#after the final whistle blows this man is going to be pathetically still there

[getting-messi]

Why do I keep hearing people say ‘both goats’ when one is a world champion, playing in Europe, and on his way to winning his 8th bdo

And the other is playing in Saudi Arabia

[d0llpie]

hi its ya gorl seijoh hoe 🤠 how would they all (separately or as a group) react to the reader when she gets protective n savage toward a crappy guy who treated her friend like trash n she talks to the guys abt it?/ love the blog btw <3

Reacting to you slapping a guy

Characters: Oikawa x reader, Iwaizumi x reader, Matsukawa x reader & Hanamaki x reader

Warnings: mentions of cheating, nudes, swearing

a/n: Hiii i made y/n slap the guy cause he was an ass✋🏻 hope you enjoy love :) ,,,also some are in high school and some aren’t so sorry if that’s confusing <33

wc: 2.8k

Oikawa

- Your friend had recently broken up with your boyfriend and Oikawa wanted to come tell you about the rumours he’d been spreading

“No f/n, you were right to dump him he can’t expect you to stay with him when he’s never making dates and only hanging out with you when he’s drunk. That’s not a relationship” you were getting fired up just thinking about how much of a dick your friends ex was. “I know y/n, i just...i feel like i’m gonna regret it i mean i still love him, i know i shouldn’t but..” she sighed and shrugged and you held her hands comfortingly, you knew this was hard but having to build her up after every fight they had was breaking your heart and you were glad she finally managed to cut ties with him. “I know, you’ll be okay, i’ll be here the whole time m’kay? so will tooru and i’m sure he knows someone if you want to go out and have fun to get over him..” you playfully nudged her and she giggled, you were happy to finally see her seem happy. “I dont need rebound sex y/n” she rolled her eyes and you laughed together before your boyfriend, Oikawa approached you both seeming uncharacteristically nervous.

You both looked up at him expectantly “hi tooru, something wrong baby?” he sat down next to you and smiled sweetly at f/n “uh, you broke up with ex/n recently right?” your eyes widened and you slapped Toorus arm “it’s okay y/n, i figured you’d tell him anyway, i don’t mind..and yeah i did, why?” you glared at Oikawa and he laughed awkwardly “well, he’s behind the gym, i was taking a break from practise and heard your name so i listened and he was saying..things...” you looked over at your friend who was growing more anxious by the minute. You knew she’d have a million thoughts running through her head, regretting the break up. You frowned before turning to Oikawa “what things Tooru?” you were growing more frustrated by the second, thinking about that asshole. “His friend asked him about the break up and he said he broke it off cause you wanted more than sex..” Oikawa offered an apologetic smile before rubbing her shoulder “he WHAT?”.

While Oikawa was trying to comfort your friend you were seeing white, blind with rage as you stormed off ignoring your boyfriend calling you. “We should follow her, something bad is going to happen..” Tooru dragged your friend behind you as you continued on your path to the gym. That asshole couldn’t handle being dumped so he lied? what a fucking joke. You were muttering under your breath, effectively clearing the people in front of you away as the avoided your furious aura.

“Oi ex/n!” he turned around with a smug grin on his face and his friends whistled and laughed, clealry entertained “Y/n, what do i owe the p-“ he was cut off by the loud bang of your fist connecting with the bridge of his nose. He stumbled back, holding his nose as a few drops of blood hit the floor, you shook your hand, adrenaline coursing through you “you bitch!” he took a few steps towards you but you were pulled back into a firm chest “Uh, we’ll be leaving now. Don’t bother telling anyone or i’ll let the whole school know about what really happened, including your tiny dick.” Oikawa smiled widely at them before dragging you away.

When you were sitting back with your friend and Oikawa she hugged you tightly “y/n, i fucking love you” you both laughed while Oikawa stood there staring at you “ahem?” he cleared his throat. “Hi baby...?” he sighed before grabbing your hand and pressing a soft kiss against each knuckle “your adrenaline is going to go away and this is going to hurt, i’m getting you ice..f/n, make sure she stays put.” He began to stand up but you grabbed his wrist, wincing slightly “i’m sorry for making you worry Tooru” you leant down pressing a kiss to your forehead “don’t be sorry, i love how much you care about your friends, i just don’t want you hurt, i’m sure he’s worse off though, you threw a good punch i can’t wait to tell Iwa!” you both laughed before he pressed another quick kiss to your forehead, jogging off towards the gym again to grab an ice pack.

“Ugh you guys are so in love it’s gross” you friend pretended to throw up and you laughed at her “yeah�� you smiled cheesily and she smiled too, she was happy you had someone so perfect for you.

Iwaizumi

You were having a night out with your best friend since she was feeling down. Her boyfriend had been distant lately so you offered to take her to a club Iwaizumi and you had gone to once to blow off some steam.

You both dressed up took some pictures before heading out. You were happy to distract your friend, she was already feeling better and excited to go out with you. You texted Iwaizumi letting him know you’ll probably crash at f/n’s house and sending him some pictures. He told you he’d stay up and wait for you to text him you got in safe anyway.

When you arrived you bought some drinks for you both and she sculled it down before moving to the dance floor, you watched amused from the bar. You felt someone staring holes into your side and so you turned to meet a very guilty face, with his arm wrapped around some girl. She was looking up at him confused “baby what’s wrong?” you scoffed audibly before making your way over to them. If your friend noticed your absence you didn’t see.

“You know, i wish i could say i was surprised...” he rolled his eyes, guilty expression vanishing as he tightened his arm around the girls waist. “So you’re the girlfriend?” you turned to look down at the girl as she scowled at you and you almost laughed. “Oh so she knows, and no sweetie i’m not.” “I am.” you turned around shocked to see your friend on the verge of tears behind you, looking heartbroken. You felt your stomach drop, you turned around to look at her now ex, wanting the Earth to open up and swallow him whole for being the reason your friend felt like this.

You don’t know what happened but suddenly your palm was red and stinging, raised into the air and he was holding his jaw, fury in his eyes. F/n grabbed your arm, quickly running out towards to the exit. “Y/n, you’re such a badass what the fuck was that?” she laughed loudly, it sounded nice despite her ruined make up and red eyes. “Are you okay?” you asked, taking out your phone to text Iwaizumi, her laugh died down and she nodded, tearing up again before hugging you. You rubbed her back soothingly.

Y/n: Hi baby, soo night out has been cut short, can you come pick us up? f/n is staying the night also hurry there’s an angry blonde girl trying to find us

Iwa: explain when i pick you up. i love you.

Y/n: mhm i love you too <3

A few minutes passed and f/n had stopped crying and was sniffling, sitting in the floor deleting photos of her ex. You heard obnoxious clicking of heels and looked to see her ex and his new girlfriend walking towards you both. You cursed under your breath, alerting f/n to the two new presences. You saw Iwaizumi’a car approaching and when he saw your panicked face he sped up, parking right in front of f/n. He guided f/n to the back seat, letting her lie down, guessing by the sight of her ex boyfriend holding another girls hand what had happened. He could see the way they looked like they were trying to kill you with their glares and came to stand beside you, “can we help you?” he wrapped a protective arm around your middle, smiling sarcastically. “Yeah, control your bitch she fucking slapped me.” he chuckled dryly and Iwaizumis grip tightened, “y/n get in the car.” you gripped his arm “zumi don’t, he isn’t worth it he’s pathetic” he looked down to see your pleading gaze and he sighed, kissing your forehead before turning and walking you both back to the car. “Hey-“ “Shut up man, you lost a good one.” Your friends ex walked off angrily and you both got in the car.

After a few minutes of driving, Iwaizumi rested his hand on your thigh, you could tell he was tense so you rubbed his hand “relax baby, i’m okay..” he relaxed his shoulders and loosened his other hand on the steering wheel. “I know but he’s an ass and i don’t trust him” he was stroking your thigh trying to calm himself down. You looked behind to see f/n “hi, you feeling okay ?” she nodded, smiling at you. “Iwaizumi i just thought you should know she did hit him pretty hard” you both giggled and iwaizumi squeezed your leg, letting out a loud laugh as he brought your hand up to his lips to kiss your knuckles.

You spent the rest of the night cuddled up on the couch with your best friend while Iwaizumi made you both food and put on some movies. Iwaizumi watched you both from the kitchen, admiring you taking care of your friend with a love sick grin on his face.

Matsukawa

You were at your best friends apartment waiting for your food to arrive, you were having dinner with her and sleeping over since she just broke up with her boyfriend. They’d been together for ages, he even introduced you to your boyfriend Issei, eventually he got toxic and started preventing your friend from hanging out with you guys.

The door bell rang and you sprung up to go answer it, “i got it, stay here but pause the movie.” you opened the door revealing your boyfriend looking down at you. “Hi baby” you chuckled, surprised as he pulled you into a hug, kissing the top of your head before moving to the lounge room where f/n was.

“Hi f/n, i’m sorry for coming over unannounced but have you spoken to ex/n recently?” she sent you a worried glance and you sat down next to her “Uh you guys aren’t together anymore are you?” you shook your head no and he paused. “Look, i’m really sorry f/n, i was on snapchat and he posted a...photo of you on his private..” she pulled out her phone hastily swiping through, she was stressed as a million thoughts clouded her mind “he removed me...” you looked over to issei who took out his phone.

You held his phone and opened the story, it was f/n naked on a bed with a caption “new whore on the market”, the next was a video of him and some friends at a park, one you recognised. F/n snatched the phone from your hand and started shaking, you gripped the pillow beside you, growing enraged at how far he went and how stressed your friend was. You stood up and walked out of the apartment, Issei followed behind you questioning you. You ignored him and got into his car, driving to the park. Issei stood in the driveway dumbfounded “f/n, y/n’s gone crazy again where’s your car?” f/n was crying now, she came out and pointed to her car parked across the street and Issei guided her to it, rubbing her back to try and calm her down.

You pulled up in front of the park and stepped out of the car, one of his friends snickered “damn she didn’t bring f/n with her, i mean they’re not bad either” they started to laugh and you ignored the growing pit in your stomach, approaching ex/n. The smug look on his face only antagonised your further as he leaned back against the fence. You wanted to wipe that look off his face so you brought your balled fist up and connected it with his jaw. He fell back further into the fence and as held your fist in your hand. His friends started to approach you, you didn’t hear a car door slamming over your own shriek when a firm arm gripped your upper arm. You winced as the grip tightening before an arm encased your middle “issei?” the man loosened his grip on your arm as Issei towered over him. “Let go.” his face looked calm, mocking almost but his voice was dripping with venom and the man let go. “Great.” Issei lifted you up and hauled you over his shoulder putting you in the car.

“Issei i’m sorry i know i shouldn’t have hit him but he was such an ass and f/n didn’t deserve that..” he furrowed his brows as he drove “i’m not mad” you looked at him “really?” he threw his head back and let out a laugh “babe are you serious? you were so badass, if you didn’t hit him i would’ve anyway” you smiled up at him and giggled “are you okay though?” you nodded and he glanced over at you.

After going back to f/n’s house, Issei iced your hand and pressed a few kisses to your upper arm where a small bruise was forming. “I love you, so much baby, i’ll see you later okay? Take care f/n, i’m really sorry, it’s been taken down” she nodded and offered him a smile and you hugged him in return “i love you too, i’ll text you okay?” he smirked at you before kissing you quickly.

F/n and you binged some shitty rom coms and did some face masks while trying to relax after a stressful day.

Hanamaki (sorry his is kind of short)

You were walking around with Makki after your date night, going to get ice cream. “Makki its this way, we’ve been here before!” you attempted to drag your boyfriend by the arm “babe it’s this way, i think i would know” he rolled his eyes “Makki i stg, you’ll see you’re wrong” you stuck out your tongue and he kissed it quickly, you scrunched up your face and wiped it “you’re gross” you both laughed until you heard someone yelling.

You turned to see your best friend looking down at the ground while her boyfriend yelled at her, throwing his arms up and growing more and more frustrated. “Y/n, isn’t that f/n, what the fuck?” Makki started approaching the couple and you quickly followed behind. “Makki wait, he’s really angry what’re you going to do?” you held onto his sleeve as he sped up.

F/n, Matsukawa, you and Makki had been friends for years, attending middle school together and high school. When you and Makki got together you remained friends but f/n quickly grew away from you when she got a boyfriend, barely returning texts, avoiding you at school. You didn’t understand why but you had a feeling it wasn’t malicious, you never liked her boyfriend anyway, so you weren’t mad at her. In fact, despite the circumstances, you were happy to see her, you’d missed her. Makki also missed her, the dynamic the four of you had, he hated her boyfriend.

“Makki? Y/n?” f/n looked up to see you both approaching her angrily. “Oi, can you not pay attention to me for once jesus this is why you were single for so long” your friend cast her gaze back down and you felt a rage bubble up inside you. You’d spent many nights with Makki wondering why f/n hadn’t been speaking with you much, assuming the worst about her boyfriend while Makki joked about him, assuring you he’d never act that way and here he was confirming your theories. You could see Makki tense up before he grabbed his collar “What the fuck do you think you’re doing talking to her like that” he turned to look at Makki and when he did you swung your hand, slapping him. His head whipped back as Makki loosened his grip, turning to you with a massive grin “damn, nice one babe” before he shoved him to the ground grabbing f/n and running away.

You both laughed loudly, dragging f/n away, after a few minutes of running you stopped. “Babe, i told you the ice cream shop was the other way” you whined before you heard sniffling beside you, “f/n...are you okay, i’m sorry i didn’t help you sooner, i wasn’t sure and i’m sorry he was treating you so badly and i didn’t know..” you looked down, grabbing her hands, she smiled at you tearily before pulling you into a hug. Makki joined in, hugging you both as she whispered into your chest “i’ve missed you guys, so, so much.” you laughed with her “i miss you too, stay the night will you? We have ice cream at home” Makki groaned as you sent him a glare “c’mon you two, i’ll call Mattsun, it’s about time we all caught up.” you both nodded and began walking home together.

[ahkaraii]

[ff15] for the price of an arm (3666 words)

(spiritual sequel to my fancomic here, cw: gore)

"My, my," said the dismissive voice that still haunted Gladio's dreams, over a decade since. "Another one come for a rematch?"

"No." Gladio could not see Gilgamesh, but he knew the old bastard was watching him. "Not unless you don't give the Marshal back."

"The Marshal...?" A low, echoing laugh bounced around the bridge, and was then lost to the fog beyond. "Oh, the little lion? I'm afraid I bested him, long ago... He has belonged to me, since. And now, I have reclaimed him."

"Give him back," Gladio rumbled, voice like gravel. "Or I'll take all of your little arms, and then your fucking head."

The laugh echoed, fainter still, until there was a still sort of silence, broken only by a hair-raising whisper. "You may try, Shield of the Chosen King. But you shall not succeed."

"Show yourself," Gladio said, coldly. "And I shall prove you wrong, Corpse-Stealer."

It was only years spent fighting in the dark that allowed Gladio the reflexes to parry the blade that sought his head, and the years prior to that the ability to recognize the youth attached to the familiar body.

"Cor--?!"

It was undoubtedly the Marshal, but his once-lined face was now clear of scruff and weariness. His eyes were sharp, bright, and filled with a vicious determination Gladio had only ever seen aimed toward their enemies.

"Cor! Wait--"

The man did not appear to hear him, already in transition to perform a flawless gyaku-inazuma giri, and after Gladio hastily parried that opening onslaught, a tsuki thrust that nearly tore through Gladio's throat, managing only to avoid being skewered by leaping as far back as his legs would allow him, though of course Cor followed through flawlessly, relentlessly, and Gladio swiftly found himself on the defensive, gasping through disbelief and then raw, unhindered fury.

"You DARE!" Gladio howled. "You DARE steal his face!"

"His face belongs to me," tittered that ancient, odious voice, bouncing off the walls to the beat of Cor's Kotetsu against Gladio's Genji blade. "All of him does. And you shall not take him from me, unless, of course...you best me."

Gladiolus had bested the Blademaster once, and he could do it again. But it was quite a different story to be fighting against the puppet-corpse of his teacher, his friend. "Cor, don't do this," Gladio spared the breath to say. "Cor, don't make me do this!"

Cor did not appear to hear him, and through sinking dismay and true grief, Gladio knew Cor would never hear him, for Cor was likely already dead. Cor Leonis had said his goodbye, and everyone had respected it-- even Gladio had respected it, in the end. But he'd come down here to reclaim Cor's body and bring it back to Lucis. Bring it back home. He'd meant to bury the Marshal next to King Regis, as Gladio would want someone to bury him next to Noct, when his time came.

He'd envisioned having to fight the Blademaster for it, but he had never imagined he'd have to ruin Cor's corpse to win it back.

"You are dishonourable--" Gladio screamed. "You are despicable--"

"I am, at that," the voice may have whispered, but Gladio was fully concentrated on Cor's blade, the whistle of it before it nearly took out his legs; the metallic vibration of it when it parried his own massive katana; the reach of it, always further than one might expect.

Cor did not fight silently, for all that he did not speak a word. He grunted and gasped and growled, and it felt awfully like he lived again, for it was his selfsame voice, the voice Gladio had grown up listening to and learning from, fighting with and fighting for. It was both a gift and a gutwound, to hear it again, in the flesh.

It could have been a shorter fight-- intense, furious, but inevitably lethal-- had Gladio not kept missing opportunities to cleave the man in two. He could not bear it. A part of him longed to prolong this, if only to keep the fiction going. That Cor still lived, that Cor could still come back alive.

Unfortunately, the longer Gladio drew it out, the more tired he became. And Cor, in the undeathly grasp of Gilgamesh, did not.

He became faster, and faster, and impossibly faster, until Gladio knew that if he did not end this soon, if he did not end this now, then it was Gladio that would be cleaved into pieces, and Cor-- who had not once batted an eye at carnage, who had not once looked upon a fallen enemy with regret-- Cor would simply end him without giving a shit, and then Gladio would be dead, and all this would be for naught at all.

Cor Leonis was dead, Gladio told himself through glassy eyes and a swiftly clogging nose, and this? This was just a cruel echo. It would be kinder to silence it, and let it rest a memory.

So, without further hesitation, Gladio closed himself off, and with one sure thrust, impaled Cor's body with his very own Genji blade, twisting it to ensure he'd severed that great man's spine and abdominal aorta, then up to cleave through three ribs and into his lungs and hopefully his heart, so his end would be swift.

So his end would be sure.

But of-fucking-course the Immortal refused to die easy. Cor made a truly awful noise, choking on his own blood, body twitching with the aftershocks of an immense blow, still struggling, still attempting to swing his sword, which Gladio barely stopped with his other hand.

"Damn it," Gladio choked, through messy tears. "It's okay, Cor. Let go."

The man screamed wetly, gagging, jerking futilely against Gladio's hold. He was half-collapsed on Gladio already, legs limp and lifeless. But even still he refused to die, let alone let go of his sword, which came to rest on Gladio's shoulder, sharp side trying in vain to dig toward his neck, even now, when it was past the realm of unlikely into the sad reality of the impossible.

"It's all right," Gladio whispered. "Shh. Shhh. You can rest now."

Cor shuddered, twitched, and let out a rasping exhale, that seemed to last an age. Blood kept bubbling up his mouth, out his nose, and this close Gladio could see the burst blood vessels in his eyes, making the blue of them all the brighter, even as that inimitable gaze clouded, unfocused, and seemed to still half-lidded, far away.

His sword finally slipped out of his grasp, and clattered unceremoniously to the ground.

For a long while Gladio couldn't speak through his tears. The hand holding the Genji blade was soaked with Cor's blood, with his spilled flesh, and Gladio couldn't find the will to remove it, to further damage Cor's body with it. He pulled Cor close instead, tucking his old friend's face into his chest, shuddering through his grief and processing his rage.

"I'll kill you for this," Gladio promised wetly. "I will fucking desecrate you for this."

"You may try," the Blademaster said, finally showing himself at the other end of the bridge, both armless and unarmed. "I may even welcome it."

Gladio ran a gentle hand through Cor's bloodied hair, and impulsively kissed the top of it, like he remembered Cor doing, once, when he'd been six or seven and he'd asked Uncle Cor for a bedtime story, and he'd eagerly listened to the Marshal stumble through what was more a mission report than a proper fairytale, talking about some young punk going down to Hell to fight some big tough guy with a weird accent, to prove himself worthy of his King. And Gladio, who even at that age feared being unworthy above all else, had anxiously asked And he did, didn't he, Uncle Cor? And Cor had quirked that small, sad, private smile that he showed only to Gladio and Gladio's dad and their King, and then kissed the top of his head and said Sure, champ, 'course he did.

'Course he did.

Gladio gently laid Cor's body on the ground, dislodging the Genji blade from his sternum as carefully as he could. It was impossible to pull out the two-meter long blade elegantly, or even respectfully, not without the King's magic to simply dispel it as he would have preferred, but Gladio did his utmost to do it without messing Cor up more than he had to. He ached to throw the damn sword away and simply grab Cor's corpse and run with it, abscond with it, away from this traitor's cesspit of a bridge and finally lay it to rest where it deserved to be-- but another louder, righteous, and infinitely angrier part of him needed to take the Genji blade-- originally Cor's blade, and now forever the blade that had finally ended him-- and skewer that dishonourable, hateful, and pathetic wraith of a creature at the end of that bridge. If not for Cor's sake, then Gladio's own; for the Blademaster was, if legend served, ancestor to his own blood, traitor to his own line, and therefore Gladio was the last of that longwinded legacy, the last Shield, and if it was anyone's duty to end this farce of a trial, then was is his own.

Gladiolus Amiticia stood tall, and readied his bloodied blade with the grim resolve of a man ready to face his death and walk out alive.

Gilgamesh didn't say a word. He'd said all he needed to, over two thousand years of projected self-loathing, through cruel whispers and claimed corpses shambling in the dark, patiently waiting for his own end, waiting for just this moment.

The tension between the two warriors rose like a fetid odor, permeating a grave. Only one of them would leave here alive, and increasingly it seemed it would be Gladio, for Gilgamesh had made no move to summon either arms or weapons.

"Take out your sword already, you lowly piece of shit," Gladio demanded, coldly. "Or die without one."

Gilgamesh tilted his head slowly, gesturing towards Cor's corpse, cooling before him. "You've already taken it," he said, simply.

Rage enveloped Gladio. He'd killed defenseless men before, but only in the heat of battle; to kill a traitorous kin-killer like this would bring him no satisfaction. Hell, it might even bring him shame, and that pissed him right the fuck off. That even now, filled with so much grief and fury and resolve, he could still lose against this wretched ghost, because winning against a thing determined to die without a fight was no victory at all.

"Arm yourself, Blademaster!" Gladio roared, swinging the massive Genji blade, splattering drops of Cor's lifeblood upon the bridge.

"I have none left," the ghost said, mildly, shrugging his great shoulders bereft of limbs. "Claim my head, Gladiolus Amiticia. It is yours."

"You vile, repulsive--" Gladio snarled, incandescent with rage. "You dishonour my name, your name, the name of the man who you just made me kill-- the lives of my father, my father's father, and all the kings the Amiticia have served--"

"Yes," the Blademaster interrupted calmly, "That's right."

"Pathetic," Gladio spat. "You're pathetic. You are less than a man. I renounce you as Shield of the Founder King. I renounce your trial as anything more than worthless, wretched--"

"That is your right," the Blademaster agreed, placidly.

Gladio screamed, and in his mind, he rushed him. Genji blade met Genji armour and parted it like butter, revealed the putrid insides of a man long since dead; another swing beheaded the man and spilled his brain across the bridge; his red-soled boots stomped that skull to shards, mercilessly, pounding it into the ground, into less than dirt, into less than a memory; in his mind, his heart thoroughly disowned that heartless cur to oblivion.

In reality, Gladio only screamed. And then, heaving like a beast, he gathered up his spite and spat on the ground. "If you will not fight," the Last of the Amiticia swore, "then you will rot here, forevermore."

Gilgamesh's glowing eyes tracked him, quietly, then he bent his head forward, bent his whole body forward, into a bow. "Yes, Amiticia," that dry, ancient, patiently undying voice said, "I know."

Gladio could bear this no longer. He turned, blade in hand, seeking Cor's corpse--

Only to find Cor struggling to his knees.

"Cor?!" Gladio choked, and for a moment his grief and rage split him, for he could not kill Cor a second time, a second time would surely end him--

"Clarus...?" Cor's eyes were still bloodshot but the blue shone through, electric, and violently alive; his face was young, bereft of age lines and beard; he looked like he was half Gladio's age instead of double. "What...?"

"Cor!" Gladio fell to his knees. "You're alive!"

"You're not Clarus," Boy-Cor said, voice oddly-pitched. "Who're you?"

"I'm his son," Gladio said, through tears. "Fuck. God damn it. You're alive, Cor." He impulsively gathered Cor up in his arms, and the kid-- God! Cor was at most a fucking teenager!-- squirmed, uncomfortable, looking confused as all hell.

"As if I'd die in a place like this," Cor said, gruffly, and then he jerked up, "Wait, son?! Y'mean, you're his da?" He pushed Gladio away, squinting up at him suspiciously. "No fuckin' way... you ain't Marshal Amiticia. He's bald, and you got more hair than a goddamn Ronin!"

Gladio couldn't help but laugh, wetly-- even through his confused joy and skewered grief, hearing Cor speak like a feral brat was something else.

"...unless that's a wig? Uh, sir? Shit."

But Gods above, what if this was an illusion? Gladio's whole self shuttered at the thought. He wouldn't put it past that old ghost. He was vile enough for it, Gladio now knew.

"If this is a lie," Gladio murmured, tracing Cor's wary face with his eyes, thinking this might be the last time, "then I swear on my life, I will cut off your legs and piss on your mask, Blademaster."

Cor's eyes widened, narrowed, and shuttered in quick succession. "Well, that's gross," he said, tense-like, eyes skittering over to the Genji blade, thrown aside in Gladio's disbelief-- then he stared at something beyond Gladio's shoulder. "Wait, did'you actually kill him?!"

Gladio automatically followed Cor's line of sight, thinking he'd see the Blademaster as he had been seconds before-- but the fucker was no longer standing there, head bowed or otherwise. He'd vanished.

"Shit," Gladio swore, lunged for his sword-- immediately realized Cor had taken the Genji blade with him, and turned to snatch the Kotetsu instead-- and was on his feet an instant later, ready for a fight. "God damn it--"

"Ramuh's balls--" Cor piped up. "You fuckin' did!"

Cor had fearlessly loped on over to where the Blademaster had once stood, all two meters of the Genji blade casually resting on his shoulders like it belonged there, instead of the Kotetsu he'd carried by his side for forty years-- and then he was bending down, was the sword too heavy?-- no, Gladio realized abruptly, Cor was bending down to grab a familiar silver thing.

"This is his mask, ain't it? Goddamn..." Cor looked very small at the end of that immense bridge. "You beat me to it, huh."

"...I don't think he can die," Gladio said, uneasily. "He's probably hiding somewhere." He resisted the urge to spit and say 'like cowardly fucker', and instead adjusted his hold on Kotetsu, its smaller size unfamiliar to his hands.

"Maybe," Cor said, but he didn't sound convinced. "Shit...if only I'd been a little faster, I could've gotten him first." He looked down at the mask like it had impaled him, like it had skewed him straight through and had watched him drown in his own blood.

Gladio knew that look, because that's the same look Cor had had, as he'd died in Gladio's arms.

Gladio felt the unreality of the situation finally descending upon him. "Hey, kid," he said, low and slow. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I was running away from this," Cor said quietly, down at the mask in his hands. Then he squinted up at Gladio. "Sure don't remember you, though. Sir. Did you come down for me 'cause Clarus said somethin'?" His lower lip stiffened, and there was an unmistakable wet sheen to his eyes. "I had it handled, sir."

Gladio's heart was hurting something awful. This wasn't the Marshal he remembered. That inimitable man-- the Cor Leonis that had indulged Gladio's love of fairytales, who had kissed his brow goodnight, who had taught him how to fight, whose last words to him had been 'Y'know, Gladio, I think I've finally earned myself a goddamn vacation'-- that immense, amazing, larger than life man was dead.

So, what was this mockery before him? The soul Gilgamesh had defeated and claimed, forty some years ago, now returned to its old body?

"I know it was disrespectful, sir--" Cor said, stiffly, misinterpreting Gladio's expression. "I know this Trial is only for Shields of the Amiticia line, but-- I can do it, sir, I was doing just fine--"

"All of this is a farce," Gladio said, hollowly.

"No, I can prove myself worthy!" Cor said loudly, desperately, and Gladio was reminded of himself, thinking that being a worthwhile Shield to his King was all he'd ever wanted or would ever want, that fighting some big tough guy could grant him that and more. "I can do it--! I'll try again, I'll beat him, I'll prove it--"

Gladio felt something heavy press against his chest. If this was Gilgamesh's last fuck you to his descendants, or, worse, if it was his idea of a fucking consolation prize--

"Let me try again," Cor said, firmly, holding the mask out like Gladio could summon the Blademaster with it. "I'll show you, sir. I'll show you I can do it."

Gladio's frustration was hardly this kid's fault. Well, it was only Cor's fault insomuch as he'd jaunted on down here as a brat, gotten his ass kicked and his soul snatched, then come back down for seconds when he was too old to care if he lived or died. But it wasn't this kid's fault, anymore than it was Noct's fault he'd gotten saddled with a prophecy that wanted him dead and he'd chosen to fight it for as long as he could, before finally succumbing to it, back straight and head held high.

Gladio had hopefully outgrown his knee jerk reaction of yelling at dumb kids for making dumbass decisions, and he liked to think he'd soon ease into the calm melancholy of a man used to outliving those he loved. Like Cor himself had. The Cor of his memories, now forever laid to rest.

And yet Cor-the-kid was still staring up at him, refusing to cry, looking as stiff and proud and fierce as ever, waiting for him--for Gladio, of all people-- to denounce him.

So he chose not to.

"You did do it," Gladio said, gently. "Cor, you completed the trial, and then some. You are more than worthy to be a King's Shield, or Sword, or soldier--whatever you wanna be."

"What I want is a rematch," Cor insisted, looking more and more like he was gonna fight Gladio for it.

"Maybe later," Gladio said. Maybe never, he thought. Gods. He didn't know if Cor could even leave Taelpar Craig, or if his body would collapse like the walking corpse it should be, without Gilgamesh's magic holding it together.

"Sir," Cor said, edging on the line of begging. "I can't go back empty handed like this. I'd rather die than live with the shame of it."

"Take the mask, then," Gladio said, with an exhausted finality in his voice. "It's there because you defeated him, in your own way."

"...you ain't gonna piss on it? Sir?" Cor said, suspiciously, holding it close like he was protecting it.

If you die as we leave this place, I sure fucking will, Gladio thought, but said aloud, "I'd gotta drink some water, first. You thirsty?"

"What the fuck, sir," Cor said as respectfully as he could, which, at this time, was not much.

"I'm joking," Gladio said, though he really wasn't. "I'm not about making some instant ramen, though. After a meal--" Cor's last, perhaps, "--then I'm leaving here, for good. You comin', or you stayin'? Your choice, Leonis."

He'd come down here for Cor's body, but if Cor truly wanted to stay here, forever fighting a disgraced demigod whose hobby was making undying warriors out of decent men-- if that was truly his idea of a good afterlife, then, hell, Gladio wasn't going to force him. He respected Cor that much, even if this wannabe Valhalla was, in his personal opinion, as disrespectful as it could get.

Cor's rumbling stomach interrupted his thoughts. The kid turned a little red, and it broke the spell of Gladio's melancholy some, to see that. "Hungry, huh?"

"I could eat," Cor admitted, with a stiff little shrug. "What kinda flavour y'got, sir?"

Even though it was far more difficult to travel light enough to fight on the go without the magic of the Armiger, Gladio still made sure to carry at least one of his favourite meals with him in a backpack. For this journey, he'd packed exactly two Cup Noodles: one for him, and one for Cor's memory. He'd left it at the fireplace just outside this final room, alongside the waterproof tarp he'd brought to put Cor's body in-- though now, Gods willing and Gilgamesh be damned, Cor might just walk out on his own.

"Beef," Gladio said, and was gratified by Cor perking up, as he hoped he would. "You okay with that?"

"Yes, sir," Cor said, and quietly admitted, "It's, um. That's my favourite."

"Well, ain't that something," Gladio said, instead of saying, I know. "You comin', then?"

"Yes, sir," Cor said, and even if this was Gilgamesh's last laugh, or his last apology, then Gladio would take it, because Cor was worth it, Cor had earned it.

[gojology]

Clubs Aren’t My Thing. (2/2) (18+)

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝑵𝒐𝒕𝒆 | woooo, part 2 ! as stated previously, this is heavily inspired by @/mystic-sky on tumblr or skyfelt on ao3. amazing writer, check her out (but this isn’t a direct copy, just same storyline in a way). i’m cleaning up my writing a lot, i think. maybe im getting better as well? probably not but uh i kinda gave up at the end and uh.. hope u enjoy.

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 | Voyeurism To Some Degree, Teasing, Ripped Tights, I didn’t proof read. 𝑷𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 | Dom! Gojo x Sub! Female Reader

𝑾𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝑪𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 | 4561

𝑺𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 | In which you finally get fucked by this mysterious, yet freakishly handsome stranger. That’s it, you just get fucked.

       The first thing you realize is how cold it is.     The wind is working against you, it seems, as you take your first step out of the warm building. Hair blows in every direction, you button up your cardigan, your breath coming out in puffs of smoke. Shivers went down your spine.    Not too far behind you, the mysterious man that you had met just an hour ago trailed behind, winking and waving at the girls confidently using him as eye-candy. Long strides, hands shoved into his pockets.    Your heart swells as you watch other woman stare flirtatiously as he gestured back at them, before their eyes set on you. He followed you like a duckling, and you’re sure to relish in how powerful it made you feel.    He walked like a model, with so much confidence. He didn’t appear as cold, his cheeks were flush and he reeked of fruity sugary alcohol, a playful grin still stubbornly on his face, 5 minutes later.    “Uber should be coming soon... I think, too lazy to check. You cold?” he slurred huskily.    You nod. For a one night stand, he was strangely kind to you.     He doesn’t say anything after that, so you opt to listen to the life around you. The clicking of high heels, the chatter, the drunken rants.     “Aw, come here.”     He didn’t give you much of a choice, though. Pulling you in to his chest, without warning. Your first instinct is to scream bloody murder, but he’s so warm, and you definitely need it.    One loose arm over your figure, his unoccupied arm dangled dangerously close to your butt. Taking in a deep breath, anticipating the feeling of being so scandalous in public, he chuckles breathily, almost like a taunt. You can feel the rumble in his chest as he cleared his throat.    You stare up at him, confused as to why you’re not feeling anything in your lower regions, before you realize what he was doing.    Rubbing your head with the once unoccupied hand, his fingers weaved into your hair as he sniffled. Something about the interaction was strangely intimate, but you don’t dare to say a word.     You inhale sharply, rubbing your face into his chest. You want to get closer, deep in bliss as he seemed to return the want back. You want to close any remaining space between the two of you, but making the first move was scary.    He yawns, and this triggers you to yawn as well. It was probably well past 1 AM by now, and you were tired.    You couldn’t hear much around you other then the honk of the growing sea of cars, some people just starting their night, and the others ending it.     “Oh shit. Our Uber’s here.” he mutters under his breath, pushing you out of his chest gently.    Whining, you try to push yourself back into his arms, he takes a quick glance down at you, traces of a faint lukewarm smile playing upon his lips. Almost like he’s saying, “Are you kidding me right now?” before taking a hold of your hand.     Fingers intertwining as if they were meant to be together, you gawk down at your hands, before looking back up at him.     There were a few issues, one, you had no idea if this man had an intent to kidnap you. Second, you didn’t know what the Uber looked like, and you’re too embarrassed to ask. Third, he was holding your hand with no hesitation, and the feeling in your chest was indescribable.    You can’t tell what he’s thinking, but you hope that it’s something along the lines of what you’re thinking. Your eyes briefly flickering over his jawline as you pondered to yourself, but what you do know is that you’re being dragged towards the presumed Uber. It’s sleek, and black, with a glossy finish, you note.    “Yo chill, I’m not gonna kidnap you, missy.” chuckling, examining your doubtful, yet frightened expression. He swung open the car door carelessly.    “After you, m’lady.” he adds, bowing and straightening, his chin up.     “Thank you, Sir Mysterious.” you give him a small smile before sliding into the sleek, comfortable seats.     His eyebrow raised, he looked at you.    “That’s a first.”     “It’s also a shit nickname, maybe that’s why you’ve never heard it.” you suggested.    “I like it. Has a nice ring to it.” a lukewarm smile played at his glossy lips.    The sly smile wipes clean off your face, he laughs at you while sliding into his designated seat, as if he owned the car.    Right. You were in a car, and it would be best for you to study your surroundings, just to make sure you weren’t being kidnapped.     The car was obviously expensive, black leather reclining seats, and a sweet offering of warmth against the chill of the midnight air.    A coffee cup idly stood in the cup holder, the driver taking a quick sip and turning his body to look at you two. Air fresheners and various trinkets dangled from the rear-view mirror, swinging back and forth     “A couple, eh? You wanna go to this address?”     The driver whipped his phone out, an address in black, bold text stood out.     “Yep.” the man says confidently.     Opening your mouth to speak, you try to inform the driver that he wasn’t your boyfriend, before your supposed boyfriend covers your mouth with his hand as soon as the driver repositioned towards the steering wheel.     You realize that his other hand is on your thigh, stroking your skin.    This newfound position was at the very least, terrifying. There was another person in the vehicle, for starters, and you weren’t exactly the quiet type when it came to, well, anything in general.     Cold, large calloused hands considerately caressed your thigh, and your breathing hitches. His other arm against his side, but you know his fingers are itching to feel you all over. You want to moan, but the driver’s presence is enough to tell you that it would be stupid.    Fingers drawing shapes, words, anything would repeatedly loop on the sensitive skin just barely. He was definitely teasing you, but you couldn’t quite fight back.    “Why don’t you be a good girl and stay quiet for me?” he whispers, you anticipate the driver to look back at the two of you, and to throw both of you off the car, but he does no such thing.    Feebly, you raise your arm up, ignoring the flirtatious request. Swatting his hand away in a desperate attempt to get him to stop before it got out of hand, but he’s persistent.    It’s getting even more difficult to breathe quietly now, your body getting hotter and hotter and hotter.    It doesn’t take long for a noise to slip out from your lips that you can’t quite shut up, and the driver turns to look at you.     “So precious.” the white haired man mouths to you before quickly turning his head to look at the window, humming to himself, still caressing your thigh.     “Ma’am? Are you okay?”     About to respond, the white haired man scooched closer to you. His clothed leg now rubbing your bare skin. He whistles innocently in the opposite direction before skimming his hand against your inner thigh, and you almost shriek.    Instead, you let out a pathetic gasp.    Panning his gaze over to you, he gives you a sly, playful smirk, before looking away again.    Drawing more shapes onto your skin, he hums. It was so hard to focus, or even remember the words the driver had said literally just a minute ago. You feel yourself shiver, almost losing yourself entirely to his hands before shakily responding to the driver, praying to any divine figure in the skies that you would be coherent.     “Y-yeah. Just, spilled water on m-my clothes.” you reply, barely audible.     The driver’s eyes stared back at yours, concern etched onto his features, before sighing. Tension grew inside of you.    “Alright, if you need anything, just ask, okay ma’am?”     Trying to respond, no sound comes out of your mouth, and the reason dawns on you. Taking a quick look down, the man’s digits were now fumbling with your panties, brushing against your wetness.     It takes a moment for you to register in your brain, you thank every entity possible for preventing the inevitable slew of noises you’d make. Waves of need crashing over your body. You hungrily stare at him, hoping that he’d be kind enough to stop and save it for later.     Circling your entrance through the now utterly soaked panties, he dips his finger in, just enough so you could feel the slight pressure against your sensitive skin.    He’s fucking taunting you again.    Driver be damned, you needed him.    Opening your legs more, you confidently peer at him, inviting him to explore your body even more. His fingers are drumming against the leather surface, the other hand had retreated back to your thigh,  boldly looking at you back.     “No. I thought you didn’t want to, what’s with the change of thought?” he mouths, stifling a chuckle and a smug tone, already knowing what you were going to ask.   Bewildered, you gape at him before shaking your head curtly, making sure you’re staring daggers at his stupidly arrogant face.     “Stop fucking playing with me then!”     “You’re too cute.”    “Fine then.” closing your legs, you stare out the window, your chin sitting on the palm of your hand. Flickering blurry lights passing by quickly. Looking at your reflection, you steal a quick glance at the flirtatious bastard.     “If you’re so angry, why can’t you look away from me for 1 second?” he whispers proudly.    You can’t think of a snarky remark, so you huff and look back at the window defeatedly.    What a cocky arrogant little-    Your bruised pride burning into ashes, you grunt in response before the car abruptly halts to its stop.    Were you two too loud?    “What are you two so scared for? Freezing up like a deer in headlights, we’re at your destination.” the driver said, twisting his head around, his eyebrow slightly raised.     “Oh, yeah, thanks.”     That was way too close to comfort, and you’re resisting the urge of banging on his chest for being so overly confident in his endeavors. You open the car door, cursing under your breath, swinging your legs out and lightly stepping out.     First thing you realize in the new destination? This guy was obviously loaded.     In front of you were a bunch of condos, and it was bound to cost a lot. Modern architecture was all you could see, wide windows and balconies in every corner. Suddenly, you’re self conscious about your outfit, were you too poorly dressed?    The man hums, placing his hand on your shoulder. Plant life was meticulously placed in such a beautiful manner that you promise yourself that you would search up his name- if you ever got it, on the Forbes lists.    “Like what you see?”    Snapping out of it, you look back at him, and you nod, still astounded by his presumed riches.    “Yeah? Lets go up missy, I got more to show, in more ways then one.”  ‧₊˚✩彡.            Standing in front of his door, you realize how quiet and still the atmosphere is. He fumbles with his keys, muttering to himself, and you can’t help but wonder if you’re about to have sex with some celebrity.     Not knowing how to start conversation, you clear your throat.     “You ever going to tell me your name?”     “Aw, the little baby still wants my name.” he cooed    “Call me Gojo.” he adds nonchalantly.    “(Y/N).” you reply, ecstatic. That wasn’t too hard, but you wonder why he didn’t just give up his name to you at the club earlier. Perhaps he didn’t think he was going to take you back?    “Aw, sugar. You scared?” Gojo says, looking you up and down. Well, that’s what you assumed. He still had his glasses on.    “No I’m not, who said that?”    “Look at your legs, missy.” he cheekily replies.    Looking down, you realize you’re violently shaking, and you didn’t even realize it.    “...Maybe.” you say coyly.    He breathily chuckles, finally opening the door with the right key.    You’re surprised by the presence of such a spotless place, a large, plush black leather couch was in one corner, the other, an island. Amazingly large windows replaced what would usually be the walls, and you could see the extent of the city life from where you’re standing.      “Slip your shoes off girly, sandals on the left. Can I offer you something?” Gojo questions you, walking over to the island.     “...I’m not much of a drinker.” you reply, still standing in the doorway. You were honestly more interested in him then the small talk.     “Baby, sit down. Don’t you wanna see me up close?” he pats the cushioned island seats, and you sheepishly walk over.    “I have apple juice too. If that’s more your vibe.” you watched him swirl some melting ice cubes around in a glass of water with a spoon.    “I’m not 12.” you retort, maybe the guy wasn’t a celebrity. No famous guy has apple juice in the fridge, rather then fancy champagne and wine.     Gojo snickers, “Hey, I’m not 12 either, I’m nearing my fucking 30′s but I can never reject a good box of apple juice, plus, I teach a group of kiddos that drink this shit like it’s fine wine.”     You pause, this guy was NEAR 30? He certainly didn’t look the age, and second of all, he bought apple juice just for the kids he taught? That was surprisingly sweet, but that didn’t explain the richness.    “You’re a teacher?” you nod as he hands you a chilled box of apple juice.     “Uh, yeah.” he scratches the back of his neck. “International Japanese teacher, sometimes I just teach in Japan as well. It pays good.”     “No way you actually live here. Is this your friends place?”     He laughs loudly, “So backhanded, and sassy! Nah, this is my place. As I said, job pays well. Feel free to stop by for a good fucking.” he says whilst pouring liquor into his glass cup.    “You’re really confident in your abilities of fucking people.” you sarcastically note aloud as he slides into the comfortable tall stool next to you, drink in hand.    “Hm, you weren’t saying that when I was touching you in that car, brat. How strange.” sipping his beverage lightly.     Your mouth zipped shut, and he laughs again.     “Aw, don’t go all awkward on me.” his once vacant hand now rubbing your shoulder. Setting down his drink, taking off his glasses. He doesn’t give you much time to admire his eyes, but what you can see is an almost aquamarine color, flecks of darker blue sprinkled throughout. So brilliantly colored it didn’t look real.     Before you realize it, he leans closer into your neck, suckling your skin and lightly nibbling. His breath fanning over your delicate skin, you can’t even hold back, gasping a little as his hands played with the hem of your cardigan, tugging at it playfully.     You can’t even formulate words. He was undeniably good, his suckling now gradually getting more harsher and harsher, and you dread coming back to your friends place, neck full of hickeys, you’d be nudged for whoever did that to you for the rest of your life.     He grunts, standing up in the little space between what was his stool and yours, even on such a surprisingly tall stool he still towered over you. He has to slightly crouch before his eyes is at the level of your neck, hungrily crashing back down.      “G-Gojo!” you squeaked, struggling to do much of anything. You’re limp on the stool, slumped and burning up. Your skin was ridiculously hot.     “Hmmm?” he smiles into your neck, pausing momentarily, you can feel him exhale harshly on your skin. You look him up and down, the sexual tension between the two of you was prominent, and so was the tent in his pants.     You feel a whine creep up towards your throat, now realizing just how wet you are. Ignoring this, you gesture to your clothes. The layers were sticking to you, and you never wanted anything more then to just get the sex started.    “...Hot.” is all you can muster pathetically.     “What was, baby?” he coos at you.     “Me.” shrugging off your cardigan the best you can, you let out a subtle whine, the weird feeling growing between your legs.     “Yes, we both know you’re hot.” tipping your chin upwards to look at him, he smiles. “use your words.”     “Clothes.. Off.” you pant, obviously sick and tired of the stupid sexual tension and the teasing.     “Full sentence, girly.” he repeats, stroking your cheek with his thumb.     You inhale his scent, smelling of expensive cologne and lingering sickeningly sweet alcohol. Looking up at him, but averting your gaze as soon as you saw those incredible eyes once again.    “Look at me.” he orders.    You peer up at him, swallowing.     “P-please, take my clothes off.” you say politely.     “All it took was a few hickeys? You really are a pretty kitty.” he smiles, kissing your forehead. “Get down.”     You nod obediently, getting off the stool and looking back up at him, anticipating his next step.     He bends down, swooping you up bridal style. One arm under your legs, gripped firmly onto the skin, the other under your waist. Your arms instinctively and rather slackly around his shoulders.     You expect something, a kiss, anything, but all Gojo does is walk down an endless hallway full of doors.     You lean closer into him while pouting, hoping that’ll catch his attention, but he doesn’t say a word.     “Where are we going?” you finally ask, growing needy.    “Bedroom. I’m not fucking on the couch. Pretty princesses deserve to be nice and comfy.” he replies back, fidgeting with the door knob. For a few seconds, all you can hear is how rapidly your heart is beating inside your chest, the rustling of clothes brushing against one another, and then the feeling sets in again.     You could very well be fucking someone that was out of your league.     He breathes a sigh of relief, and before you have the time to fully study his bedroom, he throws you off of the bed with a grunt.     Gojo’s toned forearms by your side, you were obviously trapped. You can see his chain just dangle barely swing back and forth on the tip of your nose, his lips curled into a lukewarm smile.    “You were so cheeky with me earlier, where’d she go?” stroking the corner of your lips.     He doesn’t give you the time to respond, instead locking lips with you and rolling over to be on your side. It starts off small and soft first, but it gradually grew hot. The fluttering in your chest only intensified. Tongues exploring every inch of one another’s mouth, you swear you can taste mint. The anxiety melted off of you like wax, and the only thing he could focus on was how soft you felt against his lips. Delightfully experienced enough for it to be good, but not better then him.    The smell of him was stronger now, and you’re sure you won’t be able to leave without some of it remaining on your clothes. Regardless, it was an addicting smell. Something you needed to come back to. Furiously exhaling through both of your noses, he finally lets go.     Dazed, your whole body tingles. You want him to claim you all as your own, hungrily staring at him for more. Both of you were radiating heat. The kissing left little for thought, and all you can think about is kissing him once again. It seemed that the more you spent with him, the more demand you had for his attention.    “Such cute noises. Makes me want to ravish you more.”     Gojo tenderly pulls you in, claiming your mouth as his once again. Fumbling with your cardigan, yanking it off of your body. Large, hot hands brushing against your now semi-exposed skin, and you know he wants more. His hands brushed against your butt under your skirt, and you shiver just a bit.     Pulling out from the kiss, he looks at you, panting heavily.     “So beautiful.” he murmurs, brushing his thumb against your swollen lips.     “You wanna know why they call me the best?”     You nod, his arm snakes above your waist, forcefully flipping you down head first into the blankets.     Just now realizing that all your clothes are no where to be found, presumably on the floor, you shiver at the cold air conditioner blowing against you. That is, besides your skirts and your tights.     “On your arms, baby. Knees too.” he instructs, patting your butt.     You obey, a warmth rushing to your cheeks again. He had you like a dog being trained by it’s owner, following their every order.     “Good girl.” he says under his breath.     You’re about to tell him that you’re still wearing tights, about to open your mouth, you heard a loud rip disturb the peaceful atmosphere, and a cold exposure to your lower regions.     You squeal, digging your face into the covers, and he chuckles again.     “Oh baby. You were begging for this, I can see why now.” you felt him drag his fingers against your panties, and you whimper.    “So impatient for my touch, aren’t you kitty? You’ll have to wait.”     About to complain, you look back at him before you find him shoving you down, sitting on your knees now, your nipples hardened in the air, but you want to be stimulated else where.    “Be patient, and you’ll be rewarded, no complaining.”     “But-” he cuts you off.     “Don’t fucking talk over me, you got that?”     “...Yes sir.”      His eyes soften, and he gives you a soft kiss on the forehead before his hands brushed against your nipples, rubbing them with his thumb. Rolling the sensitive bud, you loudly moan, trying to express that you wanted more.    “God, you’re so cute.” he says under his breath, still rubbing and now slightly pulling them. Placing his mouth upon the abused buds, you stifle a cry out.     Gently suckling, he used his other hand to play with the other attention-starved nipple mildly.     You whine out again, beginning to melt under his stupidly experienced hands and mouth. The attention was nice, but you needed it some place else, his eyes looked up at you, his wet mouth still suckling your breast.     Taking his wet mouth off your nipple, he looked at you, mischief still evident on his face.     “You like that?” he says,  cocking his head to his side.    “I-If I say anything, It’ll fill your stupid ego.” you breathed.     “And if you don’t say anything I’m not doing shit.” his hand now rubbing your butt.     “You ripped my tights!” you spat back.     “I’ll pay for it and more, no bother babygirl. Now tell me what I want to hear.”      He obviously wasn’t lying, he could probably turn any girl into putty if he just wanted to, and here you were, in the palm of his hand.     “...Please touch me more.” you uttered shamelessly.    “Good girl. On your back, spread those pretty little legs for me too, why don’t you?”     Lying down on the plush mattress and warm pillows, you stare at the ceilings.    You peered at him starting where he left off. Giving you faint, yet chaste kisses on your breasts, trailing kisses down your stomach.     “Aw, your panties are absolutely fucking soaked baby, how cute.” he cooed, parting the soaked fabric to the side.     You look at him undress thoughtlessly, but you’re sure he’s done this several times. He did it with little to no effort, but that would mean that you’re not special.    It would be useless to think about right now, you were gonna have the dicking of your lifetime anyway, it was called a one night-stand for a reason. The mountain of clothes grew taller.    Growing impatient, you look up to where he was once standing, only to find him already in between your legs.     “So pretty.” Gojo purred, circling your entrance just as he had done previously in the car ride, you squeak.     “So lucky this is all mine.”     Gojo had figured he could add, “for the night.” but that strangely felt wrong.     He dips his fingers into your walls, and you cry out. Wrapping around his digits, sobbing, this wasn’t enough to satisfy your cravings.     “You want more?” he huskily said, a tone of playfulness still rampant.     “Yes! Please, just fuck me!” you croaked, already damn near about to cum from the teasing.     “That’s my girl.” he whispered under his breath, slipping off boxers you didn’t even realize were there in the first place.      He doesn’t give you a chance to see his full length, instead ramming inside of you. You inhale sharply at the sudden disruption.     The throbbing evaporated into thin air, and you’re desperately grabbing at the sheets to steady yourself. Sweaty and sticky skin slapping against each other echoed throughout the room, along with your moans and his grunts. You could feel him reaching heights that you would never be able to do with the dildos you had at your house, much less your fingers. One hand on your waist to steady your flailing body, the other, roughly groping your breast.    You were finding it hard to think, pleasure and euphoria filling your senses. Unknowingly, you wrap yourself around Gojo even harder then before.     “Fuck, baby, I can barely pull out.” he panted. “you’re too tight.”      You can’t even begin to respond, still deep in your state of pleasure, instead responding incoherently with a jumble of delicate moans and gasps in between.     “C-cum!”      “Hm? Repeat that princess?” he soothed.    You’re unable to respond again, instead you try to lift your head up, and Gojo feels himself throb again, watching your eyes flutter back.     It’s not until it’s too late, realizing a hot fluid flow down your holes. He pulls out, he himself ejaculating on your stomach.     Both muscles stretched taut, you both laid on the bedsheets, sweating and panting.     “Fuck, I haven’t had a girl like you in a while.” he says, turning his head to look at you. Strands of hair stuck to your forehead.     “R-Really?” he kissed your forehead, tipping your chin with his long fingers.     “Yes, really. I’m so lucky I spotted such a pretty little thing at a club.”      The sun was starting to rise, you note, and you realize just how perfect his body is with the new light.     A sudden warmth on your cheeks, you look down, still panting.     “Clubs aren’t my thing.” you said breathlessly.     “Fuck. It’s 5 AM” he says, eyes now glued to his phone, ruffling his white hair.     “I’ll go-”     “No, here, lets take a shower with each other, and then we sleep.”      “Okay.” you responded, hoping to not make conversation, still believing that he was a celebrity.     He handed you his phone, rubbing the back of his neck.     “Can I get your number?”     “...Why?” you questioned.     “...To call you back again, duh.” he teases, rubbing your head.      No way, he wanted you back at his house?      You?    Not wanting to fuck up your chances, you nod, something was growing inside of you, and you weren’t quite sure what it was, but you knew he made you feel special.    

[writingsbychlo]

home for christmas | mitch rapp

word count;  10,665

summary; mitch is happy to settle down with the simple life, and he just wants to celebrate christmas with his fiancée, for the first christmas he’s had home since before he joined the army. 

notes; I know this isn’t stan’s farmhouse in the movies, but this is the kind of farmhouse I picture them having, so you’re just gonna’ have to use your imaginations!

warnings; smut, thats about it.

“Mornin’, soldier.”

Mitch simply huffed, a smirk forming on his face as he rolled over, raising his brows a little, sleep still evident across his face, the crease from a pillow being pressed into his cheek, the red mark disappearing into the dark stubble-smattering on his jaw, and you reached out a hand, rubbing over it as he blinked himself a little further awake. “Not anymore, sweetheart. You think if I was still a soldier I’d be getting to sleep in this late with a pretty woman by my side?”

“I should hope not, you were with me for the most part, so if you had another pretty woman in your bed, you should fess up now. I’d hate for that to come out on the altar.”

He growled, rolling you over until you were pressed back into the bedding, nipping a little at your shoulder as you broke out in a fit of giggles, albeit strained as the weight of his frame pressed into you, 200lb of solid muscle crushing you lovingly. “Don’t even insinuate it.”

“Yeah, I know.” You mumbled, a hand threading into his hair, and the teasing nips became soft kisses pressed to your bare skin, and he eventually gave up, rolling onto his side, and letting you cuddle up into his side a little, exhaustion no longer claiming either of you, but laziness in the bliss of the morning was. “Merry Christmas, Mitch.”

“Merry Boxing Day.”

“Technicalities.” You whispered, pecking at his cheek, the closest spot you could reach, before you were pushing yourself to it up a little more, legs crossing on the mattress, and stretching your arms up above your head to loosen the muscles.

“What was that?”

“What was what?” You repeated, head rolling from side to side, before you were shaking yourself down slightly and revelling in the numbness slipping out of your bones and muscles as energy surged through you instead.

“That pathetic excuse for a good morning kiss.” He tapped at his lips, pouting them slightly, brows raising as he watched you move to press your feet to the cold floors, standing up only a moment later. “Where do you think you’re going? Get back here and kiss me!”

“Nope. If you want kisses, you can come and get them.”

He gaped, watching you disappear into the bathroom, and you ginned to yourself, hearing the floorboards of the bedroom creak from a room over, running your toothbrush under the tap as you squeezed a dollop of the paste onto the bristles, raising your eyebrows at the man behind you. He had braced himself on either side of the doorframe, large shoulders and tall stature all but filling it, messy bedhead and unshaven jaw making him a vision of morning laziness, and he raised his brows at you as he returned your stare, a smile on his face as you scrubbed at your teeth.

Pacing across the bathroom, he pressed you up against the counter from behind, hands finding the edges of the sink as your hips pushed up to the cold porcelain, and he hooked a chin over your shoulder. One hand came up, on the other side of your jaw, twisting your face towards him, and you lifted your brush down long enough to press your lips against his, hearing him hum happily finally got what he was after. Your lips moved softly against his, a slight foam build-up getting stuck in his stubble as your mouths worked together, but neither of you could find it within yourselves to care, the first kiss of the day still feeling just as special as it had the first night you’d stayed a night together, all those years ago.

When he pulled back, he licked at his lips, wiping away the froth stuck on the spiky hairs around his face, grinning a little, and pecking a kiss to your temple. “You taste minty.”

“Of’ious’y.” You mumbled, the word getting confused in translation through the workings you were doing, but he raised his brows at the sass, gasping slightly, and you grinned, spitting and rinsing, before turning to look at him “Captain Obvious over here.”

“You’re sassy this morning.” He teased, pinching at your ass and snickering as you yelped, smacking away his hand and fixing him with a false glare. “Don’t be so sassy on Christmas.”

“I thought it was Boxing Day?” You retorted, watching him roll his eyes fondly, and as you wandered back into the bedroom, you noticed that he’d made the bed, blankets pulled straight, and you appreciated the gesture

“It’s our Christmas Day. Is that really what your Christmases were like these last few years?” His hand found yours from the second you had a jumper pulled on over your shoulders, tugging you toward the staircase and down the rickety steps that were in urgent need of repair, but those weren’t on the list yet.

So far, the two of you had made some pretty grand progress on the house that you were now calling your own. Your father had returned to duty, and you were in charge of renovating an old farmhouse, and making it truly liveable once again. The broken pipes, squeaky doors and splintering panels were no longer cutting it, and in the couple of short months since your lover had returned from the front lines, and stayed here with you.

The first week after your father had left, had been entirely spent in bed, properly celebrating the engagement you’d made, the way it should be celebrated when you were young and in love. The following month and a half leading you up to where you were now had been spent planning, clearing out the junk of old furniture and stripping the insides of the house, all the work you couldn't do alone, finding yourself now with a partner.

The porch was being extended into a wrap-around, and the outside had been stripped. The flaking paint had been sanded off, the wood underneath smoothed and repainted, before the weather had turned too cold and wet, glazed over and perfected, an off-white colour that complimented the darks of the landscape around it. Mitch had spent almost a week straight fixing broken and cracking tiles on the roof, a week when your heart had leapt into your throat every time he went up the ladder, fearing that he’d fall or injure himself, and yet the real injured had come inside.

As the final fall warmth had slipped away and the bitter and biting cold had started to come in, you’d thrown out all the moth-bitten and broken furniture inside, plans to replace it all, and sell what you deemed worthy, raising funds for the major project you’d undertaken. Splinters, torn nails, and grazes from tripping over and scraping your knees and elbows on rough flooring. However, it had all been worth it, and you shivered a little as you stepped into the kitchen, feeling the squeeze on your hand, before looking up to the man standing behind you.

“Sorry, I got lost in my thoughts. What dd you say?”

“I said, is this how you always spent your Christmases for these last few years?” The sounds of the kettle filling up as it sat on the top of the old gas stove sounded the metal clanging a little as it filled, the two of you waiting patiently over the racket, before settling it over the flame to begin heating. “Y’know, celebrating late, the video calls, all that?”

He was referring to the real Christmas Day, yesterday, having been spent waiting for the time when you’d get to talk to your father over a somewhat glitchy video chat call for your twenty-minute slot, having no idea when it would actually be. “Yeah, pretty much. Except, for the last few years, I had to do it twice.” You poked at his stomach as he stood before you, a grin on his lips, before he was catching your hand, pulling it up to press a kiss over the ring shining on your finger.

“Funny, to think that for years, I’ve been excitedly waiting to facetime my superior’s daughter, just to get a Merry Christmas and a kiss through the screen while I was out in the middle of God knows where, defending our country, and we never even knew.” His arms looped your waist, pulling you in close against the cold of the late December chill in the air, and your own arms wrapped around his neck. You leaned in, enough that he thought you were going to press a kiss to his lips, before you were lifting yourself up, and standing on his feet, grinning when he grunted, before he was looking at your curiously. “What’cha doing, kitten?”

“The floor is cold. I don’t want to stand on it.”

“Well, it would be considerably less cold if someone had just picked which tiles they wanted before the store closed over Christmas, I could be getting on with installing them, and we would’ve had heated kitchen flooring by New Years.” He tutted, lifting you to sit on the counter as the kettle began to whistle, and he worked around you to fill up the teapot on the side with the perfect brew, two mugs being gathered from one of the cupboards, before it was being pressed into your hands.

“I wanted real stone! All the samples of tiles just didn’t seem right, and-”

“And you want to have a rustic and authentic farmhouse feel, I know.” He finished your sentence for you, heat flushing your face at just how many times you must’ve said it for I’m to have memorised the statement, and he chuckled, letting you hope down and back onto the cold and stripped flooring of the kitchen to make your way to the table. The scraping of the wooden chairs over the flooring rang out, and you sat in beside him, blowing the steam away, and picking up one of the catalogues that were stacked up, opening it up to the last dog-eared page and taking a look at it all. “What do you want for breakfast?”

Despite asking the question, Mitch was already rattling around in the drawers for a frying pan, seeming to have made up his mind on what he was going to eat, and so you hummed a little, sipping at the herbal mix in your mug. “Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“Eggs and bacon it is, then.”

You only nodded, unsure whether or not he could see you, but you weren’t looking at him, falling into a comfortable science together as you examined the conversions and extensions laid out on the glossy pages before you. The sizzling and popping of the eggs and bacon faded into the background, ideas swirling in your mind as he worked, the cogs brushing off the dust as you took in what you were seeing.

Most of them were small conversations, sheds and garages, all with ideas on how to save heating and conserve energy, but your mind was wandering your own home. You’d already done so much, knocking through the wall of the small guest bedroom beside your own to turn it into a closet, and tearing up the flooring in the downstairs of the house, to replace it with newer and polished solid oak slats. How much harder could be building a wall, and converting something a little bigger than a shed?

A plate landed in front of you, making you jump in shock, before the magazine was being pulled away from you, and the smell of the meal was enticing you in. “Should I be concerned that you spend more time looking at renovation magazines than wedding ones?”

He was smiling as he spoke, no heat to his words, but you scoffed nonetheless, tapping your finger against another pile of magazines, and you felt as though your entire house was spilling over with them, filling the house in piles from top to bottom. You had more magazines than yo id furniture at this stage, the small and slightly dull Christmas tree in the corner being a sad excuse, an old TV propped up on cardboard boxes and cushions along the floor with a blanket put down, the rest of your ‘living room; being barren, waiting for its decorating to be complete.

“Have you even chosen a dress, yet? I already have my suit.”

“I’m excited to marry you, Mitch, I really am. I couldn't imagine anything that would make me happier, but that is one day of our lives. The best day, but just one day. This house is where we’re going to live, it’s the future you want, and where we’ll grow old. If something goes wrong on our wedding day, that sucks, but we’ll fix it.” He paused his chewing, staring at you with wide eyes across the table, before swallowing his mouthful thickly and reaching out with one hand to lace your fingers together to sit atop the wood. “I want our home to be perfect.”

“It will be, we’ll take our time.”

You smiled, letting him mirror the action, squeezing his hand in your own, before pulling your hand back to pick up your cutlery, and beginning into the meal he had made. “For the record, I have a few dress ideas.” You tapped the cover of one of the furthest magazines from yourself, the pages worn and folded, evidently having been used, and his brows shut up, a grin on his face as he ate.

“Can I see?” A few crumbs flew from his mouth as he spoke through the food stuffed between his cheeks, and you tried to hold in your chuckle at the sight.

“Please don’t do that at our wedding.” You grimaced, and he swallowed his mouthful, sticking his tongue out at you childishly, the playful manner between you both being more than comfortable, it was perfect, and you kicked at his shin under the table as he wiggled his brows cheekily. “No, you can’t look at them, it’s bad luck.”

“Don’t be superstitious.” He scoffed, pulling the magazine over to himself, and holding it out of your reach when you leaned across the table to snatch it back. “Besides, it’s bad luck to see the bride in the dress before the day, not to see some random model in a dress.”

“Yeah, well, don’t you want it to be a surprise?”

His eyes flicked down, smirking a little at the swell of your breasts hanging from the robe your wore that was falling open the more you reached to get the brochure back, and you gave up on that tactic, rounding the table instead to try and grab it from him. He scooted back, the chair legs scraping against the bare concrete floor, a loud laugh on his lips to match the giggles you were letting out as the war became a game.

“Mitch! If you keep this up, I’ll purposefully buy a really awful dress! Something from the eighteen hundreds with frills and layers, and I’ll look like Little Bo Peep!”

“Baby, I’d marry you even if you were wearing a potato sack.” As you reached for the folds of paper, he snatched your wrist in his other hand, tugging you into him until you were perched across his lap, a leg dangling on either side of his on the chair, and he wrapped that same arm around your waist, connecting them behind your back to hold you securely, and your own looped his neck. “But, please don’t wear something with frills and layers and a thousand buttons, because it’ll make it way harder to have our first dance if I can barely reach you over a puffy gown.”

“I’ll wear something a little bit more modern, then. I’d hate to miss our first dance.”

You brushed the tip of your nose against his, lips brushing together as he smiled, and you heard the magazine drop away to the ground, before both hands were splaying out over your back, and pushing you closer, until your chest was pressed to his, and you were looking down at him, sharing a breath. “Besides, kitten, don’t you think you should wear something that I’ll be able to get you out of easily when we get to be alone, afterwards?”

“Well, I think I should get something cheap, because I have a feeling you’re going to rip it.”

He growled under his breath, catching your lip with his teeth and tugging gently, before pressing a kiss to the edge of your mouth, hands moving down to sit on your ass, as he pressed another kiss to your jaw, and then your cheek. “Don’t tempt me.”

“Not tempting, I just know you too well. If previous experience in pretty gowns is anything to go on.”

He chuckled, nodding his head, before wrapping his arms around you fully, face resting in your neck as he settled in to hug you, prompting you to squeeze yourself a little more firmly around him in response, a hand coming up to brush through the long and messy tendrils of hair on his head. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Mitch.”

Your food was growing cold, half-eaten and still sitting out, but you were much more invested in soaking up every second of the loving embrace he was offering you, and so you were more than happy to remain this way, wrapped up in his arms, for as long as he would take it.

The time slipped by, mumbled conversations taking place, and the hands on the clock ticking over the o’clock marker and beginning the afternoon, the late lay in that the two of you had indulged in giving a glorious delay to the day. Lazy and relaxed, it was exactly how you wanted to spend your late-Christmas, and when he finally shifted to check the clock himself, he merely huffed, the hot breath fanning over your neck and making you twitch a little as it tickled, and he loosened his hold on you to let you go.

“Do you still want to have a Christmas lunch? I can set everything off, but it’ll be more like dinner with this timing.”

“I think it’ll be fun to have it later, we can eat while watching movies. We can drag all the blankets and cushion we still have down onto the floors and make it cosy.” He merely nodded, before standing with you still in his arms, stealing a final kiss from your lips as you giggled, the grip on your thighs loosening as you sank to the ground, finding him now looking down at you, lips pressing to your forehead once he let you go. “Go light the fire in the living room, it’s a little cooler today. We should get the heating going earlier.”

“You got it, soldier.”

He smiled bashfully, nudging you towards the empty doorway, knocked through to make it all more open plan, and you could feel his eyes still lingering on you a little as you wandered through to the main room. Settling before the cold fireplace in a comfortable position, you assessed what you were seeing before you, noting that it was filled with old ash, days having passed since the two of you had emptied it. Dragging out the collecting tray underneath, you tipped it into the bucket, the edges stained, trying not to let the dust escape into the room too much, and tipping it carefully so that it didn’t cloud in the air.

While the house did have heating, it had all been disassembled and the heaters taken from the walls for the renovations, the two of you seeming to have missed that when planning your work to take place inside over the Christmas period, leaving the house cold unless you lit the fire.

When the grates were clear once again, You began to scrunch up the pages of the old newspapers and letters that were no longer in use, creating a range of tight and loose balls of paper form them, and beginning to stack them in the fire. Small kindling followed, twigs and little chunks of wood, coal to follow, to keep the heat going for longer, burning quietly. It didn’t take much longer of patting around yourself and searching to find the matches, the almost empty box being revealed to you, and with a single strike, a flame was taking up at the end, and you buried it within the pile. The newspapers took a light quickly, flames roaring up within seconds as they burned brightly, the paper becoming ash after only a minute or two, but it had been long enough for the smaller wood to catch.

The flames were duller, but the heat was already beginning to pour off of the fireplace as the smaller wood caught fire, crackling a little as it went, the black chunks of coal starting to smoke slightly, turning ashy grey where flames touched, and there was no way it would go out now. Adding some logs on top for a longer burn and more enjoyable smell, you deemed it a job well done, wiping your hands clean on the rag hanging beside the fireplace, and placing the grate over the front, hauling yourself up to stand.

Eyes closing in on the ash bucket, you were tempted to leave it there, but foreseeing the accident of tripping over it and spending house cleaning up ash was more than enough to motivate you, the images flashing behind your lids when you closed them. Mitch was tinkering in the kitchen, the dull clashes of pots and pans, the sink occasionally switching on and off, hearing him shuffle around and chop as he prepared you both a meal, and you moved across the room, swapping your robe out for one of his hoodies and a coat to combat the cold air.

Grabbing the bucket and taking it with you, a shiver ran down your spine at the cold air that swept over you from the second that you stepped out and onto the porch, the swing bench squeaking as it rocked in the slight breeze, and you looked around for a pair of boots. Tugging on wellies for the trek through the slippery mud and frosty grasses to the compost pile at the end of the first field, you set off towards it, arms tightly wrapped to your body to seal out the heat.

A short walk all things considered, but it felt like miles in the biting cold, and your fingers were trembling against the cold metal of the bucket as you tipped it all out, stomping it down a little with your foot and covering the dry dust over so that it wouldn't blow away all over the place, knowing just how good it all was for the fields.

The two of you hadn't quite decided what you wanted to do with the land yet, but you still had plenty of time to make up your minds. Mitch wanted to go for the full traditional farm life, with animals and agriculture and the whole shebang. You wanted to take a more modern turn, with pretty gardens and orchards, maybe grow fruits and vegetables, something simpler but not requiring the work that potatoes and pigs would take. After all, it was just the two of you, right now. That little collection of books and leaflets was still sitting unopened, the two of you having agreed to leave that decision until after your house was finished, and everything else was settled, instead of burdening yourselves with too much at once.

As you made your way back, you took in everything around you. While the area may look a little barren and empty right now, you had big plans for it all, the house being the main feature, standing out like a sore thumb as it looked beautiful and prominent with all it’s redecorating in opposition to the abandoned and somewhat desolate landscape around it, even the barn still needing redoing.

Placing to bucket down on the edge of the porch, you spun, hands tucked into your pockets as you considered the tall wooden structure.

It hadn't been used much since your grandparents had owned the farm and all of the land around it, keeping it traditional, back when there had been a tractor and plough that would park inside with hay bales and spare supplies, all of which would contribute or the farm, but had eventually broken or been sued up, never replaced. You could barely remember what it was like inside now, not having been in there since you were a child, your father telling you all about how he’d play and hide in here when he was a child, but your memory was fuzzy.

As you approached it, you found chains locked tightly through the weakened handles on the chipping wood, a large coded padlock keeping them closed, and you smirked to yourself a little, lifting the freezing metal up to examine it. The numbers were almost worn away, yet still just enough visible for you to work with, and you tried your birthday on it, finding that the lock didn’t budge. Your birthday had always been your father’s passcodes and passwords, a fact you’d discovered when you were twelve and never told him about, so you had unimpeded access to everything, but clearly not this.

Despite your peaked curiosity, you had almost given up, before remembering that this was your grandparents’ barn, and likely still had their code on it unchanged from when they realised their son was going into the army, and wouldn't run their farm. Trying your dad’s birthday, the lock popped loose, enabling you to untangle the chains and leave them hanging open as a muffled ‘aha!’ fell from you. The doors were heavy as you pulled on them, large wooden frames that were stiff from years of disuse. The hinges were rusted, and so you were just about able to get one open enough to slip inside, the musty smell of farms and equipment overwhelming your senses, bringing back memories you didn’t know you had forgotten from when you were a child.

There was lighting, but you didn’t think it would still work, flicking your hand over the switch, and as expected, they didn’t light up. The stairs were damaged, floor was strewn with old hay and broken equipment, useless bits of equipment, and you could see just enough of it all from the gaps in the wood that served as windows. It was large, even larger than you’d remembered, the wooden framework appearing smaller on the outside than it was on the inside, and the pipes along the walls were broken.

Following the trail along, they met at a sink in the corner of one room, a large bathtub that was caked in mud, and you assumed that it had always been the place where your grandparents would wash up after a hard day’s work, before going back up to the little farmhouse, as not to trail mud through the home. The wood of the walls rattled slightly, doing nothing to keep out the cold as some wood even began to give way, looking as though it was in desperate need of repair, but a little TLC would go a long way into transforming the space.

Upstairs was far more exciting, or it had been, when you were younger. The balcony overlooked the lower floor, a higher platform where the centre missing to look down on the main floor, and you’d loved to play hide and seek up here when you were barely above hip-height on your father, feeling like an adventure just for going up the steps. The bannisters and barricades were snapped and broken now, years of misfortune taking them, but it was a simple fix. The space would be infinitely better once all the leftover crap had been hauled out of it, and it was stripped bare for renovations.

You were wound up in your thoughts, jumping a little as the main door scraped some more, your lover squeezing his way inside, looking around the lower floor, before dragging his gaze up to find you at the top of the steps. A warm coat wrapped around him, feet shoved into wellies like your own, pyjamas pants ruffled from the action and he looked adorable, a grin taking over his face as he looked at you.

“Thought you’d be up in your closet sorting out our clothes and keeping warm, or something. Didn’t expect to have to hunt you down in a barn when the temperatures are dipping so low.”

“It’s freezing out here, right? There’s absolutely no insulation in here.” He chuckled, unsure of where that statement was going but watching as you came darting down the steps, and meeting you halfway, producing a hand from his pocket to take your own, fingers weaving together, before he was hiding them both back in the warmth it had once been, holding you tight to his side and following your gaze to look around. “It would be better, with some insulation and panelling.”

“Much better, I agree.”

“If we did it up real nice, painted it like the main house, it’d make a pretty great living space, don’t you think?” He hummed, eyes narrowing as he looked around, clearly not seeing the same thing you are but not wanting to voice it, and you grinned, the hand that wasn’t joined with his and tucked in his pocket waving in front of yourselves. “It has a water supply, so there could be a kitchen and bathroom down here, in the far corner, and some couches. A TV set up, a little coffee table, a whole load of nice rugs to keep the floors warm. Upstairs, a bed, and all the storage, a simple but effective living space.”

“I guess so, but we don’t really need it.”

“Of course, we don’t.” You bumped your shoulder against his, and he lifted his arm up, keeping his hand held with yours but letting you snuggle under his arm, instead, drawn close to his body for warmth. “But, it would be great for dad. He’s not home a lot, but it would be a great place for him to know he can come back to when he’s not on deployment, and inevitably retire to.”

A warm laugh bubbled up beside you, the man shaking a little as the sound rumbled from him, and you turned to face him, quirking a brow. “We’re kicking your dad out of the farmhouse, now? He’s not gonna’ like that.”

“Yeah, well, we’re going to need privacy when he’s home.” You poked his side lightly, watching a cheeky expression filter over his features as he stared out at the barn, cogs working inside his mind as he began to picture it like you were, and you turned to look at it all yourself, mentally constructing the perfect home for your father. “Besides, his room and the guest rooms might want to be something else, someday.”

You heard his breathing hitch, his gaze locking not you, and two fingers hooking under your chin to turn your gaze back to him. He choked down the lump in his throat, seeming a little nervous, nibbling on his lower lip before finding the words. “Do you mean as, like, baby rooms? Nurseries and kids rooms?”

“Yeah, I do.”

He let out a shaky laugh, sniffling a little as tears lined his eyes, your brows furrowing as you twisted to face him, bringing your hands up to his cheeks and cupping them, using your thumb to wipe away the first tear that fell. “We’re going to have our own little family? I get to have that, with you?”

“Oh, ‘course you do, honey.” His vulnerability was making you emotional yourself, tears burning in your eyes at the bright expression on his face, and he pressed a series of needy and quick kisses to your lips, between short gasps of breath, wet cheeks and lashes sticking together as he did, unable to contain his smile.

“I’ve always wanted kids, my own family, to be a dad.”

“I know.” You whispered, fingers stroking delicately over his skin as he still trembled a little under your touch. “You okay?”

“I’m so much better than ‘okay’. Every moment with you just gets better and better, I’ve never been this happy before.” You stood for a few moments longer, before the chill was becoming too much, and he was dragging you back to the main house, pausing only to redo the lock and chains on the rickety barn doors. It had a lot of work to do, but you had more than enough time, not planning to have a baby any time too soon, too much for the pair of you yet to do, but the day would come along one day, and now, you had a plan.

As you reached the door, kicking off your boots together and standing them up neatly, he took your coat for you, hanging it up inside and sealing the door against the cold, your skin tingling ad the warmth of the house embraced you, and he rubbed his hands up and down your arms, pressing a kiss to your head as he stood behind you, warming you up a little, and you wiggled your toes in your socks as you regained the feeling within them.

“We have a couple of hours to kill before dinner is ready.” He mumbled, the feeling of his voice vibrating along your skin making you grin a little, ticklish assault drawing giggles out of you as you tipped your head back a little further for him. He took the access granted to him, wet mouth closing further over soft and exposed flesh, his teeth beginning to join the mix, scraping enough to make you shiver. “Any ideas on what we could do?”

“Yeah, I have a few..”

He hummed happily, hands on your hips to turn you around, until your nose was bumping against his, and he could flick his tongue out just enough to tease at your lips, a smirk forming on his face. “What did you have in mind, kitten?”

“Something dirty, we haven’t done it in a while. We can get all the stuff out.”

“I like where this is going.” He whispered, leaning down to catch your lips with his, whining when you pulled back enough to keep him chasing, puckered lips forming a growl as you denied him affection. You gave in, leaning in enough to peck at his lips, dragging your kisses along his cheeks as you cupped his face in your hands, and he let out a soft and breathy laugh as you did.

“Is that a yes?”

Your lips were brushing the shell of his ear, and you flicked your tongue out a little, just over the shell, feeling him tremble slightly underneath you in response, fingers flexing against your hips. “Absolutely it is.”

“So, you agree? We should do some cleaning?”

He huffed, pulling back, an unamused look on his face as he stared down at you, and you beamed up at him, thoroughly entertained by the way a moody was look was flashing over his features, and he pouted, not wanting kisses but instead wanting attention instead, and his hands pulled away, dropping down to his sides as you laughed at him.

“Oh, c’mon, baby. I’m just messing with you.”

“It’s Christmas.” He mumbled, grouchy as he tried to readjust himself through his pants, an uncomfortable look passing over his face as he did, and it only made you giggle more. “You’re not supposed to be a tease at Christmas.” You dragged your hands over his chest, pushing one up until it was tangling in the grown-out hairs that were deeply in need of some brushing and cutting, nails scratching at his scalp. Despite how much he wanted to keep up this act, he was already beginning to crumble, head leaning a little to press into your touch, and features softening the more you soothed him.

“It’s always a good time to be a tease, I have to keep you on your toes. Keep it exciting!”

He chuckled, rolling his eyes and bringing his hands up to find your cheeks, pulling your mouth up to his. It wasn’t the kiss you were expecting, it was a lot softer, more romantic and passionate, his tongue never dipping out to find yours, but simply your mouths working together in sweet and delicate exchanges. Thumbs were brushing over your skin, rubbing calming patterns and you sighed out happily against his mouth, stepping in closer until you could feel the warmth radiating from him, barely an inch between your bodies, and you wondered how it was possible that after all the time you’d been together, he still managed to make your heart race like this.

“I love you, Mitch Rapp.” Your words were whispered into his mouth, and he nodded his head, not breaking away long enough to return the words, before everything about the moment was changing. Sweet and romantic was crashing into a burning inferno of passion and need, teeth nibbling at your lower lip as he tempted them apart, wet articles tangling together as the desperation between you arose.

Hands were circling around to your back, lower and lower along your body, until he was taking handfuls of the fleshy mounds of your ass, pulling you in so close that your breath was knocked from your lungs at the impact of colliding, arching up into his chest with each drag of blunt nails over your covered skin. His bruisingly tight grip was making you whimper just at the touch, and his mouth continued to dominate over yours, a delicious attack that was leaving your lips stinging and raw as you kissed him back with equal force.

The moment that his hands slipped to your thighs, his legs bending as he braced himself, you took your queue, familiar with the unspoken signals between you both by now, and your legs wrapped around his waist as he lifted you into his arms, your own looping his neck. He was able to navigate the home expertly by now, knowing his way around without even a single hitch, and the first you knew of it was when your back was meeting cold sheets.

You gasped, arching up into him, and with the break in the frantic kisses came hickies along your neck. A wet mouth, descending along your skin to suck at your neck, teeth teasing and lips sucking until you were so tightly wound up with need that you thought you may burst at any moment.

He took his time, marking you up as though the two of you had all the time in the world, and while technically you did, you wanted to rush through to the main event, the drawn-out build-up making your head spin as it drove you wild, needing to feel him more than you wanted to simply imagine it. There were times when the foreplay excited you, when you’d spent hours kissing him, teasing him, rocking your hips down into his lips he was doing to you now until every part of you was sparking with excitement, making every touch he gave you even more thrilling.

This wasn’t one of the times, though. This was a time when you needed him now, when you needed to be joined to him in the most intimate way that you possibly could. You weren’t sure why, maybe it was just because it was the most wonderful time of the year, festive activities and jovial emotions heightening everything. Or, maybe it was the revelations that had come to you today, the two of you planning for your future always made you overflow with adoration for him, because he was committing himself to you in every possible way he could.

Every inch of your skin felt itchy, like you craved to be connected to him with every fibre, each cell in your body lighting up with the need to connect, and with your legs locking around his hips, you flipped him over, until he was staring up at you through wide eyes, cheeks flushed and a smirk painted in place of his usual endearing smile.

Your hands found the hem of your jumper, tugging it up and over your head, throwing it away to the floor as you felt like you were burning up with heat, and he sat up quickly enough to be able to help you with your t-shirt as that was next, lifting over your arms once you had it over your head.

“Y’know, I usually like to be the one getting to undress you.”

“You were taking too long.” You retorted, your hands dragging along his stomach, finding the hem of his shirt, and he raised his arms up over his head to let you peel it from his skin, hot to the touch as your fingertips as you traced the faint scars and hairs littered along and between his pecs. The muscles jumped under your touch, and you pushed him back down into the bedding, a breathless chuckle sounding from him, and he bent his arms, propping them under his head. The veins along his biceps made your mouth feel dry, and you leaned down, the tip of your tongue tracing along one until it disappeared at his shoulder, and you placed a kiss there, feeling him twitch a little at the featherlight touches.

“Forgive me, darling. I was trying to make it romantic.”

“No, you are getting back at me for being a tease.” You whispered, using one finger to push his head to the side, and he growled a little as you did, the sound cracking and breaking off as you sucked against the pulse point on his neck. His heartbeat was racing, the patch of skin throbbing as you worked to leave a large mark on his skin that would glow dark purple for days to come, and his breathing went shallow as you worked at the patch.

It was rare that ever let you have control enough to leave lovebites on him, the marks you littered on his skin were usually red marks along the skin of his back or nail prints on his shoulders, bite marks littered along his flesh as you tried to quiet yourself. It was the same way he would to you when you got so desperate that he’d fuck you wherever you were the honeymoon phase of your relationship lasting right up to your actual honeymoon, the two of you still driving one another crazy by a single lingering glance.

It was exactly how you knew that he was the one, that he meant the world to you and would always be your other half, because no matter what, the love and passion between you never dulled.

“Maybe I was getting back at you a little bit, but does that make you think you can take over?”

“Maybe it does.” His hands found your hips, and you rocked in his touch, grinding yourself back along the strained length that was tenting his sweatpants, and he bucked up into you as you did. Every roll you made back along his length, he met you with an equally forceful thrust, moans beginning to leave you as the pace picked up, and your fingers were curling into fists within the bedsheets as you simply tried to control yourself. “Fuck, Mitch..”

“Well, that’s exactly what we could be doing.”

He flipped you back over, and undignified and unaccepting sound on your lips as he took the power once again, the battle between you both becoming more erotic with every twist and turn of your bodies. He kissed all the way along your chest until he could sip his tongue below the hem of your pyjama pants, hot breath fanning over your skin, before he was peeling those down your legs.

You stood, sinking to your knees slowly as you dragged his sweatpants and boxers down his body, hands massaging your way back up his legs, fistfuls of his round ass making him jump, groaning under his breath and cheeks flushing pink at the attention that you gave to his body, the blush spreading right along to his chest. Kissing along his hips, he tangled a hand into your hair, stealing your thunder because as the strands were tugged, stinging against your scalp, you were putty in his hands once again.

Instinctually, your mouth fell open, a wicked look flashing across his features as he pushed the head of his cock between your lips, that dripping tip being all he let you have to begin with.  Sealing your mouth around him, he let out a string of appreciative noises in the forms of curses praise, your tongue dragging over his slit, a moan rippling through you at the salty taste of his precum spreading through your mouth.

You focused your attention there, tongue swiping and circling him, making sure his skin was soaked, and as you made to sink down further, he pulled away, wet cock smearing across your cheek and his thumb slipping into your mouth instead.

As you suckled on the digit, his fingers spread out over your neck, tips digging into the flesh, and your thighs clenched together, rubbing needily to try and quell some of the fire threatening to burn you up.

“You horny, baby? You need my cock, hm?”

You nodded, knowing he didn’t want you to use your words to reply, and he let out an approving sound as you did, pulling his thumb back, and sinking his index finger between your cheeks. This time, as you lapped at the finger, he continued to go, prodding back until you were gagging around him, tears lining your eyes and you were certain that the panties you were wearing would be ruined, because the feeling of being so completely and utterly under his control was something that always made you crazy.

He cared for you, he was dedicated to you, and every single time that the two of you had been together, he’d given you his sole focus, making you the most important thing in the world to him at that time, giving you everything you wanted, and now, you wanted to care for him.

“Want t�� make y’ feel goo’.” Your words were muffled, his brows raising, and he pulled the wet finger back, trailing over your skin and leaving it wet as he tipped your head up to look at him. He was prompting you to repeat yourself, and you licked at your lips, smiling at him a little as you tried to steady yourself. “I wasn't to make you feel good.”

“Trust me, kitten, I always feel good.” There was a smirk on his face, and despite having no instruction to do so, you scratched your way lightly up his thigh until you were taking his cock in your hand, pumping him slowly. His jaw dropped, eyes fluttering to half-lidded when you squeezed, and he thrust lightly up into your hand to meet you. “Mhm, good girl, just like that.”

You grinned, hand shifting further down, and you took him back into your mouth. The hand in your hair loosened a little, going lax as he relaxed under your touch, eyes sliding closed as your mouth worked along his length, sinking further and further down with every bob of your head. When you no longer needed to pump him, reducing him to a grunting and moaning mess above you, your hands were finding his thighs, gripping on tightly enough to leave imprints of your nails in the solid muscle.

Your cheeks hollow, sucking along his length tightly, and the vein along the underside of his cock throbbed along your tongue as you flattened against hit, a moan echoing through you and vibrating along is length, the fingers in your hair twitching. “Touch yourself, baby.”

Your eyes snapped up, finding that at some point he had lifted his head to look down at you, brows raised, and he lifted one heavy arm to brush the hair back out of your face, gathering a more competent ponytail out of your hair, a firmer grip, and he began to control the speeds of your movements once again. You adjusted yourself, legs widening when his foot tapped against the insides of your knees, and your hand slipped down to prod at your folds.

You moaned around him once again as your fingers brushed over your swollen clit, his hips bucked up and into your face and making you gag around his length, and he nodded approvingly as he watched you begin to please yourself. Working slow circles over the nub, electricity shot through your body, and you let him guide your head slurping and sucking at his cock, wet and filthy as you pleasured him, and the sounds he was making above you were enough to fuel your own bliss.

Working your fingers in tandem with the pace of his bobbing, the feelings racing through your veins was enough to dull the ache in your jaw and hide the tears beginning to spill down your cheeks as he tapped continuously at the back of your throat. Wetness was building up, slick pools within the cotton of your panties that were making it hard for you to move as the material restricted you, and you whined at the lack of available options, wanting more but unable to obtain it.

“As much as I love getting to watch you swallow everything I give you, that’s not right now. I want to fuck you first, kitten. Get up here.”

As he pulled you off of his cock, your head tipped back to face upwards, strings of saliva snapping as his shining cock pointed upwards, angry and red and needy for a climax, and you took gasping breaths, clambering to your feet on shaking legs as he supported you. Hooking his fingers into your panties, he snapped the elastic against your skin, and you grinned, turning in his hold and ignoring the huff he made, because he was moaning loudly a second later.

Pressing up and into him, you bent at the waist as you dragged them down your legs, wet core rubbing along the length of his cock, and he gripped at your hips, one hand smoothing across your back halfway through standing up, keeping you bent over. “Y’know, I was going to do this romantically. Fuck you real good, wrap you around me, kiss you while you came. But now, I think I want you on your hands and knees.”

He placed a rough spank to both sides of your ass, a cry sounding from you before he was pushing you toward the bed, and you stumbled a little, kicking off the panties wrapped around your ankles to be able to crawl back onto the bed. The mattress dipped underneath his weight as he crawled up onto the space behind you, groping at your ass, the head of his cock sliding through your folds and gathering in your wetness.

He lined himself up, cock stretching your entrance as he sank into you, and your forehead dropped down to your folded arms, a loud whine of his name being all that sounded out into the room to accompany the dragged out sound he was making, pleasure surging through him.

As soon as he was fully encased within your walls, he gave you a moment to adjust, and when you were ready, you began to rock your hips back into him. It was slow movements at first, rocking your hips into him, small circles as you adjusted. His large girth always required you having a minute to acclimate, and he was more than happy to waist, but by the flexing of his hands on your waist, you could tell he was scarcely holding himself back from going wild.

“You can go. Please, Mitch, I need it.”

He chuckled, pulling back almost entirely out of you, setting a slow and steady rhythm. “I know you do, sweetheart, I can feel it. You’re clenching around me so tight.” Your walls fluttered at his swords, the raspy voice in which he praised you was enough to make you whimper, sounds muffled as you bit down on your lower lip, and he tutted. “Did I tell you to be quiet? You know how much I love to hear all those pretty noises you make.”

He pinched your side, making you squeak a little, before a hand was wrapping around your middle, and pulling you up until your back was pressed to his chest. Fingers spreading out wide over your stomach, the other slipped up to your throat, pressure being applied lightly, and the rhythm of his hips was becoming more aggressive and deep with every second that passed. You were squeezing around him, every roll of his hips that slammed into you with enough force to drag against your sweet spot made broken calls of his name sound out.

“If you want to be quiet, though, maybe I’ll keep you quiet, huh?” His fingers tightened, squeezing enough to make your vision spot, and you cried out his name, but it was barely a whisper when it was voiced.

You tried to move back into him, meet his pace, but he was slamming his length in and out of you with motions that you couldn't keep up with. Your eyes were rolling back in your head, no thoughts able to be processed as the inside of your head was chanting a mantra of his name, alongside begs and please that you weren't even sure what for.

Reaching a hand up behind you, you held onto him, hand in his hair and tugging, until you could twist your head to catch his lips. It was a messy and rough kiss, all tongues and teeth, pent-up need and pure love shining through as the two of you fucked your way right through your connection. You almost missed the hand on your stomach slipping lower, until he was rubbing uneven and jagged patterns onto your clit, your entire body jerking as you crashed into your orgasm.

He choked on his breath, biting down roughly on your lip as you clamped around him, and the peak caught you both off-guard. You Cried out, both in pleasure and pain, and he released your lip from his touch, licking soothingly over the patch and whispering an apology into your mouth while his eyes rolled in his head. Your foreheads were pressed together, and when you became too weak to hold yourself up anymore, your body dropped forwards.

Your cheek pressed to the mattress, and he followed after you, one hand beside your head curling in the sheets as the other held onto you with a vice-like grip, sloppy pounding and erratic thrusts making you claw at the bedding. The overstimulation was too much, and tears were once again finding your eyes. Those screams you’d denied yourself earlier were coming to claim you in full ails now, his name a loud sob on your lips as the coil in your stomach continued to wind up, fire burning over you.

Your entire body was sparking with energy, and as he stiffened above you, pulling himself out, you collapsed down into the bed. You were still twitching, body hanging on the precipice of your second climax, and you were granted it only moments later.

Two fingers, slamming into you without warning, pumping so quickly that stars flashed behind your eyes, and your throat was raw with the sudden scream that you let out. Our legs thrashed, arms cramping and knuckles aching with how hard you gripped into the bedding, riding through your peak on his hand.

“Mitch! Hold on!”

“Again.” He hissed, giving you only a seconds reprieve as he flipped you over, a hand on your stomach to hold your hips down, wet fingers finding your weeping hole again, and your cheeks were stinging with tears as a pleasure so strong began to wash over you that you forgot how to even breathe. “Are you going to come? You are, I can feel it, walls like velvet grippin’ me so tight.”

“Please!”

“Please what, kitten? You want my cock, that how you want to come? Want me to fill you up, fuck this pretty little pussy full of cum, huh?” You let out a ragged moan at his words, barely able to nod your head, and he pulled his fingers back, hands spreading over your thighs to push our legs apart, settled back into the dip and sinking his cock back inside of you. Your legs wrapped around his waist, his hand trapped between your body as his fingers, soaked with your arousal stayed nestled against your bud, rubbing frantic circles onto it as you ascended into the clouds.

“Oh, fuck, Mitch!” With a final shout, you came, the bedsheets around you soaking as you gushed, hips bucking up wildly and body spasming in the bed, his form crushing you as he found his own high. Bliss was encasing you both, a bubble that only the pair of you existed within, and as ropes of hot cum filled you, he collapsed down on top of you.

He licked at your earlobe, lips brushing your ear and you shuddered, whimpering at the electric racing through your body from the action, your fingertips tingling, and he was still sitting snugly within your walls, throbbing and leaking with the aftermath. “I love you too, kitten.”

Your heart beat strongly, arms wrapping around him as you laughed weakly, catching his lips in a light kiss. It was gentle, just enough to confirm everything that had been shared between you both, before the sticky and wet feelings around you both were growing uncomfortable. He lifted you up, your body shaking as he slipped out of you, an ache that you were accustomed to taking place, and he pressed a kiss to your shoulder before standing up. He offered you his hands, helping you to stand too, and your knees almost gave out on you as you peeled yourself away from the sodden covers, the remnants of your final orgasm still dripping down your thighs.

“Go clean yourself up, baby doll, I’ll grab you some clothes.” Heat flushed along your body as something thicker than your own cum was leaking along your skin, smearing between your thighs with every small step you took, and you could hear mitch shuffling in the bedroom. The wooden floors were cold under your foot, every foot chilling you back down a little more, shivering a little with goosebumps, and your body was relieved to sit back down as you reached for the paper roll, cleaning yourself up and slumping into the seat.

Washing your hands and smoothing down your hair, you felt considerably cleaner, almost as though you were drunk as you continued to float through the skies on the high that being with your fiancé had given you. When you returned, still a little wobbly but much more stable, he had stripped the bedding and replaced it, a more Christmassy set than before laid out in its place, and he had pulled on some clothes.

Padding his way over to you, you raised your arms lazily, letting him pull on a fresh set of clothes, before shimmying you into some pants, giggles and laughs muffled between kisses and gasps when you stumbled, before finally, you were cosy and dressed again.

“That was awesome.”

“Bet your cute little ass it was.” His hand found yours, tugging you along behind him and into the corridors, the smell of the meal that was being made for the two of you floating around, and you let out a groan as yous stomach rumbled. The scent grew stronger as you moved through the house, enticing you deeper and deeper, and you stood beside him as he began to check everything over, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I had a thought about the wedding.”

“You could sound more optimistic about that.”

He chuckled, shaking his head and pecking your lips in confirmation. “I can’t wait to marry you, love. You know that, I’m just not sure how you’ll react. I know you’ve been looking into places for the wedding, and we’ve gone to look at a few venues, but none of them really felt right. Right?” You hummed, eyes narrowing to him a little, and he busied himself with poking at the turkey to check whether it was done, nudging the over door closed again. “Well, what if we had it here?”

“Like, the farmhouse here? Because it’s kinda’ in shambles at the moment. A lot of work left to be done.”

“Well, yes and no.” He sighed, still avoiding your eye a little, and you tried to shuffle a little closer towards him as he worked. “Not in the farmhouse, but what if we had a summer wedding? Something simple. We could have it outside, picnic benches in the fields when they fill up with daisies and dandelions. You’ve sent me some pretty pictures of those fields before. We could do it picnic style.”

His voice trailed off a little as he spoke, and you could tell he was beginning to doubt himself, and so you pressed up behind him, arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to the patch between his shoulder blades, feeling him relax a little under your hold. “I love it.”

“You do?”

“You’ve let me make every decision about our wedding, our house, and our future so far. You deserve an equal say, and if you want a picnic-style wedding on the farm, then that's what we’ll do. I think it sounds lovely.” He twisted to face you, hands holding onto your cheeks and thumb smoothing over your skin, a stare fixed on you that felt as though he was boring into your soul.

“I just want us both to be happy. I don’t have an opinion on a lot of it, my interior design choices are limited to bunk beds and camo.” His joke made you scoff out a laugh, brushing your lips against his.

“That’s okay, soldier, I can make the tough choices on paint colours.” He rolled his eyes, closing the gap for only a moment, and you relished in the loving touch he held you with. “Oh, my bad. You’re my farmer, now.”

“That I am.” He mumbled, a few more shirt kisses pressed to your lips, before he was pushing you backwards. “Go choose a movie, I’ll plate us up some dinner.”

You lit up, and he seemed to see it sparkling in your eyes as his lips pursed. “No.”

“You said choose a movie!”

“I meant a Christmas movie! I’m not watching ‘The Mummy’ again this week.” Your arms folded over your chest at his words, a pout on your lips and he frowned, holding sting for only a few seconds before he was whining, turning away from you to reach for plates. “I know the whole script by heart now. I’m growing to hate that film.”

“Yeah, but you love me!” Your words were sung a little as you made your way through to the living room to load up the television, hearing him mumble his reply, words you couldn't really hear, but you knew he was only confirming your sentiments. As the Christmas lights twinkled, the fire still burning and in need of new logs, the television flickering to life as your soon-to-be husband served up dinner in the farmhouse kitchen, you knew there was no place you could possibly be that would make you any happier than right here.

[artbyrivaille]

Hair ☕

Okay, so at the outset, I would like to emphasize that English is not my mother tongue and I am still learning. But writing is my hobby and I decided that I will try my skills here too, in English, I invite you to write requests, I hope you will like it!

3,5k words!

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She was strong. She was a good soldier, commander, companion.

But she was also a beautiful woman with an amazing figure who was envied by many. Despite being quite short, because she was only five feet three, she had long slender legs. Overall, she was considered a beautiful woman. However, she had short hair.

Her hairstyle was practically identical to Levi's, but no one accused her of trying to look like him, as she was cutting her hair that way long before Ackerman joined the survey corps.

Oh, she and Levi. It was quite a sneaky topic, let alone the rumors around the body. They were often seen in each other's company, people interpreted it differently.

Some said it was just a friendship and a bond they established when Ackermann was part of her branch at the beginning of his career. And the others insinuated the supposed romance of the two. Well the versions were really different, but the truth was that y/n and good captain Levi were just two great friends. The woman was one of the few people who knew the man's past, and shared with him some facts about her. Because they both came from the Underground, however, and managed to get out of there on their own, and not with the help of scouts, as was the case with Levi.

At first they were not very sympathetic, quite the opposite. They had very similar characters, which theoretically should indicate that they will get along well, but that was only theoretically. In practice, they got on their nerves terribly.

But despite this aversion to a man, it was precisely this that helped him the most after the death of Farlan and Izabel. She provided him with comfort, help and warmth.  Something no one else could give him. It was thanks to her that he recovered so quickly, and he was in the place where he was at the moment.

At some point their relationship began to take a less formal path. More and more often they stayed at each other's offices, helped each other with Erwin's sentences, that is, documentation. They drank tea together, despite the fact that the brunette was a coffee advocate, she made an exception for Levi and almost completely gave it up. They had similar problems, especially those with sleep, may both of them suffer from insomnia, so when the entire corps was asleep, they sat in the two of them over documents, or simply spent their free time together.

Y/n did not even know the exact moment when she began to care in this other, more intimate way on the short captain. It came overnight. Of course, she was behaving the same as before, after all, she was not some horny teen, but a mature woman, but at the moment when she was going to the black-haired's office, or she just knew that he would see him, her body was flooded with heat. And maybe she wouldn't care so much if it wasn't for the fact that she had short hair.

She loved the short haircut, the long hair simply irritated her and disturbed the soldier's everyday life, but she was afraid that they might be an obstacle to any closer relationship with Ackerman.

***

She sat quietly in her office filling out paperwork for Erwin. She nervously tweaked her hair, which was longer than usual, because every time she tried to cut it, something was getting in the way and that was how it was already quite long.

The silence in the office was broken by the sudden opening of the door through which entered a black-haired man with pliers and a towel in his hand. He closed the door with a bang and set the items on the coffee table, then looked at the woman poring over reports and other documents.

"You have long hair." He said suddenly and walked closer to her chair, and when he was next to him, he entangled his hand in her dark strands. She breathed a breath and leaned against the back of the armchair, massaging her temples at the same time giving herself to the caress.

"I didn't have time to cut them off because of the last expedition, and with all the crap Erwin did, I have more work to do than ever. And Hanji keeps following me all the time and asks if I managed to convince Bushbread to do experiments on titans." She explained in frustration then exhaled her mouth with a whistle.

"Tch, fucking shitty glasses. Come on, rest a little, cut off your hair, and you will give me a haircut." He replied then pulled the woman's chair back and, grabbing her hand, led her to the bathroom. She was so tired of it all that she didn't care, and the presence of a cobalt-eyed woman was calming, so she didn't resist. "Get your hair wet." He gave the order, which she followed by putting her head in the shower and then she wet her hair with a stream of water. Ackermann handed her a towel, which she grabbed and dried her hair.

Let the two go back to the brunette's office, meanwhile she took off her jacket and threw it on the couch, which Ackermann only huffed, but said nothing. She sat down without a word on the low stool that the man had prepared at that time. He ran a hand through her hair a few times and began carefully trimming it.

"Can I ask you a question?" She finally gave up y/n, unable to withstand the silence in the room

"You ask them anyway, so why do you ask me for permission." The bored man replied by which l/n raised the corner of her mouth in a small smile.

"What do you think about women with short hair?" She asked, and black hair stopped breathing for a moment. What the hell was that about? Is this some kind of provocation?

"What am I supposed to think. They are no less feminine because they do not have long hair, their appearance does not define a person." He replied quite neutral, not realizing that he had just kindled a little ray of hope in his friend's heart. "And why do you ask?"

"Because I care about someone, and all in all, I wanted to know your opinion." Ah yes. His heart leapt into his throat, and his stomach seemed to have a 3D maneuvering device.  Someone did she like? But who the hell. After all, the only men with whom she spent time was himself, Erwin, sometimes he encountered Moblit in the company of Hanji and Mike. Who could steal her heart enough to make her care about her hairstyle? Probably Erwin. That fucking perfect general.

Maybe Levi didn't have complexes as such, but he was always a little jealous of Smith. He had a perfect body, he was tall, intelligent, had a high position in the military, and he came from a non-poor family. He was nothing compared to the blonde, he had nothing to offer. And he would like so much to have her with him.

"I'm done." He muttered softly brushing single hairs from the woman's clothes. She got up from the stool and unintentionally combed her dark hair. She looked beautiful, but he wouldn't tell her that.

"Your turn." She said and took the pliers from his hand. This time it was he who sat on the stool. He involuntarily smiled under his breath and closed his eyes at the woman's gentle touch. He was literally like a docile kitten. Why couldn't she be his?

***

He had been avoiding her like plague for about two weeks. He was irritated by the lack of a black-haired woman around him, but he knew that if it was like before, he would take the blow even worse.

A blow that would never come.

Y/n really didn't know what she could do wrong. After all, everything was fine, and then overnight Ackerman began to avoid her. Maybe he just got bored?

At first she explained his ignorance with overwork, in the end everyone in the command had their heads off. But when one day in a row she saw him sitting quietly with Petra, she knew it was not it. By the way, seeing a redhead in his company, something broke in her. What did this teenager have that she did not have? Did their relationship really mean nothing to him? So many questions, so few answers.

And this way almost every evening she landed in Erwin's office with Hanji with a bottle of whiskey or vodka, depending on what Smith had in the bar. Erwin and Hange really couldn't comprehend the change in brunet's behavior, and the sight of a really hurt l/n was so pathetic as to be nasty.

And so the next evening the three gathered in Smith's office where they once again debated about the captain's behavior.

"I do not feel it completely, so change the attitude towards people overnight. 

I know that our curly pedantic has its own rules, but without exaggeration." Hanji announced, finishing the rest of the whiskey from her glass.

"Maybe something made him do it?" Smith replied, then grabbed his chin.

"Tch, and this thing is called Petra Ral, really fascinating." Black-haired girl summed up pouring herself and Zoe whiskey.

Their conversations were so loud that they interested Ackerman who was just about to make himself a cup of tea. But when he heard three familiar voices, he stood at the door of Smith's office, listening to what was being said.

"Don't take it for granted." Erwin said and frowned by the high concentration of alcohol in his glass.

"So what could be the reason Levi is ignoring me then? Just like logic Erwin, there are two options, or he has something to me and he distorts what is unfortunately but impossible because he always treated me only as a friend. Or he just shoots with Petra, and that's what I believe more. "Did they talk about him? What romance with Petra? And y/n cared for him the way he wanted it, but he's just an idiot and he broke it? He held his breath for a moment and tried to enter the room, but stopped himself and continued to stand still.

"Like it or not, I have to agree with the above.  Although I keep my fingers crossed for the first version." Squeaked at the end of the woman, which caused a loud sigh of disapproval from y/n.

"Shut up Hanji, I don't want to hope again for something that will never happen." She growled angry and hurt. She really cared about him. Not on any Erwin, Moblit or Mike, but on him. On a goddamn Underground thief with a hard character and misophobic aspirations. Damn it, don't let this be a dream.

He walked away from the door and headed for his office. He has even forgotten why he left it at all. He sat down at the desk and stared blankly at the sky until the very morning, trying to put everything in his head. He must try to fix what he broke.

***

Like a day like every other day. There was no expedition, no surprises, just an ordinary day in the recon. Well, maybe almost. Because Ackerman had been nervous and a little stressed since the morning. And it wasn't just because he wanted to talk to y/n seriously, but largely because he couldn't find her anywhere. As to spite that day, she sank underground, his only salvation could be Erwin. Which office was on his way to. The evening and dinner time was approaching, so he wanted to come to him before her, to look for the presence of a woman at the last meal, if necessary.

He entered the office without knocking, Smith merely looked up from the mountain of documents he had probably been studying since this morning, then turned him back to the sheets of paper.

"What you want Levi?" He asked breaking the silence prevailing in the room. He was pretty sure why this one had come to him, but preferred not to reveal all the cards at once.

"Where is y/n"?  Erwin sighed and then put down his quill and straightened up in his chair. He was afraid of Levi's reaction, but what could he do if the milk had already spilled?

"She went on a mission. She should be back in two or three days at the most." He replied with a straight face in the middle being a bit irritated by the reaction of the black-haired man.

"What mission? And why the hell didn't I know anything about this." Ackerman asked, very angry with the news once again.

"Maybe because you've been avoiding her for a long time? Maybe because it's a secret mission, I'm not obligated to tell you everything, Levi. I respect you and treat you as a friend, so I will give you some friendly advice. Think about what you really want and don't screw it up. I don't think I need to tell you what I'll do to you if you hurt her, not to mention Hanji." A faint smile affected his lips at the end of his speech.

"It's none of your business anymore. Thank you for the information." He replied coolly and, not worried about the threat of his friend, left his office.

So he was supposed to wait? He hated waiting. Uncertainty burst him from the inside, these few days will probably be a real nightmare for him.

***

It was well past nine o'clock, so most of the Corps' soldiers were resting in their quarters. Only a few officers were still in the courtyard. And Levi was watching them from his office.

Week. She has been gone since fucking week.

And he was consumed not only by uncertainty, but also by fear. Because they didn't know anything, not even Erwin, who entrusted the woman with this mission. Through it all, the captain was irritated and angry from day to night. Everyone wanted to be as far away from him as possible. Even Petra must have found out about his bad mood when some two days after y/n's departure, she felt bad for the fact that she smiled at him instead of focusing on cleaning. The last time he was afraid was when he first left for exeption.

Suddenly, a horse ran into the courtyard, on the back of which was a scout, but he was clearly unconscious, barely clinging to his mount. At first, Ackerman did not move from his place, but when he heard the screams about the return of squad leader l/n and summoning the medics, he sprinted out of the office.

When he was already leaving, he saw only a brunette, which two cadets were carrying on a stretcher to the infirmary. There was blood everywhere, and the worst case scenario flashed through his mind. She might have died.

He knew that they would not let him into the infirmary anyway, and the cadets didn't know anything, the only option was once again Erwin. What a mission it was to make her come back like this.

He hurried to Smith's office and threw open the door. He did not care about the surprised face of Hanji, who was sitting on the blonde's couch, but he walked over to the man and grabbed him tightly by the collar of a white shirt.

"What was that mission? And why did you send her over there alone, don't you care that she's just fighting for her life?" He was screaming at the top of his throat, he didn't care what everyone thought of him right now, he didn't care about the consequences, he only cared that he could lose her before he actually possessed her.

"In Stohess there is a man who leads the gang. It interfered with various shipments and the like. They are also active in the Underground. The task was to diversify into their ranks, apparently she did not quite succeed." He replied with stoic calm which made the black-haired man even more angry.

"Have you been really fucked up? Such a mission is not a job for one person, it is for the rest. Such matters should be handled by the MP's, not us!" He shouted and pushed the blonde back so that he almost fell from his chair.

"Only that they interfered mainly with transports to our corps. Mostly those not entirely legal. You know very well that a large amount of drugs and medical equipment we have is not entirely legal, but it is needed. I wanted to send the two of you on this mission, because both of you know the Underground, but she did not agree to you taking part in this mission. Probably because you were not getting along at that point." The man explained succinctly, and Ackerman said nothing. It was his fault, his goddamn fault. If only he wasn't such an asshole, nothing bad would have happened.

Until now, a silent Hanji came up to the shorter man and put her hand on his shoulder, the latter turned towards her, close to crying. Holy shit what she did with him.

"You'll finish later, for now, go to her." She ordered, and he nodded and without a word headed for the infirmary.

***

"When will she wake up?" He asked one of the medics, who was just finishing treating single wounds on the body of an unconscious woman.

"She should wake up in the morning. But probably not for long, he has to rest a lot now. She lost a lot of blood, it is surprising that she was even going here alive." She replied and got up from the small stool, putting the remnants of bandages and other medicaments on a silver tray. "But take it easy, she will get out of this, squad leader l/n is a damn tough woman, not just character.  She will lick it." She added after a moment with a slight smile on her face trying to cheer the man up.

"I know she's strong." He replied quietly, his head bowed and his hands folded.

"So just be patient. I think she survived because she had someone to return to." She laughed softly and just left the room, leaving the slightly confused captain with the unconscious woman.

He slowly walked over to her bed and sat down next to it on the wooden chair. He grabbed her chilled hand and pressed it to his lips, giving it a tender kiss. He had to wait.

And so the hours went by, and Levi spent them thinking about his feelings for the woman and simply gazing at her adoringly.

She was so beautiful, he loved everything about her. From a smile that could not be seen too often, ending with short hair. He was lazily combing them almost all the time, not being surprised how pleasant they are.  He did not even notice that it was starting to dawn, and the soldiers of the corps were slowly waking up to start another day of service. He also did not notice that Erwin accompanied by Hanji arrived in the room in the meantime, but when they saw the man sitting next to the y/n, they only smiled at each other and left, leaving them alone, of course they gave each other high five for fruitful cooperation.

"Wake up now, because these feelings will blow me up soon." The words were coming out of his mouth involuntarily. His eyes were closed, he tried to focus, to be patient. "I overheard your, Hanji and Erwin conversation about me. I really was an idiot. I shouldn't be away from you, that's why you're here at all. If I hadn't, you wouldn't be lying here, I wouldn't have allowed it. I have plans to blame Erwin for letting you go on this mission alone. But you don't know how much I was bursting from the inside by the thought that you care about someone, and that someone is not me. I was so fucking jealous. Ugh, feelings are a pain in the ass. You don't even know what you're doing with me. I just love you, and I love everything about you." There was a silence in the room, and the man breathed a sigh of relief, finally blurted out into the crowd of thoughts.

"Even my short hair?" Silence, a hoarse voice broke the silence in the room. The man immediately opened his eyes and straightened in his chair, a smile spread across his face at the sight of the woman's open eyes.

"Even short hair." He replied and once again ran his hand through it, and placed the other on her cheek.

"I heard everything, you idiot. Love you too." She said and smiled broadly as he reciprocated.

"I love you too." He replied and pressed their lips together in a kiss.

[dclsbaby]

tolerate it - Dominic Calvert Lewin 🦋

Summary: despite being in love, you and dom drift apart during a career hiccup and it breaks your heart into tiny little pieces

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: angst? pain?

A/N: hi everyone! I took the looongest hiatus known to mankind and I just want to thank everyone who has still stuck by this blog! I haven't written in a while and this isn't by best work but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway! ily!

masterlist

I wake and watch you breathing with your eyes closed

I wake and watch you breathing with your eyes closed

I sit and watch

I notice everything you do or don’t do

Every little thing he does leaves you in awe. The man can’t do no wrong in your eyes. You notice the way he breathes, his little gestures, his subtle movements. Others can envision an entire story just by observing the way he looks at you. As you lay in bed with his body next to yours, his chest rising with every breath taken, you discover a newfound appreciation to add to the list of things you love about him. You have never felt a feeling so intense, so visceral. Love is terrifying, isn’t it? Love often leads to infatuation, and this was no different to you. You wear your heart on your sleeves, feel every emotion, from the exhilarating highs, to the excruciating lows. To be dependent on another human for happiness is a dangerous game. You fear love. And with fear comes paranoia.

It started when your conversations became shorter and shorter by the day. Then, it’s him arriving late from training, to no longer waking you up before he leaves for early morning training. No more forehead kisses when you’re still asleep, no more post-it notes on refrigerator doors telling you he’s made you breakfast, no nothing. Bodies that were once intertwined each night now rest apart with unwanted distance in between. Distance you so wanted to close.

As the weather turned cold, so did he.

I wait by the door like I’m just a kid

Use my best colours for your portrait

Lay the table with fancy shit

And watch you tolerate it

Without fail, you would always wait for him to come home, run to the door when you hear his car pull over on your driveway and leap into his arms the second he steps in your shared home. He would hold you up as your legs wrap around his waist, and whisper “I’ve been waiting to come home to you all day,” in your ear. A memory you long to relive.

You knew he had been struggling, coping with a plateau in his career, playing less and less, becoming a resident of the substitution bench. It hurt you to see him hurt, but it also pained you that he did not turn to you for comfort. “Nothing is wrong,” he says, over and over. Lies, you thought. You know him better than anyone else. So you try and convince him that he could trust you, and that keeping it all in would only make it worse. I mean you would know, as you have been suppressing so much pain this whole time. But he wins this battle yet again, and with his ego intact, he shrugs it off, ignores his frustration, and pushes you away.

While you were out building other worlds, where was I?

Where’s that man who’d throw blankets over my barbed wire?

I made you my temple, my mural my sky

Now I’m begging for footnotes in the story of your life

As months passed by, you were no longer his live-in partner, but a stranger he has to coexist with, leaving you lonely each night as he drifted off to sleep inches away from you. Even then your love for him is still as potent, as strong. Your loyalty is a crime.

Your efforts to make him feel better never ceased, as you continue cooking him his favourite meals after training, helping him pack his bags the night before he leaves for international duty, doing household chores so he never had to bother with them after coming home from an exhausting day, making playlists of songs you think he’d like, and putting movies and tv series you know he would enjoy in his Netflix list.

You would do anything for some form of acknowledgement.

You would do anything to bring back those first two years back.

You would do anything for a simple touch, a hug, an embrace.

You would do anything for… something.

Everything you did, you did for him. Every thought that passes your mind, involves him.

It’s just a phase. It’s just a phase. You try to convince yourself. That’s a lie, another subconscious voice says.

---

It was the night before the Merseyside derby, which happens to be the final match of the season. The most anticipated match of the year. The perfect match. The match that determines if Everton is crowned Premier League champions. Half of the city at war with the other half. Two colours, two clubs with a historic rivalry battle it out on the pitch once again.

He was nervous, you could tell. You catch him playing with his food and struggle to finish his meal as he was sick to his stomach. After months of hate comments, online trolling, and being subject to pundits’ criticism, this was the perfect match to prove all the doubters that he is worthy of wearing his blue jersey. He spent several more minutes tossing pieces of food with his fork until he got up, placed his plate on the sink, and made his way up the stairs to sleep. No “see you upstairs”, or a last goodbye before he sleeps. You had to resist every temptation to start a fight and argue that you deserve more than silence. But you knew how important tomorrow’s occasion is, and decided against it.

Shortly after you make your way into your bedroom. He was curled on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, bedroom lights dimmed. You go to your shared bathroom, take what’s left of your makeup off, and get ready for bed. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Darkened under eyes, lips cracked down the middle. You were dehydrated, tired, exhausted, and looked almost ghastly. Turns out having a broken heart does have implications on your vanity. How much longer can I do this? You thought. You felt pathetic, feeling sorry for yourself. You exhale a deep sigh and make your way back into the bedroom, joining him in bed. As you settle on the bed, you turn your body away from him, and tug the duvet your way, curling into a fetal position and tuck yourself in, and drift off to sleep.

All of a sudden, you hear sounds of shifting sheets, the bed slightly moving with every turn he makes. You could tell he was awake. You knew the events of tomorrow are playing on his mind and making him lose sleep. With only a little hesitation, you extend an arm and rest your hand on his back, causing him to shudder a little. Your touch had stopped the shifting and brought him comfort he did not know he needed. Not long after, you could hear soft snores from his side of the bed.

---

You woke up to an empty bed, which was not unusual. You forgive him though, since it is a big day and he probably had to tune into the game day mentality early in the morning.

You watch the game from home and stare at the TV screen as the cameras zoom into Dom, his face serious, ready to fight it out on the pitch. Since the second the referee blew the first while, it had already gotten intense. Both teams began attacking from the get-go, a handful of chances created even though it’s barely been a quarter of an hour.

Minutes passed, and yellow cards have been handed out for several players. Every spectator in different time zones all glued to their screens, all on the edge of their seats until half-time. The camera catches a glimpse of him walking off the pitch. He looked angry and frustrated, you could tell. He was responsible for most of the chances created during the game, though he couldn’t seem to poach one in.

Ben had made a long pass that Dom couldn’t quite convert into a goal.

Lucas had delivered a stunning, almost perfect cross that landed on Dom’s head, but it went wide.

Richy had attempted a shot on his own, which pissed Dom off.

It’s all square at half-time, but football is a game of two halves, and to decide which side of the city will celebrate tonight is determined by the next 45 minutes at least.

Every player is now back on the pitch, ready to give it their all.

10 minutes in, it’s long balls and defending, the opposition giving no room to maneuver through the box. That is until Lucas passed another strikingly accurate cross.

“MISS AGAIN! How could he have missed a cross like that a second time?”

“Everton’s number 9 squashes an open goal opportunity, what a shame, that.”

“He’s going to hate himself for that,”

“He already does, Calvert-Lewin looks like he’s about to see red.”

You listen to the commentators as they describe Dom’s frustration. You watch with anxiety, occasionally scrolling through your phone to avoid the intensity.

---

Into the final minute of the game 90+3.  Still all square at the Goodison. It’s now or never.

“Free kick!”

“The free-kick will be done 20 yards off the goal post.”

“This could be the last chance of the game!”

“It’s been decided that Sigurdsson will take the free kick, Calvert-Lewin leaps into the air, ball’s on his head—GOAL!!!”

And just like that, in the final minute of the game, his team clinches the winner, and your man is hailed the hero of the night.

You watch the screen as the referee blows the final whistle of the game, Dom doing sprints around the pitch with his teammates, bodies jumping on each other, veins popping through every neck, roars of exhilaration filling the open air as Everton is calculated to win the league.

You watch him immerse himself in the exhilaration of crowning his team champions of the Premier League. The blue confetti rained over the stadium in the crisp yet comfortable afternoon air, cheering noises blasting through the speakers. You watch the screen zoom into the love of your life, or was. You see his perfectly chiseled face, those bright green eyes, brunette locks still perfectly put together even after a hard-fought game, his sweet smile warming your heart. Your eyes glued to the screen as your man is hailed a hero, and feel an overwhelming sense of pride.

Though not even the cheering and happy faces on TV could distract you from the churning feeling in your stomach. It’s a feeling you can’t quite pinpoint. Is it confusion? Anger? Happiness? You don’t even know.

You’re happy for him, truly. But you can’t seem to shake the fact that it took him being distant from you, and completely ignoring your existence to get his head back in the game. It’s like you and football were mutually exclusive, and he can’t focus on both things he loves most at the same time. You weren’t going to make him choose either.

---

He didn’t come home that night, and you saw it coming. You knew he was going to go out with his teammates, and rightfully so, they achieved a massive milestone after all. But it bothered you that he didn’t say anything, no texts, no voicemails, nothing to tell you of his whereabouts. You thought he would at least change after all that success, but still nothing. Everything is going to stay the same, isn’t it? You thought.

The next morning you wake up to an empty bed. Again. Totally expected. You reach out for your phone and see 10 missed calls from your best friend and several text messages with picture attachments. You were not prepared for what you were about to see.

Attached were pictures of him in a club with his teammates, pictured awfully close to a woman you don’t recognise. He was smiling and looked happy. You can’t remember the last time he looked like that, or even smiled at you. You haven’t even stood as close as they way that woman is in his space, for months. He hasn’t looked at you the way he’s looking at her in those pictures for months.

You felt sick. Your mind is racing. Your heart feels like it’s about to fall out of your chest. You wanted to cry and scream but nothing came out. Total silence. Pure shock. You had no tears left to cry, as you wasted it all from crying yourself to sleep just inches away from the man who broke your heart every day.

Should I have seen it coming? Has he been going out with her for months? When did it start? You try to remember every single detail over the past few months. Every single pain, every single action that you could have overlooked.

---

By the afternoon, you’ve already spent hours sitting on your bed, staring at the pictures sent to you. More links have appeared as gossip sites picked up on the story.

“Dominic Calvert-Lewin celebrates historic Merseyside win with a mystery girl who is not his missus”

“Everton Hero – Also a Cheat”

“Cursed WAGs – DCL celebrates PL win with mystery woman as his missus is MIA”

The more you read these news outlets, the number you feel. The whole of England knows your dirty laundry, you felt like a fool.

You were done.

Drawing hearts in the byline

Always taking up too much space or time

You assume I’m fine, but what would you do if I…

Break free and leave us in ruins

Took this dagger in me and removed it

Gain the weight of you, then lose it

Believe me I could do it

Shortly after you hear keys rattling downstairs, followed by the sound of doors shutting. You hear footsteps walking up the stairs, and you mentally prepare to see his face. You still don’t know how you’re going to react, not until you see him.

As he steps into the doorframe, he sees your bloodshot eyes and stops in his tracks.

“So, I presume you’ve seen what’s being said about me,” he moans.

“Yeah, yeah I’ve seen,” you shrug.

“It’s absolutely ridiculous isn’t it, shouldn’t believe everything you say,” he says.

“-is it though? Is it absolutely ridiculous that what they say could be true?” you cross your arms.

“Of course, it is! What are you even saying?” he says, offended.

“I’m saying that I have spent months slaving for you, putting you before myself without getting anything in return! I’m saying that I have been so miserable in this sad excuse of a relationship, holding onto the last memory of when you last said you loved me which was months ago! I’m saying that it would not be so unbelievable if you had been cheating on me, and that I had to find out from some tabloids!”  

“If you had been so miserable then why didn’t you say anything? You could have said something if you’ve been so unhappy!” Dom yells.

“Because I have been tiptoeing around you! Afraid of saying the wrong things to set you off, I did not want to be a burden during a time when I know you’re struggling,” you sigh.

Dom’s body nearly goes limp after hearing your confession.

“I put you before myself over and over again for the past year, and you have the nerve to assume I’m fine? Fine with what? Being ignored? Being second best? You don’t know what that does to a person,” you cry.

“Do you regret it?” he asks with tears in his eyes. “Do you regret me?” he looks at you.

“No, Dom. No, I don’t. I don’t regret you because I’ve spent the last few months giving it my all to a relationship on the brink of ruins. I never gave up on you, and I never gave up on our love, or what’s left of it,” you sigh. “Deep down, I think I knew that I deserved more than a pathetic excuse of a career hiccup, but I was prepared to stand by you through it all,” you break into cries. “My love was strong enough to ignore every warning sign, strong enough to mute fire alarm bells ringing in my head, alerting me to leave a relationship where I was no longer appreciated,” you rest your head on your hand. “Maybe we’re all allotted a certain amount of fight to give per love, and today… Today I ran out,” look up at him.

“Don’t fucking say that. Do not say that. I am not done fighting for this relationship, I know I fucked up! You don’t think I know that? I will fix everything, you don’t have to do anything, let me do everything I will fix us!” Dom begs.

“There’s no fixing us. It takes two people to fix a relationship, I learned that the hard way and I singlehandedly attempted to piece us back together only for you to break through what I’ve built and held together with my bare fucking hands,” you say as you wipe your tears away.

Dom drops to the floor as he could no longer stand the pain he feels from what you’ve just said.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I-I don’t know what to say,” he pleads

“If it took you this long, and if it took me standing here yelling at you for you to regret what you did then we are past the point of fixing,”

“You know what football means to me, I felt stuck, everything that I had dreamed of as a kid was slowly fading, I couldn’t bear it,” Dom reasons.

“I would never get in between you and football. I would never have even considered making you choose, Dom. I would have done absolutely anything for you, anything, you said. “I just needed you to tell me what the hell is going on so I could have helped you. I did not deserve to be swept under the rug, to be left feeling useless, while you were out doing god knows what with god knows who after training every. Single. Day.”

“Are you implying that I cheated on you?! That I, me – someone you’ve known for years, is cheating on you?”

If it’s all in my head, tell me now

Tell me I’ve got it wrong somehow

“Go on then! Tell me I’m making all of this up in my head. Tell me that I am not wrong to assume such insane thoughts, tell me that it is so beyond the realm of possibility that you could ever be unfaithful.”

Dom stayed silent.

You simply nodded and picked up your belongings, ready to leave.

“Nothing happened. I swear,” he pleaded.

“Your silence was enough,

Goodbye.”

I know my love should be celebrated

But you tolerate it

[ga-yuu]

~Kurama~Main Story Chapter 16~

Warning!! This chapter contains attempted murder and strong language

Chapter 15

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*

*

--------Part 1--------

Yoshitsune: “First of all, I apologize because we assume that you might be in danger.”

Yoshino: “Danger...?”

One morning, Yoshitsune-sama visits my room and his first words made me blink.

Yoshino: “Why am I in danger?”

Kurama was also sitting next to Yoshitsune-sama, and he opens his mouth casually.

Kurama: “I’m told there are people in this mansion who wants to assassinate you.”

(Ehhh....)

I felt the blood draining from my face.

Yoshitsune: “Our army is being reinforced in preparation for the first war against the Shogunate. Not a few of the new recruits had a grudge against the Shogunate for one reason or another.” 

Yoshino: “But why would they want to kill me...?”

Yoshitsune: “It’s still unconfirmed but Yoichi is working on it. Until this matter is settled, I want you to stay in this room, just in case.”

Yoshino: “....Okay.”

My voice trembled when I replied.

(I was prepared to put myself in danger on the battlefield one day.)

(But I never thought I’d see the day when my life would be directly threatened in this way.)

(No matter how kind Yoshitsune-sama and the others are....my presence is not interesting to the soldiers of the Rebels)

My fingertips are as cold as if they were immersed in ice water.

Kurama: “Why are you trembling?”

(Kurama...)

Yoshino: “No, no no, I was just surprised. But I’m fine.”

Kurama frowned when he saw me forcing a smile.

Kurama: “......... Take this.”

(Hm?)

I took what was offered to me and it was a whistleblower.

Yoshino: “What’s this for?”

Kurama: “It’s got my spell on it. In this big mansion, I’d be able to hear it from anywhere.”

(Wow! That’s amazing!)

Kurama: “I want you to use it.”

--------Part 2---------

Kurama: “I want you to use it.”

I was stunned when he looked straight at me.

(I’ve been feeling a bit out of sorts since that night in the garden with Kurama....)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

1. I’ll do my best.

2. I’ll take good care of it.

3. That’s reassuring.(+4/+4)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yoshino: “That’s reassuring.”

Kurama: “I’m giving you that this time because it’s special. I don’t like to be treated as a shikigami used by humans.”

Yoshino: “Ohh, umm....thank you.”

Yoshitsune: “It’s only good for a few days. I want it to be a good luck charm in case of emergency.”

I agreed without a second, but....

.................

......That night.

Yoshino: “Eh, you haven’t caught the killer yet?”

Rebel vessel 1: “No. Although we are still in the middle of our interrogation, Yoshitsune-sama has asked me to report to you urgently before we take our leave.”

Yoshino: “Thank you.”

(Even though he is under interrogation, can I be a little relieved....?)

After the retainer has left, he breathes a sigh of relief.

My body slowly relaxed and I realise that I was more nervous than I thought.

(Yoshitsune-sama probably gave me the report so that I could sleep a little more calmly. I must thank him tomorrow.)

(Let’s read and sleep for the rest of the day.)

I reached for the tabletop to read the history book I had borrowed to review the knowledge Kagetoki-san had taught me.

..............

Yoshino: “Oh, no! I was told I had to return this book by today.”

(I’d forgotten all about it in the assassination fiasco.)

(I thought I’d ask someone to give it back to library.)

Perhaps it was the noise of the assassination attempt, but the vassals passing through the corridor were not in the mood to be approached.

However, I felt bad about calling them all the way.

(Because it would be unpleasant for the Rebels to take up my errands as a member of the Shogunate that everyone hates.)

Yoshino: “....The library is not far, so it should be fine, right?”

My heart ached for the thorn that I could not pull out.

(But something is bugging me----)

(Because I know that the Rebels, like everyone else in the Shogunate, are fighting for their friends and their beliefs.)

I was walking in the corridor while thinking about this, when----

(Nn.......!?)

Suddenly, a hand reaches out and covers my mouth, pulling me hard from behind.

Yoshino: ”Nnn...nnn....”

Man 1: “Shut up!”

I was pushed into a spare room and the sliding door slammed shut roughly.

Yoshino: “Nn....what the!”

Man 2: “How dare you, a member from the Shogunate walking around with her head held high in front of our eyes.”

------Part 3------

Man 2: “How dare you, a member from the Shogunate walking around with her head held high in front of our eyes.”

Man 1: “Yeah, I’ll avenge my comrades who were caught.”

Two men stood in front of me with swords.

(They’re going to kill me-----)

My blood froze with fear and my toes began to tremble.

(So there are two people!?)

They smile mockingly at me as I slowly back away.

(What should I do? I’ll buy some time and then....)

I remembered the whistleblower in my pocket and reach out for it------

Man 2: “...Our former comrades were killed in the war against the Shogunate.”

(If I call Kurama, he’ll surely kill them....)

(But, even I’d hate my enemies if they killed my friends....)

The words came out of my mouth in a rush----

Yoshino: “Look, we can talk this over...okay?”

Man 1: “Huh?”

(....I’m sorry. I know I’m being reckless, but....)

The faces of the two men became increasingly grim.

Yoshino: “Please, I beg you. I won’t tell Yoshitsune-sama and the others about you.....”

Man 2: “Are you kidding me? Woman!”

Yoshino: “No I....”

They held down my body as I tried to escape and I struggled.

Man 1: “Shut up! We’ll finish you off quickly and you won’t feel a thing!”

(NO!!)

I saw the white blade shining brightly while he was on top of me.

Regret and fear nearly overwhelmed me when----

Kurama: “Footsteps and squeaks like rats in the night.”

(Kurama!)

The men stopped moving when they heard a low voice.

Man 1: “Kurama-sama!”

Kurama entered the room and narrowed his eyes coldly at me.

Kurama: “.....What are you doing, Yoshino?”

Yoshino: “I...”

Man 1: “Kurama-sama! Please don’t move!”

The man screams while pointing the sword at my throat.

Kurama: “Who gave you permission to move? I forbid you to move against my will, not even a finger.”

Men: “!”

As soon as they felt the space distorting, their faces were filled with astonishment.

Man 2: “W-What is this?”

Man 1: “I can’t move!”

(Maybe he used Kotodama!?)

Kurama: “If you come in my way again, I’ll block your breathing.”

It was a blizzard of frost and they both lost their blood, their mouths still tightly shut when they should be free.

Kurama(glare): “Yoshino. Answer me. Why didn’t you call me?”

-------Part 4------

Kurama(glare): “Yoshino. Answer me. Why didn’t you call me?”

A stinging, deadly energy emanated silently from Kurama’s body and filled the room.

(....If I give a bad answer, he’ll kill everyone in this room including me.)

Yoshino: “I....I was almost killed.”

Kurama: “Why didn’t you blow the whistle when you knew you were?”

I can’t breathe properly because I feel the mass of air around me has increased so much.

Yoshino: “B-Because.”

I struggled to speak under the cold stare.

Yoshino: “I thought it would only be natural that there are people in this house who hates me because I’m an enemy. So, if we could talk it through....”

Kurama: “Oh. So, you want to die.”

(......!!)

Yoshino: “No, I----”

Kurama: “You already declared right in front of me that you’re on the Shogunate’s side. Then, why are you trying to make peace with these guys? I despise with all my heart anyone who would describe that warmth as kindness.”

The low voice, crushed my rebuttal.

Kurama: “Yoshino---is it horrible to be hated for real by someone who is right in front of you?”

(Ah.......)

I couldn’t even speak because it was so true.

(Yes, I didn’t want to be the bad guy.)

(I’m afraid of the malice directed at me by someone else, so I tried to look away from it.....)

(As a result, I almost lost my life.)

(If I die, I won’t be able to help everyone in the Shogunate anymore, but I made the wrong decision.)

Kurama: “Be proud to be an enemy that someone hates, if that’s what you’re willing to do with your life. If not, you may disperse here and now in disgrace.”

(.....Those serious eyes.)

With all the energy in my body, I looked straight back into Kurama’s eyes.

Yoshino: “-----I don’t want to die. Even if someone hates me.”

Kurama: “If you want to live, you must beg, and you must risk the lives of others.”

---------Part 5---------

Yoshino: “-----I don’t want to die. Even if someone hates me.”

Kurama: “If you want to live, you must beg, and you must risk the lives of others.”

Kurama snapped his fingers high in the air.

Men: “....!”

As if on cue, the bodies of the men escaped from the Kotodama.

Man 1: “Fuck you!”

Yoshino: “!!”

(No, I want to live!)

I pushed the man’s chest and scream as I struggle.

Yoshino: “Help! Kurama----”

Kurama: “That’s right. Beg me from the bottom if your heart.”

Strong wind blew around the room.

Man 2: “What the hell!?”

One of the men winces as he is cut down by an invisible blade of wind.

Man 1: “Ku...”

The other one, who was cutting at me, immediately seized his hand and removed his sword.

Kurama: “Surrendering already? You got no guts at all.”

(Finally....!!)

Man 1: “I-I heard you were a foreigner. Why would you use such great power to protect a woman of the Shogunate?”

Man 2: “Yeah! We’re just trying to avenge our friends.....”

As I sit there stunned, the men screamed at me.

Kurama: “It is the prerogative of the strong to choose where they wield their power. But before you accuse me of being unworthy.....”

The blood colored eyes took the men in their stride for the first time and penetrated deep into them.

Kurama: “You took Yoshino by surprise in a place where its not a battlefield. It seems to be for a great cause, but it’s only a matter of venting your resentment on an entity that you’re sure has the upper hand. What a pathetic petty way to live.”

Men: “Nn...........”

(Kurama.........)

I can’t help but be drawn to the way he says it with such strength and grace.”

(To everyone, Kurama is fair and merciless.)

(But, I’m sure that’s because.... Kurama himself is not ashamed of his life to anyone.)

The tension that I had felt earlier had dissipated, and I could feel the hot blood flowing through my body.

Kurama: “Yoshitsune will be the one to deal with you. It’s stupid, I’m not even interested in your life or death. Don’t ever stand in my line of sight again. Also.......”

(!!)

As if remembering, Kurama grabbed my hand and pulled me up.

Kurama: “This woman belongs to me. If you have a problem with that, you can tell me who owns her.

Chapter 17

[cas-backwards-tie]

CopyCat

Five Hargreeves x Reader

Request: prompts “don’t be afraid, trust me.” and  i’ll be here, no matter what.” from the misc sentences. Can Five and the reader have a moment like Luther and Allison did in S2E10? Where the reader tries to use her powers to fight Lila but she uses them against her and she almost dies but Five helps her out like Luther did with Allison. Basically a loving and protective Five and make it fluffy af please thank you!

Words: 2,310

Warnings: Cursing, Near-Death Experiences, Fighting, Anxiety, Angst.

A/N: For @alexa135​ . I really hope you enjoy this! I decided to give the reader water-based powers. OH! I forgot but this should go without saying considering the request but there will be spoilers for the season 2 finale!

“What the hell happened? What was that?” Luther asks with a groan as Five helps him up.

“She must have redirected Vanya’s energy wave,” Five thinks aloud, trying to piece the puzzle together in his mind while simultaneously remaining present in the fight.

“Yeah, I know, but how?” He voices the question they’re all bound to have once this damned fight is over. The broken fireplace shifts, bricks beginning to topple. Five springs into action.

“Luther watch out!” He yells, pushing him out of the way, tons of bricks falling on top of Five and completely burying him.

“Five!” The scream comes from the tattered house, causing your eyes to shoot open.

After Lila had sent an energy wave blasting in your direction, it sent you flying across the farm. Luckily Harlan’s ability had caused it to snow, and snow is made of water, therefore allowing you to collect snow and form it into a landing pad cushy enough to prevent major injury.

The cold wind creates an ominous whistle in the air as you struggle to push yourself out of the snowy cocoon. Once you’re on your feet, it’s a race against time. Is it? Oh, God. The thoughts in the back of your mind run rampant as your heart pounds against your chest, heart already aching at the dreadful thought: Five is dead.

Just as you arrive at the surprisingly still intact front door of the house, you throw it open only for your eyes to widen. Luther’s thrown through the wall of the house by none other than Lila, something that causes alarm. Not only was she able to create an energy wave, but she has super-strength too? Before you can react, she’s stepping through the hole and out of the house.

Allison’s voice is enough to make your heart clench as your own worry only amplifies for Five. You thought he was in here, but looking around, you don’t see him anywhere. “Five?” It comes out quietly at first as if you’re afraid of receiving no answer. “Five?” You call louder, still searching for him at the entrance.

The sound of talking then fighting outside doesn’t concern you, having faith in Five’s siblings, yet, the longer it goes on and you don’t find Five, you decide it might be best to help contain Lila before resuming your search. If he really is dead… he wouldn’t want to lose anyone else.

Stepping over the rubble and pile of bricks, you finally hear Allison use her power. Relief floods you as you know she’s powerful. “I heard a rumor-”

“-you stopped breathing,” Lila returns the rumor, somehow mirroring her power. As instantly as relief flooded you, it ebbs away, replaced instead with cold and heavy terror. Three members are missing and Diego is crying for help; that’s four down and only three standing, including you.

You don’t suspect Lila’s noticed you yet, with Luther’s groveling and the sick way Lila watches, but you know what to do. This is an advantage, one of Five’s favorites in fact: the element of surprise. With the outstretch of your hands, you concentrate all your energy on boiling the water inside her body, essentially melting her from the inside out. She slowly turns in your direction and you circle around her. Lila stuffs her hands in her pockets.

“You,” it’s an accusatory tone. A chuckle leaves Lila’s lips, and she tilts her head, a wicked smile upon her lips. “You’re little shit of a boyfriend’s dead, you know?” She jokes, no sign of pain from her despite the red glow around your hands. “He’s dead, though really, you should be thanking me, you know? That murdering prick.”

“Shut up! Don’t you dare speak about him like that,” you threaten, jaw clenching as you take a step toward her, closer toward the barn. She leads you further and further away, a game of cat and mouse perhaps, a game of chicken. You’re not scared. You’ll do whatever it takes to avenge Five.

“Oh yeah? Or what?” She laughs maniacally, her eyes widening in a way only a psychopath’s would.

That’s when you notice it. You wince. There’s a twinge of pain at your side and your attention is drawn to her fists as she pulls them out of her pockets and holds them up, they’re glowing red just like yours. “You gonna bite me? Nice try, little girl, but I think you’re the only one who’ll be absolutely on fire tonight!”

Next comes the headache, the familiar feeling of dehydration. It’s the first stage. Blood rushes through your veins, pounding as you glare up at her with a look that Five’s said on many occasions could kill. You hadn’t realized you’d been holding your breath, but when you let it out as a loud sigh, you wobble on your feet. The previous posture you’d had slumps as you struggle to stay standing. Another telltale sign is sweat; loss of fluids. Sweat drips down your forehead, underneath your clothes, your palms struggling to stay clenched in a fist as your eyebrows furrow in her direction.

“You’re not winning this, Lila. I won’t let you get away with this!” Something bubbles inside you. It feels somewhat like gas or an upset stomach, but you know what it really is… it’s your insides boiling; melting; overheating.

“We’ll see about that,” the smug look on her face does nothing but irk you. You have absolutely no idea what Diego saw in her.

One of Luther’s cries for Allison causes you to refocus. There’s no chance in hell you’ll let Lila live through this. She’s not going to get away with killing another one of the Hargreeves siblings today! A yell tears through you as you tap into your energy, your power. Directing it toward her, the glow of your hands amplifies into a bright red. It’s working.

Lila winces and folds in half, holding her stomach. “You little- conniving- she-devil!” Whipping her head up to glare at you through her bangs, Lila grunts as her fists glow brighter. She’s using more of her power!

“Let her go! It’s me you want, isn’t it?” Five’s voice distracts you. Hope lights up in your eyes and butterflies swirl through your tummy- wait… no. That’s not it. The momentary distraction was enough for her. A spike of heat throws you off your feet and you collapse onto the ground, clutching at your stomach. 

Releasing a string of groans as you writhe on the ground, you know this is the worst of it. Soon it will be over and the pain will become so much that it will numb. By then... there’s no coming back from it. That’s what happens to all your victims.

“Why won’t you just stay dead?” Lila asks rhetorically, blowing her bangs out of her face with a roll of her eyes as she relaxes from her one-on-one with you. “I can fix that for you,” she threatens. Stalking across the snow, a scream causes everyone to freeze.

“LILA!” It’s Diego. Running toward her, he stops just a few feet behind her. Though it might be stupid to take her eyes off of Five, she knows she’s ready for anything, so she takes a split-second to look at Diego. “You’ve gotta be a desperate, pathetic, wimp to go after those kids! If you do this… you’re only fooling yourself. You know who the enemy is here, and it’s not us! It’s not Five,” he warns, grabbing her attention.

The woman does a double-take, looking between the young couple and Diego. She knows Five’s not going anywhere, he’d never leave you to die alone, so she’s got some time to spare. After all, she wants to take her time killing him. Might as well save him for last. Running after Diego, the man panics and turns, fleeing into the barn.

Five couldn't care less about the snow as he throws himself onto the ground, hurriedly pulling you closer. Wait, is this the smart thing to do? He knows your abilities; he knows you’d been boiling each other alive, she’d mirrored you, Lila had been a copycat. It’s an idea, not founded on proof or fact as this situation has never happened before, but it’s the only logical solution he can think of. It has to work! The old man calls your name a few times, his hand coming up to cup your cheek as he forces you to look at him. His hands pin you down on the ground to prevent you from writhing too much. That won’t help anything. Surely touch isn’t good as his body-heat will only worsen your state. Right now you need to be still, you need cold, you need ice. He needs your attention for a second though, long enough to relay his plan. “Look at me, look at me. You’re not dying today. You’re not dying here, I am not letting that happen.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you’d been duped. You feel like an idiot. Even if Five wasn’t dead, now you’re the one who’s dying. Go figure, right? Staring up at the cloudy grey sky, you can’t help but feel like this is all so wrong. This isn’t the way things were supposed to go! This isn’t how you wanted to die.

Five doesn’t allow you to think like that. His face blocks your vision as his icy-blue eyes search your own, worry, and concern obvious within them. “Don’t be afraid, trust me. I know that you’re tired. I know, but you need to use your powers again. You need to freeze yourself. Use the snow, use the ice. Use the water in my body for all I care, you have to live! I am not losing you today, and I’ll be here, no matter what!” Sliding his hand into your own, he squeezes your hand for a moment, giving you a worried smile. His eyebrows are slightly pinched, creating worry-lines on his forehead as he hovers over you.

It shouldn’t be that simple. It can’t… and you don’t have enough energy to do that, but you don’t know how to tell Five. He’d lose his mind. If it were any other time he’d lecture you on how their family is not a family of quitters, and he, himself, is certainly not a quitter. The whisper of your name causes you to open your eyes again. Five closes the space between you to place a tender kiss on your lips. “Please… I can’t lose you too.”

With a shaky inhale, you let go of his hand and place it on your stomach. A dim blue glow surrounding your hand as you begin to freeze yourself. You have to try. A lightbulb goes off in Five’s head. He gathers the surrounding snow in his hands, beginning to pile it on top of you, almost like burying someone in the sand, only in snow. This has to work. It has to; he keeps telling himself on repeat. It drives him crazy to sit there watching, not able to do anything other than cover you in snow. He hates the snow, and any other time he’d curse it, but right now he’s grateful to the universe. The faint sound of fighting in the barn worries him, and he contemplates the idea of helping his siblings… but he can’t leave you. What if you die? He’d never forgive himself if he wasn’t here and you were alone taking your last breath.

His heart pounds in his chest and he takes shaky breaths as he freezes his ass off. It’s cold as fuck out here, though he knows you don’t feel it right now. Underneath the snow he’d placed atop your stomach he spots a brighter blue glow, which must mean it’s working, right?! It has to be. It has to be. Five scoots a little closer as he watches with anticipation. Your eyes flutter closed again, lips void of color from dehydration. Calling your name, you don’t answer.

The beating of your heart slows down, you can feel it within you. Things don’t hurt anymore, and you’re thankful for that. It’s just as you’d predicted, though, and the only thing you regret is not being able to tell Five that you love him. He watches as your chest slows, your breathing becoming more spaced out. Anger, resentment, regret, dread, and horror all fill his gut as he slowly processes what’s happening. Five isn’t a crier, but as he stares stoically at your body, he feels tears start to well up in his eyes. With a quiet whimper, he hangs his head, bangs falling in his face as he sniffles, unable to process this. Whispering your name, as if it were a question, as if he’s expecting an answer, Five’s eyes widen as yours flutter open. “Oh- thank the forces that be!” A heavy sigh escapes him as he hurriedly pushes the snow off of you and helps you sit up. Snowflakes stick to your hair, which elicits a genuine smile from Five. He raises his hand to brush your hair behind your ear and run it down your hair before cupping your cheek.

Both of you open your mouths to speak at the same time, though you beat him to it. “I love you, Five.”

“I love you too,” he whispers in response, never once taking his eyes off yours. The hand is soft on your cheek and it makes you utterly happy that you’re both alive. Noticing him leaning in, you close the space between you with a soft and yet desperate kiss. He thought he’d lost you; you thought you’d lost him. Neither of those things were true. A rumbling of the ground causes both of you to pull away, realization dawning on you that the fight isn’t over yet.

[merakiaes]

Pussy Whipped - Oscar “Spooky” Diaz

Pairing: Oscar “Spooky” Diaz x reader

Requested: Yes. 

Prompts: None. 

Warnings/notes: I lacked good ideas for dialogue in this one so this is shit, I’m sorry😂 Not proofread so sorry in advance for any possible mistakes. Translations for the Spanish bits are at the end. 

Wordcount: 2420

Summary: Mother nature pays you an early visit and Oscar treats you like the princess you are even though his Santos are watching. 

The weather was thriving outside, the air a perfect temperature and the sun shining down on all of Freridge. Yet, on this particular Saturday morning, you were absolutely miserable.

It was eleven o’clock and Oscar had been up for God knows how many hours already, while you had refused to leave your bed when the alarm had urged you to get up and get on with your day.

You’d had a lot planned for the day; chores like cleaning the house and switching out the broken lightbulb in the bathroom, and errands like going to the mall to get Cesar a new pair of shoes and go grocery shopping.

But no, as usual, mother nature chose the most inconvenient of times to pay you her monthly visit, never taking your planned cycle into much consideration.

With Oscar being in charge of Los Santos, he was always an early riser and you rarely woke up next to him, so in any other case, you didn’t mind.

But when you woke up this morning to a cold, empty bed, you had grown sad and started crying, and because of this realized pretty much instantly what was going on, even before the intense pains started.

But the cramps weren’t far behind, stopping you from getting out of bed any more than to go put in a tampon. After that, you had buried yourself under the mountain of blankets Oscar so stubbornly insisted that you slept with and cried even more because of the fact that they smelled like him and he wasn’t there to hold you.

You lost track of how long you laid there and just sulked, feeling sorry for yourself and craving everything you didn’t have in the house, but the second you heard people entering the house, followed shortly by Oscar’s voice cutting through the previously silent air, you defied the painful cramps radiating all through your abdomen and left the safety of your bed. 

It was with sulking and begrudging steps that you made your way out of your shared bedroom and headed straight for the living room.

With each step you took, the voices now speaking freely became louder, and you realized only then that your head was throbbing in sync with your uterus, making you cringe silently to yourself.

But you pushed on, desperate to be near Oscar in all your self-pitiful glory and entered the living room only seconds later.

You spotted Oscar where he was sitting in the couch instantly and when feeling your eyes on him, he looked up to meet your gaze.

The smile that had been stretched across his lips prior to your entrance faltered ever so slightly at the sight of the state you were in; hair thrown into a properly messy messy-bun, eyes bloodshot, cheeks streaky with dried tears and your body still dressed in your sleeping attire consisting of a pair of leggings and one of his very oversized t-shirts.

You were always one to start your day early. Not as early as him, but still early. You didn’t like to stay in your pajamas, so when you did, something wasn’t right.

“¿Qué pasa?” He asked you as you approached him at the couch, passing a few other Santos sitting on the opposite side of the coffee table.

Your lips automatically pulled into a small pout at his question, starting to feel your emotions getting the better of you again.

“I’m dying.” You answered in a small voice, looking down at him.

He wasted no time in shuffling further back into his seat and opening his arms, nodding his head lightly. “Come here, mami.”

You didn’t have to be told twice, sitting down in his lap and feeling a rush of calmness go through your body the second his arms wrapped around you. Getting comfortable, you leaned your back against his chest.

Sad Eyes, who was sitting next to Oscar, wordlessly accepted your legs over his knees while taking a sip out of the beer he was holding in his hand.

Meanwhile, the other three Santos who were present looked on with amused expressions as their fearless leader pressed a kiss to the top of your head and started rubbing your arms in a soothing manner.

“You going soft on us, Spooky?” One of them asked, but before Oscar even got the chance to reply, you flashed a fierce glare at him.

“Shut it, Manuel.” You snapped, snuggling further into Oscar’s chest.

Manuel whistled, smirking at you. “Damn. You on your monthlies?” He laughed at his own joke, but the others didn’t join in, having known you for longer and knowing exactly what was up.

“Yes, I am on my period.” You confirmed with hard eyes. “No, that does not mean that my anger is irrational.”

Oscar pressed a kiss to the side of your neck from behind you, clasping his hands in front of your chest. “Calm down.” He mumbled into your skin, pressing another kiss to the spot between your neck and shoulder. “Flow came early this month, huh.”

“Mhm.” You hummed, his affections calming you down immediately. “It’s ridiculous. I shouldn’t be punished for not being pregnant.” You complained to yourself, scoffing lightly.

“Psh, how bad can it be? So what you got cramps.” Manuel dropped yet another comment, shaking his head.

This time, you only closed your eyes and took a deep breath through your nose, focusing on Oscar’s soft touches in order to not blow up right then and there.

Instead, the Santo next to him slapped him across the chest, giving him a look of disbelief. “Dawg, do you have a death wish or something?” He asked. “You don’t question chicas when they’re on their flow. Rule one.”

“I’m just sayin’, homie. It can’t-“

“How about you let me stab you in the stomach a hundred times?” You interrupted him, opening your eyes and raising an eyebrow at him. “And then make you walk around like everything is fine while you bleed from your privates?”

His nose scrunched up in disgust at your words, his previously teasing attitude dropping. “Keep those bloody details to yourself. That shit’s disgusting.”

Your eyebrows shot up even further at that. “Well, that’s pathetic.” You chuckled. “What’s really disgusting is that men are still grossed out about girls getting their periods in the twenty-first century. I’m sure your mother was praying to get hers but she got you instead. Tragic.”

Oscar’s chest shook with laughter behind you, the other Santos joining in while Manuel looked sheepish.

“She got you there, ese.” Sad Eyes spoke up for the first time at that, shaking his head with an amused smirk crossed over his features. “You know, there’s a reason Spooky’s got a ruca and you don’t.”

“Yeah, and this is it.” You agreed with a snort, before looking at your boyfriend’s right-hand man with gratitude. “Thank you, Sad Eyes.”

He gave you a nod, face still amused. “I got you, Lady Spooky.” He chuckled, but Manuel wasn’t half as amused, glaring around at you.

“Why you ganging up on me?” He asked, offended, and one of the Santos immediately delivered a slap to the back of his head.

“Because you’re stupid.” He answered, and while the two continued to bicker back and forth, you turned to look at Oscar behind you.

His face was pulled into a similar expression as Sad Eyes’; one of pure amusement as he quietly watched the scene unfold. But his face turned sincere when he averted his gaze to meet yours, eyes turning soft.  

“You need anything?” He asked, and you wasted no time in nodding, giving him your best puppy-dog eyes even though you knew for a fact that it wasn’t necessary to get what you wanted.

“Can you go get my heating pad?” You asked, touching his face with your hand lightly. “And an Advil, too.”

He stared into your eyes for a long moment, taking in every feature of your face, before slowly nodding his head.

At this point, the bickering stopped and all of the Santos were watching you with amused expressions.

“Check this out, this is where Spooky’s manhood dies.” One of them, this time not Manuel, remarked, causing all of them to laugh.

Oscar’s face broke into an equally as playful smirk as he moved his attention from you to his homies, raising his eyebrows at them. “You know how it is, compa.” He joined in, shrugging his shoulders. “I gotta treat my future baby mama good.”

He rubbed your arms for a moment longer, before starting to stand up.

Naturally, since you were sitting in his lap, you were stood up with him and instantly felt your stomach pull together in pain. You managed to ignore it and raised an eyebrow at your boyfriend instead.

“You planning to put a baby in me, Diaz?” You asked teasingly, and he smirked down at you, wrapping his arms around you.

“You know it, mamas.” He fired back without missing a beat, leaning his face closer to yours while caressing your butt shamelessly. “With my smarts and your looks, our babies will conquer the world.”

“Are you insinuating that I’m not smart?” You questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course not, mi amor. The smartest person I know.” He was quick to defend himself and pressed a kiss to your lips before you could say anything else.

You smiled into it, neither of you caring in the slightest that his Santos were watching you with different expressions. At this point, they were all used to Spooky’s soft spot for you. Or well, everyone but Manuel was, him being fairly new.

But luckily, he was smart enough to understand not to point it out anymore, with the way the others were averting their gazes and minding their own.

Breaking apart from the kiss, you shared a final look before Oscar wordlessly walked into the kitchen to bid to your wishes, while you got back into the couch.

This time, you laid down flat on your back, your head resting on the armrest and Sad Eyes once again accepting your legs over his knees without as much as a single complaint.

The man in question started conversing with the other Santos while Oscar was busying himself in the kitchen and meanwhile, you just laid there in silence, listening in to the conversation at hand with an arm draped over your eyes in an attempt to block out the sunlight streaming in through the window for the sake of your throbbing head.

Five minutes later, the conversation happening around you quietened down and another second later, you felt a prod against your arm. 

Removing said arm from over your eyes, you caught sight of Oscar now standing above you, holding your heating pad in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

A smile instantly graced your features and you wasted no time in pulling yourself into a sitting position, pulling your legs up to your chest.

“Thank you, baby.” You thanked him, gratefully accepting the glass of water along with the pill he had been holding in his hand behind it.

You swallowed the pill with a few sips of the water and handed the glass back to him, trading it for the heating pad that you wasted no time in placing at the bottom of your stomach.

You let out a sigh of relief at the feeling of the heat and Oscar raised an amused eyebrow. “Better?” He questioned and you nodded, wrapping your arms around your legs and leaning your cheek on your knees.

“Much.” You smiled, and he smiled back before heading back into the kitchen with the glass.

Only a few seconds later, he walked back into the living room with his phone in his hand, raising it slightly in a signal to his Santos.

“Got a text. Let’s dip.” He told them and they didn’t need to be told twice, all of them beginning to stand up from their respective seats.

Oscar’s face was much colder now, almost completely free of emotion, but as he walked over to you, his eyes still went soft at the sight of you.

You offered him a soft smile, taking his hand in yours once he reached you by the couch. “Can you go by the store when you get back?” You asked. “The fridge is empty and I’m hungry. And I’m all out of tampons.”

He nodded his head simply, squeezing your hand. “Te apoyo, cariño.”

Sad Eyes was the last one out of his seat beside you, shaking his head and chuckling, watching his best friend basically turn into a pile of mush at one simple touch from you.

“She’s got your cojones locked up tight, compa.” He teased, and you watched as Oscar’s playful attitude returned at the comment.

“Cállate.” He chuckled, looking at him, before turning back to you. “I'll get you some of that chocolate you like, too.”

He used his thumb to caress your knuckles and you smiled at the feeling, feeling your body grow warm at his affection. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, mi amor.” His hand dropped yours, instead reaching out to touch your chin. “Go lay down. I’ll be back soon.”

You nodded, still smiling softly, but instantly raised an eyebrow when his hand left your chin and he turned to walk away.

“Hey, where are you going?” You asked, giving him a smirk when he turned back to look at you. “Forgot something.” You pointed to your lips, raising your head from your knees and straightening your neck to give him better access.

He chuckled at you as you started making kissing noises, but nonetheless leaned down to press a quick kiss to your pouting lips. “I love you.”

“Love you, too, baby.” You smiled and leaned your head back on your knees, now content and allowing him to walk away from you.

“Pussy whipped bitch.” Sad Eyes wasted no time in commenting once he reached him in the doorway of the front door, and Oscar, in turn, wasted no time in playfully shoving his chest.

“You looking to scrap, cabr��n?” He asked, shoving him again. “I’ll give it to you.”

Sad Eyes stumbled into the wall behind him at the sudden force but he quickly regained his composure, starting to play-fight back. 

You shook your head as they exited the house and let the door shut behind them, listening to their Spanish bickering until the sound of Oscar’s Impala starting and driving away filled your ears, only then speaking fondly to yourself.

“Idiots.”

Translations (I’m not a native Spanish speaker so this might not be a hundred percent accurate):

¿Qué pasa? – What’s wrong? Te apoyo, cariño – I got you, baby

[platonicteenwolf]

Second Chance At First Line

(S1E2) Part I

Teen Wolf x Reader Series Rewrite

A/N: I AM BACK!! Got back into my Teen Wolf interest so will be writing a LOT MORE soon so look forward to that!! :D Also apologies there's not as much reader in this one, I didn't want to shove them into the plot-line but deffo more in the future :]

They/Them Pronouns Version

He/Him Pronouns Version

Next Part / Masterlist

Warnings: none

Walking into the boys Lacrosse locker room, Scott slowly drops his bag in front of his locker, gloves falling to the floor next to it. He seems to be moving in a trance. Turns, back against the locker, his eyes look over the crowd of teammates staring in shock.

Stiles pokes his head out from around the corner.

“You apologize to Allison?” He questions.

“Yeah.”

“So she’s giving you a second chance or..?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah! Alright! So everything’s good?”

“No.”

“No?”

Giving a heavy sigh, Scott explains his dilemma to his friend “Remember the hunters? Her dad is one of them.”

“Her dad?”

“Shot me...”

“Allison’s father?” Stiles seems shocked to hear this new information.

“...With a crossbow.”

“Allison’s--“

“YES. HER FATHER!” Speaking louder than necessary, his voice carries across the locker room and a few heads turn to see the commotion. Scott snaps out of the daze and into a full on panic. “Oh my God, oh my Godddd. What am I going to do?”

“No, Scott. Snap back. Ok?” He lightly tapped the side of Scott’s face trying to bring him back in focus. “Okay, okay--did he recognize you?”

“No, I don’t think so--“

“Does she know about him?”

“I- I don’t know, what if she does?” Scott’s face contorts in anguish as he realizes how much danger he could be in. “This is gonna kill me man.”

“All right, okay, we’ll figure it out. Just--just focus on lacrosse. Take this, take this,” Stiles begins picking up his practice pads and handing them to his friend. “Just focus on lacrosse for now, that’s all you’ve got to do.” Now patting him on the arm, emphasizing every word, Stiles tries his best to help Scott’s panic. “Here, we, go.”

—————

A whistle rings throughout the field.

“Let’s go!” Coach Finstock yells as the players slam into each other during practice. “One-on-one from up top!”

As Jackson jogs towards the bleachers Coach calls his name.

“Jackson, take a long stick today... Attaboy.”

Coach Finstock tosses the ball to the first player, a kid named Greenberg. But Jackson is on him in seconds, smashing his stick down on the poor kid’s gloves, sending the ball flying out of the pocket.

“Nicely done, Jackson,” Coach praises. “Greenberg, that was a pathetic display of amateur ability. Do a lap.”

As Greenberg takes off into a run, the next Player charges. Scott, gazing off with far too many thoughts swirling in his head, doesn’t notice the other players backing up behind him.

“McCall, what’re your waiting for. Let’s go!”

He snaps to attention, realizing he’s at the head of the line. Coach tosses the ball. Scott goes for the shot. Running towards the goal, Jackson steps up to meet him half way and slams into Scott. A moment later he lands on the ground with a sickening thud. Coach is walking over to where Scott lays stunned on the ground.

Chuckling he asks, “Hey McCall, Hey McCall!”

As the werewolf looks towards the sky, he cradles his forearm where Jackson’s stick came down especially hard between his glove and elbow pad.

“You sure you still want to be first line, McCall,” Jackson taunts.

Gritting his teeth in anger, Scott looks up to see Jackson walking away.

“McCall, my grandmother can move faster than that and she’s dead! Can you move faster than the... lifeless corpse of my dead grandmother, McCall?”

Now seething in his rage, Scotts reveals his brown eyes which are rapidly brightening to yellow. “Yes, Coach.”

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes Coach!” He says slightly louder.

“Then do it again.” As Scott jogs back to the front of the line, Coach calls to the rest of the team. “McCalls gonna do it again!”

The whistle blows and Scott shoots forward again as Coach tosses the ball to him. Stiles steps away from the rest of the team, noticing the change in Scott. His speed, the extraordinary agility with which he moves.

An oblivious Jackson goes for a cross check, heading for Scott with his stick horizontal even as the smaller boy hurtles toward him with ferocious speed.

They collide like two goats locking horns. Both go down, Jackson hollering as he hits the ground.

The sickening sound of bone dislodging from socket sends a cringe through Coach. While everyone else runs over to check on Jackson, Stiles hurries to Scott’s side.

“Are you okay?”

But Scott won’t lift his head, won’t reveal his face to Stiles underneath the helmet.

“Scott?”

His head tilts up to reveal the sharpened teeth jutting out from his lower jaw.

“It’s happening. I can’t control it.“

“Come, on. Now? Get up, get up.”

Grabbing him by the shoulder pads, Stiles pulls him up. As Stiles drags him off the field and toward the lockers, neither of them notice someone watching from the sidelines... Derek Hale.

—————

The door to the darkened locker room clangs open, Stiles dragging a hunched over Scott inside.

“Get back,” Scott warns.

“I’m just trying to help--“

“Get away from me!”

His voice comes out with a frighteningly demonic rasp, head snapping around as if to rip out the other boy’s throat.

Stiles retreats, almost stumbling over his own feet at the sight of Scott’s eyes. The sounds coming from him are painful, animalistic and frighteningly aggressive.

Turning back, Scott doubles over in pain. He tears off his lacrosse gloves to reveal his sharpened claws.

Stiles keeps stepping away in fear, accidentally backing into a fire extinguisher against the wall.

The clang of metal causes Scott to whip his head around. But it’s no longer Scott under that helmet or behind those rage-filled yellow eyes.

He hurtles toward Stiles, rounding the corner of the lockers, jumping onto the wood bench and up as Stiles lifts the fire extinguisher and pulls the trigger, blasting CO2 from the nozzle. Scott’s clawed hands come up to shield his face, plumes of white surrounding him.

Darting around another corner, Stiles backs against the lockers, waiting for the next attack.

“Stiles?”

Slowly, Stiles peers around the locker row to see Scott on the floor, chest heaving with each difficult breath. He pulls the helmet off to reveal he’s back to normal. Face drenched with sweat.

“What happened?”

“You tried to kill me.”

Stiles drops the extinguisher to the floor. Still shaking and unable to conceal his anger at his friend.

“It’s like I told you. It’s the anger, your pulse rising. They’re all triggers.”

“But that’s lacrosse. It’s a pretty violent game if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, its gonna be a lot more violent if you end up killing someone on the field. You can’t play Saturday. You have to get out of the game.”

“But I’m first line.”

“Not anymore.”

—————

An emotionally and physically exhausted Scott tosses his school bag on the floor and falls face first onto the bed. Melissa McCall looks in.

“Late shift again for me, but I’m taking a night off to see your first game.”

“Mom, you can’t.”

“I can and I will. One shift won’t break us. Not completely. And what’s wrong with your eyes?”

Scott glances up in alarm.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“Oh. It’s nothing. Just kind of stressed.”

“Just stress? Nothing else? You’re not on drugs or anything?”

“Right now?”

“Right now?! What do you mean right now? Have you ever taken drugs?”

“Have you?”

A question she clearly doesn’t want to answer.

“Get some sleep.”

Car keys in hand, Melissa leaves.

Scott drags himself up from the bed and hits the mouse on his computer. The moment it wakes, a web chat invitation from Stiles pops up. Scott hits accept and Stiles and James appeared in the voice call.

—————

As Scott pops up on my screen, Stiles spins around in his chair holding a nerf gun, shooting at the camera.

“You’re such a nerd Stiles,” I chide.

Defending himself, he mocks back. “You’re such a nerd Stiles”

Interrupting our tom-foolery, Scott asks, “What’d you find out?”

“It’s bad,” I warn, “Jackson’s got a separated shoulder.”

“Because of me?”

“Oh please,” Stiles says. “It’s because he’s a tool. It’s not your fault.”

“Is he going to play?”

Relaying what Coach told me earlier, I tell the boys “They don’t know yet. But now they’re all counting on you for Saturday.”

As Scott sighs, Stiles leans closer to the web cam window, squinting his eyes at it. He seems to be looking at something in Scott’s room.

“What?”

A text window pops up the screen and Stiles types:

It looks like--

Scott’s screen starts lagging and a notification comes up across his screen saying he has a bad connection. As I zoom in on Scott’s image trying to see what Stiles is talking about, I finally see it. A dark shadow is standing behind him in his room. Leaping from my chair, I run to Stiles room and slam open the door. Pulling up a chair next to him, I meet his face full of worry as Scott’s screen continues to load.

—————

The cursor turns into a spinning wheel, the computer momentarily hung up. Stiles’s web cam image freezes.

“Looks like what?”

A moment later, the cursor finally stops spinning and the rest of the text appears:

It looks like someone’s behind you.

Scott stops breathing. He doesn’t turn around.

Staying very still, his eyes move to his own image in the bottom corner of the web cam window. He slowly clicks the mouse, re-sizing the window, making it larger and larger until he sees his own reflected face, an expression of pure fear on it. And behind him a strange silhouette. Someone is standing there in the shadows of his room.

Scott spins around and Derek grabs him, yanking him away from the desk, sending the laptop clattering to the floor. Dragging him up, he slams Scott face first to the wall.

“I saw you on the field.”

”What? What are you talking--“

“You shifted in front of them. If they find out what you are, they find out about me. About all of us. Then it’s not just hunters after us. It’s everyone.”

“But they didn’t, didn't see anything. I swear--“

“And they won’t. Because if you try to play that game Saturday...” Derek comes terrifyingly close, right next to Scott’s ear.

“I’ll kill you myself.”

He pulls Scott from the wall and sends him tumbling across the room. When Scott looks up from the floor, Derek is gone.

The bedroom window lies open where he must have leapt with incredible speed, leaving Scott alone in his room. And shaking in fear...

—————

Tag List: @linkpk88 @mochminnie @im-a-stranger-thing @that-winged-rat @avengersgirl1221

[artificialqueens]

Donatella (Taywhora) - Holtzmanns

read on ao3 | word count: 2924

George’s hand lingers on Tayce’s shoulder for a millisecond too long once he’s done adjusting his outfit, before he lets it drop to the side. There’s a tiny hint of disappointment that swirls in his chest upon the realization that he has to move on to another model, because the show is about to start any minute, and the last thing he wants to do is piss off the show director, who already has a vein throbbing along her forehead as she yells at the poor man fiddling with the lighting fixtures-

“Hey. Go ahead. I won’t take it personal,” Tayce murmurs, and the twinkle in his eyes lets George know that he’s absolutely taking the piss.

Nonetheless, he’s powerless to stop the upward curve of his own lips. “No?”

“Maybe a little.”

He swears he sees Tayce wink, but maybe that’s just the brightness of the fluorescents overhead.

A/N: Hi, I'm still alive, I swear. Life has been fun and also full to the brim of changes, though I'm trying my best to get back into the groove of writing again. Next chapter of vampire fic (and maybe level up) to be revisited soon for sure. In the meantime, enjoy this short and sweet oneshot and let me know what you think! Thank you Writ for betaing 💖

The final day of London Fashion Week tends to feel like the culmination of a week-long bender.

It sort of is, if the thin white lines of powder on blatant display on the dressing room tables are any indication. Not that George has gone near them, not today. Not when tonight’s the Versace show and he’s cut most of these garments and helped to sew at least two of them, and they’re going to be out on the runway in half an hour’s time. Grunt work is the opposite of glamorous when he’s hunched over a sewing machine at two in the morning, but it’s worth it at times like this, when he’s about to show his work with fucking Versace.

Well, not George’s own designs. Not yet. But he has to start somewhere, doesn’t he?

George tries not to wrinkle his nose when the model whose dress he’s pinning lights up a cigarette in between her fingers. Backstage at Fashion Week is never too strict when it comes to smoking, because hell, the big names would throw a fit. It does raise George’s blood pressure just a tad, though, when the ash that the model taps off of her cigarette falls just a little too close to the dress.

He refuses to have his creations ruined by accidental ignition.

It’s almost a relief from George to step away from her, moving onto the model beside her who’s not smoking, thank the heavens, except-

“I remember you!”

Oh, no.

Tayce, at least that’s what George thinks his name is, remains as gorgeous as he was during his fittings a few weeks back. Enough to make George’s carefully planned comebacks fall to the wayside, leaving his lungs empty because of the sharpness of Tayce’s jawline and the sparkle in his eyes. There’s something about Tayce that dries up any remnants of confidence swirling around in George’s system, enough so that he turns into a bloody schoolgirl with a crush.

Not that he has one. He’s at work, for God’s sake.

“I remember you too. Funny how memory works, isn’t it?”

Shy George can sometimes get snarky. Not in a mean way, though. He hopes.

Luckily, Tayce doesn’t seem very bothered. In fact, his smile grows bigger as George kneels down, fiddling with the sides of the trousers he’s got on for the show. The blue fabric isn’t falling quite right, but maybe George can take them in a smidge with a few pins so that they’re more streamlined-

“You’re cute when you’re focused with a handful of pins in your mouth,” Tayce’s wry voice distracts George from the fabric in his hands, and he nearly nicks himself in the process.

He curses internally, not only because of the poke on his finger but also because he probably looks right clumsy in front of Tayce. Model Tayce who knows he’s the shit, if the way he stomps down the runway is any indication, the very one who has an amused look on his face due to George’s internal turmoil.

“Are you trying to make yourself late for the runway?” George asks, but he can’t be stern the way he wants to, not when Tayce is so ridiculously charming and looking at him like he’s a challenge he wants to solve.

Tayce lets out a scoff. “Please. We both know these shindigs never start on time. My afternoon show was forty five minutes late and I wasn’t even the last one to show up.”

George snorts as he gathers the fabric once more. “Oh right, you were second last, weren’t you?”

“The cheek!” Tayce exclaims, crossing his arms, and George only has to shoot eyes in his direction for him to return to his original position, enough so that the fabric falls properly. “I’m on time, everyone else is simply early. Isn’t that the saying?”

George pauses. “Isn’t that from The Princess Diaries ?”

“So what?” Tayce shrugs. “I may have watched that movie but you have too, right? Recognized it and all.”

“Course I did. You don’t take me for someone with shit taste in movies, do you?” George asks as he gets back to his feet, scanning his gaze down Tayce’s torso to make sure his shirt is falling properly, nothing more.

He can feel Tayce’s gaze on him in return and it almost wants to keep him from looking up, because if he does then Tayce is surely going to notice when his cheeks inevitably redden.

Better to focus. Since he’s at work and all.

George barely taps on Tayce’s shoulder, a cue for him to turn around and Tayce readily does so without question, pushing his shoulders back. It’s as if Tayce already knows what George is looking for, anticipating his moves before he has the chance to make them clear. Nothing different from what Tayce would do with any other stylist responsible for checking his garments before a show, but it still feels as if Tayce is paying attention. Noticing George’s little routine.

It’s enough to make his heart beat just a little bit faster.

George’s hand lingers on Tayce’s shoulder for a millisecond too long once he’s done adjusting his outfit, before he lets it drop to the side. There’s a tiny hint of disappointment that swirls in his chest upon the realization that he has to move on to another model, because the show is about to start any minute, and the last thing he wants to do is piss off the show director, who already has a vein throbbing along her forehead as she yells at the poor man fiddling with the lighting fixtures-

“Hey. Go ahead. I won’t take it personal,” Tayce murmurs, and the twinkle in his eyes lets George know that he’s absolutely taking the piss.

Nonetheless, he’s powerless to stop the upward curve of his own lips. “No?”

“Maybe a little.”

He swears he sees Tayce wink, but maybe that’s just the brightness of the fluorescents overhead.

George can feel Tayce’s eyes on him as he moves on to the next few models, taking a fraction of the time because really, they don’t need that detailed of a onceover. It’s all for the best because the crowd is quieting on the other side of the curtains and the lights are bright enough to make George squint, even while backstage, as the line of models head out one after another.

Being in the audience for a show is night and day from actually working backstage - it’s as if the curtains dull all of the yelling, the quick-changes, the utter chaos that threatens to spill out onto the stage itself. Once the show starts George runs back and forth, darting between models to help them into their next looks, the rich colours draped along their figures looking straight out of an oil painting, one that he’s lucky to have helped to create. He almost doesn’t notice when he reaches Tayce once more, too caught up with the blueprints of all of the looks in his head until he feels a flick against his shoulder.

“Mighty brave, tugging on my clothes before even saying hello,” Tayce grins, somehow cool as a cucumber while shimmying into the blazer that George holds out for him, the patterns on the sleeves catching in the light.

George has to ignore the slight stammer that catches his tongue, hoping the chaos of the show is enough that Tayce doesn’t either. “I don’t see you complaining about it.”

“Who says I’m complaining?” Tayce throws back, holding George’s gaze before tilting his head to the side, “you’re better than old Muriel over there.”

George has to hold in a laugh as he follows Tayce’s gaze. The older stylist he’s pointing to has been on the scene for decades upon decades, working with the likes of Kate Moss and Naomi Campbell, and someone George could really learn from, though he’s learned to keep his distance. Probably for the best, because as George watches, she barks at the model whose dress she’s adjusting and passes her the sandwich in her grip so that she can use both of her hands for the job.

Tayce makes a face. “So pushy. And I swear, she wears the same perfume as my nan. Can’t forget the scent of Guerlain Shalimar.”

“Muriel’s bringing back those memories, then?” George asks, snorting when Tayce lets out a shudder.

“Just imagine Muriel as your nan. She wouldn’t feed you Sunday roast until she’d gotten you in cute little outfits with lace and petticoats, all the while threatening to put out her cigarette on your arm if you moved even a centimetre.”

“What an upbringing,” George whistles as he gives Tayce a onceover. “There. Good to go. Back to your place in line, then.”

Tayce blows a kiss, and George swears it’s for the sole purpose of making his face flush beet red, if Tayce’s delighted snicker as he walks away is any indication.

George finds himself peeking over at the curtains leading to the edge of the runway more than once as he’s running around backstage between the clothing racks and all the models, travel sewing kit in hand. Maybe it’s a bit pathetic to keep a constant eye out for Tayce every time he steps off the runway, but George can’t help it. Not when Tayce manages to catch his eye right back every single time.

Tayce sidles up to George once the show’s over and he’s packing up the clothes for travel, taking extra care of the ones he’s helped to put together. No matter how many collections he’s participated in, endless hours of painstaking work, it somehow still feels special. The excitement of it all hasn’t quite worn off just yet. George reaches for a garment bag but Tayce plucks it from the rack before he can, unzipping it so that George can stuff in the dress that’s currently draped across his arms.

Tayce grabs another bag and does the same thing, and it makes George pause for a second, look over towards him. “Don’t you have the afterparty to go to?”

George remembers his first Fashion Week back when he was a student, when the afterparties were glitz and glam and miles away from the clubs near Worksop. All the celebrities and the models and the designers that he would try to network with while they were drunk off their tits, so it would never get too far, anyway. Still, though, it felt almost thrilling.

Now, though, it feels like the novelty has worn off. The seventy-hour work week that is required during London Fashion Week, combined with very little sleep, means that the first thing George wants to do after helping with the pack up is go back to his flat and crash.

“I came here to ask you the same thing,” Tayce counters, rocking on his feet and not looking tired in the least.

George, though, shakes his head. “Me? Nah. I’m knackered.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Tayce gives him a look. “It’s the last day. What else are you up to tomorrow, anyway? You can sleep in, can’t you?”

“I can also sleep now,” George shrugs, and the dramatic sigh that Tayce lets out makes him grin.

It’s sort of nice to feel wanted, almost.

And so George acquiesces, because the possibility of spending more time with Tayce, with Tayce even wanting to spend time with him, is enough to set off a current in his veins and wake him up despite the late hour. “Fine. I’ll only come for a little bit, though. Then it’s bedtime for me.”

The triumphant yell out of Tayce’s mouth makes it worth it, even as Muriel shoots them a dirty look.

Sleep is overrated, George has decided.

It doesn’t come close to the alternative, his current reality where Tayce is tipping back a shot as the chains around his neck catch on the pulsing lights overhead. It’s Tayce’s second one in a row without so much as a wince, and maybe it’s because the bar has watered down the drinks the closer the clock gets to midnight, but it’s hard for George to look away nonetheless.

Tayce doesn’t call him out on it but instead grabs his hand with a glint in his eye, as if the attention is pure energy that charges his system. George swears he feels the electricity through their connected palms.

The way Tayce dances parallels his runway walk - he’s determined with his movements while simultaneously the mirror image of a gazelle getting used to its long limbs as he throws his arms up. Not that it’s a bad look on Tayce, not in the least. Maybe it’s Tayce’s confidence, or maybe it’s just the way George has fallen in too deep, but it works on him.

Tayce tugs on the corner of his shirt before he spins in place, his yell barely audible over the music. “Dance floors aren’t made for standing like a statue. C’mon, then.”

George can accept the fact that Tayce won’t remember tonight with his inevitable hangover tomorrow anyway, while simultaneously wanting to keep himself from looking like an idiot. “I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do,” Tayce chirps, lifting their intertwined hands as if they’re ballroom partners, but pauses when George lets out a squeak. “Wait. Babe, you’re stiffer than Dua Lipa attempting an eight count.”

“I told you!” George huffs, but the embarrassment he expects to feel doesn’t heat his cheeks up, because Tayce is too busy flinging his own limbs around in some sort of interpretation of the music.

It’s almost refreshing, the way Tayce doesn’t seem to care about what other people think, how he almost feeds off of the attention because none of it is ever negative. Even if it was, George isn’t sure that Tayce would ever let any of it tear him down, because he seems more the type to let it roll off of him without so much as a glance over.

It’s not until the remix overhead blends in some Gaga that George feels inclined to sing along, move his hips and his arms a little more because he’s self conscious, yes, but he also has an appreciation for the finer artists in life. He doesn’t miss the way Tayce’s face lights up, the whoop he lets out audible over the music before he grabs both of George’s hands once more as he dances.

“Atta boy!”

George wants to swear that the crowdedness of the dance floor is responsible for how close he’s getting to Tayce, because he doesn’t remember taking a step but Tayce is close enough that George can see the glitter on his cheekbones, the one hair curl swooping onto his forehead. It has to be the crowd that’s pushing them together for sure, enough that Tayce’s fingers are trailing down his biceps and along his waist and grabbing onto his belt loops to tug him in closer.

George lifts his eyebrows up in question, ignoring the way his heart is pounding and the racing thoughts in his head, because if he focuses too much on them he’s going to lose his mind. So instead he watches the way Tayce nods, biting his lip and the subtle waft of cologne that hits him when Tayce wraps his arms around his neck makes his eyes flutter.

Tayce kisses the same way that he moves on the dance floor - unabashed, taking, enough to leave George breathless and gasping, but who needs to come up for air when Tayce invades all of his senses so deliciously? George rakes his nails along the silk on Tayce’s back, and Tayce’s hiss against his mouth is intoxicating, muddying his thoughts more so than the alcohol flowing through his veins.

Tayce’s eyes are unfocused, dazed when they pull apart and it’s the first time George has seen him look anything less than in control. “Fucking hell.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” George can’t help the way his pitch rises in concern as he nearly has to yell over the music, because what if Tayce is more disgusted than anything-

“You idiot,” Tayce snorts, pulling him closer again with a hand on his waist, and George can feel the smile on his lips when they kiss. “What do you think?”

“Just checking,” George mumbles sheepishly, though the chagrin fades when Tayce pulls their hips up against each other and he can feel… oh.

A good thing, then.

“Happy end to Fashion Week, indeed,” George gets out, leaning in closer to Tayce, but it’s short lived when Tayce pulls back, and George has to stop himself from pouting.

Tayce looks entirely too gleeful as his fingers gather in the hair on the nape of George’s neck. “Shall we end it with a bang, then?”

“Oh my god,” George mutters, shaking his head, and it only exacerbates Tayce’s snickering. “Is that really how you get others into bed with you?”

“Is it working?” Tayce asks, and George pauses, his eyes catching on the curve of Tayce’s eyebrow, the sheen of his skin.

As if his answer would be anything else.

So George intertwines their hands, gives a little tug to pull them off of the dance floor, and snorts when Tayce lets out a whoop. Tayce is ridiculous yet somehow suave and hot all at once, a puzzle  that George hasn’t quite solved.

Though with their fingers linked as they head out the back door of the club, George is looking forward to getting the chance to do so.

[uhgood-dooghu]

Dial Tone [M]

Author uhgood-dooghu

Pairing Namjoon x Reader

Summary Namjoon’s been gone for a week. That’s it, that’s the tweet.

Rating 18+

Genre Smut, fluff, my attempt at crack, established relationship

Warnings Explicit sexual content, phone sex, daddy kink you’ve been warned, dom/sub undertones, begging, edging, orgasm control, dirty talk, use of a sex toy, Namjoon’s packing, OC is a bro girl at heart, self gratuitous porn with no plot

Word Count 2.7k

“Daddy...”

Namjoon almost swerves into a passing truck as your breathy voice fills his car.

Swearing, he composes himself, eyes flitting rapidly between the road and his phone, the Bluetooth allowing a string needy moans to ring out from the speakers.

When you’d called earlier, he’d been in the middle of the Meeting of the Year (trademarked by Seokjin), deep in the throes of negotiations but also riding high on the success of the afternoon. He hadn’t seen the notification until he’d finally left the building forty-five minutes late, waving goodbye to his business partner and waiting for his car just outside the lobby. He’d frowned when he’d seen your name. You’d made plans this morning to call him later tonight, so the timestamp concerned him slightly, but he knew well enough that if there was an emergency, you would call at least 7 times. Probably blow up Seokjin’s phone as well.

Sliding into the drivers seat, he’d connected his phone and pulled onto the street, absentmindedly hitting play on your message.

Thank god Seokjin had declined his offer for a ride.

“Holy mother of fuck,” he exclaims, panic clouding his thoughts before he has the sense to throw a hand out and adjust the volume. Does he know what’s happening? No. But he really doesn’t need the bass bumping your moans through the window for the whole world to hear.

Gripping the steering wheel, he swallows thickly, ears tuning in to the words you start to speak.

“Daddy, I need you,” you whine. “Where are you? You said you’d be done by now–“ You break off with a gasp.

When it hits him, the panic subsides, his jaw locking in place as he maneuvers his way through the evening rush. To clarify, you’d made very specific plans to call him tonight.

Apparently you’d gotten impatient.

The way your voice shakes tells him you probably had three fingers buried in your pussy, trying and failing to replicate what his own fingers are capable of. He listens to you take a few grounding breaths.

“I miss you, daddy. You’ve been gone for so long–oh my god–I miss you touching me.”

Namjoon’s eyes harden and he presses harder on the gas. A horn blares to his left, but he ignores it completely, barely seeing the angry driver flip him off, because his pants suddenly feel much tighter than they did five seconds ago.

“I miss your fingers. And your dick. Fuuuck, daddyyy!”

Your moans start to escalate, chasing after that edge, likely trying so hard to curl your fingers against your g-spot while circling your clit frantically with your free hand. His knuckles whiten around the wheel, his exhale dark as your voice turns progressively more manic, more helplessly panicked, until you cry out in desperation, the way you always do when you’re denied.

Your voice cracks and he feels it right in his dick.

“Daddy daddy, please please please, call me back, please please, I wanna come, daddy, I’ve been so good, please please please, call me.”

Your words slur, voice wrecked, and you let out a final sob before the message ends.

Namjoon sits frozen for a moment, mechanically turning his car into the hotel drive, before he inhales sharply and looks down.

Yep, he’s hard as fuck.

“Shit.”

Pulling up to the valet, he fumbles with his belt, tucking his erection into his waistband with a silent prayer that it’ll be enough to save him some embarrassment. It probably won’t (surprise, it’s actually quite difficult to hide a massive dick, who would’ve thought), but he doesn’t have a whole lot of options. At least he wore black pants.

He grabs his phone and steps out of the car only a little awkwardly, passing the man his keys before making a beeline for the glass doors. Thankfully, the lobby is near vacant as he rushes to the elevator, angling himself away from the front desk. Still, the receptionist raises an eyebrow, so he forces a smile, dimples fully on display even as his eyes stare daggers at the dial above the door. Tapping at his phone, he shoots you a text.

Namjoon: Couldn’t wait for tonight, huh? [6:31 PM]

When the doors finally open, he darts inside, choosing his floor and frantically tapping the “close” button.

The elevator moves far too slowly. That’s all he can think as he adjusts his crotch, swearing under his breath. It does nothing to relieve the pressure and he swears again. He really does have big dick problems. He nearly trips when the doors slide open, narrowly missing a wide-eyed housekeeper passing by with a cleaning cart. He is quick to apologize but does not stop as he speeds to his suite, already tugging at the knot of his tie.

Letting himself through the door, he works the top few buttons of his shirt open and glances at his phone. You haven’t responded, which, knowing you, could mean one of two things. Either you let the moment pass...or you’re too fucked out to notice his message.

Quirking a brow, he texts again.

Namjoon: You there baby? [6:34 PM]

This time your response is immediate.

Y/n: Call me [6:34 PM]

With a chuckle, he strips to his boxers and falls to the mattress. Readjusting on the pillows, he presses the phone to his ear, listening to it ring twice before you pick up.

“Daddy…”

“Hi, baby.” He hooks his arm behind his head and licks his lips. “What you up to?”

He smirks when you moan, loud and wanton.

“Having fun?”

You stutter out a yes.

“Mmm, without me?”

He listens in amusement as you keen.

“I’m sorry, daddy, I c-couldn’t help it. I miss you!”

“It’s okay, princess. I miss you, too.”

In the background, he hears a soft drone.

“You got a toy in you, baby?”

“Mhmmm!”

“Yeah? Which one?”

You take a shaky breath. “T-the black one.”

He hums in approval, cock twitching at the image of you lying on the bed, legs spread, the suction cup of your favorite toy pressed to your clit while the other end curves inside you, buzzing against your g-spot. He can picture the way your eyes squeeze shut as you bite and suck on your fingers to keep yourself from touching.

“How long’s it been in, princess?”

“Too long,” you moan, and he tuts in disapproval.

“Not an answer.”

You whimper, voice pitching. “Since I c-called you.”

In the back of his mind, he’s impressed. That was at least an hour. Giving a low whistle, he finally reaches down and briefly palms himself. The relief shoots up his spine as he sighs.

“Dang, baby. Wanna tell daddy what you did while you waited for me?”

The way you groan tells him you’d much rather not, but he waits expectantly. You know what to say if you want to stop. You exhale a few times before managing to speak.

“I u-used my fingers...and I played with my clit. I got myself m-messy for you.” You pause to breathe. “Then g-got close, I was so close, and then I called you.”

You’re starting to heave, voice modulating rhythmically, and Namjoon suspects you are rocking your head back and forth, trying to keep the pleasure at bay. His dick throbs, but he refuses to touch just yet. Not until he hears you be good for him.

“Keep going, baby.”

You huff a whine and press on. “T-then I put my toy in...I let it suck my clit–ah!”

The device clicks off and he swells with pride and satisfaction as you pant heavily in his ear. Your self-control never fails to blow his mind. He doesn’t even have to tell you what to do, you’re so desperate to please. Tugging at his waistband, he pulls the elastic below his balls, finally wrapping his hand around the base of his cock and squeezing.

“You like that, huh? You like your toy sucking your clit?”

“D-daddy sucks it better.” You mewl and click the toy back to life.

He allows himself a smug grin. Sue him, it’s nice to hear. “What then, baby? What did you do next?”

Slowly, he starts raking his fist over his shaft, swirling the palm over the tip, and he bites back a groan, because, shit, he gets so ridiculously hard for you, it’s almost pathetic. Almost.

“I–fuck–I kept it inside me, and I...I p-played with my nipples until I was close–shiiiiit.”

You’re losing coherency by the second, and Namjoon loves it. It sets his nerve-endings on fire. Makes him a little light-headed himself. Still, he murmurs soft praises in your ear, wishing he was there to stroke your hair and kiss your face, your hands, literally every inch of your body. It takes you a minute to continue, the vibe clicking on and off once more.

“I was s-so close, and then I t-turned it up and it felt so good, daddy, it felt so good!” You’re on the verge of tears, and Namjoon smiles fondly, dragging his thumb through the precum beading at his slit.

“I’m sure it did, baby. Were you a good girl?”

“Yes yes yes,” you insist, and he hears the frantic rustle of sheets. “I was good, I didn’t come. I promise.” There’s a slight change in your voice, the toy becoming more muffled, and he can tell you’ve flipped to your stomach. “I promise.” This time you actually sob, and Namjoon shushes you softly.

“It’s okay, baby, I believe you.”

You moan. “Daddy, I wanna come.”

The throb of his dick lets him know he wants you to come, too. He moves his fist just a little faster.

“I know, baby.” Biting his lip, he lets his eyes fall shut. “But I want you to use your fingers first. Take the toy out and get them wet. Taste yourself for me, princess.”

You shift and, a few moments later, audibly swallow.

“Tastes so good...” you moan.

Fuck.

“Yeah? Nice and sweet for me?”

Your affirming whimper is slightly muffled, and Namjoon can see the way you press your face into the mattress, ass up and knees wide, fingers drenched in your own slick and drool as you rock your hips in the air. The image is lethal.

“Yesss daddy, please–“ You choke in the way you do when you force yourself to hold off for him. “Please, I’m so close, I’ve been so close for so long, please.”

God, he doesn’t know why he loves this so much. It’s almost sadistic how much he gets off on hearing you beg, on hearing you so broken and needy and desperate, such a far cry from the confidently composed woman he knows you to be.

In the beginning, he was confused, reluctant even, when you asked him to take control of your pleasure. Even though the idea sent a shiver up his spine, he couldn’t imagine you of all people truly wanting something like that. You, who demands control in every aspect of your life, who refuses to take orders and sends 6’ 5”, built-like-dump-truck CEOs crashing face first into their glass office doors (a story for another time).

He asked you again and again and again if you were sure, hesitant to jump too hastily, no matter how badly his mind and body buzzed at the thought. It took you grabbing his face and shaking him, promising him you wanted this, wanted him to have that final say, for him to finally agree. You had a more detailed conversation after that, discussing boundaries and safe words and all the nuts and bolts he was adamant to set firmly in place.

You haven’t come without permission since.

And now, as you whine and beg for him, completely at his mercy even 1,000 miles away, he revels in the power trip. He feels it swim through his veins and collect in his dick, and yeah, another drop of precum oozes out because that’s how much he fucking loves this.

“Daddy,” you choke, and he can tell you’re quickly reaching a breaking point.

“It’s ok, princess, I’m here.”

Putting you on speaker, he sets his phone on his chest and reaches down to cup his balls. He’s barely touched himself, but they’re already so tight, and he knows he won’t need a whole lot to get there. You do all the work without even trying.

You keen helplessly, and he rolls the flesh in his palm.

“Alright, baby,” he coos. “Put your toy back in. I want you to turn it up high. I wanna hear it, okay?”

The answering buzz has you crying out. Loudly.

Namjoon grins in satisfaction. Resting his head back, he tugs on his dick, finally allowing the warmth to grow and spread throughout his limbs. Your moans spur him on, his pace increasing in time with your desperation, until all he can hear are your sobs of ‘daddy daddy daddy!’

Fuck, he’s close.

“You know what to do, baby,” he growls.

You’re practically wailing, words muffled and unintelligible, and he fleetingly wishes he had FaceTimed you instead.

“Can’t hear you, princess.”

You gasp loudly.

“P-please, daddy, can I come?” You break off in a desperate slur of pleasepleaseplease, and that’s all he needs to snap.

Gritting his teeth, he tightens his fist.

“Come.”

“Fuck, daddy!” You squeal, crying out for him incoherently as you fall apart, the sound slightly distorted from the way your writhing rustles the sheets against the speaker.

“Good girl,” he groans, fist pumping furiously, head falling back as your whimpers send him over the edge. Cum spurts over his hand and stomach in hot streaks. “Such a good girl for me, fuck.”

He works himself through the pleasure, dragging his cum back down his cock, all the while showering you with praise as you gasp helplessly.

“Fuck, baby, you did so well.” With a hiss, he slows his hand to a stop, giving himself one last squeeze before dropping his dick to his stomach. “I’m so fucking proud of you. You hear me?”

You whimper, panting heavily, toy already clicked silent, and he knows you’re just about boneless on the sheets. For a second he lies there, letting the cloud settle, his sticky hand hanging off the bed. Taking a breath, he checks in.

“Can you talk to me, y/n?”

You don’t respond right away. “G-give me a minute,” you eventually whisper, and he relents with a soft ‘okay.’

It takes about five minutes, but he finally hears your breathing level out, a sated sigh crackling though the phone.

“How you feeling, babe?”

“Dead.”

He laughs, grabbing some tissues from the nightstand. “How long were you–“

“Two hours. Two fucking hours, Joon.” He laughs again, wiping the cum from his abs and fingers. “How long does it take to check your messages, goddamn!”

“Sorry, the meeting ran long.”

You hum in mock annoyance, then yawn loudly. “It went well, at least?”

“Mhmm, really well. We closed the deal.”

“Fuck yeah, bro.”

Laughing, Namjoon tosses the tissues in the trash and falls back onto the pillows. “Were you really edging for that long?”

“I mean, I took a couple breaks, but yeah, pretty much.”

He shakes his head, feeling a little guilty. “I’m sorry, baby, you know you didn’t have to–“

“Namjoon. It felt good. Really good.”

“...well, shit.”

You snort, and he lets go of any intrusive thoughts. He trusts that you know what you want, and lord knows he’ll give you anything you ask for. He hears you yawn once more with a smile.

“You should go to sleep.”

“It’s only 7.”

“You’ll be asleep in an hour anyways.”

You shift on the bed with a scoff. “You calling me old?”

“If you want me to.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

Namjoon smiles, and starts softly asking about your day, content to just hear your voice and stare aimlessly at the ceiling. Eventually, though, you settle into silence, simply listening to each other breathe. It’s not nearly as good as feeling your warmth beside him, but he’ll live. Still, he’s counting down the hours until his plane lands in a few days and he can kiss you for real. It’s been a long week.

He sighs. “I miss you, y/n.”

“I miss you, too, Joonie. I love you.”

His heart swells and he closes his eyes. He loves you, too. So goddamn much.

© moodievitamine, January 2021. Please do not copy, repost, or translate!

[quicksiluers]

Sorry about the inherent angst with this one but 41 with Grant/Sherman, Thank you!

ok so FINALLY....we get to this one, the living person/ghost au and boy...the angst with this one was fun It's kind of AU in a sense, cause I mean ghosts, but it takes place a few years after Grant has passed away!

So yeah, have fun. I think this is the longest one? who knows, I can't keep track

Gray clouds blanketed the sky, light rain falling on him as he walked along the sidewalk. The streets were empty, the poor weather keeping most residents within their warm homes. Sherman pulled his coat closer to his body, hands stuffed deep into the pockets. He had forgotten his gloves. Minnie would be upset. She had chided him the other day for forgetting them and he had reassured her that it wouldn’t happen again.

What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

A small brick structure appeared over the low ridge ahead. He felt his chest tighten, mouth set into a hard frown.

Grant deserved better than that.

Each step felt like it was weighed down, his feet dragging. During his previous visits, he was occupied by others wishing to pay their respects. At first, it wouldn’t bother him. Listening to them recount stories of the general brought some relief, a soothing feeling that comforted him for a time. That soothing slowly crumbled into annoyance. He wanted to be alone with him, to suffer alone. Remembering their times during the war, the small smiles, laughs, touches…

Sherman shook his head, cursing under his breath. It was selfish. He had no right to tell others to leave when they were grieving.

If anything, he was the coward who couldn’t visit Grant while he was alone. He had tried, talked himself up multiple times, and conveniently found another thing to do. Each time he would make the plans with himself, dread clawed at him. His chest would tighten up, heart pounding in his ears.

It was only when Sherman was standing at the foot of Sheridan’s grave, looking into the freshly dug ground, that he realized that he was scared to visit Grant. He would have to admit that he was gone. Out of his reach forever. Something in him cracked as he stood there, tears rolling down his aging face.

As Sherman approached, a soldier on guard turned to him, giving a small salute. At least they still had guards around this place. “Sir,” the young man nodded, Sherman returning the gesture.

“You can stand down Captain,” he ordered, trying to keep his voice gentle, “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

The young man’s hand came down slowly, posture relaxing slightly, “No disturbance General. You’re more than welcome here.”

Annoyance prickled within him. Of course, he could be here. Had this child even known Grant? If anything, he should be the one telling the kid to run off.

You didn’t need to be so harsh Sherman.

He let out a low breath, allowing the annoyance to ebb away. He could still picture the brunette’s disapproving look, though a small smile tugged on his lips. There had been too many times when he’d overreact and Grant would pull him back. It was one of the many things he…

“Would you mind Captain, if I had a moment alone?” Sherman asked, his eyes trained on the red structure. There was some wear to the bricks. He’d have to bring that up with someone, to make sure everything was put together properly.

“Of course sir.”

When the young man was out of his sight, he took a step closer to the temporary tomb. A chill ran through him. It seemed like yesterday when they sat together in Grant’s home within the heart of the city. A blanket was wrapped around Grant’s shoulders, a blue cap atop his head. He was the man Sherman knew, had stood side by side for years, and yet he wasn’t. The bags underneath his eyes were deep, the coughing fits wracking his body. That firm, strong voice that he followed through so much had grown softer. When Sherman brought up a story from the war, a familiar warmth shone in Grant’s eyes that thrilled him. He would have done anything to bring life back to his...to his dear friend.

His hand rested against the brick, fingers lightly scratching the rough surface. They were so much more than that. No one could know. He had tried to forget, chalking it up to their younger years. Yet there were still times when he yearned for those arms to be wrapped around him. Stealing quick kisses while on campaign, Grant’s hand briefly taking his own after a meeting. Shared glances, stories around the campfire, those strong lips overpowering his own.

Sherman’s face flushed, resting his forehead lightly against the wall, “I don’t know why I thought coming up here was a good idea,” he whispered, a shaky laugh passing his lips, “I...I miss you. And I…,” he swallowed the words, unable to say them outloud.

The wind began to pick, a chill in the air sending a shiver through him. He fought back the grief that threatened to take him over, stepping back from the tomb. Sliding his hand into his inner coat pocket, he carefully cradled a small collection of flowers. There was nothing special about them in particular, ones he had found along the way.

It was something he had seen Grant do while they were campaigning through Mississippi. When he had asked the young general about it, he talked about how he had grown interested in them while he was away in Mexico.

‘It was silly,’ he shrugged, spinning one briefly in his palm, ‘But I thought Julia would love them.’

‘Did she?’

A playful gleam shone in his eye, ‘We’re married aren’t we?’

“A ridiculous story, Grant,” Sherman muttered, crouching down to lay the small bunch of flowers. He tucked them between the grates of the entrance, eyes locked on the sarcophagus sitting within the walls. How much longer was it going to sit in there like that? He deserved more than this. Everyone knew it. And yet nothing was done.

His hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms. Standing up, he took a few steps back, anger building up within him. This was what the people gave to the man who saved the Union? Who kept the country together? It was pathetic, a disgrace. The committee members who were supposed to be working on his resting place did nothing. A group of good for nothing’s. If he ever got his hands on them...

His heart was pounding in his ears, breath coming out in short, harsh gasps. Calm. He had to be calm.

Taking a deep breath, Sherman exhaled slowly. He closed his eyes, paying special attention to the rhythm of his heart. As it slowed, he felt exhaustion creeping upon him. He wasn’t young anymore. The swift shifts to anger that had seemed like second nature to him during the war drained him now.

“Well Grant,” he paused, eyes roving over the small tomb. He licked his lips, chapped from the cool weather, “I’ll...see you again. Maybe the weather will be warmer.”

Only silence was his answer. How very Grant.

Sherman turned and walked away, making his way back to the city. He brought his hands up to his mouth, blowing warm air into them. It would be a long walk, but it would allow him to clear his head.

At the entrance of the tomb, the small bunch of flowers swayed lightly against the ground. One was pulled away from the others, rising up and through the bars. A faint outline of a hand gently cradled it between their fingers.

“Sherman…”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He spent the rest of the day busying himself with business around the home. Minnie and the other girls would be out for the night, promising to see him the next day. That had been fine with him, the storm of emotions within him making him more restless than usual. Each time he sat down to write a letter, he ended up scratching out the response halfway through, throwing one sheet after another in the bin beside him. Nothing brought him comfort.

It had been a mistake going up to the tomb. Sherman slumped down into his seat within his study, running a hand through his hair. It was thinner than he wanted it to be. Ellen had teased him about it years ago. He still had the letter when she told him not to give it out to anyone who asked for it.

She was another person who left him too soon.

The wind whistled outside, a faint light from the street lamps along the sidewalk creeping along the floor. Sherman pulled his robe tightly around him, a shiver wracking his body. That was odd. It was rare for him to feel a chill like that when he was in his pajamas. He had made sure the fabric was thick for the cold winter nights. He glanced back at the window, a few specks fluttering by. Snow. He frowned at the prospect. Winters in the city could be miserable.

Grumbling, he rose from his chair, hugging himself to keep warm. He made his way across the room toward the fireplace, sighing in relief at the small bit of warmth. Gently he grabbed another log, throwing it on top of the pile, embers bursting from the remnants. A wave of heat rolled over him.

“Sherman…”

His head spun around, eyes darting around the room. Nothing seemed out of place. Was there anyone else in the house?

Shaking his head, he turned back to the fire and stocked it a few times. That should keep the room warm for the time being.

“Got yourself hearing things,” he chuckled, standing up and stretching his back. It had most likely been the wind.

“Sherman…?”

Everything within him froze. No. He refused to believe it. That voice...it couldn’t be possible. Every hair on his body felt like it was standing on end.

It was coming from behind him.

He didn’t move, unsure of what to do. If he turned around, what would he find? His mind was playing tricks on him. That’s what it had to be. It couldn’t possibly be…

Slowly, ears ringing, he turned his head. At first, he saw nothing. Just the wall and windows behind his desk, the tree branches swaying from the window beyond them. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. His eyes trailed around the room before they froze on the back corner. It was darker than the rest of the room and he squinted to make out what was there. A faint shimmer.

No. It couldn’t be. Maybe he was mad.

From the shadows, the shimmer took shape. The blue over his coat was faint, practically see-through. His chestnut brown hair was as full as it had been during the war when Sherman would run his hands through it in private moments. Strong, blue eyes staring back at him.

“Grant…?”

His mouth felt dry, unsure of what he was seeing before him. It was as if the man hadn’t aged a day since the end of the war. But he knew that wasn’t the case. Sherman had seen his sunken cheeks, the pale sickly skin burned into his memory. This couldn’t be…

Whatever it was stared back at him, tilting its head slightly. A small smile tugged on its lips, “You’ve gotten old.”

Whatever doubt he had evaporated. That voice. No one else had that voice.

Without thinking, he quickly crossed the room. He stopped a few paces away from the figure, suddenly unsure. It looked so real as if he was actually there. And yet…that unfamiliar chill settled over him.

“How…are you really…?” He stopped, staring down at the form. Everything about him looked realistic. Yet he knew it couldn’t be, there was no possible way. The uncertainty left him speechless, shaking his head, “I…”

“I am…well,” the form, Grant, raised his hand up, turning it over a few times, “Mostly. I’m here in a way.”

“But why do you look…”

His faded blue eyes looked up at him, an eyebrow slightly raised, “How do I look to you?”

Sherman raised his own hand but stopped himself. What would happen if he touched him? He feared that if he tried, the form would fade away. That couldn’t happen, not so soon. If this was all the time he was going to have with him…

“Like you did at City Point,” mumbled Sherman, pulling his hand to his chest. His heart felt like it was going to burst through it, though he wasn’t sure if it was from nerves or joy, “How can that be though…”

“Well…it could be what you want to see,” reasoned Grant, watching him. He nodded to himself, seemingly happy with the explanation, “Yes, I assume that would make the most sense.”

“What do you mean by that?” Sherman asked, eyebrows pinched together.

“I’m just assuming that it has something to do with your own emotions. Maybe, I appear like this because it’s how I looked in your…I guess what would be your happiest memory,” Grant scratched his hand against his jaw, hand-pressed into his hip. A thoughtful expression formed on his face and Sherman couldn’t help but smile. He had seen it so many times during meetings.

It really was him

Whatever nerves were holding him back melted away and he stepped forward, reaching his hand out. If he could just for a moment maybe feel him…

His hand passed through what would have been Grant’s cheek, a burst of chills snaking up his arm. Sherman gasped, his mind going blank as he tripped over himself at the sensation. He fell forward through the form, landing on his knees. His hands were planted into the carpet, body wracked with the same chills.

“Sherman! Sherman, I…”

Gritting his teeth, he tried to push back the cold creeping into his skin. Why had he fooled himself like that? Did he really think he would be so lucky, so fortunate, to be able to do more than talk with him again?

Grant was kneeled in front of him, his hands hovering over the older man. Sherman’s gaze met his, blue eyes mixed with concern and sadness. It was cruel. He was right there in front of him and yet…

“I’m sorry, Sherman I...,” Grant ducked his head, strands of his hair falling in front of his faint face. He pulled his hands back away from Sherman, somehow curling into the “fabric” of his pants, “I’ve made it worse.”

“No, I should have known better,” objected Sherman, shaking his head. The cold sensation faded away, a tingling and prickling feeling left behind. A throbbing of pain came from his knees. He’d feel that tomorrow. The thought made him laugh under his breath, Grant’s worried gaze fixed on him, “This whole thing…I’m just so happy to see you. There’s nothing you could do to make it worse.”

The brunette watched him, searching his face. Slowly he nodded, “If you say so,” he conceded, the few strands of hair distracting Sherman. Unconsciously, he reached out to brush them away before Grant pulled back, concern rushing to his face, “No, Sherman, it’ll…”

“I don’t mind it,” Sherman argued, “even if I can’t do it. Just let me...,”

A worried expression watched him, Sherman’s hand hovering inches from the outline of Grant’s head. With a sigh, Grant moved closer to him, the faint outline of his hand reaching up to Sherman’s hand, “Fine, but if it’s too much…,”

A light feeling pressed to his skin, leaving behind the same tingling sensation. The cold crept at the edges, but it didn’t seem to have the same effect when Grant was touching him. His hand came over the top of his, somehow guiding Sherman’s hand closer. The feeling was dizzying, almost like he was actually there. As his fingers combed through Grant’s “hair”, he was brought back to the two of them in the hotel in Cincinnati.

They had laid together in a tangled mess, Sherman’s hand carding through the brunette’s disheveled hair, Grant leaving lazy kisses along his neck. At the time, they hadn’t known it would be the last time they would see each other for a year. At that moment, it was just them. He felt Grant’s calloused hand reach up, pulling him closer and kissing him softly, Sherman melting into him.

“Sherman…”

The older man was brought out from his reprieve, unsure when he had closed his eyes. Opening them, Grant stared back at him with a sad smile. Sherman’s hand was clasped between his own, seemingly placed on Grant’s lap. He wasn’t sure how that worked, but he didn’t care.

“It’s not fair,” Sherman grumbled, shaking his head.

“What’s not fair?” Grant asked, tilting his head. He seemed fainter than he had before. Sherman knew they only had so much time.

“That you’re not here. You should be the one…”

“Don’t say that,” his interruption surprised Sherman, the familiar flash of determination in the other man’s eyes, “It was my time. I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to take my place. That sort of suffering…I would wish it upon no one.”

“So you would have yourself bear it all?” Sherman growled, “You were the best of us. Yo-you should have…”

“It was my burden to bear Sherman,” insisted Grant, frowning at the older man, “We don’t get to decide when w-“

“But it’s not fair!” he yelled, pulling his hand back harshly. The cold sensation snapped back with him, a shiver going up to his spine, “Y-you, and then Phil…and then Ellen, you all just…”

Something wet rolled down his cheek, but Sherman paid it no mind. His emotions whirled like a storm within him. Everyone was taken too soon from him. And each time he had to be strong, the grizzled, determined general to push on through. Locking away all that pain. But at some point it became unbearable and this…having Grant so close to him and yet not being able to hold him. To feel his lips on his own, to care for him…

Was he being punished for what happened during the war?

Grant’s broken expression stared back at him, unsure of what he could do. Sherman pushed his face into his hands, wiping away the frustrated tears. His breaths came out in quick succession. It was becoming hard to breathe.

“Sherman, Sherman you need to…”

An odd sensation pulled at his arm, “Dammit! Sherman please,” those blue eyes were fixed on him, swimming with concern. Sherman felt himself gasp, trying to remember the breathing exercise his doctor had instructed him to do when he was short of breath. Nothing came to him.

Suddenly, a burst of cold felt like it slammed him in the chest. Crying out, Sherman fell back into the carpet, coughing harshly into his hand.

What the hell had that been?

Grant’s faint figure took over his vision, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do, are you alright?”

“What,” Sherman coughed, trying to rid himself of the cold, “What did you do? Christ...”

“I didn’t think shoving my hand in your chest would work so well…”

The sheepish expression on the man’s face rid him of any annoyance. He chuckled at first before it slowly developed into a full laugh. It was painful how Grant that was. His mind was brought back to the war, where he would sit back and watch the brunette direct hundreds of men with ease. The plan was always there, but he would be willing to shift things around until the end result was what he wanted, even if he was unsure of the methods.

It was hard not to fall in love with him.

Slowly, the laughter cracked, tears rolling down his cheeks. The grief he had kept at bay finally broke through and flooded over him.

Drowning. That’s what it felt like. He didn’t know what to do, was lost within the waves crashing down on him. It was all too much. But he deserved it. This is what the families of the men he had led to their deaths must have felt. Why had he been allowed to live on when better people passed away?

The familiar cold sensation pooled around his cheek. Cracking open his eyes, trying to wipe away the tears, Grant looked down at him. His mouth was moving, but Sherman couldn’t hear it. His ears were ringing.

“…man, I should have stayed away. If I had known…”

Panic came over him. “No,” his voice cracked, “No, don’t say that.”

Grant’s concerned expression didn’t change, “But Sherma-“

“No,” he sat up quickly, the world tilting slightly due to the dizziness. He blinked a few times, trying to focus his gaze. Grant sat back on his “knees”, pulling his hand away with him. Sherman tried to reach out for it, fingers passing through too easily, “Don’t say that please.”

They sat together on the ground in silence, the whistling wind echoing throughout the room. Grant’s face was turned away, the wall of books behind him more visible than they had been before. Time was slipping away from them. There was so much Sherman wanted to do, so much to say. These couldn’t be their last moments together. Those memories were already painful enough.

“I missed you so much,” he licked his lips, voice rough from the coughing. Grant’s head tilted toward him, blue eyes watching him warily, “I couldn’t...after they put you in tha-that tomb...I couldn’t bring myself to…”

“But you did visit,” Grant countered softly, moving closer to him. If he had physically been there, their knees would have been pressed up to each other, “I know that much. I could always sense you in a way.”

“Never alone though,” argued Sherman, sitting back on his knees. His eyes flickered over the brunette’s face, the youth he remembered so vividly. Between the presidency and cancer, he had aged so much in those last years. Lines of worry that had only just begun during the war cracked all over his face. Those were gone now, replaced with a sadness that Sherman was unfamiliar with, “I couldn’t bring myself to come alone until...until Phil and then...Ellen, with them both gone…

“I was scared,” the admittance tumbled out, Sherman looking away from Grant’s gaze, “The idea of you not being here...it was unbearable, I couldn’t bring myself to deal with it,” he scoffed, shaking his head, “How pathetic does that sound?”

“I don’t think it’s pathetic,” the voice was close, just above a whisper. He felt that chill on his cheek, shivering, “I think I understand more than you think.”

He turned, realizing how close they were. His breath came out in puffs like it did when he walked with his girls along the streets in the city on a cold day. Grant’s gaze was soft, a sad smile pulling at his lips. A phantom feeling brushed along his cheek, Sherman almost leaning into it. Was it really Grant or was his mind playing tricks on him?

“I love you,” Sherman whispered, desperate to touch him. Just for a moment. Was that too much to ask for?

“You mean ‘loved’,” Grant chided quietly with a smile.

“No,” he shook his head, staring into his faded blue eyes, “I love you. I’ll always love you.”

Grant looked over him silently, his mouth turning into a small frown. Sherman stared back at him, daring him to challenge him.

Nodding, the small frown melted away into a soft smile, “And I love you, Cump.”

They seemed to move at the same time, Sherman leaning forward, aching to feel his firm lips again. A wave of cold overpowered his mouth, seeping through him, and he let his eyes close. If only for a moment, he could feel Grant on him, guiding him.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Papa? Papa, you must wake up…” The voice cracked through the darkness, his eyes slowly blinking open. He closed them quickly again, not adjusting enough to the sunlight seeping through the windows. A warm pressure shook his shoulder lightly, “Papa, please you know the doctor said sleeping at your desk was not good for you…”

Sherman groaned. What did doctors know anyway?

Slowly he opened his eyes, sitting up and stretching slightly. Every part of him felt sore, “When did you get back Minnie?” He fought back a yawn, leaning back into his chair. When had he fallen asleep last night?

His daughter looked down at him with a mixture of annoyance and concern, “I just arrived back when you didn’t join us for breakfast. Did you forget our plans?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. How could he have slept through that? It was something they always did when most of them were together in the city, “I must have been more tired than I thought.”

“Did you leave a window open somewhere?”

“No,” he replied in confusion, raising an eyebrow, “why?”

“You’re so cold. Maybe with the fire going out and you not having a blanket…,” her eyes lingered on the burnt-out embers within the fireplace, eyebrows furrowed, “Please don’t do that again Papa, you know how cold it can get.”

An odd sensation came over him, but Sherman couldn’t place it. His fingers lightly brushed his lips, their small chill sending a shiver through him.

“Oh,” her voice alerted him, his eyes trained on the small flower between her fingers. Minnie’s other hand was pressed lightly to a stack of papers sitting at the corner of his desk, “This is a cute flower Papa. Where did you find it?”

“I…,” he stammered, his mind reeling. What was all that last night…? “When I was walking through Central Park yesterday.”

Minnie placed it gently on the desk, picking up one of the papers under her hand. Her eyes flickered over it, a small smile crossing her face, “Are these all the letters that General Grant wrote you?”

His eyes were trained on the stack, the edges of some of them worn from time. When had he pulled those out?

“They are...,” his voice trailed off, gently grabbing one from the pile. His thumb lightly brushed over the paper, his eyes dancing across the page.

“He seemed to care about you a lot, Papa.”

“He did,” Sherman muttered, cradling the paper carefully. It was one he cherished, pulling it out occasionally while they had been apart for that long last year of the war. His eyes lingered over the ending. He bit his bottom lip lightly, fighting back a small smile;

How far your advice and suggestions have been of assistance you know. How far your execution of whatever has been given you to do entitles you to the reward I am receiving you cannot know as well as me. I feel all the gratitude this letter would express, giving it the most flattering construction.

Those faded blue eyes from the previous night appeared in his mind. Heat crawled onto his face, accepting that it hadn’t been a dream.

And I love you, Cump.

“And I cared for him as well. Very much so.”

[beck-a-leck]

Kissing prompt! Shamelessly asking for #14 Cliff x Claire! 😌

I live to answer shameless prompts!

Send me a Smooch Prompt and a couple characters for all your self-indulgent needs!

#14 - A kiss so desperate that the two wind around each other, refusing to let go until they're finished.

Featuring Cliff and Claire, and just the teeniest bit of angst and sadness to really make the desperation stick.

Cliff packed slowly. He didn't want to leave the inn, didn't want to leave Mineral Town, didn't want to leave his friends, and perhaps most desperately, he didn't want to leave Claire. But there was nothing to be done for it. He had no money. There was no work to be found in town. Doug had already given him as much of a break on rent as he could afford, and Cliff had relied on Claire to feed him for most of a season now. He hated how much he had to rely on the kindness of others, how much he took that he could never pay back. He had become a burden, and he couldn't stand that.

As much as he did not want to leave Mineral Town, a place that had begun to feel more like home in the last year than any place had for such a long time, Cliff had to go. He had to find a job, and there were absolutely none to be found. He'd thought something might have come up last autumn at the winery, Duke had hired him and another guy to be the manual laborers during the harvest, but at the end of it all, Michael had been offered the chance to stay on full time. Michael had gotten along with Duke like a house on fire, they laughed and joked like they were old friends, even though Michael had only rolled into town one one of the last boats of the summer.

Winter was coming to its close, Cliff had spent a year here, and the last six months truly visualizing Mineral Town as home, as the place he would grow old in with the woman he loved. Maybe even one day, have a family again.

But those dreams had dwindled as rapidly as his funds.

This wouldn't be goodbye forever, Cliff and Claire had had a very long discussion about this, about his leaving, and their future together. If he was lucky, he'd find work somewhere else, he could start earning money, and saving money, building skills that he could some day bring back to Mineral Town and then maybe, in a year or two, he could come back.

But... it was a heavy Maybe. Maybe Cliff would never be able to go back to Mineral Town. Maybe his travels for a job took him too far away. Maybe Claire would fall in love with someone else in his absence, someone who could always be here for her, who wouldn't leave.

Cliff shoved the last few items into his bag and zipped it closed. He slung the pack over his shoulder and turned towards the door. His eyes fell on the room's other occupant.

"I'm gonna miss you, man," Gray said, trying and failing to keep the emotion from his voice. "You sure you don't want anyone to go with you down to the pier?"

"No," Cliff said quietly, "That's okay, I'd rather go alone. I've said my goodbyes."

"Yeah, well, you've got one more." Gray offered his hand. Cliff took it, and they shook for a moment, before the two of them, with a wet chuckle, pulled into a hug. "Won't be the same here without you." Gray thumped him on the back before letting go.

Without another word, Cliff hitched his pack up over his shoulders, and walked out of the room he'd called home for the last year. Ann was sweeping the stairs, and she gave him a tight hug as he passed. Down at the bar, Doug shook his hand firmly and sent him off with a "Good luck, son."

It was snowing, and a bitter cold wind was tearing at Mineral Town. Nobody else was out in the streets, or in the square. With every step Cliff took towards the beach, his heart sunk. Claire wouldn't be here. he had specifically asked her to not see him off like this. They'd said their goodbyes last night, and he, quite frankly, wasn't certain he could get on the ferry if she was there with him.

Snow and sand crunched beneath his feet as he crossed the beach to the pier. He perched gingerly on the icy bench and watched the distant shape of the ferry grow closer on the roiling gray sea.

He shivered and pulled his coat tight around him - Claire's Starry night present to him - it was warm and sturdy. He'd get many good years of use out of it. Wearing it was like walking around in her embrace.

The ferry was almost there when another body settled on the bench next to Cliff.

"Hey," Michael said with a slight smile, he was always smiling. No wonder Duke had asked him to stay on at the winery with a sunny attitude like that. "Cold enough, huh?"

"Yeah..." Cliff didn't feel much like talking. And as much as he didn't want to resent Michael, because the man hadn't done anything to him personally, there was a mean corner of him mind that kind of hated the guy for taking his chance to stay in Mineral Town forever.

Michael was carrying a duffel bag, stuffed full, it looked. Cliff nodded towards it, "You taking a trip to the city?"

Michael shrugged. "For starters, yeah. Spend New Year's partying it up, from there, who knows where I'll go. Maybe spend the rest of the winter somewhere warm."

That didn't make any sense.

"But what about your job? The Winery? I know winter is a slow season, but surely Duke and Manna need your help still. They're letting you take a vacation that long?"

"Vacation?" Michael laughed. "Nah, bud, I quit the winery, like a couple days ago. Small town living is quaint and all, and nice for a little while, but I don't want to be in a little backwater hole like this for the rest of my life, you know." He grinned and nudged Cliff. "I mean, you're leaving too for brighter futures and greener pastures, right?"

Cliff's hands curled into fists. he'd never truly disliked Michael before, but right now he really wanted to hit that flippant, smug, carefree grin right off his face. Just to be certain he wasn't having some vivid hallucination, Cliff asked again. "You quit the winery?"

"Yeah." Michael shrugged. "I was gonna wait til after New Year's but honestly I can't even bear the thought of spending the holiday in this tiny town. I doubt there would even be a party, everyone would probably be in bed by nine." He scoffed. "Probably wouldn't even get a New Year's kiss. None of the girls here are even all that cute, and they're so old fashioned. You basically have to propose before they'll even let you hold hands."

Cliff stared at Michael dumbfounded. His mind raced with possibility. Maybe he could go back to the winery and ask for a job, but Duke had already rejected him once this year, what's to say they still won't want him. But he had to try, right? Worst they could say was 'no' and he would just have to catch the ferry tomorrow. Best case - he couldn't even think of the best case scenario in case he jinxed the whole thing. Anything for a chance. that' what he had promised Claire. He would do any job, try anything if it meant coming back to her sooner.

Cliff snapped out of it as the ferry pulled close to the pier, blowing its whistle to call any stragglers to hurry and catch their ride.

Someone was shouting his name. Michael nudged him. “Hey, isn’t that your girlfriend?”

Cliff turned and saw Claire standing on the steps at the top of the beach. She cupped her hands around her mouth and called, “CLIFF! WAIT!”

“I thought you dumped her,” Michael said with a dint of disdain. “She was certainly mopey about it when I saw her earlier when I was getting my last paycheck.” He scoffed again. “Kinda pathetic, ain’t she? Just a little too desperate, huh?”

Once again, Cliff was seized with the overwhelming urge to deck Michael. But he didn’t. He got to his feet and turned away from Michael and the docking ferry.

“Hey, where’re you going? The boat’s right here. They won’t wait for you.”

“I don’t care. I’ll catch the next one if I have to.” Cliff didn’t spare Michael another thought or a second glance. He took off running towards Claire. She took off running towards him too. The met in the middle of the beach and crashed into each other, throwing their arms around the other and holding on tight.

“Don’t go!” Claire gasped, taking his face in her cold hands. “Don’t go yet. Please. I-I think I found you a job. At the winery.”

“I know. Michael’s leaving.”

A smile broke out over Claire’s lips as she realized, as they both realized, Cliff might not have to leave. There might be a chance for him to stay in town. Maybe he wouldn’t have to go.

She pulled his face towards hers, drawing him into a fierce kiss. Their lips crashed against teeth, but neither pulled away. Cliff kissed her, letting all of the hope bubble up in his chest and drive him desperately forward. Claire let got of his face and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her held her close, as close as possible. He ignored the fear that maybe Duke and Manna still wouldn’t want him, maybe the winery didn’t really need an extra set of hands. Maybe he was just prolonging the inevitable and he would still have to leave Claire.

He held Claire close and kissed her as snow collected in their hair, and their fingers went numb in the cold, until finally, panting slightly for breath they broke the kiss. Cliff rested his forehead against Claire’s, he looked down at their intertwined hands before closing his eyes. In his heart he made a wish, he said a prayer.

I wish… Maybe… Please…

“I should probably go talk to Duke and Manna, huh?”

[ichorness]

there will be no tenderness- pt 1

ao3 link 

Rating: E

Relationship: Rowan/Castor, Castor/Avor/Evrin

Warnings: noncon, breeding kink (no pregnancy), anal, spitroasting, slapping, spanking, branding, choking, knotting, leashes, mild puppy play, rough oral sex, rough vaginal sex, trans character being penetrated in front hole, kidnapping, emotional manipulation. lmk if i missed anything. 

The royal procession gleams where it travels down the road dug through the steep hilly terrain, hard packed dirt hardened by years and years of horse hooves and carriage wheels. The carriage that passes below Rowan now is dark wood polished to a shine, pulled by 4 large white horses with braided manes and jeweled bridles. Rowan snorts at this. Only royal horses need rubies studding their bridles. 

The royal guard accompanying the carriage is nothing to sneeze at, however. Half a dozen highly trained knights, devoted to nothing else but the safety of their king and the king’s family. They’re mounted on darker, smaller horses, built for speed but still strong enough to tote large men and women dressed in full mail. 

Rowan lays on their stomach at the top of the hill nearest the wooden bridge that spans the river that cuts the land in half. If they look across the road, a bit to the east, they can see the tops of two burly heads also aimed at the road. The somewhat uncontrollable battle-lust of Rowan’s compatriots make them uneasy, but this is the price one pays for throwing their lot in with a couple of packless werewolves, and the two have been reliable so far. 

They refocus their attention to the procession. The prince and a few of his companions are being escorted from the royal family’s country estate in the warmer, greener southern countryside where he wiles his winters away to the royal palace on the northwestern coast. The first breath of spring always brings the prince, the king’s younger son, home, on a route cleared of all other travel until he makes it safely to the capital city. The path the carriage takes changes yearly, but Rowan spent a few days in various taverns listening to merchantmen and caravan drivers griping over having to change their travel plans. Supposedly they’re compensated for the inconvenience, but apparently not enough to keep from grumbling into their cups. 

The first pair of accompanying horses is close to nearing the bridge now. It’s time. Rowan lets out a low, steady whistle, like an owl, and waits until it is returned. Then, they make their sliding descent down the side of the hill, skidding to a halt a few yards ahead of the procession, directly in the middle of the road. The knights ahead of the carriage pull their mounts to a curious halt, hands already on the hilts of their swords. 

Rowan raises their hands, heavy silver ring on their left pointer finger already drawing their magic forward from their chest. “Hey!” one of the knights shouts, drawing his sword and making to dismount. 

By then, it’s too late, however. Rowan can feel the heavy, fast heartbeats of the horses as if they were Rowan’s own, pounding in their ears. They look into the eyes of the horses and feel the impulses of their minds, reaching in and gathering up the strands of their consciousnesses into their left hand and clenching their fingers tight around the bundle. A small tug. 

The horses bearing the knights let out enraged snorts and brays, kicking and bucking with ferocity until the knights go spilling to the ground. A firmer tug from Rowan and the horses turn on the knights, staring down over them with fury and hatred. Stamping their great hooves and kicking out with their back legs. 

It’s barely a thought for Rowan to sever the harnesses connecting the white carriage horses to their load, allowing them to thunder off away from the scene, dragging the driver a few yards before the fool has the good sense to release the reins. This doesn’t save the poor man, of course, for with a snap of Rowan’s ringed fingers, he bursts into a wash of flames, burning to a husk in seconds. No witnesses. 

These distractions are enough that Rowan’s werewolf companions approach almost unnoticed, until Avor, larger and blonder than his compatriot, tears into the first knight. This is enough to finally draw screams of terror from inside the carriage, the prince and his pampered friends clearly unused to such brutality. One of the knights draws her weapon, a long necked rifle from the east, new and expensive, supposedly able to fire projectiles at amazing speeds. 

Rowan has never seen one up close, as they are prized and the sale of them is heavily restricted, but they know that within the chamber there is flint and powder to launch the small steel ball within the barrel. They release their control of the horses, that part of the job now done, and focus their energy on the spark waiting to be lit inside of the rifle. All at once, it explodes with surprising force, blowing up in the knight’s face as she draws it close to her face to take aim. She falls to the ground with a scream, face a bloody mess and hands blown to bits. 

A knight ducks one of Evrin’s clawed slashes and charges toward Rowan instead. Rowan clenches their left fist tight enough that their arm aches with the force of it, and the knight slows, a look of confused fear crossing his face. His movements become brittle and stuttered until he stops completely, frost traveling fast over his frame, feet to head. Freezing his insides, skin going blue and white. Rowan picks up a decent sized rock by the side of the dirt road and lobs it at the frozen knight. He shatters on impact, bloodless, like an ice statue. 

Evrin and Avor make quick, bloody work of the rest. Their fronts are wet with red by the time the last knight falls dead, missing his throat. They stop, looking to Rowan for confirmation, who nods. The large men rip the carriage doors off the body of the carriage completely, to the horrified cries of those inside. Rowan can see four individuals, two young nobles, an older man (probably an attendant or tutor), and the prince himself. He isn’t wearing his crown in the privacy of his carriage, but his portrait is on enough walls in the kingdom that there is no mistake. 

Prince Castor is cowering against the corner of the carriage, nails digging into the plush seats as if that will protect him. Rowan would pity him, if he didn’t represent such a large sum of money. “What do we do with the rest?” Evrin, smaller and moderately more reasonable than Avor, asks. 

Rowan shrugs. “No witnesses,” they say, reaching into the carriage and grabbing for the prince. He shrieks when Rowan snatches his slim wrists, kicking and flailing. He’s small and weak, however, his well heeled, pampered life betraying him when he can’t even manage a proper punch. If his aim had been better he would have broken his thumb against Rowan’s face. Rowan wrestles Castor out of the carriage and wrenches his head back by a handful of his soft hair. “You saw what I did to your guards with this, didn’t you?” Rowan holds up his ring for Castor’s inspection, imbued with the power of a magical focus. 

Castor manages the barest of nods. “Do you want to know what I can do to you?” Rowan can see Castor’s pulse hammering against the skin of his neck. A tiny shake of the head. “Then be a good boy,” Rowan says against the shell of his ear, breathing in the smell of his clean, perfumed skin. 

The prince, wisely, stands utterly still, aside from his trembles of fear, which Rowan does not blame him for. They put him out of his pathetic misery, pressing two fingers to his temple and slowing his mind and heart until he slumps heavily into their arms, fast asleep. He will not wake for several hours. It’s a small mercy, but he will be spared witnessing the gory fate of his friends. They produce a pair of iron manacles from their pack and fasten them tightly around Castor’s princely wrists, hands behind his back. 

Avor and Evrin are busy hauling the bodies of the knights toward the carriage and piling them inside of it. A limp arm hangs out the left door, and Avor kicks it back into the carriage with irritation. He hasn’t bothered wiping the blood from his face, allowing it to seep into his beard, but Evrin at least took a cursory swipe at himself with a rag sticking out from his pocket. Once all the bodies are in the carriage and the doors shut, Evrin looks to Rowan. “You’re up, boss,” he says, his tone going snide.

Rowan raises both hands, fingers splayed, and a gust of flame flares up from beneath the carriage, engulfing the entirety of it immediately. Soon the pillar of smoke will be visible for miles, as well as the stench of burning human flesh and hair. 

It’s time to depart. 

They take 3 horses that used to bear the knights, Rowan’s magic making them agreeable to these strangers. Rowan balances the sleeping prince in front of them in the saddle, pulling his fine velvet, fur lined hood over his head so the face on a million portraits and stamps around the kingdom isn’t bare to the world, and sets off at a steady gallop. Evrin and Avor have a bit more trouble with their mounts, magic or no. The horses sense that there are predators among them, that these man shaped creatures are beasts that can and will eat them. Avor’s steed requires a firm heel to the side before it sets off after Rowan, but soon, the three of them are riding west just as the sun turns in the sky to begin its lazy descent. 

-

Castor’s body aches, tailbone and hips smarting like they do after a day of riding. His shoulders, also, are painful and tense, arms strained and burning. He groans softly, confused. His face is against the hard, damp ground instead of a pillow, and his neck is itching at him. He goes to stretch, bring his arms in front of him to sit up, and stops when he feels the cold, hard metal of the cuffs around his wrists. Tight enough to bruise, and the raw feeling in his wrists suggest that they have. 

His breathing picks up now, panic setting in as memories of what occurred before his sleep come back to him, a bit hazy, but still alarming. Sounds of slaughter, crackling fire, the cries of men and horses. Castor rolls onto his back with a grunt and struggles into a seated position, staring around. 

He’s sat in a small clearing where a tiny camp has been pitched, a tent and two bedrolls situated around a hastily dug fire pit. The itch at his throat is a length of rope that has been tied around his neck and connected securely to a fallen log a few feet behind him. It isn’t thin rope, either, and of course he’s already been divested of his dagger and travel purse. His ears burn when the phrase “like a dog” floats through his mind, collared and leashed as he is. 

This minor embarrassment is in the back of his mind, however, as he takes in the others at the camp. Two massive, burly men, covered in hair and arms bulging with muscle sit on one side of the fire, eyeing him like meat. Castor has never seen werewolves before, but he can safely assume that’s what these men are. One of them, more blonde than his fellow, has a permanently elongated face, as if partially phased into that of his wolf form, eyes a clear and inhuman bright blue, and large clawed hands and feet as well. If a werewolf spends too much time in his bestial form, returning to a completely human shape becomes impossible. The other, smaller and darker haired, appears human enough, but still has a thinly veiled ferocity about him, made all the more apparent by his proximity to the other. 

The third of this small party is not a werewolf, but Castor remembers them. Their cool voice in his ear and their magic ghosting over his body. The heavy silver ring on their hand gives them away, the signet on the top an engraving of many interlocking circles in a hypnotizing pattern with a sunburst at its center, a symbol of magical power. Castor has no magical talent of his own but has studied the topic enough to know the most common of sorcerers' glyphs. Most sorcerers Castor knows spend their lives amongst dusty old tomes or else are conscripted into his father’s army, but clearly others found it more prudent to seek other lines of work. 

“Good evening, Your Highness,” the sorcerer says blandly, crouched beside the fire and gazing intently into the flames, either scrying or lost in thought. One of the werewolves, the larger more brutish one, snickers. 

Castor glares at them sourly, lip curled with disdain. This causes both of the werewolves to laugh, as if he’s a pouting child and not one of the most powerful people in the country. “Where am I? What do you want?” he demands, trying to sound commanding. It comes out shaky and thin. 

The sorcerer looks up from the flames and gives a wane smile, rising and approaching him. “Consider it a temporary interruption of your journey home. We’re ransoming you,” they say calmly, pulling a key from their pocket and reaching around Castor to uncuff his hands, putting themself very close into his personal space, close enough for Castor to feel the heat of their body. He read somewhere that sorcerers have higher body temperatures, due to the power inside them. 

The manacles fall and Castor winces, examining his wrists. They’re chaffed pink and red. “Now, please remove your clothing,” the sorcerer says and Castor’s eye bulge. 

“What?” Castor asks shrilly. 

The sorcerer snorts. “We will be a mite less conspicuous if we aren’t parading the prince around in all of his finery. Besides,” they pinch Castor’s cloak between their fingers, feeling the material, “This will fetch a pretty price. Velvet cloak, rabbit fur lining. Silk shirt with handspun lace, if I had to guess. And,” they hook a finger over Castor’s top button, “Pearl buttons.” 

Castor crosses his arms, knocking the sorcerer’s hands away. “No! Why didn’t you do it when I was sleeping, if that’s the case?” 

“I wouldn’t undress someone while they slept, that would be rude,” the sorcerer replies, twisting their ring around their finger. 

“If he don’t want to do it, Rowan, ‘haps we can help. He might not be used to dressing and undressing hisself,” the blonde werewolf suggests hungrily. The sorcerer, Rowan, closes their eyes, face drawn with irritation, probably at having their name revealed. 

“If you make me ask again, I’ll take Avor up on his generous offer,” Rowan says, a glint in their eye. Castor swallows, looking over Rowan’s shoulder at the hulking werewolves. His fingers shake at the clasp of his cloak, but it falls to the ground. Then follow his supple leather boots and fine woolen trousers, vest, and silky white shirt. The buttons are pearl, and slip in his shaky grasp, but they too come open. He stops when he’s down to his thin underclothes and socks, cheeks burning and unable to meet Rowan’s gaze, praying he won’t be forced to take anything else off. Rowan nods, once, and sweeps their own cloak off, older and much more tattered than Castor’s, the wool worn very thin in some places, and wraps it around Castor’s shoulders. “To stave off the chill, Your Highness.” 

They lock the manacles back around Castor’s painful wrists, but allow him to have his hands in front of him this time. Castor clutches the cloak closed tight around him and sits on the ground, knees tucked to his chest. 

Rowan walks away, leaving Castor alone in the line of Avor’s hungry gaze. He can practically feel how the werewolf aches for him. His companion only masks it marginally better, but when the wind shifts and blows at Castor’s back, his nostrils flare, clearly smelling him. 

Rowan lifts their pack onto their shoulders, crouching in the dirt at the edge of camp and sketching a glyph into it, one of warding and protection. “Where are you going?” Castor asks, heart beating in his throat. He doesn’t trust Rowan at all, but he knows with a fierce certainty that he doesn’t want to be alone with the two werewolves. 

“To make sure we will not be found,” Rowan replies simply, wiggling the fingers of their ringed hand, “And mail a letter.”

“My ransom letter?” 

“Quite. Boys, please keep our esteemed guest company while I’m gone,” Rowan says, and with that they set off into the trees, the rapidly darkening forest swallowing them whole. 

Castor draws his cloak closer around himself, fists clenched tight around the fabric. Avor grins at him leerily. “Why aren’t you with your pack?” Castor asks nervously. 

The unnamed one shrugs. “Had a few ‘differences in opinion’ with the pack. Struck out on our own,” he says shortly. His smile as he says it makes Castor wonder if he’s not remembering what the flesh of his former packmates tastes like. He shudders. 

“Me ‘n Evrin are a pack of two. All we need,” Avor says proudly. “Most the time. It does get lonely, some. Evrin here is no good to lay with.” He jams a hard elbow into Evrin’s side. “Not soft, not good for holding. Bet you are, though. Bet you’d be nice and warm and wet.” 

Castor shakes his head frantically, pressing himself back until he’s pressed flush with the log he’s leashed to. Avor takes a few steps forward, closing the space between them and wrapping a hand around the rope attaching Castor to the tree. “Where you think you’re going, pup?” 

Castor’s heart pounds, the blood rushing in his ears drowning out almost everything else. He clings the cloak closed in front of him, even as Avor uses his grip on his leash to draw him up to his knees, closer to Avor’s body. The press of the rope on his neck isn’t choking, not yet, but it easily could be, and they all know it. “I can hear your heart, boy,” Evrin says, reaching over to cup a rough hand around Castor’s cheek. “Smell your blood pounding.” His thumb traces just under Castor’s eye, then his fingers trail down, over his neck and what’s visible of his shoulders and collarbone. 

Avor uses his other hand, hooking a claw under the clasp of the cloak at Castor’s neck and tearing it away with no effort at all. Castor’s hands hold it shut around his body but now his shoulders and upper back are bare, save his thin undershirt. “Please,” Castor whispers, voice high and reedy and shaking so badly he can barely force the word out. “Don’t.” 

Evrin moves to pull the cloak away from Castor and Castor clings to it tightly. Not tightly enough to stop an impatient werewolf, however, and the fabric tears loudly in the silence of the evening, leaving Castor with handfuls of tattered wool as the rest of the cloak is ripped away. He whines then, a pitiful little whimper, tears springing to his eyes. “Already crying, pup? Haven’t even done anything yet. Jus’ wanna look at you,” Avor says lowly, in a voice that might have been comforting if he didn’t yank hard on the rope in his hand, choking off Castor’s airflow all at once as the prince scrambles to his feet, still more than a head shorter than Avor. 

The early spring evening is cold and he can feel goosebumps blossoming on his body, his nipples hardening painfully in the chill. Evrin’s warm bulk closes in behind him, caging him between the two. He runs his hands over the thin fabric of Castor’s undershirt, almost reverent, before gathering it in both hands and ripping it open at the back to touch his skin. Evrin’s hands are burning hot on Castor’s back, callused and nails just a bit too long. Avor tears the shirt off the rest of the way, tossing it aside. In one hand he holds the rope tight and a handful of Castor’s hair, tilting his head back. 

Avor doesn’t kiss him as much as he drives Castor’s mouth open with his own, sliding his tongue between Castor’s lips and laughing when Castor shrieks and squirms, though he can’t move at all against Avor’s strength and Evrin behind him. 

With his other hand, Avor scores five angry lines over Castor’s chest and stomach with his claws. Castor yelps, the thin sharp cuts a searing pain, and then makes another higher noise when Avor catches one of his nipples between his fingers and pulls hard. It hurts, and yet Castor feels a familiar coil in his stomach. He tamps that down firmly, and it isn’t hard when Evrin stops stroking his hands over Castor’s stomach and suddenly drives his teeth hard into Castor’s shoulder. His teeth are sharper than they should be and break skin easily, more rivulets of blood spilling over his skin. He’s distracted from the momentary pleasure, until Avor breaks away from his mouth and licks a long line up his throat, following the pulse thundering along in his veins, tasting it thoroughly. 

Evrin’s hands reach around his front to tease his nipples now, hands missing the painful claws, but he is no more gentle. 

“You were wrong, little puppy. You’re so soft, warm too,” Avor says into Castor’s ear. “Wonder if all princes are s’nice as you.” Castor shivers at the gust of breath against his cheek. Evrin moves one hand from Castor’s chest and drags it down his front, cupping his hot pussy through his thin shorts. 

“I can smell you, y’know. Smell you getting wet. Can’t hide from us, pup,” Evrin says with a low laugh, grinding the heel of his palm roughly into Castor’s dick. Castor’s hips leap on instinct, hitching up into the contact, before he can control himself and jerk away with an ashamed little cry. 

“No…” he mumbles, shaking his head in Avor’s grip. Tears begin to slip down his cheeks in earnest now, blurring his vision. 

Avor laughs in his face and let’s go of his hair to backhand him across the face, hard enough that he stumbles to the ground. Castor’s cheek smarts fiercely and he cries harder. No one has ever raised a hand to the prince before. He cups his cheek defensively and sniffles, but isn’t on the ground alone for long before Evrin and Avor join him, forcing him up onto all fours. Avor puts his hand in Castor’s hair again, pulling his head up as he fumbles his belt open, his claws tearing his trousers in his haste.

He snarls in irritation but draws his cock out, shoving his trousers down his thighs. It’s massive, long and thick and leaking from the tip already. Castor flails, scrabbling with his bound hands against the ground to rear his head away, letting out noises like a wounded animal amongst senseless begging. 

Avor doesn’t budge, but he snaps, “Quit your fussing,” and fists his hand tighter in his hair, scratching his scalp and definitely ripping some of it out. Castor winces, which is a mistake, because the next time he opens his mouth Avor presses his cock in between Castor’s lips. 

Castor immediately chokes and gags, unused to the feeling and unprepared for it, the head of Avor’s cock filling his mouth and stretching his lips open around it. As Avor sinks in more, undeterred by Castor’s streaming eyes and spasming throat, Evrin yanks Castor’s pants down to his knees, exposing his shamefully wet cunt to the cold night’s hair. Castor screams, muffled by Avor’s dick steadily working its way down his throat, but Evrin only spreads Castor’s ass cheeks to expose both his holes and chuckles softly. 

“You filthy pup. You like his cock in your mouth don’t you?” Evrin asks, and Castor flails his feet in disagreement, but it doesn’t matter, because a thick, rough finger is feeling around in his wet pussy. Castor screeches again, trying to buck his hips and dislodge the finger, but only succeeds in sinking further down on it. “Quit screaming,” Avor says, grabbing hold of the rope around his neck and jerking it tightly, choking off what little air Castor is able to get around the cock nudging into his throat. 

Evrin doesn’t bother with anything more than the finger and rubs the tip of his cock against Castor’s wet entrance briefly before sliding in while Castor grows red faced and faint from lack of air. 

Castor has played with himself before, taken his own fingers and toys, but nothing nearly as large as this. Though he’s wet, the stretch burns badly, his tight hole feeling as if it might rip open. He releases a strangled cry as spit leaks down his chin and Evrin drives further in, slowly and steadily, hands bruising tight on Castor’s hips. 

Avor releases the rope to hold onto Castor’s head with both hands as he begins to fuck his throat in earnest, hard and fast and sloppy while Castor tries to suppress his gags, focus on breathing through his throat. His cheeks and chin are shiny with spit, the sound of Avor’s cock sliding in and out of his mouth wet and obscene, and he’s still taken only slightly more than half. 

Evrin pulls out to spit on his own cock and then Castor’s cunt before shoving back in hard and fast, forcing his cock deep and groaning with satisfaction. “That’s right pup, take it all,” he murmurs, reaching forward to ruffle Castor’s hair like a dog. He eases back and thrusts home again, snarling when Castor clenches on him. Castor cannot help the moan that escapes him or the burning shame when Avor and Evrin both laugh at him. “Stupid whore. Knew you’d love it,” Evrin says, picking up his pace. 

Castor releases punched out whines every time Evrin fucks into him, enjoying it despite himself, growing wetter with arousal. “Good little bitch, taking my cock,” Evrin growls, voice growing guttural. The nails that he draws down Castor’s back are sharpened claws, opening shallow cuts. 

“Gonna cum in you, pup. Gonna give you my knot,” Evrin says low in his throat. Avor continues fucking Castor’s throat, not speaking, only snarling and growling lowly. Castor takes almost the entirety of his cock now, throat finally opening up to him. Castor is still crying, tears trickling down his face, but his mind is going fuzzy with the sensation, hands on him and cocks inside him making it hard to think. He’s wet all down his thighs now, and if he wasn’t being held so tightly by them he’d be rocking back onto Evrin’s cock. 

Castor can feel Evrin’s cock starting to swell at the base, stretching Castor’s cunt even more, forcing in and out until it’s too wide to fit, stuck tight inside Castor. Castor lets out a low wail, sobbing and hiccuping at the feeling of being so desperately full. Evrin ruts into him a few more times, growling like an animal, before Castor feels cum flood into him, thick ropes of it, filling him even more. He moans loudly and Evrin growls contentedly, settling. 

Avor drives into Castor’s soft throat harder now, driven wild by Evrin’s orgasm, his snarl rattling in Castor’s chest. He can feel Avor’s knot begin to swell, bumping against Castor’s lips, but much too wide to fit into his mouth. Avor begins to realize this as well and grunts with irritation, thrusting forward harder. Castor gags hard, drool spilling down his face, but the knot doesn’t budge, even though it isn’t entirely swollen yet. Avor pulls his cock all the way out angrily, allowing spit and pre-cum to dribble down Castor’s chin and connect his lips to Avor’s cock with wet strings. 

Avor slaps Castor hard across the face, causing him to jerk and fall off of his elbows where he’s propped up shakily. He pulls Castor back up by the hair and uses his other hand to try to pry Castor’s mouth open, forcing it wide, but still the knot can’t fit. “Should knock your teeth out, pup!” He shouts, hitting him again. Castor’s lip splits on the impact and he cries out, pressing his face to the ground again and not getting up. Avor leaves him there, looking at Evrin. 

“Can’t cum if ‘m not knotted. Pull out,” he says and Evrin grunts. 

“I haven’t gone down yet. Take his ass instead,” he suggests, stroking a finger over Castor’s asshole. Castor squirms and whines, shaking his head urgently, trying to form the words to plead for Avor not to. 

“Won’t fit, an’ it’ll take too long to make it. Needta breed him, Evrin, now. Pull out,” Avor snarls, loud and angry. 

Evrin groans, too content in his post-orgasmic haze to be bothered by his companion’s anger or respond in kind. “Fine. Deep breath pup,” Evrin says, slapping Castor’s ass hard. Castor shrieks, but then it turns into a sobbing scream as Evrin pulls himself free of his cunt, knot still swollen hard and thick, large enough that Castor worries he’ll tear in two. He doesn’t, and Evrin sighs, getting to his feet to allow Avor to take his place. Castor can feel thick dribbles of cum leaking out of him and clenches his hole instinctively. He feels so stretched open, loose and pliant. 

Avor does, thumbs spreading Castor’s cunt greedily, inhaling audibly. He takes his cock in hand and presses it to Castor’s opening, shoving in hard and fast to his knot, which doesn’t fit at first. Castor realizes how much bigger Avor is than Evrin and whines into the dirt. A few more shallow thrusts and Avor’s knot finally sinks in. Castor whines, the stretch painful even after everything. As Avor fucks him harder and deeper, grunting at every pass of his knot, Evrin pulls Castor’s head up with an oddly gentle hand in his hair. He’s fisting his cock lazily, still thick with its knot and coated in cum and Castor’s own slick. 

“You’re better with your mouth on something, pup,” Evrin says, drawing Castor’s lips down onto the head of his cock. “Lick it clean.” Castor takes the head in his mouth obediently, curling his tongue around it before pulling off and working his lips and tongue around the shaft, lapping up the mess, tasting them both. “Like it, don’t you, puppy? Oughta keep you for ourselves. Make a good breeding bitch,” Evrin suggests snidely. 

“‘S a good cunt, but no cunt is worth the amount of money we’d lose keeping ‘im to ourselves,” Avor says, his voice nearly unrecognizable, low and rumbling. He sinks inside one last time, knot flaring wide and filling Castor up completely, stuck fast. He begins humping and grinding his hips down, no longer thrusting, holding Castor’s body flush against his. 

Castor’s mouth goes slack on Evrin’s cock, tongue lolling out at the unbelievable pressure, the fullness and the ache. He’s faintly aware of the moans he’s releasing, but he’s so full that he doesn’t care. Finally, Avor cums with a howl, loud and victorious, dragging his claws hard down Castor’s back, leaving deep red cuts in his flesh. Castor screams, too, at this, at the pain but also at the feeling of cum flooding him again, the needle bite of claws in the skin of his ass. It’s so much, too much, too much for any human to withstand, and Castor almost drowns in the wave of his own orgasm. He spasms, cunt clenching down hard on Avor’s knot, falling flat on the ground except where his hips connect to Avor’s. He sobs with it, in both relief and new shame at the pleasure. 

He knows Avor and Evrin are both speaking to him, goading him, insulting him, but he can no longer parse their words, instead laying utterly still and spent. Avor seems to want to remain tied until his knot goes down, unlike Evrin, and so pulls Castor into his lap for a more comfortable position, stuffing his fingers in Castor’s mouth. Castor barely notices or reacts to it, except for the fact that Avor sinks deeper inside with the new position. He settles there, head lolling, tears beginning to dry on his cheeks. 

-

Rowan stands at the edge of camp, just inside the protective ward, and surveys the scene in front of them. The kidnapped prince lays on the ground, slumped into a sad little puddle, covered in dried blood and other fluids. His undershirt is gone, the shorts rucked down around his knees in a tangle. He’s very still, but his eyes are open and glassy, tear tracks clear on his face. Avor and Evrin sit huddled closer by the fire, looking supremely pleased with themselves. “I expected you to exhibit a modicum of self control,” Rowan sighs, and Avor snickers. 

“He’s still alive, ain’t he?” 

Castor sniffles. Rowan kneels down beside him, watching the way he shivers, possibly from cold, possibly from something else. “Come along, Your Highness,” they say, gripping him by the arm and pulling him to his feet. They make quick work of the rope around his neck, freeing him from the fallen tree he was tethered to. Castor hesitates, resisting. “Unless you’d like to spend the evening with your new friends?” Rowan gestures behind them to Avor and Evrin. Avor winks lewdly at him. 

That gets the prince moving, hitching his shorts up most of the way and following Rowan meekly toward their tent, the only tent they bothered pitching. The werewolves don’t mind sleeping beneath the stars. Inside is warmer, a bedroll laid out as well as a larger traveling pack and an oil lamp. In one corner is Castor’s purse, which the prince stares at openly. He doesn’t put up any fight when Rowan invites him to sit down upon the bedroll, however. “They did a number on you,” Rowan says, tracing warm, gentle hands over all of the cuts and bruises Castor accumulated in the last few hours. Castor shivers under Rowan’s touch, and Rowan smiles. 

They heal the scratches and the deep bite mark, the bruises on his hips and throat. He sits with his knees up, tucked against his chest. When they draw their fingers down his chest and brush against a swollen, abused nipple, he whines, then bites his lip hard as if to silence himself. Rowan hooks their fingers under the waistband of Castor’s ruined shorts, drawing them down. Castor catches their wrist in a tight grip, but Rowan makes gentle shushing sounds, as if soothing a frightened animal. “Easy, Your Highness. I’m no insatiable werewolf.” Castor let’s go, balling his hands into fists and tucking them under his chin protectively. 

Rowan draws the shorts off all the way, nudging Castor’s knees apart, showing the mess of wet and white between his thighs. “They bred you deep, didn’t they?” they coo, brushing two fingers over his puffy folds. Castor twitches, but Rowan does little else but look. He’s so soft and gentle, even battered and dirty, he’s every inch the fragile, porcelain prince. Rowan is not an insatiable werewolf, but they do feel compelled to touch and feel him, maybe even take something of him for themself. 

“Will it… take?” Castor asks worriedly. Rowan places a gentle hand over his abdomen. 

“Not unless you’re a werewolf as well. Their kind can only mate with another of their own,” Rowan assures him. Castor visibly relaxes at this, but twitches each time Rowan touches him. Rowan can’t stop touching. 

“Did you enjoy it?” Rowan asks lowly, trailing their fingers through the white mess still leaking from between Castor’s legs. Castor flinches, but his legs ease open further. 

“No! No,” Castor says sharply, even as Rowan slips two fingers into his stretched, aching cunt. 

Rowan arches an eyebrow. “No?” They withdraw their fingers and Castor releases a small whine. Rowan quirks their lips in half a smile. “I find that hard to believe. You enjoy this, don’t you?” Rowan ghosts their fingers, now wet, over Castor’s swollen dick, making the prince whine out again. He shakes his head frantically. Rowan laughs this time, massaging his thumb in firm circles around Castor’s sensitive cock, watching him struggle not to thrust his hips up into Rowan’s touch. “It’s alright, Your Highness. You can enjoy it. I want you to.” 

Castor keens, leaning back on his elbows slowly, begrudgingly. His eyes are hooded but his expression is still distantly guarded. Rowan clicks their tongue. “Though I imagine after your evening activities you can hardly feel this at all,” they slide their fingers back inside Castor, pushing through the cum and slick. “No matter.” 

Rowan withdraws their fingers, sliding them along Castor’s slit and then lower, brushing them in small circles around Castor’s ass, teasing the hole gently. Castor jumps, hips lifting as he clearly struggles between pulling away and leaning closer. “Have you had your ass fucked before?” Rowan asks conversationally, teasing his rim with one finger. 

“N-no. I’ve never been with anyone before,” Castor mumbles. 

“You’ve touched yourself before, though, haven’t you?” Rowan asks, pressing down with their fingers just hard enough to slide it partially inside Castor’s ass before withdrawing again. Castor nods hesitantly. “Have you fucked your own ass, I wonder? In your royal chambers, aching to feel full?” Rowan continues, sliding the finger in further and stilling while Castor clenches down on it, panting. “Have you?” They add firmly. 

“Yes,” Castor breathes out in an embarrassed huff, spreading his legs more. Rowan shifts, kneeling between them, fingering Castor’s ass steadily with one cum covered finger now, their other hand going to his cock, jerking it between their thumb and forefinger. 

“Did it feel like this?” Rowan eases a second finger inside. It’s tight, they have to press more firmly, and Castor’s breath catches in his throat, but he nods. “Tight and aching, just a bit of pain. Do you like pain, Your Highness?” 

Castor pauses and then shakes his head no. Rowan stuffs the fingers of their left hand into his mouth briefly, hooking them over his teeth. “You needn’t lie, my prince. Your secrets are safe with me.” Rowan withdraws the fingers, wet with spit, and goes back to Castor’s dick, now rubbing against the sensitive head in time with his thrusts in Castor’s ass. He’s more relaxed now, taking the fingers easily, though he still whines with every particularly deep push inside. 

Castor’s mouth stays open, panting out hot gusts of air ghosted with keens and moans, rocking his hips minutely. Rowan can see his cunt clenching as well, the heave of his chest and the flush over his neck and cheeks. He’s turning a pretty shade of pink all over, eyes closed and head tilted back. “Lying doesn’t work, anyway. I can tell how much you like it. Can feel it,” Rowan says, and Castor shakes his head again, more of a reflex than anything. 

Rowan shifts their position, leaning further into Castor’s space to drive their fingers deep, pausing to gather more slick and cum still leaking from his abused cunt before adding a third finger. Castor cries out, throwing his head back. Rowan’s thumb is rough on Castor’s throbbing cock, grinding into it to draw out every sound Castor will grant them, and Castor doesn’t disappoint. He’s a noisy thing, almost shameless in his pleasure, and Rowan drinks it in. 

They know Avor and Evrin can hear him, of course they can, and Rowan takes pleasure in that as well. Knowing they can give the prince something the werewolves couldn’t, that this royal, pampered thing is opening his legs for them so willingly, giving them the one thing the werewolves hadn’t taken for themselves. 

“That’s it, Your Highness. Take it all like a good boy,” Rowan coos and Castor opens his eyes to meet Rowan’s gaze as he moans. “Take what you need, my prince. I won’t deny you anything,” Rowan swears. 

“Please,” Castor breathes out, the last vestiges of his shame bleeding from him as he reaches out and takes hold of Rowan’s wrist, keeping them from retreating, grinding up into their fingers with fast, loud gasping breaths. “Please.” 

“Yes,” Rowan replies simply, enraptured by the prince. His delicate skin marred with bloody scratches, his soft mouth open, the line of his throat stretched out invitingly. The way he feels under Rowan’s hands, so silky soft and hot to the touch, body open and inviting, leaking all over the both of them. The wet sounds of Rowan rubbing his dick and fucking his ass are obscene, but almost drowned out by Castor’s high cries and throaty groans. He might have screamed for Avor and Evrin, but he will moan and whine like this for Rowan only. 

All at once, Castor clenches up, drawing tight like a bowstring, drawing in a long gasp before arching his back and moaning loudly. His holes spasm and his hips thrust and twitch uncontrollably, wetness gushing over Rowan’s hands, squirting until both Rowan and Castor’s thighs are soaked. He’s whining now, like a wounded animal, unconscious little squeaks and hiccups of pleasure and agony as Rowan works him through it. 

When Castor begins to draw away, Rowan stops, wiping their hands on the prince’s already filthy underpants. Castor sags down onto the bedroll, limp and panting for a moment, before rolling onto his side and curling up. 

“You’re beautiful,” Rowan says. Castor sniffles, looking at them briefly before clenching his eyes shut tight and crossing his arms across his stomach. “You can sleep with me,” they continue, “I imagine it will be more comfortable in here than on your back in the dirt out there.” They nod meaningfully toward the flaps of the tent and Castor cowers. Rowan moves around him, pulling back the top flap of the bedroll and ushering the spent prince into it before shedding their outer layers and joining him, closing the covers tightly around them. 

There isn’t room for modesty in a single bedroll, though Castor struggles for it for a few moments. Pressed tight and small against the very edges of the furs, flinching from every brush of their bodies together. Rowan lays on their back, ignoring him completely, eyes closed. When the prince hesitantly shuffles closer and tucks himself against their side, however, they smile. Rowan rests a hand in the prince’s now heavily mussed hair, running their fingers through it until his breathing evens out and he relaxes fully against them. 

It’s the wee hours of the morning when Rowan wakes again, and the first thing they notice is that they are alone. The second thing is the lightness of their left hand. Their ring is missing. Normally, panic would set in at this, a missing ring and hostage, but Rowan only rolls their eyes, kicking their way out of the fur bedroll and pulling on their boots and coat. 

The morning is chill when they step out, the sun only barely beginning to crest the horizon. Avor and Evrin are already awake and moving around, having dressed and snuffed out the fire. “Where did he go?” Rowan asks. 

Evrin gives them a sly grin. “North, skittered off about fifteen minutes ago. Figured we’d give him a li’l head start, sporting-like,” he says, jerking his head in the direction Castor fled to. Either the prince truly is royally stupid, assuming he could sneak past two werewolves and then outrun them and a sorcerer he stole from, or he’s simply hoping to reach civilization before they catch him. 

“Do all wolves like to play with their food?” Rowan asks, and Avor laughs. 

“Nah, most says fear rots the meat, ruins the taste. Me, though, I like tasting the fight,” he says, flashing a smile with a mouth full of sharp teeth. 

“You may retrieve him, but refrain from eating him, or a repeat of last night, if you please,” Rowan says. 

Avor and Evrin exchange a glance, and then Evrin speaks. “Should go alone, then. Avor has a harder time staving off his darker impulses after a chase.” Avor snarls, but doesn’t disagree. Rowan nods and Evrin lopes off into the woods, hunching down to run on all fours, body elongating to accommodate it. Rowan has no concern, for the nearest village is several miles off, and there’s no way a prince stripped to his skivvies will beat a wolf there. 

They flex their left hand. Rowan is not concerned, but they are irritated. Stealing their ring was clever, perhaps, because the lack of a focus for their magic leaves them weakened, but also foolish, because now he will face a fierce punishment. Their softness the evening previous was clearly a poor decision on their part, but Rowan cannot help feeling pity for a broken, crying boy. Castor will learn not to take Rowan for granted again. 

Five minutes barely pass before Rowan hears a scream pierce the woods to the north, a high pitched pathetic little cry befitting of a prince. “Your friend wastes no time,” Rowan says to Avor, who simply growls, appearing more bestial by the minute, agitated at being left behind. Probably desiring another taste of royal skin. 

Evrin returns soon after, dragging the prince by his ankle. He is filthy now, covered in dirt and leaves and grass, scrabbling at the ground with his nails. Fresh tears spill down his cheeks and he chokes on them, coughing in between his fearful sobs. Evrin drops him in front of Rowan, who kneels beside him. Castor avoids their gaze, hugging himself where he lay. Evrin reaches into his trouser pocket and hands over Rowan’s ring, which glows when it is returned to them. 

“Stealing my ring was very foolish, Your Highness,” Rowan says lowly, fitting the ring back onto their finger and reveling in the feeling of completeness, of power restored. “I can understand fleeing. I anticipated it. But taking a sorcerer’s focus is a great betrayal.” 

“I’m sorry,” Castor whimpers, wet faced and wobbly lipped. 

“You will be,” Rowan says, cupping their ringed finger with their other hand and watching as it begins to glow with heat, the air around it buckling. The metal grows orange, then red, then white hot. 

Castor shrieks and scrambles back, but only gets a foot or so before Evrin pins him down with a foot to his chest, shoving him flat onto his back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Please, please I won’t do it again! I’ll be good,” Castor begins babbling, staring with wide eyes as Rowan hovers over him again. “I’ll be good.” 

“Hold his arms down, please?” Rowan requests of Evrin, who kicks the prince’s arms apart and then lowers himself to kneel above his head, holding his wrists down firmly. Rowan straddles his waist and takes a moment to cup his cheek. “You will learn your lesson,” they say and kiss him on the wet cheek. Castor sobs. 

They press their burning hot ring into Castor’s chest, above his heart, the heat immediately blistering the tender skin. Castor wails, voice cracking with the force of it, before Rowan claps a hand over his mouth. He sobs into their palm, thrashing around. Rowan admires the burn on his chest, a perfect brand of their ring, all of the lines of the rune on it bubbling up into fierce blisters. 

Rowan leans down, close to Castor’s ear, breath stirring his hair. “You’re mine now, do you see? You bear my mark.” Castor doesn’t respond, only continues to cry. But if he doesn’t understand it yet, he soon will.