the room, you sit beside him, your heart full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. The books rest in your lap, a symbol of something precious, something more than words on a page. 

“I have something more”, he says after a while. A bottle of dark wine glistens under his arm, rich and rare, the sort of indulgence neither of you have seen in ages. He sets it down next to the books, meeting your surprised gaze with a shy sort of confidence that almost makes you laugh.

“Wine and books?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “You’re spoiling me, Sandor.”

“Maybe I am,” he mutters, looking away as if unsure of himself. “You deserve more than… well, more than you’ve had.”

Something about his tone pulls at your heart, and you take out two clay cups, pouring the wine with quiet reverence. You both take a sip, the taste rich and warm, settling in your chest. It’s delicious, smoother than anything you’ve tasted, and by the time you’ve both emptied your first cup, you feel a warmth spreading through you, loosening your reservations, softening the edges of the quiet tension that’s lived between you.

Sandor leans back in his chair, watching you in the firelight. His gaze lingers on you, tracing the line of your neck, the soft curve of your mouth. When you catch him looking, he doesn’t look away, and the heat of his stare sends a shiver over your skin.

“There’s something different about you tonight,” he says, his voice low, thoughtful.

“Maybe it’s the wine,” you tease, but there’s more to it than that. There’s something in the way he looks at you, something that makes you bold. “Or maybe,” you murmur, reaching across the table to touch his hand, “maybe it’s you.”

He glances down, watching your fingers brush over his knuckles, his rough hands unmoving, allowing the touch. Then, slowly, his fingers close over yours, his thumb tracing a gentle line across your skin. The simplicity of it sends a warmth through you, soft but undeniable, and when he looks up, his dark eyes are filled with something raw, something yearning.

“Why me?” he asks, his voice a murmur, rough yet filled with vulnerability. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You lean forward, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because I want to,” you say simply, and before he can respond, you press a soft kiss to his knuckles, your lips lingering on his scarred, calloused skin.

He lets out a breath, something that sounds like surprise, and you feel his hand tighten around yours, his fingers weaving between yours as he stands, drawing you to your feet. The firelight flickers over his face, casting shadows over the deep lines of his expression, but his gaze is warm, focused, and you feel your heart pound as he reaches out, brushing his hand over your cheek.

For a moment, you both stand there, caught in the quiet of the moment. And then, in a single, slow motion, he leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that’s both tender and possessive, his hand cradling the back of your head, holding you close.

The kiss deepens, his mouth exploring yours with a hunger that’s been long denied, a need that thrums through your veins. You reach up, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer, feeling his body against yours, solid and warm. He slides his arms around your waist, his hands moving over your back, mapping out each curve, each hollow, as if memorizing the feel of you.

He pulls back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. His hands linger at the small of your back, pressing you close, and you can feel the faint tremor in his fingers, the depth of his restraint.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, his voice rough and thick with desire, his gaze searching yours.

In answer, you kiss him again, your hands drifting down his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. He lets out a soft, low growl, pulling you closer still, his lips finding their way along your jaw, down the curve of your neck. Each kiss is deliberate, sending a warm thrill through you as he holds you, his touch bolder now, possessive.

He guides you to the bed, his hands on your waist, his touch reverent as he lays you down. You watch him in the firelight, his gaze tracing over you, lingering as he lifts the hem of your shirt, his hands sliding over your bare skin with a gentleness that feels almost worshipful. He looks up at you, a question in his eyes, and you nod, reaching out to touch his face, your fingers tracing the scarred lines of his cheek.

Slowly, he shrugs off his own shirt, and for a moment, you just look at each other, caught in the intimacy of the moment. His skin is warm beneath your touch, the muscles beneath his scars solid, strong, and when he leans down to kiss you again, it’s softer this time, filled with a quiet tenderness that makes your heart ache.

You trace your hands over his shoulders, his back, learning each line, each scar, feeling the strength in him, the resilience that has carried him through so much. And as he moves, as he pulls you closer, his hands gentle but insistent, you feel a warmth spread through you, filling every hollow, every lonely ache that has lived within you for so long.

His mouth moves over you, his lips trailing down your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, each kiss igniting a quiet fire that burns just beneath your skin. His hands find yours, fingers intertwining as he presses soft, lingering kisses along the hollow of your throat, his breath warm against your skin.

When he finally joins you, skin against skin, it feels like something deeper, something that goes beyond words. His hands cradle you, his movements careful, reverent, as if you’re something precious, something he’s afraid to break. You pull him closer, your bodies entwining, moving together in a slow, steady rhythm that feels as natural as breathing.

As you hold each other, your fingers tracing gentle patterns over his back, you feel a closeness, a connection that feels almost sacred, and you realize that somewhere along the way, he’s become more than a mere companion. He’s become part of you, filling the empty spaces in your heart with a warmth that feels stronger, more lasting, than anything you’ve ever known.

Hours pass in a blur of touches, of whispered words and shared breaths, until finally, you lie together in the quiet of the night, tangled in each other’s arms, his hand resting over yours. The fire crackles softly, casting a warm glow over the room, and as you drift off to sleep, his arm tightens around you, a quiet promise that, for now, he’s yours, and you are his.

[woodsling]

I started writing Halsin walking through the woods because... I miss him... and this is what came out.

HalsinxGN!Tav, emotional exploration drabble, ~1500 words.

Halsin takes a night-time stroll through the woods and processes through some of the thorny emotions he's having about his mounting desire for Tav - a desire that's rapidly becoming too strong to ignore.

no porn in this one and really no Tav, just Halsin and his thoughts. posted on ao3 too if you're into that.

Halsin walked through the dark forest, too lost in thought to enjoy the crisp smell of the air or the quiet hum of the nightlife. He had been distracted with thoughts of Tav for days now. Since rescuing Thaniel and reuniting him with Oliver, he had been unable to stop thinking about them.

He mulled over the events of their campfire dinner, trying to determine if the tension he felt between the two of them was real or imagined. It seemed like every time their eyes met, the look was loaded with promise. He felt like Tav was reaching into his chest and squeezing his lungs.

It was maddening. There was nothing more he wanted in the world than to stay with them now, and had promised them such; but being close to them was torture. Waking in the morning at camp to their sweet smile made him want to taste that smile in a kiss. Watching them cover their form with armor made his insides twist with a confusing mix of arousal at their strength and prowess and frustration with their needing to don any garments at all, ever. Healing their wounds after battle made him want to run his hands over their body. The coolness of the evening air at the end of the day made him want to pull them into his arms and share a cocoon of warmth.

It was everything, all the time. Since he had offered to join them as a battle companion and not just a camp mate, they had taken him with them on almost every expedition. It was wonderful, because he delighted in their company. It was devastating, because it meant he was around them from sunup to sundown with no reprieve. He wasn’t sure how much more his nerves could take. He felt like he was constantly on edge, vigilantly holding his desires in check, but at the same time completely unable to stop himself basking in every moment of attention from them. He was drowning, and he knew he was doing it to himself.

He wanted to touch them. If he was going to touch them, of course he would need to communicate his desire to them and obtain their consent. This is where it got complicated in his mind - he felt he was finally in a position to pour time and energy into something other than the shadow curse, Oak Father be praised, but he didn’t judge Tav to be in the same position. Tav bore an immense level of responsibility, was under a backbreaking amount of pressure. Would it be selfish of him to ask them to give him some of their time? They hadn’t chosen to pursue intimacy with anyone else in camp, at least as far as he was aware, and while he knew that he couldn’t assume the reason for that, it wasn’t hard for him to imagine that it was because they felt they needed to stay focused on the task at hand.

Where was the line between being considerate of Tav’s needs, and allowing them personal autonomy? As the leaves on the forest floor tickled his sandaled feet, he knew that he owed it to them to trust in their ability to set their own boundaries. It wasn’t fair of him to decide for them that they didn’t need to be distracted.

He was momentarily derailed with some heated flashes of ways that he would love to distract them before he dragged himself back to his previous train of thought.

So then, he should just ask Tav if he could touch them. But as he imagined asking them, he was still met with a deep resistance somewhere in his mind. He picked his way through the trees, absentmindedly brushing his fingers over their bark, as he tried to identify where the resistance was coming from. He again imagined asking Tav, picturing the words coming from his mouth, and the resistance this time felt like fear.

What was he afraid of? He knew the answer as soon as he thought the question. He was afraid that Tav would turn him down. At least now, without having asked, there was the hope of maybe that made the sweet torture of wanting them a little bit more bearable. If he asked them, and they said no, he would be trapped in a hell of his own making. He would still want them just as badly, and would not distance himself from them to ease the ache. He had promised them his help, and if the frequency that they chose to utilize it was any indication, it was help Tav was grateful to have. If they wanted him by their side as an ally only, by their side he would be, however much his desire for them frayed his mind to shreds.

Perhaps he could just go on not asking them.

He was briefly distracted by the quiet fluttering of some bats overhead as they hunted for their dinner, leaning against a nearby maple as he watched them. A gentle breeze picked up, rustling the leaves of the trees and shifting the framing of the starred sky above.

Halsin inhaled deeply, the breeze bringing the scents of the forest to his nose. His eyes drifted closed and he listened to the voices of the leaves, the air moving through them creating a sound just as air did through his own vocal folds. The trees did not speak in the same way as the peoples of the realm, but though he could not understand whatever they said instead of words, he often felt a certain clarity in himself when he listened to them.

This evening was no different. Quiet clarity: he knew he could not go on like this. Every time Tav touched him, it was singed into his skin for hours. Every time their eyes lingered on him a little too long, the ever-burning ember of desire he carried for them surged into a roaring flame. And was that not part of the problem? He felt that they desired him as well. They seemed to seek him out, they made special conversation with him, he constantly caught them looking at him. Tav’s touches, while infrequent enough to be innocent, always seemed to linger just a little longer than was strictly friendly.

It was what had pushed him into the forest this very evening. He had been driven by his own desire and their inviting body language to sit right beside them around the campfire as they took their dinner, and Tav had placed their hand on his thigh as they laughed at some quip Astarion leveled at Gale. The touch had only lingered for a handful of seconds, but he could still feel his skin burning there. He had opted for a walk in the woods to try to clear his mind of the relentless images of their hand staying on his thigh, moving to more intimate parts of him, the way their hand might feel without the barrier of his pants in the way…

He exhaled forcefully and pressed his fists into his eyes. There was simply no escape. How long had it been since his mind and body had been as enraptured by someone to this degree? He knew it had happened before, could remember feeling that he had no control over himself when he was young, but it had been so long that he had forgotten what it actually felt like. And how to deal with the feelings. He felt like he was drowning in them all over again, everything overwhelming and monumentous like it had been in puberty, for Silvanus’ sake.

Halsin realized with the same quiet clarity from before that he wasn’t only afraid of Tav turning him down. He also feared them telling him yes. He felt he could lose himself in them. He hadn’t felt this strongly for someone in an age, and had convinced himself that he had grown out of such passions. The bone-deep allure of sharing in their heart and body was rocking his self-perception in a dizzying way.

Surely he wasn’t completely wrong about himself, though… It wasn’t as if Tav was some siren, who would take his autonomy from him. He could trust himself to keep his head and to remain true to his duties, and share his evenings with them… Couldn’t he?

He thumped his head back against the bark of the maple and looked to the stars that peaked through the forest canopy.

Silvanus guide me, he thought as he crossed his arm over his chest and heaved a deep sigh.

He lingered for a moment longer under the moonlight before deciding that he had probably over-thought this enough for one night, and began his walk back to camp. He smirked to himself as he resolved to endure the maybe for another night or two longer, at least. Clarity would find him if he was patient.

Tav’s loaded gaze flashed through his mind’s eye, setting alight the butterflies that seemed to have taken up permanent residence under his ribcage.

Oak Father preserve me. Patience!

[stardustedknuckles]

Eh. Vax's rot feels less like a punishment from the Raven Queen and more like a byproduct of fucking with fate, by which I mean there's certainly something he can do about it. It'll probably bring him closer to the Matron.

If we hadn't seen downfall, if someone besides the cast were writing this show, I would be worried. But the Matron loves Vax for his impetuousness and the way he will take any risk for the ones he loves. As pike also pointed out, they're not supposed to serve blindly. To go against the will of the gods is to be mortal. If the Raven Queen is warning him, it's not because she's the one doling out punishments. She HAS to stick to her role and HAS to keep the sanctity of the transition from life to death. Vax violated that and knew he was doing it and that something would happen. He might think right now that he's being punished, that the Matron could or should have just let it happen, but she really, really couldn't (and honestly he's not even mad at her. He's accepted that something must happen. We don't even know if he blames her, but I don't think he does). The part of the Raven Queen who understands is alive and well in her. The part of her allowed to bend rules and defy the order of creation died the day she ascended. The gods do not have freedom in the same way as mortals. Power, yes. But that in and of itself binds them to their stations.

We have to remember that the Raven Queen in tlovm is in fact the same one we've met in the campaigns. She is cold, and she will play her part as she is bound to do. She has little in the way of grace to offer because the entire balance of the world depends on her upholding her station.

Anyway. That rot will either be reversed or it will play into the whole deal about Vax being able to help his friends when he should be dead for a final time. But I don't think hinting at revenant Vax is a punishment. It's a consequence. And Vax accepts it whether it comes from her or not.

[batsplat]

literally nobody ever mentions that in uccio's crazy 2016 interview, you all know the one, he randomly brings in casey. like, marc he's got a feud with, maverick is valentino's next teammate, both those guys are in the question, what's casey got to do with it?

[maxiwaxipads]

City of Borealis, Briar Valley

(i promise i wrote this all in advance a long time ago and I'm not insane <3) The City of Borealis is the hub of Briar Valley’s most populous city with its nearby arcane institute, Grey Wings Institute. Over the years, technology has slowly been implemented throughout Borealis and built up its own population. Borealis was once a part of a befallen human nation which still continues many of its past traditions. (Note: The "War of Morrow" is related to Lilia's dream and that will be the name I will refer to it as) (I should mention this might not fully comply with the information we currently have with Book 7 or the Briar Valley itself. I wrote this a while ago.) (I didn't include all the information I have. Because if I did, finding the notes and piecing them together would be more trouble than necessary.)

Borealis has a known tradition of its Iridescent Festival that celebrates new hopes for prosperity and generates a supple amount of blessings throughout the city. Flowers themselves are decorated throughout the city, and many attendees are donned with them. This year’s Iridescent Festival is expected to be big and an invitation was forwarded to Malleus who’ll also bring you along.

From the rest of Briar Valley, the City of Borealis is quite distinct due to the Briar Valley’s lack of modernism. Borealis is populated with either students of the Grey Wings Institute, scholars, or the local population.

Compared to the rest of the Briar Valley, the City of Borealis is considerably more diverse and contains citizens from all walks of life.

Regarding technology within the City of Borealis, as mentioned before it’s a slow implementation. Despite being more modernized compared to other regions of the Briar Valley it carries technology considered outdated compared to other countries. (The same as everything else, anything regarding outside exports is largely outdated information or technology.) (Even information or materials arrive months or years later within the city) (Information outside the region is passed on slowly, and issues such as magazines or newspapers are often a few months or years old)

The current City of Borealis, it retains half its size than it was 400 - 500 ago. Due to the War of Morrow, its other half was shrouded within a suffocating mist originating from ancient incantation where all dies before there’s sunlight met. Anything that escapes its grasp is either the deceased or old ruins. Sometimes even rare plants curated from a high-magic density can be found growing around. (Cursed forest rumored to be caused by the ‘Rhizanthes Witch,’ or the Witch in Red after killing her king in the name of revenge) (Result of Ancient Incantation rather than natural phenomena, I imagine some try growing rare plants nearby for the amount of magic they hold in one place) (Heavily guarded to prevent anybody from accidentally or intentionally getting caught in the mist) (Though it is being studied, and there is research to see if the ancient incantation placed upon it can be removed)

I imagine one of the Iridescent Festival’s famous traditions is lantern-making. Thousands are released into the sky before they’re permitted to burn with the usage of magic after reaching a certain height.

The City of Borealis, while a territory of the Briar Valley, wasn’t originally a part of the nation, but was previously the royal capital of the Kingdom of the Dawn before its ultimate demise. (Lacked proper leadership, and was on a steady decline) (Compared to 500 years ago, the present is majorly different than the past)

Three Wise Sages (TWST version of the Three Good Fairies)

Wise Sages who've existed since the founding and falling of the Kingdom of the Dawn. Their existence has since been erased since the War of Morrow, with only 2 members of their bloodline believed to be existing.

Uri Ipomoea (Fauna's TWST) has sworn her loyalty to the Briar Valley’s heir apparent, Malleus Draconia. Employed as the Headmage to the Grey Wings Institute, and entrusted as the Lord of Borealis from the current queen.

Betrayed their kindred to side with humans to create the Kingdom of the Dawn. Saw potential with humanity. They are pacifist by nature and refused to participate in wars and battles, though it took the War of Morrow to topple their vows of nonviolence. Morrigan was forced to fight as a general, Aine was assassinated by King Henrik’s order, and Fianna fled after the death of Aine.

(I wrote a lot on these, but basically, Fianna is related to Flora, Morrigan is related to Merryweather, and Aine is related to Fauna)

(While pacifists, that doesn’t mean they weren't petty) (Fianna betrayed her creed of remaining peaceful and killed King Henrik) (Vanished, her fate is believed to be unknown) (Morrigan if you want to count her, though she was technically forced to participate as a general in the War of Morrow) (Aine was killed for her transgression of the war against King Henrik) (In front of Uri who witnessed the death of her mother)

Heralded as the “Three Wise Sages” for their dedication to education and learning. Their efforts led to the creation of the Grey Wings Institute as an arcane school sponsoring solely women. (Before confusing anyone, the present Grey Wings Institute sponsors all genders but first intended to only teach women)

(Could never teach Ancient Incantations in fear of starting a war with the Briar Valley(?)) (Though the sages personally practiced the usage of Ancient Incantations) (They’re able to demonstrate it, but never teach it)

(Originally, the reasons of the War of Morrow started because of King Henrik’s meddling and desire for conquest(?)) (While the Sages are an influential force in their own right, I imagine there isn’t much they can do, except lessen the impact)

(Infamous for their rivalry with the Fairy of Thorns(?)) (Their encounters are enough to make a novel series)

Similar to how Malleus comes from an egg, the sages are conceptualized as flowers. (They feed off their mother's magic until the flower itself can circulate magic on its own) (Basically, it's like asexual reproduction(?)) (that's why they have no dads <3)

Characters/OCs

Uri Ipomoea is the Headmaster of the Grey Wings Institute and the Lord of Borealis. Originally, it was Malleus's grandmother who was forwarded an invitation to the Iridescent Festival, but she forwarded it to Malleus. A young child during the War of Morrow, she is unconditionally loyal to the City of Borealis and strives to continue its growth. (Fauna's TWST)

Mirin Wich-Tree is Uri's adoptive sister and currently attending as a second year at the Grey Wings Institute. Vice-President to the Student Body. (Merryweather's TWST)

Rhodes Strangleweed is from the small village of Dregs on the outskirts of the Briar Valley. Her mother, Fianna Rhizanthes came to this village after her murder of King Henrik. Rhodes is unaware of her mother's true identity until meeting Uri. A 2nd year attending the Grey Wings Institute, a member of the sewing club. (Flora's TWST)

(i have a lot written about them, this is only a gross summary of their characters </3) (all 3 are fae) (fun fact!! they all share the same signature spell but have different incantations) (that are all longer than necessary)

(i have other OCs on GWI's other students, though they aren't relevant to the Iridescent Festival story sadly) (mainly on the student council)

Unique Flora

Sillows are a species of flower within the Briar Valley cultivated to create textile fabrics from its thorny shrubs. Although most abundant within the Briar Valley they occur naturally throughout Twisted Wonderland. Their petals are also collected to make floral teas, as described sweet and savory.

(I imagine because of the Briar Valley’s abundance of naturally occurring magic, Sillows from this region are more flexible when it comes to manipulating fabric with magic itself)

(Like it’s more dynamic to use magic to manipulate the fabric’s form(?)) (They’re quite abundant and considered a culturally special flower to the Briar Valley and the Dawn)

Unique to the Briar Valley, Lumin flowers are known for their luminescence that glow similar to an aurora in the dark. Their natural light is dim, though channeling magic within these flowers will also cause them to simmer even more. Lumin flowers are specially decorated during Iridescent Festivals and glow even brighter when blessings are distributed throughout the city. (Wither once plucked)

(Thousands surround the city) (First appearing as tucked flowers that have yet to bloom) (Decorated during a planned performance of the "Primordial Prayer")

Iridescent Festival

Unique within the City of Borealis which was once a part of a befallen nation, the Iridescent Festival is the celebration of new hopes and prosperity. Thousands of unique flowers are decorated across the city with lanterns symbolizing and hanging to mimic stars. Festival participants don cascading costumes made for dancing and may find themselves wearing decorated hats reminiscent of the wise sages. (<-Often these hats are plain and unadorned for loved ones to embroider and decorate on) (But some might like making unique hats of their own)

During the Iridescent Festival, GWI opens its doors for visiting hours with school activities paused for about a week. Students and faculty host food stalls, games, and performances. I imagine GWI is basically a cultural exchange and more untraditional instead of what the rest of Borealis offers.

Primordial Prayer [Love Stretching Aeon]

Once integral to the Iridescent Festival until the death of Borealis’s Sages, the “Primordial Prayer” is expected to take place upon the final day of the festival which releases numerous blessings founded on good luck and betterment for the future. During the Primordial Prayer, thousands of Lumin flowers glitter luminously throughout the City of Borealis.

The Primordial Prayer itself is a blessing crafted by the Three Wise Sages to inspire hope and bring happiness to the people. Celebration towards hopes of the future and meant to inspire happiness in anyone who comes forth across the spell.

A powerful incantation that only the Three Wise Sages kept to themselves and could solely perform. It’s a potent blessing that shows itself like embers of snow.

Lumins under the performance of the Primordial Prayer are said to glow yellow which is often compared to the stars.

Considered to be a once-in-a-lifetime to those who witness the Primordial Prayer, it’s often played during the last day of the Iridescent Festival. Those who experience the Primordial Prayer firsthand often describe it as comforting and beautiful.

Full Incantation - “Love surmises my existence, feast upon my heart, and nourish from the accomplishments I’ve curated for those I developed yearning.

I, desperate for a beloved’s eternity, understand this as a fraught wish.

Awake your long-held dreams from slumber, as I cast the snowy plain of stars from the heavens onto you. 

Longing, as this moment defines devotion and relaxing the weight upon the waking days.

Illuminate the unchained glisten of the suns and moons, as I cascade a blinding hope upon your hearts. 

Primordial whispers, answer to my call; Primordial skies, answer to the delimited daybreak. This devotion shall hold longer than nigh. Primordial Prayer.”

[cherrysnax]

it’s probably just the depressions and the dissociative disorders but I often feel like I’m just possessing my own dead body

[celestialprincesse]

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

When Simon had given you his work address, and the password for the door to get in, you’d scoffed at the thought of needing to use it. You’d grown comfortable in your quiet life, no longer plagued with the urge to run, with the fear of being caught up with. 

You and Charlotte. 

You’d never been able to picture your position now, shaking fingers prodding at the keypad, a crying Charlotte on your hip. So absorbed in your fear, which had struck you the moment you’d returned from Charlotte’s school pickup to see your apartment door open, that you don’t even see the bearded man opening up the door from the inside for you. 

“Everything alright, Miss?” He questions in clear concern, ushering you into the entry hall with blue eyes darting between yourself and your wailing daughter. 

“I’m here - Simon said i could find him here if I needed anything.” You hiccup, not even having noticed the tears ebbing down your cheeks, so consumed by the realisation that you need to get out. Find safety. Find Simon. Maybe even that other man you met once - Mac something.

Too distraught to protest, you allow yourself to be ushered into some sort of reception room, noting the way the older man looks behind you with a vigilant scan before shutting the door. "Is Simon Riley here?" You plead with him again, terrified at the thought of being unable to see your neighbour, having someone to soothe your wailing daughter whilst you yourself calm down.

Before the blue eyed man can get a word out, two other men are barrelling into the reception area, one of them, thankfully, being Simon. You can't help but choke out a relieved sob when he tentatively comes closer, allowing you the chance to deny his approach, which you don't.

"What happened? Can you take some deep breaths for me?"

The entire room seems to pick up into a flurry of activity the minute the other two men in the room, Simon's friend you'd met that one time, and the other man, seem to realise that not only do you and Simon know one another, but also that you and the little tot in your arms are important to him.

Simon quickly ushers you to one of the worn leather couches, although he never forces you to sit, seeing how high strung you are at the current moment, the way you clutch Charlotte to your chest like she'll be ripped from your grasp at any given moment. Meanwhile, MacTavish looks on in concern, checking the car park you'd just come in from, and the other man slowly guides a glass of water into your shaking hand.

"Door was open when I got home." You manage to choke, letting Simon ease your vice grip on your daughter, just enough to hoist her up on his hip, before pulling you into his chest.

"S' okay, yeah? Promise you're in good hands here." He soothes, rocking the three of you from side to side, taking the opportunity to share a look between Price, Soap and himself. "Listen, the boys will go and have a look, okay? Promise they won't touch anything or mess anything up, just make sure everything is okay."

You give a hesitant nod, sniffling into Simon's chest as another taller, leaner man walks into the room, his handsome features immediately twisting into concern at the odd sight.

Over the next few hours, you, Simon, Charlotte and the sweet man you'd come to know as Kyle wait out on base, nervously awaiting the return of Captain Price and Simon's closest friend Johnny.

Admittedly, your situation is terrifying, and you're still not quite sure where to go from here, but at least you're in good hands. Four pairs of them.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

[dadsbongos]

my type?

4.3 K words

summary - Yuuji Itadori is a total knockout boyfriend - the only hitch? You’re nothing like his usual type of woman, and it’s making you unsure.

warnings - 18+!, femreader with jugs and vagene, p in v sex, unrealistic car sex, specifically stated that reader is non-tall with big tits, dumbification for both parties, squirting, non-curse AU where sukuna and yuuji are brother-roommates, unprotected sex

Itadori, Yuuji was an amazing boyfriend - something straight out of a top-selling shoujo manga.

Faithful and doting and affectionate. He handed over his hoodies the moment you mentioned an unpleasant breeze, he proudly held your hand in public, and he boasted about the very act of dating you to anyone with ears. But even those displays felt backhanded, the deeper you dug into your own mind. You had no real reason to complain about the situation.

And you especially had no reason when the cause behind your complaints would be so shallow.

You had an ass in the same way that everybody else did, but nothing comparable to the pin-up poster Yuuji tore down when you two started dating. Or his celebrity fascination, Jennifer Lawrence (which also mysteriously stopped being mentioned when you two started dating).

Rather, your body was much more endowed in ways that made Nobara tease as you passed lingerie stores with hot pink lighting and black walls and heavy busts plastered in the windows. She’d snag you by the sleeve and point, just to watch how you scoff and look away.

Yuuji pointedly ignores those stores. He ignores everything in relation to them.

You’d picked this shirt just for tonight. It dips low into your cleavage, just tight enough to still push up the tender meat of your breasts. Not to mention the color - deep crimson, Yuuji’s favorite. Well, at least the closest you’ll ever get to a favorite color with his indecisive nature.

Yuuji sits across from you at the scratched table. When his eyes aren’t scavenging the conveyor belt for small, shiny, colored plates serving anything that may catch his eye, they’re on your face. And only your face.

Normally something you’d absolutely cheer over - if this were a first date, but the fact is that this is one of many dates. And after so many dates that you can’t count anymore, you’re starting to want Yuuji’s eyes to drift.

You want him to look and you want to watch him sweat and go red. You’re starting to need it.

The need only grows more apparent mere days later.

Yuuji keeps his hands stubbornly on your hips, barely making an imprint from outside your clothes. But you choose not to make a fuss since he’s otherwise fully engrossed with keeping his lips pasted to yours. Your hands are sweaty and hot on Yuuji’s cheeks, you just know they are, but he doesn’t seem to mind when he lets you hold him close and grind on him.

Yet his palms are stiff against you. They don’t feel warm or cold or clammy or moist. They just… are. He chokes back every groan and huff and you almost feel embarrassed to be letting out hitches and breathy moans so freely in comparison.

Puffing your chest out, you can feel your breasts pillowing against Yuuji and you’re hoping to tempt him to move his hands up. Under your shirt and bra with bare skin on bare skin. The idea makes you mewl, dragging your hips harder against his and further pushing out your tits for him to grope.

And suddenly, his stiff hands are picking you up off his lap, sliding you beside him on your couch. Yuuji grins, standing and swiping his hands down the legs of his sweatpants before planting a kiss on your forehead, “Sorry, gotta pee.”

“Oversharing!” you call after his retreating form.

When Yuuji returns, he sits down and rewinds the movie you two had put on earlier. He frowns and murmurs about how much the both of you missed. When you don’t turn back to the TV immediately, Yuuji smiles again and kisses your cheek.

Your gut twists unpleasantly.

And that need festers into utter desperation by just the next afternoon.

“Hey, Yuuji,” you come up from behind your boyfriend, arms dangling over the back of his couch and framing his shoulders. You place your chin on his head, staring at the intense cooking competition he’s watching, “So, I know I just got here… but! I’ve got a small, teensy errand to run.”

“Mhm?” he tilts his head back to meet your eyes, “Want me to go with you?”

His offer has you nodding, trying to smother down the bright simper he threatens to drag out of you, “Yeah, if you’re not busy.”

Sucking in air noisily through his teeth, Yuuji gestures out to the show he lazes in front of, “I dunno, babe, I am watching TV.”

“Very funny,” you back away from his couch, already heading to the door to tug your shoes on, “Just saying, you don’t have to come with if you don’t want to,” Yuuji always wants to come with, you like that about him, “Just getting some new bras.”

Your current ones are fine, but maybe a stuffy changing room is that nudge he needs.

“Oh,” your boyfriend pauses, eyes widening, “Uh. You might want to take Kugisaki for that, she’d know more than me,” he can’t even look at you, “I’m not really the kinda person you’d want around for that.”

You almost ask what he means by that, but the rejection has fried your brain to a gray, crunchy crisp. The kind of fry that looks like it could flake apart with a harsh jab. Again, that terrible, awful knotting in your stomach returns, but you carry on. Because if you claimed to no longer need this errand ran, then he might know what your scheme was - and that was far worse than whatever this hell was.

So you nod slowly and meekly call out that you love him before exiting the door. He says he loves you more.

You really wish you asked what he meant.

Finally, desperation comes to a head when you meet Yuuji’s friend - Todo, Aoi.

Todo, Aoi, who stares at you - eyes narrow as he judges each wrinkle in your clothes and jitter of your muscles - then turns to Yuuji, and asks point-blank, “Did you lie about your type, then, brother?”

Yuuji rips the hand in his pocket out and cuts it across his neck in a slicing motion, mouthing a couple of rude ‘shut up’s. You lean into Yuuji’s side, squeezing the hand he lays in yours tighter. It isn’t sweaty. And it isn’t very warm, either.

Aoi doesn’t seem very upset at the idea, “I’m happy you’re happy,” you look down at your shoes when he glances back over at you, “I was excited when I thought we had the same type.”

No, you weren’t very tall. And no, your butt wasn’t exceptionally big. You fell on the more mediocre sides of those categories, the thing you excelled in (what you thought most guys were thrilled over) was having a large bust.

“Dude!” Yuuji hits Aoi in the shoulder. Hard, “Shut up!”

He squeezes your hand so tight you think it might bruise.

“Sorry, brother,” Aoi, you were warned, was extremely unusual - little to no boundaries and almost inept at social interactions outside of fighting. He does seem sympathetic enough, turning to you, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

It’s all so sickening. How you wish Yuuji would hurry up and show interest in shallow things. How you place personal esteem on this whole fiasco. How right Aoi is. How badly you’re letting everything affect you.

The ringing in your ears, for example. The way you no longer think you can stomach whatever Aoi was cooking tonight. The shortness of your breath.

You try to push it down. Tonight is supposed to be fun.

Yuuji shoves his friend, much more lightheartedly than his previous blow, and goes to kiss your forehead - but hesitates. His smile is uneven, “Don’t listen to him, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he squeezes your hand, “I love you,” then, apologetically, he smooths his thumb over the sore spots where he clenched your hand, “I love you so much.”

And you know that. You know it like you know your favorite movie.

Tonight was supposed to be fun.

He loves you, you know that - what you don’t know, is if he wants you. Doesn’t he get sweaty palms like you? Doesn’t he feel his intestines tie into bunches of little knots like you? Doesn’t he get all hot in the face like you? Doesn’t he want you like you want him?

It’s humiliating to imagine that he doesn’t, and the mere idea makes you so nauseous you think you might hurl at this very moment.

Maybe your boyfriend just doesn’t find you as attractive as you want him to.

Maybe you should give up this repetitive scheme.

The car is quiet, unbearably so. Your knees are angled away from Yuuji defiantly, legs pushed to the far side of your seat so it’d be a hassle for him to reach out and hold your thigh. You used to think it meant something when he did that, but now it seems as though he’s doing it out of duty. Like holding the door for someone behind you. Or offering your seat on the bus to elderly passengers. Simple acts of simple kindness.

The most basic peacekeeping, if anything.

Yuuji peeks at you without turning away from the road, hands tightening around the steering wheel, “Are you upset?”

You could be snippy. You could even opt to not respond.

But you do neither, “Yeah.”

He sighs through his nose, “Seriously, don’t listen to Todo. He doesn’t know anything.”

Now, you’re a little snippy. To point out that Aoi’s being stupid isn’t uncalled for, but to claim he doesn’t know exactly what stupid shit he’s saying is.

“He has a point.”

“Huh?” Yuuji turns his head fully to look at you, something he only does because the quiet backroad home is empty, “What’re you talking about?”

Only flickering, crooked, rusty street lamps are witness to your impending breakdown. Your boyfriend returns his stare to the road. Crickets sing outside and the wind flattens over long grass that shines under moonlight.

“Yuuji,” sinking into your seat, you ignore his eyes, “You can’t seriously say you have no idea,” he’s quiet, lips pressed thinly, “Since we met, practically everybody has known your type. I knew you had a type! It was a shock to our friends when we got together! And now that we are…”

Pulling off into the grassy plain lining your way home, Yuuji slips the key from the ignition and unclicks his seatbelt to really examine you. His eyes scramble over you, every part the sensitive, concerned boyfriend you know and treasure. He pouts, but it’s in earnest; hurt simply because you’re hurt.

“And now that we are?”

“Why don’t you look at me?”

“I look at you!” he rubs the back of his neck, now quirking a brow at you, “I look at you all the time.”

“No,” you whine like a petulant child, hands coming up to cover your face, “It’s different!”

Aoi’s words just won’t stop creeping up your spine. Yuuji setting you aside on the couch. Yuuji insisting that you bring Nobara to a lingerie store instead of him. He was lying to someone, right? Was it to Aoi or you?

But everybody had seen that poster, and everybody could hear him declare his preferences.

“It’s way different,” you’re so humiliated you’re nauseous, your voice wobbles.

Yuuji tenderly takes your wrists, dragging down your hands. His smile is squiggly, brows high to his forehead, “Talk to me, pretty girl. You want me to look at you?” you nod, “So tell me what you mean by that.”

You almost hate how soft his voice is. It makes it so hard to be upset.

“I’m not your type,” your eyes trail the way Yuuji’s fingers dance around yours, “And every time I try to… you know, get you to think of me as something other than just cute or pretty - you turn me down. I feel like you don’t find me attractive.”

“Oh, like sexually?”

“Mhmm,” you nod glumly. When he’s quiet for just a couple of seconds too long, you ask, “Did you know what I was trying to do?”

“Kind of,” Yuuji’s cheeks are growing red, eyes now abandoning your entwined hands to stare out the windshield, “I do find you attractive - that’s a little bit of the problem.”

“What?”

He sucks in a breath sharply, engulfing your hands completely with his and squeezing (much more mindfully this time), “I’m crazy about you,” he can tell you don’t believe him, “It scares me a little,” he pulls his hands away and cradles his own over his lap, “I’m worried that if I give in, I’ll scare you off… like I’m too eager or something.”

“Yuuji!” you adjust in your seat, moving sideways and finally letting your knees face your boyfriend again, “You wouldn’t scare me off by being eager about my body! That’s a good thing, right? When we’re both into each other, that’s good!”

“No, I mean,” he’s gone rouge all the way up to his ears now, a fire bright in his chest, “I want you so bad it makes me feel like all my skin’s burning. My hands get all gross and sweaty so I have to wipe them on my pants, and- and I can’t think straight,” he’s still not looking at you, but the way he’s pressing his arms down on his crotch tells you he wants to, “Even now, I think I’m going crazy just imagining you…”

You sit up on your knees, leaning over the center console just to watch your boy squirm at the invasion of space, “Imagining me?” he nods shakily, “Imagining me how?”

He whines, turning his head and pressing his scorching face into your neck, “You know how.”

“Come on, pretty boy,” you kneel over the console entirely, squeezing behind the wheel to settle on Yuuji’s lap - slapping away his hands from the growing tent in his baggy pants, “Entertain me, please?”

“Imagining you under me, on me, between my legs,” his hands fly to your hips, palms slipping up under your shirt, and, God, his palms are sweaty, “Any way you’ll have me,” you cup his cheeks and press messy kisses to his lips. Yuuji’s hands roam further up your shirt, fingertips teasing under the cups of your bra, “Any way I can see your tits.”

“I thought you were more into ass,” your bravado falls under his admission, suddenly bashful.

Yuuji closes his eyes, swallowing hard while pushing his hands under your bra, he can feel his heartbeat all the way at the back of his throat. His rough palms cupping the soft, fleshy fat on your chest, “As if that matters,” his brows knit, hips subconsciously jerking up into yours, “I’m a horny guy: my hot girlfriend has big boobs, and I’m obsessed with her big boobs.”

“Just ‘cuz you’re horny?” you tease, grinding down on the bump of his hard cock. His loose pants let him spring up under your skirt, knocking into your panty-clad cunt.

“Nah,” his eyes flutter open, sweaty palms moving around your back and clumsily unhooking your troublesome bra. It takes him three tries, “I like every part of you all the time…” the tip of his tongue parts his lips in hard concentration, “Your whole body makes me feel like I’m full of bugs.”

“‘Full of bugs?!’” you snort, lifting your arms so Yuuji can yank off your shirt and bra in one ungraceful motion.

“In a good way,” he promises, eyes locked on your heaving chest. You can hear the thick breaths he struggles through, “‘m so nervous and horny at the same time, it feels like bugs in my stomach.”

“What’re you nervous for?”

“‘Cuz I wanna make you cum, but I’m worried I’ll cream my pants before we even get to it,” he finally looks into your eyes, he smiles at you with flaming cheeks and palms at your breasts, “It was so hard making sure I kept it together… Been jerkin’ off every night thinking of you - ask Sukuna, he’ll tell you. It’s been embarrassing.”

“Augh, Yuuji!”

“It’s true!”

It makes your palms hot and sweaty, the image of him so desperate. All for you.

“Hm,” you croon, grinding against your boyfriend’s cock, back arching to press your tits closer to his face, “Yuuji...”

Wrapping his arms around your waist, Yuuji sucks one of your nipples between his lips and laves it with his tongue. He bucks up against your wetting panties. Pulling away from your nipple with a soft pop, Yuuji stares up at you with another earnest, flustered pout, “Can you take it out for me?”

As if you could forget what he’s talking about, he humps you again.

“Please, take it out,” he cranes his neck to run his warm, wet tongue over your other, unattended nipple.

“Aw,” you didn’t think seeing your big, energetic boyfriend act so pathetic would set you on fire the way it does. One of your hands stretches down between you and Yuuji, wrangling down his pants with him lifting his hips to help, “Do you want me to play with your cock?”

He hums against your breast, nodding eagerly, “Yuh- yeah- ! Please?”

Your fingers wrap around the warm softness of Yuuji’s erection, thumb playfully nudging his mushroom tip’s slit. He throws his head back, ricocheting against the car seat headrest with a throaty groan.

Giggling, you lean in to kiss the sensitive spot just under Yuuji’s jaw, hand still working up Yuuji’s weeping cock, “Having a good time, honey?”

“Uh-huh,” he unwinds his arms around you to grasp your hips once again, fingers bruising at your sides, “Feels so good - so, so good…”

“Who’s making you feel good, Yuuji?”

“You!” his right thigh twitches under you, “You, you - ‘s always you!”

“Always me?”

His chuckle breaks off into a slack-jawed moan, “Said I jerk off to you every night, didn’t I?” he reaches for your wrist, “Wait, wait!”

“Were you…?” so soon?

“I told you!” now he’s the one whining like a petulant brat, “I don’t wanna cum before you, but you just make it so hard.”

So soon.

Your thighs squish around Yuuji’s, hips grinding on nothing - desperate in search of friction.

“You like that?” he sounds breathless, staring at you as you watch his bobbing cock. All red at the head and straining against your hand, “You’re so mean, babe.”

“I like it a lot,” you sit up, lips finding Yuuji’s drool-slicked ones, “I like knowing I have that effect on you.”

“Since I first saw you, I think,” he admits, hands skimming under your skirt now, “Can I… ?”

You nod, holding tightly to Yuuji’s shoulders while you lean on one leg. You could, theoretically, drag your panties down your lifted leg by yourself - but Yuuji stubbornly joins your hand all the way down to your ankle.

Before trying to slip inside you, Yuuji cups your hot sex. His chest tightens, middle finger shakily tracing along your soaked cunt. Tongue lolling back out of his mouth, Yuuji tucks your nipple back into his mouth when he inserts his finger in your hole. Trying to keep his mind as busy as possible so he can stop thinking about how badly he needs to bury himself inside you.

“Yuuji,” your breathing is ragged, already lowering yourself before he even pulls his finger out of you, “I’m so past ready.”

“You’re so wet,” he mumbles against the swell of your tit, teasing his teeth against the full flesh, “I dunno if I’ll be able to get in…” he chuckles to himself, lightheaded when he taps the head of his cock against your clit, “Might slip right out, huh?”

“Stop teasing,” you cradle Yuuji’s head to your chest, arms thrown around his neck, “You’re the mean one.”

“I know, I know,” he lowers in his seat, pressing himself finally, finally, finally inside your pussy. Your tits press even closer to his face when you gasp at the stretch, “I’ve been ignoring my poor pretty girl this whole time,” he says it so mournfully, so heartfelt, “So selfish, just thinking of my pride - I didn’t even wonder how my girl felt.”

“Ahh, Yuuji,” you moan, piercing your bottom lip between your teeth.

“I’m sorry, pretty girl,” he pushes down on your hips, lowering you on his stiff cock until your thighs are flush with his soft pants. They’re a little wet. You don’t care much, and you don’t think Yuuji does either right now. He screws up into you, one arm tight around your waist to pull you down into his thrusts and the other hand finding your slippery clit, “I’m so sorry, angel, can you forgive me?”

“Ah, ah, ah,” his fingers work quick circles on your nerves as he fucks you and you’re barely able to scramble together the words (let alone carry those words out in a sensible form), “Yes - ah! - yes, Yuuji!”

There’s something in the way he twists his hips this time because his cock beats into a particular spot that sends white sparks through your veins. You snap back, head hanging and forcing your bouncing tits directly in Yuuji’s face. Before you can even begin to beg, your big, energetic (and maybe a little pathetic) boyfriend is already nodding to himself.

“Right there, angel?” his fingers leave your clit to press down on where his cock batters your insides, “Is that it? Want me right here?”

“Please!” you squeal, thighs quivering and lungs fresh out of air.

“Uh-huh,” he keeps nodding, head too empty to realize he doesn’t need to anymore, “Uh-huh, anything for you… fuckin’ anything…”

When your lower half burns out, Yuuji keeps you upright - fully fucking up into you at that same spot he pushes down on your tummy. The need to cum burns every nerve in your body - it burns and burns and burns until it changes.

Something fuller and more familiar - in a more daily-life kind of way.

“Ah, Yuuji,” your hands perch on his shoulders, body bouncing with the weight of Yuuji’s hips slinging into yours, “I think- ! It feels like- !”

“Talk to me, angel,” dumbly, he looks up at you, almost snickering, “‘Entertain me.’”

“Feels like ‘m gonna pee,” you try warning him, you really do.

But something behind his eyes just shines brighter, grin widening and he actually laughs, “Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Fuck yeah,” he stares, wide-eyed, at where you’re creaming on his cock, “You gonna squirt on me, baby?” his foolish nodding quickens with his hips, “Squirt all over me, angel, I want it - want it so bad. Soak my car, oh,” his pretty mouth circles into an ‘O’ just at the thought, “Please, please soak my fucking car!”

Your head jerks back, nails digging into Yuuji’s shoulders, throat snapping raw as you cry out braindead mixtures of your boyfriend’s name and pleas for more and harder and his cum.

He moves the hand on your tummy to swish your clit and spread your mess as far as he can, mouth popping open almost instinctively just to catch stray droplets of your cum in his mouth. One day (tomorrow) he might regret (will definitely regret) intentionally making you spray cum all over his front, and even back, seats, but right now he couldn’t possibly imagine not doing it.

“‘m gonna cum,” he grits his teeth, moans choked back in his throat, “‘m gonna cum - where?” before he can ask again, you find the strength to swivel your hips down on him, “Inside?”

“Inside!” you sob, chest tight and eyes watering at the overstimulation of Yuuji still swirling a thumb on your clit, “Cum inside, Yuuji!”

“Fu- ck,” he squeezes the word out of his chest, seating you fully on his lap when his cock throbs. He juts his chin out towards you when he starts cumming, “Kiss me?”

And you waste no time throwing yourself forward to press chaste, sweet kisses on Yuuji’s drooling lips. He hums and whimpers into your mouth, greedily drinking in the taste of your lips on his. As if he’d been starved of it his entire life.

Yuuji keeps you against him, the both of you slowly coming back down to Earth.

His sopping pants are beginning to cool underneath you.

“Ugh,” you groan at the feeling, “I think we made a mistake.”

“Yeah…” Yuuji sighs, “Oh well. Can’t unfuck in the car now.”

You’re kind of dreading pulling off Yuuji’s soft cock - if you hadn’t done enough to ruin Yuuji’s pants before, then that most certainly will.

Yuuji sighs again, heartier, hands coddling your hips and tenderly rubbing circles into your bone. His eyes fall to your breasts and remain there, “I really am sorry, angel. I- I never, ever wanted you to feel like I didn’t want you.”

Because he does. Good, God, he always does.

Every time he sees you, his hands get all sweaty and his cheeks are hot and his stomach twists into jumbles of knots.

“It hurt,” you admit, “but it’s fine now,” you giggle at the idea of him apologizing over trying to be respectful, “It isn’t like you were being a dick, you know?”

“Yeah, but! Ugh!” he clenches a hand over his heart dramatically, frowning, “I hurt my girlfriend’s feelings. My sweet girl :( “

“You’re cute,” you kiss one of Yuuji’s fiery cheeks, “Okay, help me off.”

“Oh, yeah, huh,” he stretches over your shoulder to wring your panties back up your leg, “It’ll be unpleasant, but I think you need to wear these back to your apartment.”

“I’ll live,” you pick at the elastic to Yuuji’s pants and snap them back against his sweaty thigh, “Can’t be worse than this, pee pants.”

“Hey, it’s not pee,” he pouts once again tonight, “And be nice.”

You shake your head, leaning down to press your lips against Yuuji’s once again. Soaking in the taste like you’d been starved of it your entire life, “Never.”

[fayes-fics]

Eden

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Seeing you with other Bridgerton offspring has an interesting effect on your new husband...

I couldn't resist using a Season 3 gif cos hello.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, breeding kink, dirty talk, mutual masturbation, vaginal sex, creampie, ie filthy babymaking. Also, the smut is bookended by fluff; yeah, that probably needs a warning, lol.

Word Count: 4.2k

Authors Note: This is a very belated request fill for @victoriaholland (HERE) and Anon (HERE) about Benedict with a touch of baby fever. I decided to combine the asks as I saw a way to weave them together. Sorry for the delay, but well at least babymaking seems appropriate for spring hehe. Thank you to @colettebronte for being an awesome beta, as always. Err, Enjoy! <3

Daphne’s latest child is beautiful; you delight in his joy as he bounces on your lap, learning the strength of his sweetly chubby legs, little fists wrapped tight around your fingers. 

Looking up, you catch your husband's eye from afar, his stare intense across the gardens of Bridgerton House as you sit under a tented shelter upon a picnic blanket. The rest of the family are scattered around, playing games or chatting, but you are quite content minding the little one while his nanny takes a few moments to eat lunch.

“Is everything alright, my love?” You inquire as Benedict draws closer. 

“Yes… I….” He seems a little flustered. 

“Are you sure?” 

You pull a funny face for the infant, who breaks out into the most adorable infectious giggles that has you grinning from ear to ear and hugging him into your body, swaying with him. 

“Are you alright? Minding the child?” He checks, his voice a touch odd.

“Oh yes. We are more than happy, are we not, my little prince?” You talk in a vaguely silly baby-talk voice, addressing the child in your arms as much as Benedict. 

Again, the child peals with delighted noises and spit bubbles enthusiastically, looking up at Benedict eagerly as much as you do.

“Well, that is wonderful news,” he blusters, and you could swear he is out of sorts, breathless almost. “I shall… leave you to it,” he adds, giving you a bow and then withdrawing as the little one wiggles out of your arms.

“Ignore your Uncle Benedict; he is being a silly billy,” you whisper conspiratorially once the man in question is out of earshot.

The response is babbled nonsense as the child bashes one wooden brick against another.

“I quite agree,” you state sagely before breaking into a goofy grin.

——

“Please?” Hyacinth wheedles.

“No, Hy,” you sigh without even looking up.

“Ugh, you are no fun!” she scowls, crossing her arms defiantly.

“What is all this?” Anthony clips as he strides into the drawing room, Benedict on his heels, as Hyacinth flounces dramatically across the room. 

“Your little sister is angry at me because I will not allow her to drink the punch; it has brandy in it,” you explain cooly.

“Quite right, too!” Anthony chimes as Hyacinth rolls her eyes.

“Listen to y/n, Hyacinth, and do as she says,” Anthony lectures, and you feel grateful for his support, effectively neutering her rebellion. “Despite a temporary lapse of judgment when choosing a spouse, she is otherwise one of the most sensible people in this family.”

“Hey…!” Benedict protests.

“Please…” Anthony withers, twisting towards him. “Brother, if there is one thing us Bridgerton men know how to do, ‘tis to marry a woman entirely too good for us. And well done on that, by the way.”

You smirk at Anthony’s hilarious way of putting his brother - your husband - in his place, catching Kate’s eye with a wink as she enters the room carrying her baby. 

“Y/n, come and meet the future Viscount; he’s awake at last,” she calls to you. 

You are immediately on your feet and grinning, taking the tiny bundle from her arms and cooing at the sweet little boy. The baby opens his enormous brown eyes and observes you for a second before breaking into a one-toothed grin and happily waving his fists at you.

“Oh, he really likes you!” Kate enthuses, delighted.

“As I do you, little one,” you smile, leaning over to kiss his forehead.

You look up to see Benedict with that same look on his face as earlier. A tempest, almost an energy over his being. It’s almost as if he is… aroused?! Which is most odd.

As you hand the baby back to Kate, giving him one final kiss, Benedict is suddenly by your side. Announcing to the family that there has been a change of plan and, regrettably, you will not be able to stay for dinner, his arm an insistent tug around your waist.

——

“Why did we not stay for family dinner as originally planned, my love?” 

Your question is soft, only just audible over the noise of the carriage as you trundle over the cobbled streets of Mayfair a few minutes later. 

“I decided that we should perhaps dine at ours this evening…” his voice adopting that deeper edge which always causes butterflies in your tummy. His hand lands on your knee, a heavy weight that feels portentous. He slides closer on the bench seat.

“Why might that be?” your ask turns breathy, entirely without you meaning it to.

“I want to be alone with you,” he murmurs, unmistakably pitched to arouse. 

The carriage seems to notch up a few degrees as the rocking motion presses your side rhythmically into his. The sound of the wheels and hooves is so loud. He twists to wrap an arm around your shoulder and pulls your back against his flank. 

“All day today, I have watched you,” he rumbles, hand warming the skin around your clavicle, fingertip brushing in circles. “You are so very good with children, darling. Seeing you so naturally with the babies and how you handled Hyacinth… you would be the perfect mother.”

You blush a little at his praise. “Thank you, my love. I would like children one day. Your children. Imagine a child with your eyes. They would be quite the most beautiful,” you sigh wistfully, leaning back into him, his hand feeling heavier on your skin.

Benedict chuckles modestly. “And what of your beauty? Would a child version of you not be the most fetching?”

You giggle and turn your head sideways to nuzzle against his jaw. “I think we would indeed make beautiful babies together, Benedict.”

“I agree,” his voice a tempting lilt, fingers skating downwards over the swell of your breast now, slipping inside the fabric and making you gasp as he tweaks your nipple. “And I think we should start as soon as we get home.”

“Did seeing me with babies suddenly make you want your own, Mr Bridgerton?” Your hand flexes on his knee as he toys with your breast.

“Oh yes darling, it made me want to take you right there…” he asserts, finally admitting those looks he gave you were indeed pure arousal.

You reach up and run your hand into his hair, fingers flexing on his warm scalp as you pull his face to yours.  “And suddenly, it appears I am no longer hungry for dinner…” you whisper flirtatiously, your cupid's bow brushing his stubbled upper lip.

He groans, and his passionate kiss is plundering, a tingle running over your limbs, just as your carriage comes to a shuddering stop outside your townhome. 

Uncaring of the neighbourhood or any prying eyes, Benedict sweeps you out of the carriage in his arms, carrying you bridal style over the pavement and through your front door.

“My wife and I are not to be disturbed,” he announces crisply and loudly to the staff as you enter the hallway.

Leaving no room for doubt about his plans by pulling you into a searing kiss for all to see before ascending the stairs rapidly. He practically growls as he kicks open the door to your master bedroom door and slams it shut again with his foot. 

“Benedict…” you stammer, heart pounding at how overwrought he is. 

You have never seen him like this. Commanding, crackling with an energy that has your body simmering. He is usually so sweet, affable, and kind. Every time you have been intimate since your wedding night a few weeks ago, he has been a complete gentleman: loving and so very tender. The grip he has had on you tonight feels different. This is something primal—like a switch has been flipped at a basal level in his being.

He places you down onto your feet before the roaring fire, his face intense.

“Wife…” The way he says it makes you feel a flush creep over your skin.

“Husband…” you respond in kind, belly fluttering with excitement.

“Take off your dress,” he orders, his dilated pupils shining in the firelight.

This is new. Usually, he is the one to remove it slowly and softly from your body. 

“I cannot, the buttons…” you confess, signalling behind you. You would need your ladies' maid to unhook them from between your shoulder blades.  

He moves closer, seeming so much taller; his ragged breaths dance in the tendrils of your hair as he reaches around behind your shoulders. With a rough tug that makes you startle, he tears the fabric asunder, the sound of tiny pearl buttons skittering across the polished wooden floor behind you as you gasp in surprise.

“There…” he smirks dangerously, “problem resolved.”

You are speechless as he withdraws a pace, looking at you expectantly. You follow his order, a slight quake in your hands as you push the frayed dress down your body, still a little shocked by his strength. Then you reach for the crisscross lacing of your stays, feeling the weight of his stare as each loop relents, his eyes hungry, his body heaving with deep breaths his fitted jacket taut with each inhale. You peel the item away, leaving just your thin white cotton chemise.

“Rip it too,” you plead before you realise it, enthralled by this assertive demeanour.

With a noise in the back of his throat, he takes a pace forward again, and you stare up at him, enchanted. He grasps the fabric above your breasts and then rips it loudly from your chest all the way to your ankles, the sound echoing up the walls. Again, his strength has your knees weak. As the torn pieces flutter from your body, you want to bathe in the hungry sound he makes as he realises you are clad only in white knee-high silk stockings, no underwear to be seen, the warmth from the fireplace swirling around your intimate area. 

As you stand almost naked before your imposing husband, him still fully dressed, there is a knot low in your gut. But it’s not fear; it’s something else entirely—desire. Trembling, breathless and wanting. An elemental wish to be thoroughly taken.

He steps forward, eyes glittering, and his fingers plough roughly between your legs, making you gasp.

“Eden,” he proclaims, his fingers snagging over your swollen pearl of a clit with almost rough strokes, the callous where he holds his paintbrush abrading your folds. “A wonderful, lush, wet garden. Just waiting to be planted.”  His words are hypnotic and low, questing fingers being coated with a dewiness that is entirely of his making.

“Please…” you whimper, squirming on his touch, captivated by this version of your husband, wanting to submit to him, a burning need low in your belly. His fingers slide faster, making a lewd, wet noise. 

“Are you going to let me?” Benedict croons. “Plant my seed inside you?”

Until now, he has always been careful to complete outside your body. A slightly bereft feeling every time - the wonderful moment cut short as he leaves you suddenly empty, a warm splash upon your thighs, tummy or spine. The idea he will stay inside you is alluring in a way you don’t fully comprehend.

“Yes, please, husband,” your nipples puckering almost painfully against the wool of his lapels as he crowds into you. 

“Good. Get on that bed right now,” Benedict orders roughly, pointing at your four-poster bed as he tugs off his jacket.

You scramble to obey. Feeling under a spell. Being naked save your stockings feels illicit as you lay back into the soft pillows and watch as he undresses, staring you down the whole time. 

You slide a hand between your legs instinctively as more of his toned body is revealed. He growls at the sight, you biting your lip and watching him, his torso bare, his trousers clinging to his shapely legs, to his swollen cock. He bends to remove his shoes, and the sight of his broad shoulders flexing is enough to make you moan. As he stands back up and hooks his elegant fingers around the trouser buttons, a smug look on his handsome face that he is doing this to you.

“Husband…” you call out to him, writhing on your fingers shamelessly now, one hand shooting up to brace your movements against the headboard, flushing warm down to your toes.

With a few dextrous flicks, the buttons relent, and his trousers drop to the floor. His naked body is always a delicious sight, but tonight feels more, every sense heightened, moaning again as he takes a step towards you, thigh muscles flexing, his cock standing proud to attention.

Again, a soft plea falls from your lips, your eyes raking every plain of his tempting form, feeling yourself swell under your fingertips.

“Not yet,” he clucks, the arrogance somehow more beguiling as you bite your lip. “I think I want to watch you come, my darling. All by yourself. I hear female pleasure can aid with conception after all.”

“Will you not touch me?” you petition, reaching your other hand imploringly towards him.

“No darling, I shall watch,” his lopsided grin deadly. 

He wraps a strong fist around his own cock, pumping slowly, a bead of moisture gathering at his tip, glistening in the candlelight as he does. 

“Now, use both hands, please. Place your fingers inside yourself,” Benedict instructs as you blindly follow, a languid buzz in your brain—you would do anything he told you to right now.

Planting your feet squarely on the bed, you drag your ankles up higher towards your bottom, letting your legs fall open wider to give him a better view as your other hand slides down. You plunge two fingers into yourself, your hips canting off the mattress with a staccato breath at the sensation of yourself, so hot and tight.

“That's right,” he endorses, a leisurely movement of his hand up and down his cock as he watches you from a few feet away. “‘Feel yourself, darling. Tis paradise, is it not?” that trademark rumbling voice skittering over your skin, goosebumps raising down your arms just at the tone. 

“Come closer,” you appeal breathily, wanting to smell him, feel his heat, his flesh—anything.

He shakes his head, smirking wider as his refusal spurs you on, desperate to come. Mewling as your fingers speed up, one circling your clit, the others buried as far as you can, wishing instead it were his long, graceful fingers reaching places you are unable. Watching him squeeze his own cock hurtles you fast, already aroused from the moment he slid a hand into your dress in the carriage. 

Unable to fight the tide in your body, you screw your eyes shut and call out his name as your pussy starts to convulse around your own fingers, toes curling into the sheet, your muscles all going stiff, your hips again raised as you feel the tide break. A gush of wetness runs down your palm and your bottom cheeks as your mind floats away. Distantly, you can hear him speaking, but it’s fuzzy as you flop back down, sated, your legs going flat, too shaky to balance.

You startle as a warm hand circles the wrist of your fingers still inside yourself, bringing you abruptly back into the room. Benedict looms over you, his chest heaving, that power still there.

“What was that?” your query drowsy, lips dry.

He chuckles richly. “I said that was spectacular,” he repeats, bemused. “But also that I want you to paint your nipples with your arousal, my love, for me,” he commands, tugging your hand so your fingers slide out of yourself.

You do as bidden, still floating down from the high, smearing your own warm juices onto your puffed areolas.

“Perfect..” he intones.

In one swift, athletic move, he mounts the bed. You cry out as his warm mouth encloses your left nipple, groaning lewdly as he licks you clean of your arousal, his tongue a heavy, warm, wet weight curling around your sensitive bud, his lips tugging gently, reawakening those synapses only just recovering from your orgasm. 

“Why do you always taste like heaven?” his dusky question is rhetorical, his breath gusting over your sternum as he swaps to your other breast to meter out the same treatment. He has you moving under him again as he settles his body over you more firmly, your hips tilting up to feel his hard cock graze your inner thigh. “I wonder if you will still taste like heaven when you are heavy with my child?” he hums thoughtfully as he teases your nipple with the tip of his nose, one hand cupping your empty belly. “I dare say even moreso, ripe like a vine, bearing fruit…” That sonorous voice teases over your skin as he moves slowly upwards to nuzzle your neck. “My fruit….” he adds, possessive as he sucks your earlobe into his mouth, so loud now right by your ear.

His hands wind around your thighs as he shuffles position so he is kneeling between your legs, his ropey thighs spread wide under yours…

“Are you ready for that, my love?” he pauses until you nod almost imperceptibly; you squeak as he suddenly hauls you down the bed, hips onto his lap, your pelvis now higher than your head upon the sheets. Your stockings unfurling down your legs where he quickly plucks at the ribbons holding them aloft.

“Good, because I am more than ready for you,” it almost sounds like a warning.

Then, with a solid thrust, he spears into your body, the invasion toe-curling, your fingers grasping his muscular forearms that are clamped around your waist. It is a primal position, and he begins to thrust with no mercy, his cock feeling huge and heavy, a strong weight that drags heavily over your walls as your pussy clings to him. Your eyes flutter closed as you whimper his name, powerless to do anything but take his thrusts, draped across his lap as you are.

“Look at me,” he demands raggedly. And you do, his handsome face contorted with effort as he slams into you, a little bead of sweat forming on his brow. “Look at me while I fuck a baby into you, wife.”

He’s never spoken to you like this before, clipped, harsh. It seems appropriate that he would be almost desperate in an act so elemental, so of the earth—to create life. Stoking a fire deep in your core that is a clarion call for him, a frisson running over your skin at the idea you are being impregnated. Bred.

You know neither of you will last long with this almost frenzied coupling, the tendrils of your arousal already swirling so soon after your last, his near-brutish handling precisely what you need, your swollen pearl slammed into his flat abdomen with every stroke he takes. The sheets roll under your shoulder blades as he keeps the same position, your hips high, a mounting that you cannot and do not want to escape, knowing he is leaving fingertip bruises around the dip of your waist, marks you will carry secretly with pride just for him.

You moan his name, so close again to that ephemeral bliss, thrashing your head from side to side as if willing the pleasure to break and wash over you.

“Come on, come for me, milk me, darling. Take what you need, take my seed,” his voice a deep wrecked purr, the lines of his body tense, craving release as much as you.

That command is what breaks the dam for you, an almost violent ricochet fanning out from where you clench around him, his cries muffled behind the rushing noise in your ears, every part of you convulsing in a pleasurable wave. And then, in a floating haze, for the very first time, you feel your husband come inside you, a warm bloom that coats your walls. It's an intoxicating feeling; you never want him to come anywhere else ever again.

“That's it, well done, my love,” he croons, eyes still shut as he shudders with little aftershocks, not leaving your body—as if he wants to stay inside you always.

——

As the embers in the fireplace glow white, you lay in post-coital bliss, bodies dewy from exertion. Benedict rests his head upon your stomach as you card your fingers leisurely through his hair.

“Do you believe we may have made a baby, darling?” he hums, pressing his ear to your belly button as if listening for a heartbeat.

“I am certain of it, husband; you were so very thorough with your attentions,” you assure as he takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. “I hope our baby has your face,” you opine.

“Even if it is a girl?!”

“Thou art as pretty as thou art handsome, Mr Bridgerton,” you quip.

He laughs, carefree, crawling behind you and pulling you into a spooned embrace. “Be careful with such provocation, wife; I may not be done with you after all,” he jests idly. “I, on the other hand, hope our child looks like you, even if it is a boy.” he posits, crowding into your back, his lips warm on the shell of your ear.

“Why?” you laugh, frowning, twisting to look back at him.

“So that I may love them as much as I do you,” he breezes nonchalantly as if what he says is not the sweetest thing you can imagine, causing a tart, sudden spike of want through your body, even as you lay sated.

“Be careful, husband,” you volley back, coquettish. “Or I may not yet be done with you.”

There is a sharp, approving intake of breath, and his hand slides low from your belly into the thatch of hair at the apex of your thighs.

“Is that a promise” he rumbles, your gasp loud as his fingers expertly drag against your clit.

“It is whatever you want. Just do not stop,” you rush out, your hand curling around his bicep, feeling a rigid mass slide hot against your bottom. “Again, husband,” you appeal breathily. “Impregnate me again.”

“With pleasure, wife,” he growls, surging into your body with a force that again steals the very breath from your lungs.

The pinkish light dawn is streaking over the ceiling above when you both finally succumb to sleep after many more vigorous attempts at babymaking. The last one, perhaps the most desperate, you pinned against the headboard, him fucking into you so hard from behind that a jagged crack appears, spidering up the wall from where the bedframe slammed into it. A flaw which he steadfastly refuses to get fixed, claiming it to be the most profound art—a souvenir and ode to a momentous night.

——

9 months later

Benedict’s lips mash against your sweaty brow as he keeps lauding you with praise, excitement and pride evident in his every word. You flop back onto the bed, exhaustion deep in your bones, your body turned inside out, hurting in a way you have never known.

But it was all worth it.

What feels like only moments later, in your shattered, addled state, the doctor and nurses depart. Your husband perches on the bed next to you, his face a picture of wonderment. Holding not just one but two bundles of joy in the crooks of his arms. One girl, one boy—fraternal twins.

“My love, we have created the most beautiful creatures on all of this earth,” he attests partisanly, his voice profound with emotion, his eyes pinging from one swaddled face to the other as they sleep soundly.

You shoot him a watery but ironic smile. “I suppose, dear husband, that is what happens when you spend a whole night impregnating me. You succeed twice over.”

His brow raises pointedly, his tongue shooting out to pass over his bottom lip. “Are you suggesting next time around, wife, we keep going for three days straight? So that I may have a brood of eight by the time we are done?” Deploying his bedroom voice that he knows full well makes your knees weak.

“Do not say such things in front of the children!” you chide, swatting his knee where it touches your thigh. “And no, I am not carrying six of your progeny at once; that is simply preposterous!”

“Four?” he petitions with a wink.

You roll your eyes affectionately, settling back into the mound of pillows. “A maximum of two at a time is my final offer, Benedict Bridgerton,” you respond drolly.

“Entirely reasonable,” he chuckles contentedly, dropping a kiss onto each of their foreheads before handing both to you so delicately, as if they are the most precious bundles in the world. 

Which to you both, they are.

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[miryum]

☆ miryum's dc universe☆

Neighbour!Jason Todd who wasn’t home when you first moved in. If he was, he would’ve offered to help with the heavy furniture. Alfred raised a gentleman, of course. But no, he was off in a safe house, nursing a wound from last night's patrol. A bullet had grazed his side and it was leaving a nasty ache

Neighbour!Jason Todd who then didn’t mean to wake you when he crashed into his apartment that night, via window. How could he know that someone had just moved into the apartment next door and was startling at every bump in the night?

Neighbour!Jason Todd who was very surprised when he, still in his Red Hood gear, heard someone knock on the door soon after. A very sweet voice called out, “hello? I just want to check that you’re okay? I know it’s not my place and you might be a serial killer, but just wanted to make sure you’re not having a heart attack.”

Neighbour!Jason Todd who threw off his helmet and voice modulator before clearing his throat and calling out, “nope! No, I’m fine. Uh… thank you?” 

Neighbour!Jason Todd who breathed a sigh of relief when the voice responded, “oh, okay. I- I’m sorry. Good night.”

Neighbour!Jason Todd who stood up, even though his bullet wound cried out against it. He wasn’t sure why he stood, for he could already hear your footsteps departing. His face twisted into one of confusion, both at his reaction, and the fact that someone had come to check up on him. The majority of his neighbours didn’t care

Neighbour!Jason Todd who next met you when he was going to get the mail. He saw you outside the lobby door, crouching down. His curiosity got the better of him and he stepped outside during dusk in Gotham, something no citizen should ever do

Neighbour!Jason Todd who found out that you were feeding the street cats. You were fucking feeding the street cats. There were at least six cats surrounding you, weaving in between your legs as you set down a bowl of milk and some cat food. He cleared his throat and you looked up at him, already smiling. How could someone in Gotham smile? At him? His long sleeves, while hiding his physical scars, surely couldn’t cover the anxiety and trauma embedded deep within him. “What… what are you doing?” he asked softly

Neighbour!Jason Todd who simply stared at you as you responded, “I’m feeding the cats.” After a pause, you added, “they were meowing at me when I came home from work so I picked up some cat food from the store and brought it back to them. Aren’t they just adorable?” You reached out to pet one who gladly turned on its belly for you

Neighbour!Jason Todd who asked, “you know, they do that to everyone? They’re smart enough to know a new face that’ll feed them.” And then he mentally kicked himself because now this girl thought he was pessimistic and didn’t feed the cats. Then you shrugged and everything seemed better. “Yeah, I know, but they look so hungry…” The way your lips tilted to the side made Jason want to stare at them forever

Neighbour!Jason Todd who almost offered to adopt the cats because that meant that you would come over to his apartment to see them

Neighbour!Jason Todd who then rubbed the back of his neck and announced, “my name is Jason.”

Neighbour!Jason Todd who melted when you laughed lightly and introduced yourself. He knew he had found the one

Neighbour!Jason Todd who then became much more aware of your presence in the apartment building. It wasn’t hard to piece together your routine (which you should think of changing regularly because it would be too easy for a criminal to figure it out) and if that meant Jason went to go on runs every now and then that coincided with your grocery trips, then it was a coincidence. He would grab his mail the same time you did. He would take more care to not make as much noise when he returned after vigilante nights, as to not wake you. It was the little things, he reasoned, that would make you notice him

Neighbour!Jason Todd who didn’t know what to do when the power went out. Of course, he had his survival kit ready and stocked with a flashlight, provisions, a blanket, a portable charger, and numerous weapons. He was ready to wait it out, but he didn’t know what to do when it came to you. Should he go over and check on you? Or would that seem like he thought you couldn’t handle yourself? 

Neighbour!Jason Todd who didn’t have to worry for long because a soft, rapid knock came at the door. He wasn’t surprised when you were there, small flashlight in hand. “Does this happen often?” is the first thing you asked. Jason huffed a laugh and replied with his own question, “is this your first time in Gotham?”

Neighbour!Jason Todd who invited you into his apartment. He wasn’t sure whether or not to count this as a first date, but you were soon bundled in his blankets and asking questions about his personal life, so that was like a date, right? He hadn’t been on many and didn’t intend to now that he met you

Neighbour!Jason Todd who did not know what to do when you fell asleep on his couch. Holy shit. Fuck. What should he do? He didn’t want you to think he assaulted you while you were sleeping, so for a couple minutes he sat in his kitchen, watching you wearily and putting as much distance between the two of you as possible. But then he didn’t like the distance between you, so it was a real conundrum

Neighbour!Jason Todd who instead sat awkwardly on his ottoman, watching TV with the volume muted and subtitles on

Neighbour!Jason Todd who didn’t even leave for patrol when the other members of the Batfam asked for help. The blackout was causing Gotham to run wild, but Jason was content with locking the doors and making sure you were comfy

Neighbour!Jason Todd who was still sitting on that ottoman when you woke up in the morning. He carefully evaded your questions on whether he slept and instead decided to make you breakfast. When you complimented his breakfast over and over, joking how you would have to come over more often if it meant his cooking, Jason agreed maybe a bit too quickly

Neighbour!Jason Todd who was the neighbour you then called on if you had a package arriving during work hours and needed someone to sign it. He was the neighbour you didn’t mind seeing in the halls because a chat with him wasn’t seen as uncomfortable. He was the neighbour you asked to help repair the sink (you got a very lovely image of his shirt riding up as he laid underneath your sink and maybe it was because you were ovulating but oh god did you want to jump his bones). He was the neighbour who, when he found out you liked similar movies, stumbled over his words to invite you to watch them with him

Neighbour!Jason Todd who actually didn’t love the genre of movies you did, but would like them if it meant seeing you

Neighbour!Jason Todd who wasn’t sure what your relationship status was with him and it ate away at him almost every moment of the day. You were always in the back of his mind, always making his heart warm 

Neighbour!Jason Todd who tried to coax you back to your apartment after you returned home one night, stumbling and intoxicated. But you didn’t want to. You were firmly standing in his doorway and kept blabbering about meaningless things. When he finally convinced you to rest on his couch, you declared, stumbling over your words, “see? This is why I like you Jason. You- you’re a- a very- You’re a very good person.” You then reached up and patted his cheek. “Love you, bye-bye.” And you promptly fell asleep

Neighbour!Jason Todd who was then in a state of shock of the next three hours

Neighbour!Jason Todd who ended up calling Alfred at four in the morning, prompting the older man to think the ex-Robin was kidnapped and needed help. As it turned out, Jason needed help, but with a girl; not a crime lord. Alfred sent Jason off with a few words of wisdom and luck, the most notable being, “Master Jason, if the girl does not return your feelings, then you can simply move out of your apartment and back into the Manor.” Jason thought that was a worse fate than you rejecting him

Neighbour!Jason Todd who was very patient the next morning, giving you painkillers and a large glass of water. When you remembered the previous night, mortified, he tried to calm you down, eyes worried that you would leave him. He wasn’t sure what he would do if you left his life

Neighbour!Jason Todd who, in a mess of panic and embarrassment, managed to blurt out, “no, wait! I- I want you to stay. Please. I know you didn’t mean your words last night, but I really like having you in my life. Can’t we… be friends?” It broke his heart to suggest it, but he’d be willing to keep that platonic bond if it didn’t drive you away

Neighbour!Jason Todd who waited, heart in his throat, when the seconds ticked by and you didn’t answer. “But I did mean them,” you finally whispered out. “I like you, Jason. And I wanna do something about that.”

Neighbour!Jason Todd who stammered and spluttered, “well, then, let’s do something.”

Neighbour!Jason Todd who took you out on dates every week and didn’t know what to do when you found the Red Hood gear in his closet when you were searching for a hoodie to steal

Neighbour!Jason Todd who wasn’t expecting you to laugh, of all things. “I guessed,” is all you said. And that’s when Jason kissed you for the first time

Neighbour!Jason Todd who became a staple in your life, not only because you two lived in the same building, but because of how amazing he was. There were no other words to describe it. It was like the man knew your needs before you did and fulfilled them just because he wanted to. He was the epitome of “princess treatment”

Neighbour!Jason Todd who was scared for you to sleep over for the first time because of his nightmares but found out that when your head was on his bicep (cutting off circulation to his fingers), and your body was tucked into his, hair messy and lips slightly parted, that he didn’t have nightmares. It was like you scared them all away, just by being there

Neighbour!Jason Todd who wanted you to sleep over much more frequently

Neighbour!Jason Todd who made it a habit to buy cat food at the grocery store because you still insisted on feeding those damn cats after months of living in Gotham. Nevermind that the cats had found which apartment you lived in and climbed up to the window via the fire escape. Nevermind that the cats realised that when you weren’t in your apartment, you were most likely in Jasons. And nevermind that he now had cats outside his window almost 24/7 that he begrudgingly fed because who was he if not subject to you or Damian’s rants about feeding the fucking cats

Neighbour!Jason Todd who just liked to touch you. He liked to be reminded that he was much bigger than you and his body could swallow yours up whilst cuddling on the couch. He liked to put his arm around your shoulder and trace patterns on your skin. He liked to hug you tightly from behind because it reminded him that you were there and you were his. He liked to do this in public too – not huge amounts of PDA, but a hand on the waist or slipped in your back pocket. A hand on the small of your back when crossing streets. Reaching out behind him to grab your hand while walking through large crowds

Neighbour!Jason Todd who, a year later, signed the lease to your apartment, so that now you were neighbours who shared a bed and a bathroom and a home

[targaryenluvs]

RAVAGE

pairing: dark!president!coriolanus snow x innocent!wife!reader

summary: he’d won the election, much to your elation. now you’d have to navigate the fame, fortune and status as the first lady of panem. but coriolanus just wanted you all to himself, and he’d do anything to scare you into his arms.

warnings: possessiveness, murder, robbery, bad smut, controlling, tears, babying, kisses, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, kinda subby corio/dom, praise, sense of entitlement? breeding kink, tummy bulge, overstimulation, little bit of aftercare

word count: 2k

a/n: i’m such a bitch for making everyone wait so long for a delicate part two 😌 and i finally have the confidence for smut so heheh - yes i’m using tvd names a lot - corio/coryo use - tried out a new layout 👀

part one of delicate

you couldn’t believe it.

coriolanus snow, president of panem.

all of his hard work has finally paid off and you couldn’t be more happy for him. you wanted to give him a gift but you still had no idea what he would want. it seemed the two of you practically had everything overnight, so a measly gift seemed to be difficult to acquire, one that he liked? even harder.

so you’d decided to go out, the idea of surprising him exciting you so much you’d forgotten to tell coriolanus where you were going to.

so imagine his surprise when his assistant told him you’d left the house, viewing you on the security cameras.

which you had no idea were there.

coriolanus saw it as an act of defiance.

he had to move about this correctly, he couldn’t have you injured, but he needed to scare you back into his arms. to remind you of the horrible place that panem was.

over twelve stores, and nothing. so you’d decided to enlist the help of one of your few friends. “not a single clue of what he’d want?” elena asked as you stabbed at your fries, “nope.” you answered as you placed a fry in your mouth.

“well if he has absolutely everything then his gorgeous wife should be a nice gift after an extremely long day no?” you looked up at her, confused, “what do you mean?” she giggled, “oh god, i forget how you don’t know that much. you, y/n.” at your adorable puppy face she leaned in, “your body.” you jumped back at her words, “i… i’ve never.”

“you’ve never?!” elena slapped her hand over her mouth at your admission, “how? i mean you’re absolutely stunning sweetheart, how hasn’t he yet?” you played with the table cloth in your hands, “i don’t know.” elena twisted her fork around her pasta, “okay has he never made a move, or, have you never noticed the signs?” you took a sip of your wine as you stared back at her, “what signs?” elena sighed, rubbing her temple, “there are signs, moments. the two of you, sitting on the couch and his hand trails higher. his breath quickens at the sight of you in a dress. the little things.”

“and what happens if you notice these signs, act on them?” and this was exactly her expertise, she wiped her face with her napkin before paying the bill. “if i’m going to explain this in detail then we need to go to my house. or a dirtier part of town. my dear girl, i’m taking you to your first ever bar.”

coriolanus has to hold on to his mask of self-restraint, you’d been spotted at a bar, with one of your friends that he despised. but at least his plan could take full effect without a hitch.

your mind had been blown, irrevocably and utterly blown. the way elena had described it all, she made it sound like heaven. but she did tell you about other men, some care for themselves more so than the girl. and you had no clue what type of man corio was in bed.

you’d been so absorbed in your own thoughts you hadn’t noticed the man following you, not until he attacked you. he’d been going after your bag of course, but it was a gift from coriolanus. the man was unrelenting as he shoved you against the cold wall, grimy hands pushing and pulling with you as you tried to regain hold of your purse. “let go!” you cried out before he slammed you into the wall again, loosing grip on the purse coriolanus had just gifted you.

what would he say? it was his gift to you!

you woke up with a throbbing headache and corios hands brushing away strands from your face. “there you are sweet thing. you feeling okay?” you peered up at him, unable to move due to the millions of blankets on you. noticing your struggle he smiled before shifting them off, “better?” you nodded before sitting up with his help.

“corio, i lost the bag you gave me. the bad guy he- i’m so so sorry. please don’t be mad with me i didn’t mean to-“ he laughed, although it didn’t reach his eyes, “you think i care about the bag y/n/n? i could buy you a million bags, better bags. i’m just glad you’re okay. those guys, they won’t bother you again.” all you could do was sob and hug him, pondering the meaning of his words.

AN HOUR AGO

“hey, what the hell man? you said to attack the girl and take the bag!” the man shouted as coriolanus undid his cuffs, adjusted his sleeve, pushing it back on both arms. “i told you to go for the bag, yes. but i specifically remember drilling it into your head not to hurt her. and now she’s lying in bed, has been for the past three house with bruises everywhere. and for that?”

shouts and screams of pain echoed through the abandoned building as coriolanus struck the man with a hammer, over and over and over. the job had one guideline. and this idiot couldn’t get it right.

don’t hurt his delicate girl.

PRESENT

you’d been so absorbed with worrying over the purse and apologising for your tears you hadn’t noticed corios hungry eyes. “i really did like that purse.” he murmured, “oh corio, i should’ve tried harder to keep it. what can i do?” hook, line and sinker. he had you where he wanted and he’d finally get what he deserved.

“let me fuck you. please.” and who were you to say no? your naivety led to him laying you down on the bed, head between your thighs. you’d heard about it from elena, a man pleasuring a woman, but it was a million times better than you could’ve imagined. coriolanus was messy, and desperate. he’d been waiting for so long and god was it worth it.

his heart raced with both excitement and nervousness as he held your thighs in his own hands, tracing up and downwards, feeling the warmth against his own skin. coriolanus couldn't resist the opportunity to tease you. “you wanna cum?” corio mumbled as he continued sucking on your swollen clit, “mhm.” you could hear him laughing at your pathetic excuse of agreeing.

coriolanus wholeheartedly believes you belong to him. the second you were married, and even before, you were his. your submission would prove it, and he would do anything for it. you were his and he was yours. his bold blue eyes ravished you, all of you, “who’s making you feel this good?” your hips squirmed away from him but he just pulled you back, pushing two fingers into you.

corio reveled in your naivety, the way you responded to his touch, the way you whispered dirty words as if it were a sin. and right now, you still couldn’t bring yourself to name what you needed. his pace was brutal as he lapped at your cunt, a third finger curling inside of you as they went in and out. your gasps and cries were music to his ears, he’d been denied this all too long, and he wasn’t sure how he’d ever done it. “cmon, say it.” and you did, over and over again. “it’s you! you, coryo.”

“coryo, ah, your fingers feel so good,” you mewled, tilting your hips more trying to lean into his touch. coryo withdrew his fingers to play with your clit, rubbing circles around your sensitive nub that resulted in you crying out in pleasure.

“such a good girl, getting all wet for me,” you nodded along dumbly, “for you, all you.” you babbled as he kissed you deeply.

coryos hand dragged up and down your folds, “your pussy is soaked, baby. look at that,” you whined at the feeling of him not touching you, your cheeks flushed at the sight of your arousal. coryo pulled his pants down, throwing them away over his shoulder. you hid your head into the pillow as coryo tutted, “you have to look pretty girl, look at the mess you made.” coryo taunted as he rubbed your slick juices all over his dick, trying to humiliate you, get a rise out of you. coryos hand holds onto your neck, tightening as you clutched on with both hands, “please, coryo, i’ll be so good.” he rested his forehead on yours, noses touching.

“i love you, i love you, i love you.” he whispered in your ear, “my beautiful wife, you’d look so good with my baby in you.” the idea of having his baby had you pressing your lips to his as he bit down on your lower lip, making you gasp as your lips part, his tongue pushing inside your mouth, exploring every bit of you he’d ever wished to. his hunger hadn’t fallen, only increased.

“ i need to fuck you,” he panted, you having stolen his breath. coryo teased your folds with the head of his cock, “need to fill up this pretty little pussy of yours,” he pushed into you, warm walls coating his cock as he groaned, “you feel so good.” he moaned into your neck as your hands clutched onto his broad shoulders. he wasn’t sure if he’d last long but then again he didn’t care, it’s not like you knew it was a short time.

the way you clenched down on him was more than enough proof of your virginity. your cries fueled him on as he pinned your hips down into the mattress, rutting against you wildly. “you feel that?” he was everywhere, filling you up. his dick making an appearance through the bulge in your tummy. “uh-huh. too much i can’t-” he stopped you before you could finish by pressing down on it with his palm, “yes you can baby.” you shook your head, “coryo i can’t, you feel too good.” you begin, crying from how good he was making you feel, from how dumb and desperate he was making you.

“m’ gonna fill you up, gonna give you my baby.” he was driving you crazy, his heavy panting, hands on either side of your head, his voice was deep and filled with fire. “yes, yes please inside me.” coryo’s eyes squeezed shut and his brow furrowed you were too much, fuelled on by the idea of a pregnant wife, pregnant you. swollen belly, heavy breasts, relying on him to help you out of bed. his hips stuttered and faltered as he came inside you with a low groan. he didn’t care about pulling out and neither did you as your release came down on you again. “feels so good coryo, thank you.”

he couldn’t help his smile as you continued to thank him for making you feel so good. his ego was sure as hell swelling as he pulled out of you, collapsing on the bed. his hand caressed your face, kissing you all over, praising you.

“you did so well f’me. proud of you baby.” you grinned up at him as you snuggled into his neck. “only for you coryo.” all for him. “i’ll clean you up okay?” you nodded along as he got out of bed.

coriolanus deemed the night a success, but for some reason he didn’t feel complete. he wanted more. but as he looked up at your sleepy eyes and tired out body he wanted to let you rest. but the idea seemed to slip out of his head once he was levelled with your core again, his release spilling out of you and the warm towel forgotten. he didn’t stop himself when he began to lick at you, his tongue working his way into your entrance as your head shoved at his face.

“coryo, i’m sensitive. coryo please stop.” you attempted to crawl away but his hands dragged you to the edge of the bed, legs around his head. your body fell limp against the sheets as pleasure took over. your hands laced with his hair as you cried out.

it was going to be a long night.

[00kittenz]

── smarty. ( pjs ) 🪷

๑ Jay has had enough of your brattiness for today, there’s only so much he can take.. so he may as well teach you a little lesson, right?

pair: bf!jay ㅊ gf!reader | warnings: smut, angst (??), small age gap (jay is 5 years older), d/s dynamics, bratty!reader, slight ddlg themes, spanking, p.ssy slapping, oral (f. rec), edging, crying, daddy kink, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, reader is implied to be a curvy/thick girly but anyone can read tbh ! | words: 1.7k

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

“what’d i tell you about saying things like that?”

“i don’t care, it’s true !” you snarled, if it hadn’t been made clear how aggravated you were, it sure as hell was now.

you and jay spent the weekend with his parents at a resort somewhere in jeju. everything was going fine at first, that was until an unexpected guest invited themselves to join your little ‘family trip’. her name was hanna ? halie ? you don’t know and you didn’t care. what fogged your mind for the rest of the trip was how she clung up onto jay like the smoke to dry ice.

what agitated you even more about her was her need to call you out asking you a million questions about your clothing and how she’s so shocked that jay settled down with someone like you. all of her backhanded compliments would rub you the wrong way and she just gave you weird vibes. it’s as if you weren’t “pretty enough” to date him; according to her at least. don’t get it twisted, jay definitely shut all of that down. he wouldn’t let any woman pin you as anything less than you were. a fucking goddess.

“why’re you acting like this? what’d i even do?” he paused. “what haneul does has nothing to do with me.” he continued, eyes focused on the road. he’s become fed up with your constant nagging. maybe it’s just his level of maturity that makes him unable to see it, but he doesn’t understand why you worry so much, it was as if every ‘i love you the most’ ‘you’re my favorite’ ‘it’s only you’s’ didn’t matter. he felt like his words held no weight whatsoever.

“nothing to do with you ? hah, you’re the one who let her bombard our vacation. might i add family vacation.” you sterned, shifting your body closer to the door of the vehicle, looking out the window.

“what did you expect me to do y/n? she’s been a family friend for years now, i can’t just tell her to fuck off and go somewhere else. she’d go crying to my mom about how mean i was to her and that’s just extra drama that i don’t need right now..” he exhaled heavily, glancing at your avoidant figure. when he got no reply from you he left it be, turning up the music to avoid the awkward atmosphere the both of you created.

๑ ๑ ๑

“babe, can you pass me my frames ?” jay dared to ask even though you’d been ignoring him since the incident from earlier.

“y/n.” “please ?” watching as you hadn’t budged even a bit he grew upset. it was already bad enough for him that you were acting like he didn’t even exist, which was fine. though, he wouldn’t just take your constant disrespect.

so he got rid of what seemed to be your main source of attention. your phone.

“what the fuck, jay !” you reached at him. “give me my phone !”

“jay !” he mocked, his voice altering to sound high pitched like yours. “don’t you see that i’m trying put things back together? why do you have to act like such a child.” he was disappointed in you. you were a fully legal adult, yet your actions said differently.

“strip.” jay broke the silence you let fill the room. you were hesitant, and confused, but at least you were actually looking at him now. “you heard me, now.” his brow raised as his mouth slipped a scoff.

were you just gonna let him boss you around ? definitely not. were you feeling intimidated ? yes. but your pride stood stronger than the trouble you’d get into. you breathe heavily finding your way to the door of your bedroom for your dramatic escape; until you felt a tug at your arm and then the softness of your mattress, cosigned with the weight of your built boyfriend.

“i guess i have to do everything myself today, huh ?” jay sounded calm but you knew otherwise, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t let this play out just to see this side of him. ‘cause you did. hell, you felt your wetness dripping past the wall of your ass, the sticky sensation sending your body chills.

the jingle of his belt caught your attention, but before you could even glance at him, your face was meshed with the comforter of your shared bed. you shriek.

“jay— !”

“oh now you wanna talk ? huh, funny.” his hand sent goosebumps throughout your body as he runs his palm over your clothed ass. “it’s a shame you don’t listen. now your pretty tails gonna be all red.” he pinched the fabric of your skirt flicking it upwards onto your lower back.

“ ‘m sorry..” you uttered feeling him tug at your underwear.

now, jay was ignoring you. all you felt was him adjusting your waist, so that your ass sat in the air.

“‘m really sorry..ja—” you pause, shrieking at the leather that came in contact with your silky skin. if you could describe the feel of it, it’s like a slow burn, a slow burning that spread like wildfire everytime he unleashed the branded weapon on you.

discipline is a topic your parents took lightly. yeah, they disciplined you, but it was never a ‘bend over my knee’ type of discipline. more like, every morning you wake up ‘sit in that corner’ type of discipline. jay never went soft on you when it came down to it. he wanted to make sure you never do whatever you’re in trouble for again.

“crying ? what’re you crying for,” jay never pushed aside your emotions, he had to hear you out or his guilt would eat him alive. hearing you sniffle shot a sort of worry in him.

“listen, you put yourself in this situation—” he paused throwing his belt. “you already know what happens when you wanna act like a brat.” he palmed your cunt. he wasn’t going to baby you this time, that’s all he ever did. maybe this was partially his fault too..

subconsciously, you felt yourself grinding on his hand. you were needy, you always were after a punishment, even if he didn’t know. but now, you were on display. there was no way he wouldn’t find out.

“you’re such a fucking slut,” his thumb caressing your entrance, pushing your sweetness through your dewy folds. “already so wet for daddy, hm?” his thumb slid through your sticky walls in a in and out motion. your slick caking his finger everytime he pulled it from inside you.

“please..” was a constant that came from your mouth. you didn’t know what you were pleading for. more ? less ? what was it ? you only knew that he made you feel so good. the look of him drenched you. you wanted him to slut you out. ruin you.

“please ? please what?” he couldn’t help but snort at you. the mere thought that you can get what you want with just a please— scratch that. the thought that you think you can get whatever you want after testing his patience, made him laugh. “please.. forgive me ?”

“i dunno..m” you slurred, you were estatic. just his thumb, making you feel so dumb. it made you feel small, like you were nothing but a tiny spectacle of dust.

“you dunno..? wan’ me to help you find out ?” you were flipped onto your back before you knew it. once you saw the shift in his eyes change, you knew what he was prone to do. the thought itself making you spread your legs wide open.

you even made the mistake of trying to rub yourself. that quickly got disposed.

“you lost your damn mind ?” his hand reached down to slap your weeping pussy.

“baby, i can’t wait.. please!” you whined watching as he kneeled down, face between your begging thighs, hands cupping each pretty chunk of flesh.

“but you can.” “matter of fact, you will.” he blew onto your core. the cold sensation bringing your hips to a jolt. his eyes scanned your smaller figure watching every expression that played out on your face, then down to your breasts. “lift up your shirt, let me see your beautiful body, baby.”

earning yourself a “good little girl.” when you comply.

๑ ๑ ๑

you hadn’t gotten a break since he started his mouth on you. drinking in your first orgasm, then the second. seems like you were now on your third.

“fuck.. jay.” you groaned your hips aching to move in his grasp. you’d try not to breakdown whenever his nose came in touch with your throbbing clit.

“you done ? talk to me baby.” he growled against your heat. his warm breath made you thirsty. he was eating you like it was his last supper. ripping you to absolute shreds.

“i’m gonna come, daddy..” your legs were shaking, your voice was whiney, and you needed an exhale. once he started sucking on your clit your back arched. at him, the feel, and the thought of him, making you feel.

“yeah, you gonna come for me ?”

“yeah.. wan’ come for you..” you spoke through labored breaths. once your moaning got louder, he stopped. he’d love to make you come, third times a charm. but he wasn’t going to. he basically lured you in just to trick you.

“jayy !” “it was right there, i was about to cum !” you childishly whined at the begging sensation between your legs. the quivering feeling making you force your legs closed to suppress the throbbing feel. you felt his hungry stare on you. you knew he wanted you. it’s when you realized this wasn’t an after punishment treat. he was edging you. right after overstimulating you. how cruel..

“aww, look at you ! my pretty girl..” he pouted at you, your sad, twitching state. you were groaning for more as he watched you. pitying you. how could you have thought it was over? after a mere spanking ? silly.

“i guess you really thought huh.” he cackled. “ooh ! should we order room service.. i’m kinda hungry. you ?” he got up to go and search for the phone.

maybe you did deserve this. shouldn’t be acting so damn bratty all the time, even if it’s in your nature to piss him off. now look at you. eyes all watery, and a mess between your legs.

oh well, not his problem.