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themusingsofacurlyhairednerd · 3 days ago

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Ludos Imperiales IIII

Summary: Princess!Reader tries to convince her mates to leave the Empire, but they have other ideas.

Content Warnings: Mentions of Slavery/Abuse

Part 1, 2, 3

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Anise is right; I do look like shit. No attempt at washing my face or fixing my hair or changing my clothes changes the sickly color that remains on my skin from the time spent with my head in the toilet. Secluding myself in the house these last couple months have already sapped the color from my cheeks, but today’s events have not helped bring any life back into my features. The dull, lifeless gray of my eyes, the limpness of my hair, the way my dress hangs limp off me… I do not recognize the face in the mirror.

“Anise?” She’s still pacing in my chambers, biting on her weathered thumbnail. Her anxiety makes the vines sprouting from her head grow, leaves and tiny, yellow flowers blossoming as the thick strands slither down her waist.

“You shouldn’t see them alone,” she persists.

I brush a strand of hair over my yellowing cheek, then push it back behind my ear. I can explain away a bruise. Besides, it is not as if I can expect them to care enough about me to ask how it got there.

I sigh as I push the hair back in front of my face. I do not want to appear weak and frail, not in front of my mates. Not in front of anybody. I need to remain strong.

“Anise,” I try again, turning away from the mirror. There is nothing I can do to change it now, the damage is done and it’s too late in the evening to call for one of my lady’s-in-waiting to come help me fix it. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Get the guard? Yes, a splendid idea!”

I snag her arm as she goes for the door. “No, Anise.”

She huffs her irritation. “You’re being foolish, Little One.”

Probably; she won’t hear that from me though. “I need you to look into something for me and I need you not to tell a soul about it.”

She goes still at that, her emerald eyes widening in surprise. “What’s wrong?”

“I need you to see if there is passage out of the Empire and into the Wastes through the sea.”

Her bark-like features twist in surprise as I continue. “I need a passage my Father doesn’t know about, and I need it quickly.”

“What have you done?” She whispers.

“Nothing. Not yet anyway.”

Anise fights her way out of my grip so she can take my face in her hands. “Now you listen to me, child! I have already lost your Mother, do not ask me to sit here and lose you too.”

“It’s not for me.”

Her eyes flick to the door and back. “Them?”

I nod.

“Why?”

“They’re dead men if I don’t,” I say, hoping the heaviness in my voice is enough to keep her from pressing further. I do not have it in me to admit what they are after what I’ve done, not even to her. Her loyalty was always to my Mother first, and I trust her more than anyone, but there are some secrets best kept close to the vest. Maybe she’d never tell anyone, but her mouth wanders sometimes, and if it were to slip… any number of the staff would sell me out to my Father in a heartbeat. I have to be careful. This is all I can tell her for now.

“I don’t like this,” she whispers. “You are entering a dangerous game. If your Father finds out…”

“Don’t let him find out,” I counter, pulling free of her grip. If I linger any longer, I will lose my nerve. I need to see them now.

My hands shake as I open the door. Moonlight spills into the hallway from the high, open windows on either side of me. I’d kept the heavy, silk curtains pushed against the far walls closed for months and months, refusing to accept that time was moving on without me. Anise had opened them this morning, when I’d announced I was finally ready to go out again. She’d hoped the fresh air would be good for me, truth be told, so had I. I didn’t expect so much to change in such a short time frame.

There are guards on patrol outside the windows. A couple torches had been lit along the path through the gardens, bathing their armored heads and ridiculously large horse hair plumes in an orange glow. As a kid, I’d thought they were monsters when I’d see them in this light, stalking through the palace grounds; maybe I hadn’t been so far off.

Anise trails after me. “I will do it, but you will let me accompany you for this first.”

“No.” I should head out the side door and follow the footpath to the guest house, but I make a show of walking towards the kitchen instead. There is a servant’s passage through the cellar that will keep me out of sight. As far as the guards are concerned, I’m getting a snack in the kitchen with my maid. No one needs to know that I’m meeting the Illyrians.

“Why are you…” she stops when we come to the kitchen. All the lights are off. The staff asleep earlier than usual so they can, undoubtedly, rise earlier in the morning in order to prepare bigger meals than they’re used to. They have to be in an uproar over the sheer amount of guards they’ll have to feed every day now. The House has not seen much attention in the last couple of months; I certainly wasn’t hosting any parties.

“Is this a sex thing?”

I am grateful the dark hides the blush working its way up my neck and cheeks. “What!?”

“It’s not like you to sneak around, I’m just wondering if there’s something happening here between you and them?” She is the only other person that knows about the secret passages in the house. Mother had them built as a safety measure against intruders, and promptly found an excuse to execute the architect before he could show Father the plans. There are a number of false doors and hidden hallways throughout the house, a couple of secret exits and a panic room only accessible with a key I keep around my neck at all times. She was as paranoid as my Father, but at least hers had practical applications. And could now serve as a means to move around my house without arousing suspicion.

“This most definitely is not a sex thing!” I hiss.

I mean, yes, some sponsors do sleep with their champions. Hels, some sponsors sell their champions for a night of pleasure to the highest bidder. Amarantha and my cousins included. It was an abhorrent practice that I tried not to think about in the past, but the mere suggestion of it has me clenching my fists. Did she truly think I’d stoop to that?

“You’re being strange is all I’m saying,” she returns.

“I don’t have time for this. If you’re going to insist on hovering, just make it look like we’re in here making a snack, will you?”

“Will you tell me why this is necessary?”

I pry the door that leads down to the cellar open slowly, conscious of how loudly it squeaks and trying to minimize the noise as best I can. “No.”

“Then I’m coming with!”

I slip behind the door and hold it nearly closed as she approaches. “Fine, we’ll talk when I get back. Happy?”

Even in the dark I can see her eyes narrow suspiciously. “Don’t get pregnant.”

“I’m not fucking them!” I hiss as I close the door. She’s impossible! Once she sets her mind on something, she just can’t let it go. At least she doesn’t try to follow me.

There’s a slim set of stairs that leads down into the cellar lined with fae lights that flicker to life as I descend. Rows of dried meats and herbs hang from the rafters, casting eerie shadows over the shelf lined walls. The cellar is lined with rows of more shelves and barrels of wine, everything cataloged and arranged in alphabetical order. Our steward has always been exceptionally neat, and the concealed door in the backs sits connected to the wall where he keeps all his flour. I will have to remember to sweep the floor upon my return, just in case anything falls from the shelf and gives the door away.

The door opens by turning one of the panels in the wood in a full circle, disturbing a sack of flour as it swings inward with a groan. The hallway is dark and dusty, a heavy layer of cobwebs disturbed by the door. I haven’t used this tunnel in years.

I take one of the bobbing fae lights out of its perch on the stairs and carry it with me into the dark, making sure the door closes behind me, just in case any of the guards decide to come do a sweep of the place now that they’ve seen Anise in the kitchen. I can’t be sure of their orders, I have to assume that they will check on everyone in the house if there is the slightest deviation from the routine. Which also means I need to make this quick.

The silence of the tunnel is not good for my nerves, I find myself once again digging my knuckle into the knot in my chest. Without Anise to distract me, I’m once again consumed with the guilt of having to look at them after what I’d done. Not knowing why they’re asking to see me doesn’t help either.

The tunnel slopes downward, filled with cobwebs and the occasional rat I startle back into holes in the walls. There’s some rain damage along the supports I should really have looked at, but updating these means having to tell someone about them, and that’s not an option. Not unless I wish for Father to find out about it, or worse, be forced into a situation where I have to consider killing an architect after rebuilding it as my Mother had done. There haven’t been any reasons for the tunnels since I was a child, I’ll avoid having to make any decisions on it until I absolutely have to. As long as the roof holds, I can make do.

Mother wanted to ensure that this place had multiple advantages, one of them being strategically placed and concealed vents for both air flow, and espionage. The vent hidden in the garden lets me hear the stomping of boots as the guards pass overhead. Some of them complain about the quiet as they pass each other, but it doesn’t sound like they’re yet suspicious of me moving around the house this late.

I keep moving, comforted just a little by the fact that I don’t have to worry about dealing with them yet.

The tunnel curves in a crescent shape to come around the back of the guest house, where there’s a door carefully hidden behind the lararium built for the Mother. The carefully carved statue of our beloved Goddess hides the door, and the altar serves as a deterrent to keep people from looking too close at the seams in the wall. It also hides the vent that lets me hear three, arguing voices, even in hushed tones:

“This is a bad idea, Rhys!” Cassian.

“It is our only shot,” Rhysand shoots back.

Their voices are so different: Cassian’s gruff and husky, Rhysand’s smooth and rich. Having them near soothes an anxiousness I didn’t know was inside me, I find myself drawn closer and closer to the door, just for a chance to listen to them speak. I’ve never had something as simple as a voice cause such an intense reaction before. All of this is so new and foreign; it will take some getting used to.

“I don’t care!” Cassian returns, the words sharp as a knife. “I don’t want anything to do with her.”

And just like that, my revelry is broken and that pesky knot in my chest returns. It is an effort to get a deep enough breath in, as if someone had sucker punched me right in the stomach. He really does hate me. It was one thing to think it, but it’s another to hear it so openly. I really have ruined this before it even had a chance to begin.

“She is our only chance,” Azriel chimes in, voice a hissed whisper. He sounds agitated, I can picture him pacing in front of the altar.

“She’s his daughter! Am I the only one bothered by that?” Cassian protests.

“That’s exactly why we need her,” Rhysand counters.

Time slows to a crawl. Need me? Hope is a pesky, irritating, thing that I shove down inside me, even as my body moves to press itself against the door, waiting for them to continue.

“We can’t trust her.”

“Yes we can,” Azriel retorts.

I wonder if they can hear my heartbeat stuttering through the door--no matter that it’s waded so I can hear them and they can’t hear me, it’s so loud it still feels like a possibility.

“What, because your shadows can smell that on her?” Cassian sneers.

“Because I looked in her head,” Rhysand hisses, his voice rising.

I know that I have a limited amount of time to do this, but I can’t bring myself to open the door, not with a confession like that. What does he mean he looked in my head?

“She’s terrified of him.”

“She could have fooled me. She didn’t look a bit terrified of branding us.”

“Because she didn’t brand us at all!” Rhysand snarls. “I did.”

“You hit your fucking head harder than I thought.”

“Asking for us to be spared threw Hybern off his game. Whatever plans he has for us got derailed because of her. And we need whatever edge we can get right now. When I slipped into her mind, she was panicking, she couldn’t do it and we would have all been fucked. I moved her hands around that iron, I touched it to your skin. Not her. She was so distraught over it I had to hold her upright the whole way back. Trust me, she liked it as much as you did.”

“But the collar…?” Cassian stammers.

“It dims a lot of my powers, but not all of them. I threw what I had out there. It only works when I’m close. Whatever she felt after we separated, whatever she’s doing now, I can’t get a feel.”

Rhysand was that invisible hand on me? I hadn’t just imagined it? How is that even possible? The twins are Daemati, but even they can’t reach into someone’s head and control them like that, especially with the gorsian chains in the way. At least, they’d never shown me they could. I suppose I’d never thought to ask.

“We have to act fast,” Azriel chimes in. “The quicker we get ahead of this, the more time we have to work around Hybern. Until now, he’s always been one step ahead of us. We’ve been playing his games on his terms. She… changes things.”

Does he know that we’re mates? Could that really mean something to him?

“Why are you so quick to trust her?” Cassian challenges. “Let's say what Rhys saw in her head is even real, because let's face it, she very well could be like the twins and been throwing those things up to see if you’d take the bait, but for the sake of the argument, sure they’re real. So what? What do you think she’s going to do here? Throw in her lot with us and help us overthrow her father?”

“Yes,” Rhysand says, as if it’s just that simple.

They can’t really be serious with this, can they?

“What could she possibly get out of it? She’s a spoiled princess who has not had to feel the effects of this Empire a day in her life! The best of this place has been handed to her and you think she’s just going to give that up to a couple of bastards like us?”

I dig my knuckle into my chest again, trying to ease the tension that feels like it’s trying to claw its way out of my skin.

“You don’t get it,” Azriel hisses.

“Explain it to me, Az!” Cassian shoots back. “Explain to me how the limited interaction we had convinced you that she’s a good person who would help us for the hell of it?”

“You don’t have to trust her, Cass,” Rhysand interjects. “That doesn’t change the fact that we need her.”

I take my lower lip between my teeth. I’m supposed to be saving them; I’m supposed to be getting them as far away from this place as possible and they want me to what? Overthrow my Father? It’s delusional. No one can outmaneuver him. Mother tried and failed. How many rebels has Amarantha executed? How many slaves have been carted from the far reaches, having been defeated for daring to oppose the Empire? Everyone that has ever gone up against him has lost and paid for it with their lives. I can’t let them do this. It’s suicide!

I get my hand on the hidden lock and turn. It’s my responsibility as a mate to save them from themselves. I have to put this foolish notion to bed. By tomorrow, Anise will have an answer about a way out of here. I just need them to stay put for the night and this mess will be over.

I get the impression they are not males used to being taken by surprise, if the way they stand their gaping at me is any indication. Dark shadows wreath Azriel’s, still bare, shoulders, curling around his ears like they’re living things whispering in his ear. His scarred hands twitch over his hip, as if he’s reaching for a weapon instinctively, despite there being nothing there.

Rhysand grins wolfishly as he leans a bruised shoulder against the doorframe, violet eyes once again roving over every inch of me. “Aren’t you full of surprises, Princess?”

“What if we had been indecent?” Cassian retorts.

“You’re barely dressed now,” I blurt before I can stop myself, though it is true. He’s stripped down to his boxers, using what was once a white towel, but it’s now brown, to clean up a gash across his thigh. Judging by the color of the bruising and the still forming scab, the wound is from before the arena. He needs to have it cleaned and looked at by a healer. I should be focusing on that. I should not be focusing on how large his thighs are, or imagining what it might feel like to sit in his lap.

Rhysand’s grin broadens like he can hear my thoughts, and then I remember that he can.

Shit! I need to focus. I need to put my shields up, just like I do when I’m around the twins. Just because they’re my mates, doesn’t mean they’re incapable of using their abilities on me. Who’s to say, if Rhysand really is powerful enough to move me around like a puppet, even with the collar, that he won’t simply reach in and use me as he sees fit if I don’t cooperate. I don’t know anything about them. I have to be careful.

“We can strip down if you’d like?” He purrs.

“Did you make me come all this way just to harass me, or…?” I let the question hang there so I can give myself an extra second to reinforce my mental shields.

“Sorry to pull you from your ivory tower,” Cassian snarls.

I instinctively take a step away from him, the venom behind each word enough to make me flinch despite myself. Azriel moves away from where he’s been sitting on the edge of the altar, effectively putting himself between us. “No, we didn’t.”

“Then what do you want?” My shields are in place, but I feel my confidence waning. I thought that this would be easy, that the bond would make everything click into place for us. They could trust me and I could trust them and this thing that tethered us together would put us at an even playing field. But it doesn’t. Our goals are off and I don’t know how to get them even, I don’t know how to get them to listen to me.

“We want your help,” Rhysand says.

“We need your help,” Azriel corrects.

I should just tell them that I heard them and skip all the repetitiveness, but there is a piece of me that worries I was naive before, and that they will tell me something different to my face. Maybe I’m the only one who feels the bond and they merely see me as something to be manipulated and used. I have to be sure.

“With what?” I ask.

“We want Hybern off the throne,” Rhysand explains. He hasn’t left his perch against the wall; though his gaze lingers on me, he gives me space that feels intentional. As if I’m a rabid dog he thinks might bite if it feels cornered. “We think you do too.”

“And why would you think that?” It is only from years of training that my voice doesn’t shake. How can they be so flippant about this? Saying those words out loud is enough to have their heads removed from their shoulders. The thought that any guard walking past might hear has me shaking, yet they don’t even flinch.

“He scares you,” Azriel says. His voice is already a low whisper, but it softens when he looks at me. A tendril of shadows slithers down his leg and across the floor, tentatively drifting across the pale tiles to come poke around at my ankles.

“He scares everybody and for good reason.” I need to keep my original goal in mind here. I’m here to get them out. They need to see the necessity of it. “Do you know how many people are dead because they underestimated him? No one is safe.”

“That’s why he needs to be stopped,” Rhysand presses.

Cassian folds his broad arms over his tattooed chest, frowning, but he doesn’t jump into the conversation. While Rhysand’s gaze is assessing, Cassian’s is cold, unyielding. He’s made up his mind about me.

The fact that the others haven’t gives me more hope than I know I should have. They will have to leave anyway. I should hope they haven’t felt the bond, hope that it doesn’t convince them to stay. They need to be far, far away. But there is a small, desperate piece of me that clings to it anyway.

“He can’t be stopped.” I bite back all the bitterness and rage that threatens to escape out of me and try to keep my tone even, unbothered.

“You stopped him this afternoon,” Azriel counters as his shadow brushes up my calf like a phantom cat. They feel like a slight brush of breath against my skin, gentle and strange and I might giggle against the sensation if I wasn’t so focused on keeping my composure.

I don’t kick it off either. A broken, desperate piece of me claws after the attention and blatant need for affection like a lifeline.

“He listened to you,” Rhysand presses, doubling down when he sees me hesitate. Azriel isn’t wrong, though he’s not, technically right either. Still, he sees an opening and he swoops down like a vulture to take it. “No one else has that kind of influence.”

“It was a fluke,” I retort. “He was surprised. That won’t happen again.”

“It will if you keep surprising him,” Rhysand counters. “He has you, and everyone else, in a quaint little box, but if you deviate from the script he’s written for you, you can maneuver him where you want him.”

My hand goes instinctively to my bruised cheek, right as Azriel’s shadow comes slithering up my shoulder. It lets out a soft huffing sound as it follows my wrist to see what my fingers are doing. The shadow still curled around Azriel’s ear hisses softly, like the two are communicating. Maybe they are, given the way his eyes darken.

“You cannot fight him.” I pull my hand away from my face a little faster than I mean to, and the shadow curls into my palm, inspecting the indents my fingernails had left earlier. “You might as well quit while you’re ahead.”

“I wouldn’t call this being ahead,” Cassian huffs, turning his wrist to flash the brand I put there.

“I can find passage out of the Empire for you.” We’re going to run out of time if we keep standing here talking in circles. The guard will get curious eventually. They are bound to wonder why the lights are still on and no one is preparing for bed soon. “I should know by morning when it will be here.”

“If that’s true, why haven’t you taken it?” Cassian challenges.

Azriel takes a tentative step towards me. For someone so large, he’s surprisingly quiet on his feet. “I was terrified of my father too,” he says gently.

I can’t help but look at his hands. Had his father done that to him?

“I thought it was normal, how he treated me. I thought everyone was afraid of their father. I didn’t know any better until I got out. Until I met these two jackasses.”

Rhysand snorts a laugh behind him.

Cassian grumbles out a retort that sounds like it’s in another language.

Azriel stops when he’s only a few inches away from me. I have to tilt my head back to look him in the eyes. “Sometimes you just need a little help. We can help each other, like you helped us earlier, right?”

I’ve lived around the ass kissing and political games of the palace long enough to know when someone’s trying to work an angle on me, and this isn’t one of those times. He means it. As hard to imagine that someone his size, someone who just took down a Giant and a bunch of Wargs, even with his wings broken, could be scared of anything, I believe him.

The bond warms, just a little. It’s nice, after years of feeling like no one could hear me when I whispered my complaints, to have a kinship with someone. I cling to that little shred of warmth like it’s a roaring fire amidst a blizzard. How long have I begged the Mother for even a shred of solace like this?

Perhaps that makes me weak. Perhaps I am a fool, but I want this. I want them.

“A lot of good my help did,” it comes out in a whisper, like it’s dragging itself out of my throat.

“But it does help,” Rhysand interjects. “Being your champions gives us an excuse to be close, and it gets us into places we couldn’t get before. You give us direct access to your father. That’s all we need.”

Azriel reaches out and brushes that loose strand of hair I’d pushed over my cheek behind my ear, scarred fingers brushing over my jaw with a feather light touch that is not unlike the one his shadow gives me. My whole body trembles all the same.

“We won’t let anyone hurt you,” he promises.

I am entirely unprepared for that kind of promise. I’m supposed to be protecting them, not the other way around, but I’ve been on my own for awhile now, and I can’t help the way my body leans into that faint brush of his hand over my skin. Am I so starved for affection that even this feels like some grand gesture?

“We’re not asking you to do any fighting. You’re not challenging him.” Rhysand assures. “We merely need you to use these brands to your advantage. Drag us around with you. Show off the prize you’ve claimed like anyone else in the Empire would.”

My stomach twists.

“Play the games the rest of the court plays, and we will do all the rest,” he assures.

“I don’t understand how that helps you?”

“For now, we need to observe his habits. There’s a parade tomorrow, right?”

Shit, I’d forgotten about that!

“Yes.”

“Take us with you,” Rhysand explains. “Lots of people bring their champions out like bodyguards or trophies, right?”

“Or dogs,” Cassian hisses.

I wince. “Yes.”

“We don’t know much about the city. Just act like you’re showing us off so we can get a look around.”

He makes it sound so simple.

“And then what?”

He shrugs as he finally pushes off the wall. Though the touch had been brief, Azriel hasn’t moved out of my space, and seeing that it hasn’t sent me running, Rhysand takes this as a sign that he can move closer too. He’s just barely shorter than Azriel, and despite the fact that I inherited my Mother’s height, I cannot help but feel small next to them. I don’t think I entirely mind though.

“Leave the strategies to us. The less you know what we’re doing and when, the safer you are. This is a long game, we have to take it one step at a time.”

“I don’t think you realize how dangerous playing this game with my Father is,” I warn. If anything were to happen to them because I didn’t insist on getting them on that ship in the morning, I’d never forgive myself!

He grins, flecks of starlight glinting in his eyes. He really is the most beautiful male I’ve ever seen, even with all the grime and blood on him. Which reminds me, they still haven’t seen the healer. Ember will never let me hear the end of it; I’m surprised she didn’t come with Anise to bust down my door.

“Let us do the worrying, Princess.” He’s very confident for someone who had just been thrown into a pit and been forced to fight a bunch of monsters. I hate to admit it, but that confidence worms its way through the bond like a rat chewing through a wall. No matter how hard I try to fight it back, a bit of it hits me anyway. Even without his presence inside my head, I feel safer when he’s near.

My gaze flicks from him to Azriel for confirmation that this is something they have both agreed on, and he nods reassuringly.

“You really think you can win?” I ask.

“Darling, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my people,” Rhysand vows. “Whatever it takes to see them free, I will do it.”

So much for me finding a way to get them out of here, they’re pretty determined to stay, influence from the mating bond or not. On one hand, if I do this, I can keep an eye on them; maybe I can find ways to rig another Game, can make sure they have everything they need to survive. On the other hand, this is crazy! We’re talking about taking on Hybern. Take him being my Father out of the question, no one has ever won anything against him, he’s always two steps ahead, always sees the outcome before it happens.

I take my lower lip between my teeth again. I’m going to need a dark shade of lipstick in the morning to hide all the teeth marks I’ve undoubtedly left in it today.

“Let’s say I agree, but only on a trial basis,” I begin, trying and failing to organize all my thoughts. The bond pulls me one way and rationale pulls me the other. I cannot find a happy middle ground. “If tomorrow goes poorly, will you get on the boat and leave the Empire behind?”

“Happily,” Cassian huffs.

Rhysand shrugs, “Ask me again tomorrow.”

I have a sinking feeling it’ll be the same answer tomorrow, but I’ll take whatever I can get, as long as it means there’s a shot at keeping them alive.

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umamaki · 2 days ago

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ELECTRIC TOUCH

caleb's hurting, and the only thing he needs your help with is distracting him from his pain.

l&ds caleb x reader

CW BIONIC CALEB SEX, female reader, explicit smut, porn with plot, lowkey angsty lol, he’s in pain, handjob, accidental orgasm denial lol, language, fingering with bionic arm, spanking with bionic arm, lowkey temperature play, not fisting but we get close, praise, pet names, squirting, p in v, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, creampie, playing with squirt idk, lmk what i miss, proofread once. wc 2.2k

NOTE almost died twice but here it is. thank you transformers fanfic for preparing me for this exact moment. somewhat. i started this an hour after the trailer came out so it’s very inspired but with some creative liberties 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕. i hope this fic is ok idk idk idkkk. ambivalent towards the plot bc i needed something to lead up to the smut and give it some SUBSTANCE. n idk anything about science robotics engineering. those are all just words to me. something about calebmc that makes me put some sort of angst into everything i write for them. making him right handed so then he can’t jork it without ur help 🥹lol jork it

gif divider

Caleb’s temperament had always brought out the concern in you. Something’s changed recently; gradually, but surely. He’s always tired, but also always restless. He’s neither quite enthusiastic, nor ever snappy towards you. You aren’t able to pinpoint the moment that the shift occurred.

So naturally, you’re concerned when you find out he’s now in the hospital for some repair. Some malfunction or breakdown? Unusual, but worrying nonetheless. You knew anything was possible with the Farspace Fleet.

You find yourself before an abandoned—perhaps repurposed, warehouse. The lot was empty save for stacked cargo bins, and there wasn’t any visible light coming from inside. No signs of life. Anyone else with half a mind would turn away for their own safety, but you aren’t thinking about yourself right now; it was caleb who is in need, he’s the reason you’re here and the reason you advance further into the property.

You nearly miss the small door around the back of the building. It blends into the wall, clearly not meant to be noticed by a regular person. Whatever was going on here was private, illegal even. It’s unlocked, the door effortlessly swings open when you push down the handle. You wonder if it’s a trap. But no one greets you when you step inside, you only come face to face with what seems to be dozens of projects involving heavy machinery and tools that you can’t quite name. The smell of burnt metal stings your nose.

There’s something different about the air in here; your gut is telling you that Caleb is close, it’s a feeling you can’t ignore. You proceed down a corridor, the cold concrete walls keeping you company, though unwelcoming. You’re cautious for anything lurking around, but there’s no feeling of being watched. So far, the place is empty.

And then you hear it, a hiss of pain followed by a low curse.

“Caleb?”

You pull back the curtain separating you and the sight is otherworldly, almost monstrous, had it not been on the boy you attach all your childhood memories to. He looks all jacked up, which is worrying in itself, but you were more so focused on the piece of biotechnology that was there in place of his entire right arm.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He speaks with his back to you, but the pain in his voice is unmistakable; you don’t need to see his face to know how he was feeling. You’re speechless, confused, but most of all scared for him. “But you’ve already come, it’s not safe to go back alone, but… I didn’t mean to hide it from you. I swear I—”

“Does it hurt?” You interrupt. You interrupt him because his explanation means less to you than his well-being. You’re already at his bedside when his head follows the sound of your voice, you lock eyes, then lower yours to take in the image of the man before you.

He spares a small smile, you were always so worried for him. “No, I barely feel anything, really. It doesn’t hurt more than it’s unfamiliar.”

It isn’t sincere. He’s reassuring you and telling you that he’s fine but here he is sitting alone on a warehouse cot, covered in bruises and bandages and only then do you see it for what it is. Because if it’s not physically, which you know it is, then he has to be hurting emotionally. A part of your heart breaks for him; you can’t help but let tears blur your vision. It’s not that you pity him, but it’s as if his pain is becoming yours too.

“Oh, Caleb.”

“C’mere, baby.” He pulls you onto his lap and lets you cry into his left shoulder, holding you close with that same arm. You stay there for a while, listening to the beat of his heart and matching your breathing to his. “I can’t feel you anymore, you know, not from my right side.” The words tug at your heartstrings. He flexes his fingers as if testing them for the first time. He feels nothing.

You pick up the dog tags resting on his chest and press them onto his heart. The warmth from his body transfers to the metal charms and then to where your fingers still pressed on them. He shakes his head.

“I need you, all of you. It’s useless,” he’s weak with desire and it kills him that he can’t do anything about it.

You place both palms on his cheeks and press your lips hard onto his, “you feel me now, Caleb?” He only nods in response, his pupils are blown wide and he’s turned into putty in your hold. Your fingers lightly travel across the expanse of his exposed chest, drawing out goosebumps from his skin. You pause where his skin meets the waistband of his pants. “How about this?”

He hisses, and it’s different from before. Pleasure has replaced the discomfort he once felt. “Yeah, baby. Keep going just like that, don’t stop.”

You slot your lips to his again, this time with intense passion. His left hand makes its way underneath your shirt to hold the curve of your waist, keeping you close, while his right hand goes to free the tent in his pants. He gives his hard cock a few pumps with the hand to temporarily relieve the ache, but eventually gives up, a groan of discomfort slips from his mouth and into yours.

You look down at his neglected boner and put the pieces together. “Lemme help,” without waiting for his response, your thumb begins to spread his leaking precum around the tip of his dick.

His hips instinctually jerk up into your hand and he chokes on his spit. “D’tease me, darling, please. I’m weak n vulnerable. S’basically torture,” he begs, his brain is malfunctioning, only filled with the thought of your hands on his length.

Even in his most painful moments he manages to be insufferable. Okay, maybe you’ll allow it just this one time. Your fingers wrap around his heavy cock, jacking him off the same way you know he likes it.

“That’s good. Hahh—feels s’good, fuck,” you both continue your pace, him rutting uncontrollably into your palm and your hand sliding along his length.

“Still don’t hurt?”

“Only hurts when you stop,” his moans echo around the concrete room, he’s not holding back at all, showing you exactly how good you’re making him feel. His dick twitches in your hand as he gets closer to his release; you don’t plan on stopping.

Then suddenly, a loud whirring noise followed by screeching metal from behind him interrupts the symphony of moans. You immediately pull away and jolt backwards, startled, eyes wide out of fear that you hurt him, took it too far. Though, he catches you before you fall.

Orgasm denied, the unexpected loss of contact makes him whimper, but nonetheless he comforts you. “Hey hey, look at me. You’re okay, baby. I’m okay, see?” He bends his bionic arm, faking another smile.

But it’s not okay, you realize. You’re not used to this and you were too caught up in the moment. You know he’s hiding his own fear to protect you, console you. He shouldn’t have to. This shouldn’t be your shared reality.

“S’not okay, Caleb. Don’t like it one bit.” You begin to pout again, eyes welling up.

“I know baby, I know.” His hands grip your waist, thumbs massaging circles on your stomach, “I’ll make it better, promise. Here,” his mechanical fingers rub the wetness between your legs and you moan his name. The appendages are rock solid as they press harder against your clothed cunt, providing you with some much needed friction. You hold onto his shoulders to not fall; your knees are planted beside each of his thighs but in this moment you feel like your legs are made of jelly.

“Can’t even feel how wet you are, what a shame.” Your pants and underwear are pulled down simultaneously with a single tug, exposing your soaked cunt to face. “What a pretty little thing you’re hiding, hm? Gonna make it feel good, okay?”

You nod. He starts slow, inserting only a single digit into your hole. It’s cold, intrusive, but not unwelcome. The smooth metal strokes your walls from the inside, eliciting more sweet sounding moans from your lips. He soon adds another finger into you, and another, filling you up to the brim with the artificial appendages.

“Mmpf—s’too much,” you wriggle in Caleb’s hold but he keeps you still with the strength of his left arm.

He clicks his tongue in disapproval and your eyes fly open to meet his. It contrasts the praise you were receiving only moments before, and this felt like a step back. You want to make him proud again, “tsk, you can handle one more, can’t you?”

So you agree. You agree even when all four of his fingers are fully inserted and you don’t think you’ll be able to stretch to accommodate anything else. You’re out of breath from the arduous feat, using all of your restraint to not clench down on his tendrils.

He plants a soft kiss on your forehead. “There you go. Good girl. Knew you could.” Slowly he slides his fingers out, then back inside. “You like this?” Yes, “want me to stop?” No.

Caleb easily reaches your g spot, assaulting your sensitive spot over and over. He alternates between fast and slow, teasing you, slowing down when you’re feeling good and speeding up again only once you’ve already adjusted to the tempo. You feel the coils in your stomach tighten, his steel thumb catches onto your clit, stimulating you to the extreme.

“Caleb—haah, gunna come,” you mewl in between pants.

He sets brutal momentum. “Yeah? Come for me baby, come on my fingers. That’s it.” He reconnects his mouth to yours and that’s all it takes.

Your climax crashes over you; you convulse around him and his fingers, screaming out in pleasure. You allow your body to fully relax as he finger-fucks you through your orgasm. You don’t even notice the clear liquid gushing from your pussy until you hear it, squelching flesh on flesh. You look down. Caleb’s hand and his entire lap is covered in your slick but he’s smiling. He thinks it made him even harder.

Both of you stare at the squirt-covered mechanism on his arm. Neither knowing if the threat of electrocution will arise. Answer seems to be no.

Hes out of breath and looking at you like you’re his world, “holy shit, baby. That was fucking hot. Think you can do that again? Squirt on my cock like that?”

“Still so sensitive,” and it’s true, you were, but aroused more than anything, “gonna try, though.”

“Atta girl. C’mere.” He scoots back on the cot so you’ll be able to sit on his lap comfortably. You take his dick and sheathing it smoothly to the hilt, still stretched out from his fingers. The feeling of him being completely inside evokes synchronous moans from the both of you.

Both his hands find their place on your ass, beginning to move you up and down. You let him maneuver you, using his biceps to steady yourself. It doesn’t take long until you feel the heat pooling in your lower stomach again. This time he feels it too, the way your pussy clenches around his cock, the way your heat grows increasingly hotter. He runs a cold metallic finger down your spine, soothing you in the process.

“Come f’me darlin’, squirt all over my cock like you just did on my fingers. Do it.” You whimper at the authoritative tone in his voice and follow his command nonetheless, coming undone to his relentless stamina. Your second round of squirt spills onto the floor and ruins the sheets but Caleb doesn’t care, he’s preoccupied with chasing his own high.

“Caleb, Caleb, Caleb,” his name repeats from your mouth like a mantra, the only word in your vocabulary, it seems.

“Good. Fucking. Girl.” He grunts in your ear, each thrust serving as punctuation.

Your essence mixes with his when he finally fills you with his sticky load, keeping his cock snug inside. You’re absolutely spent, post-orgasmic eyes lidded and you rest your forehead on his bare shoulder.

“Did it work?” You mumble using all the effort you had left.

“Hm? Did what work, love?” He’s spaced out, but still listening, gliding his hand along your spine.

“It distract you enough? Doesn’t hurt anymore?”

His attention comes back when he hears you utter the words. Ah, that.

With his right hand he scoops up a combination of your squirt and his cum. You yelp when he slaps it across your ass; the wet slick reduces friction had the bionic hand been dry. It’s less painful, but you’re already expecting bruises in the morning. He hisses when you instinctually clench down on him. He spanks you again, anyway.

“Nah, I think the pain is already starting to come back. Down for a few more rounds?”

ok thank you for reading. this is the most insane thing i've written. not my proudest work n itd be better if i had another day to think over it but i have never been a patient person. that’s not me excusing anything btw i take all responsibility for this mostrosity

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the1trueanon · 9 hours ago

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Oh boy, I've been the1trueanon for a whiiiile now. Let's see...

Originally, back when I first started writing stuff and posting it on fanfic sites (as a lil teeny baby anon lol), I was going by tringamer360, after my very first OC I ever made (Trinity) and cause I was a dum lil tween who was obsessed with video games, lol. But by the time I finally got a tumblr and a discord (which were entirely set up and run from my best friend's phone while we shared classes, cause I didn't have my own devices to do that from at the time smh), that name had already been taken, I think. So I had to come up with a new one.

Its been a while, but I think that my thought process was something along the lines of liking the "anon" nickname people would call the writers of anonymous asks, plus the keeping of my own anonymity online -- which was very much hammered into me as a kid. "the1true" got tacked on with the thought process that "Anon" would wind up becoming my online nickname, and thus a new internet dumbass was born lmao. It's stuck all these years, so now that's what I go by for all my socials.

I rag on it a bit here but tbh I do still really like it -- it's catchy and rolls off the tongue. And honestly, I've been going by Anon for so long, its practically become an in person nickname for people who know me on- and offline. It even wound up helping me figure out my new choice of name when I decided I wanted to change it as I embraced more and more of my gender-neutrality. The1TrueAnon I am and The1TrueAnon I shall stay :3

Now, I personally already know some of these stories, but I still wanna hear from @marshiemmello, @ariisonfire, @ittybittyriotbean, @whataterriblethingscommasdrawing, @doom-chihuahua-art, @bunnis-stuff, and @theklutsydraconoquus, if any of you guys wanna tell :3

Tag game🎉

Tag your moots and ask them where they got the idea for their tumblr accounts name!

For my name it was a nickname I was giving back in middleschool! One of our teacher had a system where we worked with 'wifi' eachtime we talked in class we lost a bar of the "wifi" (was a weird joke and we never held count on that) All the kids usually joked if they needed 'wifi' , they would borrow mine if they wanted to talk more. (I was incredibly shy in middle school, I only talked to like 3 people at school;^;)

They called me Ms. Wifi because of that. I just thought it would be funny if I put 'miss' instead of 'ms' because of my terrible actual wifi connection I have at home lol.

That's my story! Now moots, only if you guys want to, tell us your story.

Tags-> @slipping-lately @firequeenofficial @noagskryf @twinklstarrrr @halfbakedspuds @polterwasteist @rokushi-san @mygedagtes +anyone that sees this and wants to do this as well

#anon's reblogs #LOOOOREEEE #ANON LOREEEEEE XD #fr my name comes from the ideas of a very dumb child (me) XD #and yknow what? im cool with that :3 #good job lil me XD

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love-quinn · 1 day ago

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— THREAD OF GOLD

summary — a thread of moments that defined your relationship with mike.

warnings — uh i don’t think there are? me not caring about the irl timeline of events and making up my own shit cause i can. also i switch between past and present tense like nobody's business so we're all gonna pretend we don't notice that.

pairing — mike faist x fem!famous! reader

pronouns — she/her

word count — 7.8k + social media posts

note — hi sorry i’ve been MIA i’ve been working on this for 5ever truly it came to me one day and i couldn’t write anything else. this isn’t edited because it’s nearly 8k and i’m not about that life.

important note that i tried to make it so yn’s skin tone changed in at least some of the pictures to make it more inclusive but pinterest fought me SO hard i spent maybe four hours just finding images. this is NOT meant to be a depiction of what yn looks like, just a general vibe of the images used in the thread <33

ONE. july 2017

California doesn’t have seasons the same way your hometown did. California has two seasons: wet and dry. You grew up in the suburbs of New York, in Westchester county, about an hour north of Manhattan. You went to the city a few times growing up, but you spent almost all of your upbringing on a quiet street with a cul-de-sac and a park a street away.

You’d lived in California for a while, you were based there for most of the year, but you’d still say you lived in New York. You were lucky enough to be at a break between projects where you got to spend more than a few weeks at a time at your New York apartment.

You’d been back maybe two weeks and knowing that you didn’t have to go back to the west coast for at least six months felt like a major weight off your chest. Finally retreating back to your cocoon, the air around you still felt thick, but this one felt more like a wall keeping things out rather than one keeping you in.

So, naturally, the first thing you did with your newfound seclusion was to venture outside with a man you’d been trying to go out with for a few months now.

You and Mike had known each other for a little over half a year now. You’d met at a new year’s party hosted by a mutual friend of a mutual friend and you had known immediately that he was someone that you wanted to know desperately. You’d been elated that he seemed to reciprocate. Unfortunately, with your work schedules, this was the first time since January that you’d had enough time in the same state.

He was unlike anyone that you had ever met, and now that you were in the same place, you were revelling in his presence. He’d taken you to a park near his apartment, he’d let you hold his hand on the subway and you were pretty sure that he was going to kiss you later.

It had been a while since you’d been outside - like, properly outside, and Mike was enjoying how happy you seemed to be. While you’d been trying to organise yourselves, Mike had spent hours on the phone with you, trying to avoid sounding so disgustingly happy that he scared you off. This may have been your first real date, but Mike already knew that you were it for him.

You were chattering about a story from your childhood, and he was really trying to listen to you, but he was focused more on the way the golden hour was hitting your face, and the way you would subconsciously squeeze his hand when you made yourself laugh.

“Yeah, since then my mom makes sure that she puts the cat treats away whenever he comes over,” you giggled. Mike let the sound fill him from the inside. He opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by you dropping his hand. “I’ve needed this,” you let your head fall back to bask in the dying sunlight. “Air that I’m not sharing with Buzzfeed HQ, grass that is made in real dirt.”

“I see,” Mike nodded seriously. “You’re not even here for me, you were just waiting for a guy to take you to see some trees.”

You reach back and grip his hand, eyes sparkling directly into his. “Thank you,” you say sincerely, “for knowing your place.”

He laughed and let you drop your hand again, watching fondly as you speed off in front of him, stopping maybe fifteen feet in front of him. “Will you come with me to the emergency room when I fall out of the tree I’m about to climb.”

Mike was sure you could see exactly how much he wanted to kiss you from the look on his face. He laughed, nodding. “That’s actually the next stop I had planned anyway.”

TWO. october 2017

You couldn’t remember dolling yourself up for a date in so long, but it was clearly paying off the way that Mike hadn’t let you out of arm’s reach the entire cab ride. You hand two hands on his arm and he’d been talking in your ear the whole ride.

You were taking him to lunch at one of your favourite places in the city, quiet, not visible from the street, with a wonderful goat cheese salad. He’d been ecstatic that you were clearly showing him parts of your life that you kept close to your chest.

The two of you had only been together properly for about three months now, but you’d known each other for nearly a year. Mike hadn’t really dated anyone in the industry before, definitely not publicly.

You’d mentioned to him a few of your past dating experiences before, and you had been steadfast on the fact that if you were going to have a relationship that it would be as completely private as possible.

Mike didn’t think he’d ever hesitated less to reply - he was all in, same page. It felt simultaneously too fast and too slow. You’d been dating for three months, sure, but he’d known you since January, and it had felt like that first seven months had been confirmation that he liked you again and again and again.

Mike had been calling you his girlfriend to everyone, his friends, his family, some of his closer co-stars. But as he sat across from you at the restaurant, he realised he hadn’t actually asked.

He valued communication, he thought he was pretty good at it. But he’d settled into such a comfortable settlement with you that it had slipped his mind entirely. You didn’t mind. You were on the same page as him.

You referred to him to those closest to you as your boyfriend. You weren’t sitting around, desperately waiting for him to ask you to be his girlfriend, if that’s how you felt you would have asked him before you got to this point.

The two of you were doing what you usually did, you ordered a few different things with the intention of sharing, and Mike, as usual, was way more interested in what you had picked than he had.

You were giggling across the table at him, watching the way the breeze from the window by your table kept blowing his hair into his mouth. .”Here,” you took the scrunchie from your own hair and stood up, coming to a rest behind him.

He tilted his head back - good for him, he could see your face; bad for you, you couldn’t grab all his hair - while you worked and after a second you’d tied his hair up out of his face.

You moved to return to your seat, but he half-lifted himself from his chair to make sure he got to kiss you before you left. “Thank you, honey,” he said softly. Your thumb rubbed his cheek with a soft touch.

“‘s okay,” you mused, looking at him. He loved the look you got in your eyes when you were fully concentrated on his face, he wondered if he got the same look when he saw yours. “You look cute.”

“Says you,” he mumbled, looking down at your outfit. He could tell you’d put in extra effort, he wanted you to know it hadn’t been for nothing. “Y’look so pretty today, can’t believe I get to be the one here with you.”

You giggled, preening under his thoughtful gaze. You could feel your cheeks growing warmer, but you made yourself not look away from him. “Yeah?”

He turned his head and kissed the palm of your hand. “Can’t believe I haven’t asked you to be my girlfriend properly,” he sounded so positively disappointed that you couldn’t help but giggle. “Don’t laugh at me, it’s embarrassing.”

You giggled a little bit harder. “Oh, baby,” you let your thumb brush his lips, soaking in the way he kissed the pad of the finger. “Can’t be embarrassed, I didn’t even realise.” Mike hummed in question. “Don’t know,” you shuffle in place. “in my head you’ve been my boyfriend for like six months.”

“Thank god,” Mike laughed, letting his head drop. “Quick, sit down, I need to ask you to be exclusive so I can tell people that I did.”

You pause for a second before nabbing the fork on his plate, scooping up a piece of chicken before sitting back in your chair. “Go on, then, boyfriend.” You take a bite. “Get it over with, I’m hungry.”

THREE. december 2017

You were curled into Mike’s side when you got the text. You didn’t usually look at your phone when the two of you were together, but he was watching a documentary about something that didn’t interest you, while you were reading a book on your phone.

He had his hand sitting on the back of your neck, knuckles brushing a line from the nape to the top of your shoulder. It was one of your costars from an earlier project, sending you a link.

“LMAOO not people”

It was a People magazine article, one that instantly had you rolling your eyes. Mike sensed your shift in mood and laid his palm flat on the curve of your shoulder. “Okay?”

“People says we’ve been together since…” you scrolled through the article.” “October last year,” you snickered.

“Cant believe you didn’t tell me.” Mike let his head fall back against the sofa. “I wish,” he said as an afterthought.

“You didn’t even know me back then,” you pointed out.

Mike leaned forward and kissed your temple. “Still,” he said, concretely no but with supreme amounts of gentleness. “I’m sure I would’ve wanted you with great desperation.”

You and Mike had gone through conversations before about revealing your relationship to the public. You had little to no intentions of doing that, especially not so soon. But you’d wanted to manage expectations.

You’d become famous young, not as young as some, you’d only been twenty when you landed your first major role. You’d done principal photography during your summer break in college, working towards getting your degree, and by the time you graduated you had two feature films and one golden globe nomination under your belt.

You’d had a college boyfriend at the time, it had ended naturally, not without pain, but not as a result of your blossoming career. The magazines had eaten it up, though, with all sorts of speculations.

You didn’t want that again. You didn’t owe them anything. And you were so grateful that Mike seemed to share the sentiment. You were so grateful to your fans but you knew at the end of the day that they didn’t own you, which is why you were not above lying to them to keep them out of your life.

Especially when the comments of the post were already filled with dozens of suggestions to who it could be. Not when your friends, your coworkers, or random strangers who hadn’t done anything other than be someone people thought you might like if you met them, we’re getting their personal lives dug into in order to confirm a suspicion that a stranger had about you.

Not when you were curled up in the arms of one of the kindest most charming men you’d ever known, one that you might even want to spend the rest of your life with. He definitely didn’t deserve this, and neither did you.

So, you went into your camera roll and found a selfie you’d sent to one of your friends a few days earlier. You typed up a short sentence and then hit post on your Instagram story without thinking too hard about it.

When you showed it to Mike he smiled endearingly. “Aw man,” he mumbled, pressing his face to the crook of your neck. “Can’t believe you didn’t tell me we broke up.”

FOUR. march 2018

Days on set were long, they were often exhausting, and they were where you’d thrive.

You’d finally wrapped after thirteen hours, and the first thing you did when you got your phone out of your trailer was to text Mike.

He was in New York still, but you guys had been speaking as often as you could. With him three hours in front of you, it often ended up in the two of you just missing each other. Mike had texted you four hours earlier while you’d been filming.

You look pretty here.

It’s a Vanity Fair video that you filmed about a month ago with one of your costars. It was a movie about love, being in love, loving people, loving places, loving time. Your character was the main romantic love interest to the main character, and she was one of your favourite characters that you’d ever played. A young woman who finds love in her career, love in her family, and eventually begins giving it to the main character. You and your costar had become very close, and you were talking candidly to them in the video about your experience with love.

Mike had sent you a screenshot of the video, where you’re smiling across to your costar. It had been a simple question they’d asked; have you ever been in love.

Now, you couldn’t say blatantly, “yes, I have a boyfriend.” And you couldn’t say that for two reasons. Number one, you and Mike had been so careful to the point where you didn’t even think your fans knew that the two of you were aware of each other, let alone that his tongue had been in your mouth.

And number two was that you hadn’t actually told Mike that you loved him. You did, god you did. You probably would have told him months ago if things were more normal. If you both worked 9 to 5s, you lived primarily in the same city, you could go on dates and pull him over to the side of the sidewalk, interrupting him mid-sentence to kiss him.

Unfortunately, you’d spent months apart, and while you spoke multiple times a day, at least through texts, it felt like not the right time.

You try to brush off your smile as you reply to him. Stop ittt you’re giving me an ego <333. In that exact moment, you know what you’d been spewing some media trained answer that avoided mentioning your partner but still felt authentic. “I’m just really glad that I spent most of my early twenties trying to find myself before trying to find someone else, I guess.”

Mike took a moment to reply. Guess you didn’t find me :(

You giggle as you finish changing back into your own clothes out of the costume you’d just been wearing, ready to head home now that your last scene of the day had concluded. Nope! You sought me out 100% I actually have no idea who you are.

That time the reply was instant. This is awkward then. What else is instant is the knock on your trailer door, the way you wrap your arms around him once you’d thrown open the door, and the knowledge that you’re going to tell him that you love him.

FIVE. september 2018

Mike knows that most people are more nervous to meet their girlfriend’s parents than he currently is, and ironically that actually does make him nervous.

It wasn’t really his first time meeting them, he’d spoken to them on the phone before and he’d even texted your mom a couple of times when you’d asked him to. You’ve been his girlfriend officially for almost an entire year, but the two of you both agreed that you felt you’d been together since July of the year earlier. That was over one whole year together. Even if your parents didn’t like him - which, based off the amount that not only he’d spoken to them, but you’d talked about him, seemed almost impossible - it wasn’t going to be the be all or end all.

But he wanted your mom’s birthday brunch (of which she was very serious about) to go well as his first official family event that he attended as your boyfriend.

The two of you were getting ready at his place, as you do most days that you’re in New York. You spend maybe two or three months in your home state and as you and Mike are together for longer and longer, you spend as much time together as you can. Mike had not only let you spend every second you could at his apartment, he’d actively encouraged it.

You’re wearing an outfit he’s seen on you a hundred times, standing in front of his bathroom mirror as he ducks in to grab his phone. He stops behind you, watching you apply mascara, and places both his hands on your shoulders.

“Love you,” you say absent-mindedly, trying to focus on not stabbing yourself in the eye.

He squeezes your shoulders and kisses the back of your neck, the closest part he can reach. “Love you more. I’m ready to head out whenever you are.”

You lean back so your face is no longer just inches from the mirror. “Reservation’s at 11 so we should probably leave soon,” you say. “Give me five or so minutes.”

You let him hold your hand the entire way to the restaurant, knowing exactly how nervous he is. He’s a grown man, he knows your mom already loves him, but he appreciates that you don’t say any of this as he follows you into the restaurant.

Your mom is already there, with two seats beside her that Mike knows are reserved for you, and she leaps out of her chair at the sight of you. You greet her with a hug and a happy birthday, having let Mike hold the gift so he felt less like he was coming empty handed (you’d bought it together). The second you’re out of her path, she’s coming for him. “Oh, it’s so lovely to finally get to meet you!” She’s gushing over him and he’s trying not to look embarrassed in front of you.

He fits right in with your family, sitting on your left hand side while you sit pride of place beside your mom. He gets caught up in one of your mom’s friend’s conversations (“Oh I just adore Broadway, what’s it like?”) and that’s when your mom takes the opportunity to lean over and whisper over her bellini to you.

You lean in so you can hear her without much strain.

“I’ve never seen you look this happy.”

You beam back at her.

SIX. november 2019

You’re thinking of selling your California apartment.

You know it’s probably a bad idea, and that because you spend so much time in LA, it’s good to have a place to call home. But you also feel like it’s keeping you tied to the west coast. That you’re more likely to spend more time in California if you have a place there, and that’s not something that you want anymore.

You’ve been in California for the last nine months, it’s been longer than that since you’ve seen your family, your friends, or your boyfriend. You missed your two-year anniversary because you spent the day on set and Mike wasn’t able to fly out due to his work schedule.

You have your co-stars, people you spent months with every day that you genuinely enjoy being around - one of them you even worked with on a past project, you spend a lot of your free time with them between takes - but it’s not the same.

And now you’re done. You have over seven months until press from this movie begins and then you have to start working again. Normally, you’d stay in California while you looked for another project to latch onto, but that wasn’t what you wanted to do.

You missed Mike, plain and simple. He was in New Jersey filming a movie, but that’s about as far away as he’d be if he was in New York. You knew of plenty of actors who didn’t live in LA and still made it work just fine, and as far as home states went, you could definitely have done worse than New York.

“I think if it’s something you want to do you should look into it.” You’d called your boyfriend to have him either talk you into or out of it, but frustratingly all he’s done is point out that it’s your apartment and that he’d be kind of an asshole if he pushed his opinion on your assets onto you.

“I want your opinion,” you let out a dramatic sob, sitting at your kitchen counter. Your phone is on speaker while you’re on your laptop, answering emails.

Mike laughs, it’s crackly through the phone but you know the ins and outs, the layers of breath. “My opinion is that you should do what feels right for you, and I’ll back you up no matter what.”

“You’re annoying,” you grumble, changing tabs to instead look through your camera roll. You had a few days left to post one of your monthly photo dumps, something you much preferred to posting consistently. There was one photo that your camera roll had put in the forefront, of you at dinner with Mike and two of your mutual friends to celebrate his 27th birthday. You’d taken the photo almost eleven months earlier, and hadn’t done anything with it, but you did think you looked cute.

“I love you,” he offers instead.

You hum in response, bringing up the photo. “Is it weird if I post a photo from your birthday dinner? You’re not in it, obviously.”

He laughs at your bluntness. “Right, because why would I be in it? It’s only my birthday.”

That brings you out of it. “No, wait,” you giggle. “Just cause I don’t want them to know that it’s your dinner, idiot.”

Mike groans. “I was gonna ask when you next are coming home but I actually don’t care anymore about it.”

“I’ll forgive you if you tell me what to do about my apartment.”

“Forgive me?”

“Fine, I love you or whatever.”

Mike laughs again, and you don’t even notice the crackles. “Or whatever.”

SEVEN. november 2019

You don’t think you’ve laughed this hard in a while.

“I’m sorry,” she moans, leaning on your shoulder.

You’re with one of your closest friends, sitting on your sofa, almost crying with laughter. You’d been staying with her while the sale of your California place was going down, with every intention of moving back home to New York after it was done. She’d commented on your yearly photo set, talking about a photo of you and your mom, and you’d realised exactly where people’s minds would go.

“No,” you giggle, “I was the one who decided to be messy and post the photo.” You’d posted a photo that had been taken of you and Mike when he’d come to visit you on set the year earlier. Everyone knew it was old, you’d thought it was funny, and sure you had probably revealed a little bit too much about your relationship, but Mike had thought it was funny too, so that was enough for you.

Your favourite part, though, was that not a single person had commented, tweeted, messaged you asking who he was, if he was your boyfriend, or what was happening. You hadn’t seen a single person give a fuck.

The two of you had been sneaking around like teenagers and literally no one had cared, so Mike had allowed you to be a little messy on your Instagram feed.

“If I’m the reason you and Mike get doxxed you can feel free to post any blackmail you have of me,” she promises. You can tell she feels awful about the possibility of having just exposed your multi-year long relationship, but if you’re honest you think it’s kind of funny.

You wave her off. “No, I guarantee no one even cares. Worst case scenario someone asks, you just tell them you were talking about the photo of me and my mom, it’s so fine.”

The reason that you’d posted that photo now was because when it had been taken, things were definitely too new to be making hints towards it, and you would have posted a more recent picture but that was literally the only one of the two of you you could fine.

And the best part was while all this was happening, so blatantly obvious to everyone who knew, you still got so many comments, dms - fucking interview questions - asking if you had a boyfriend, and every single time you’d either dodge it or outright say no.

Your phone vibrated; a text from Mike.

Rachel told me she hasn’t seen a single tweet about it and if anyone would have seen it it would be her.

yeah i run a stan account of you and haven’t put my phone down in 8 years - rachel :))))) She sends an entire row of kisses with hers.

You’d met his costar a few times, only over the phone, and he sent you pictures of the two of them together on set often. You heart her message, giving his a thumbs up and knowing that she’d appreciate that.

“See, it’s fine.” You show your friend.

She breathes an audible sigh of relief. “In my defence you did post the photo.”

EIGHT. june 2020

The plan had been in the works for six months before it got derailed. Your California apartment had officially been sold, and you were set to move in to Mike’s place until you settled back in. Once things had calmed down with work for the two of you, you were going to start looking for your own place together.

You’d ended your lease in your New York place, you had all of your stuff - not that you carted much around with you anyway - most of the furniture you had came with the place, and you’d donated or sold most of it. You had been living off of display furniture and minimal decorating, knowing that wherever it was would sit vacant most of the time anyway. This was going to be it, where you finally started building a life, and you’d be doing it with Mike.

And then the country had gone into lockdown and, after a very lengthy conversation, the two of you had decided to relocate back to Columbus, Ohio, where he had a place for when he went to visit family.

It had been a fast move, but you’d planned for every thing that you possibly could have. Your family was safe, in New York, and you knew that was the best place for them to be. Your dad had an autoimmune disorder, so you knew that even if you were living in the city you wouldn’t be able to visit them much anyway. After three years with Mike, spending most of your relationship states away, you couldn’t let him leave without coming with him.

So, there the two of you were. In Mike’s house in Ohio, one that was entirely familiar to him and somehow, it felt that way to you as well. Like you knew him so well that anything he knew was something you instinctively understood.

Despite how long you’ve known Mike, how long you’ve loved him, you feel a bit like you’re taking over his space. Like when he moves something to make room for one of your trinkets that you’re minimising him in his own home.

He doesn’t let you think that for long. Sometimes you’ll come into your shared bedroom and find him rearranging his bookshelf so your books fit too, moving his Grammy to a shelf where there’s enough room for it to sit beside your awards, changing the sheets to a set that you’d picked out.

You’ve been a successful working actor for the last eight years now, for almost five of them you’ve forgotten what it’s like to go outside and not worry that you’re going to be spotted.

Sure, when you go outside now, you’re masked and there’s less people outside to recognise you. But to the people you do run into, you’re not an actor to them, not a celebrity, not anything. You’re Mike’s girlfriend.

You can understand how that’s frustrating, you are your own person, but after three years of being together but constantly apart, you’re okay with your neighbours knowing you simply as Mike’s girlfriend.

Now that you’re always in the house your screentime goes way down, you don’t need to text him anymore. All of the things that had you stressed and anxious to leave the house for have changed. And of course the state of the world is by no means good, but if everything is going to be happening anyway, you’re glad that you’re able to be with him during it.

NINE. october 2020

You had become a bit of a homebody in the 9 months that you’d been living in Ohio. You only ever left the house when Mike did, and you didn’t go with him every time. Mike can tell it’s starting to wear on you a little bit.

So, in an effort to pick yourself up a bit more, you’ve started doing all the grocery shopping. You and Mike make a list together so as to not give you all the mental load with it, but you walk down the few blocks to the small general store.

It’s convenient, a nice place, with a pharmacy attached to one side and a bakery on the other. Sometimes you take Austin and the girl who works at the bakery puts a bowl down for him while you go in and get your medication.

Sometimes you drive, when you have the aching exhaustion that only comes with being sad for hours on end, or when it’s raining, but the fresh air and just the act of being outside was usually enough to make you feel better.

It was late, and the pharmacy was closing soon when you realise you’d forgotten to pick up your medication, so it’s a no brainer that you’ll zip down and grab it while Mike makes dinner.

You’ve slowly started setting down roots here, the shop assistants know your name and your prescription, they know you and Mike have officially moved into the mostly vacant house a few streets away, and they know that you seem like you’re maybe not always doing the best, because they’re always extra kind to you when you need it.

You like the domesticity. Sitting on the kitchen counter while goes through the fridge, telling you what to write down. Walking his dog - Austin absolutely loves you, which Mike did tell you is normal for most people - or holding his hand with his spare one on the leash.

You’ve been really tired lately, and despite the fact that it’s meant to be your time to be by yourself and get fresh air, you find yourself in the kitchen, arms around your boyfriend’s waist. “Please?” You ask.

Mike’s stirring something cheesy on the stove. You can smell it behind the wall of his cologne, the smell of wood and cinnamon. “Dinner’s almost ready,” he laughs and you feel the vibrations where your cheek is pressed to his back. “It’ll be cold by the time we get back.”

Your voice is small, and he knows he has zero intention of actually saying no to you, but he’s wondering if you’ll change your mind given a little bit of coaxing.

“We have a microwave.” He wouldn’t be able to hear you if you weren’t so close to him.

He loves you, and he’s also not blind. He can see you’re struggling. He likes to think he knows exactly when to give you space, and when you need him there. He puts the spoon down on the cutting board he has beside the stove and turns off the gas. “Okay,” he says comfortingly.

You brighten, and he feels you stand up straighter. “You’ll come with me.”

Mike doesn’t even pretend to think about it this time. “Of course I will.”

TEN. february 2021

Press was finally happening for your project that you had filmed all the way back towards the end of 2019, and with that came your first ever zoom interview. It was a bit awkward, you’d never really liked doing press much face to face but now online it was worse.

You and Mike had both found it a bit weird. He’d done a bit more of it in 2020 than you had, so you’d asked if he’d be in the room where possible to help ease your nerves.

You were in your bedroom, set up at the designated Work Spot. You and Mike had made an agreement, no work was to be done outside of the Work Spot. It was the only thing that stopped it bleeding into your everyday life, especially now that you were working from home.

Mike was out of frame so you could still see him, sitting in the corner reading a book. He’d glance up at you every single time you looked at him, like he could feel that you needed him.

Things were going well, it wasn’t a standard interview with an interviewer, but rather you’d been given a list of questions that the group of you took turns asking the others and then answering yourself.

There was a bit there where you knew you had a note written down about something important, but you’d written it on Mike’s phone. It was the only one near you at the time, and you were actively regretting it now.

You muted yourself on your computer and tried to subtly gesture for him. He notices you immediately and comes to stand right beside him.

“Can I grab your phone really quick?” He hands it over.

“You okay?” He asks, wary of the camera he’s standing just outside of frame of.

You unlock his phone and open up his notes app, trying to find what you’re doing. Mike didn’t have a phone case until you met him, but you’d cajoled him into a clear on“Did you…” you hum. “Did you move my note?”

You handed Mike back his phone and told him what he’s looking for and he scrolled for a second. “No?” He frowned. “Uh…” he bites his lip. “Oh wait, I cleared out a bunch of stuff hang on.”

You can hear everyone else, so you know no one has clocked your absence yet. “Found it,” he hands you back his phone and pulls up the one. “This one?”

“Love you,” you say in lieu of an answer. He gives you a look that makes a smile worm its way onto your face.

Mike goes to sit back down as you skim through your note, ready to have your talking points ready. “Love you,” he calls back.

When it’s eventually your turn to answer, you turn your microphone back on like nothing ever happened. And your costars, who all knew everything were was to know about exactly who you’d been talking to, all kept their mouths shut too.

ELEVEN. august 2021

The material of your dress was scratching his skin, but Mike couldn’t seem to mind when you were so deliriously happy. In one hand you had a glass of champagne and in the other a beautiful bouquet of flowers that you’d snatched from the air after it had left the hands of your childhood best friend.

People had been giving him knowing looks about it since then, upturned smirks and elbows to his ribcage. Mike laughed it off. The two of you were good, and he knew that you weren’t the type of girl to expect a proposal just because she caught the bouquet.

Over the course of the night he had stood by, chatting idly with another group of plus ones. He’d met your best friend countless times, but there was no denying that he would not have been invited if he hadn’t been with you for the last four years. He was just happy that you seemed to be having a good time.

Eventually, you staggered over to him, wrapping your arms around his neck. You weren’t drunk, didn’t need to be, you were simply so elated to not only be able to leave the house without feeling anxious but also to be able to celebrate your best friend getting married.

“You okay, sweetheart?” He chuckled, your nose pressed to his adam’s apple.

You hummed. “Yeah. Tired. Happy. Miss you,”

He ran his hand along the back of your dress, cringing at the material. “‘M right here.”

The night was winding down, it was out in a big greenspace that they’d rented, the sun had well and truly set. You were basking in the glow of the massive outdoor lamps they’d set up, and they bathed you in a golden hue.

“Thank you for coming with me,” you said genuinely. “I’m really happy.”

You were swaying on the spot slightly to the faded jazz playing in the background, and he let his arms envelope you, pulling you impossibly close to him. “Of course, baby,” he’s beaming wide, his voice low and soft. You can hear how happy he is.

It’s your first time being back in New York since you left, your longest stretch away from your home state in your whole life. The two of you have started looking for work again now that things are starting to open up. Mike’s riding the high of his West Side Story performance, he’s been getting offers since it came out. He hasn’t taken any of them, though, instead focusing on smaller things that he likes more. The TV show he’d spent a while filming in Texas had been cancelled, which was a shame because you really enjoyed watching TikTok edits of him in that.

Instead, he’d been waving off scripts his agents sent him. He’d been asked to do a screen test in a movie in the UK, but he didn’t seem to interested in it. The most interesting thing about it was that his screen test was apparently with Zendaya, so you’d encouraged him to go just to meet her.

Things are picking up again. Your agent’s sending you offers and auditions and after two years of not being on set you’re itching to get back.

But, getting back meant going back.

You’d settled in Columbus. You didn’t want to leave, but you and Mike both knew that you’d have to go back to New York.

It was something that you’d been talking about for a while, getting another place in New York. You’re fortunate enough that it’s something you’re able to afford, and it seems like a good idea. It doesn’t need to be discussed tonight, though.

Instead, you ask him quietly, “Are we ever gonna get married?”

Mike mused, “Do you want to?”

You’re playing with the longer strands of hair on the back of his neck. “I think I might. With you.”

“Yeah?” He asks. He feels so warm inside there’s glee practically pouring from him.

“Not right now, though,” you admit. “I think I want more of a career before I’m willing to become known as someone’s wife.” Mike knows exactly what you mean, and that even though you eventually want to be his wife, that regardless of what you’ve accomplished, from that moment on there will be people who know you exclusively as ‘Mike Faist’s wife.’ At this point in time, you’re not even known as his girlfriend, a fact that the two of you enjoy.

“You just let me know,” he hums. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

You’ve been together almost four and a half years now and still no one knows. You don’t really need people to.

You kiss his jaw and reach down to take off your heels, complaining about your feet. He takes them from you and watches as you make your way back towards your friends. He knows he’s going to ask you one day, and he knows you’ll say yes. The two of you know just how much you love each other. You don’t need anyone else to just yet.

TWELVE. november 2021

So, a new arrangement has been reached. You n’t living in New York permanently but you have a lease on a place together. You’re back to doing live press, with the movie finally being shown in theatres. To be completely honest, you’re pretty much done with press on this movie. When you were cast in it three years ago, you didn’t expect that you would still be doing it.

Mike is sympathetic but amused. They haven’t organised the screen test for that one movie yet but that’s because the director was working on another project and the one Mike had been scouted for had been pushed back for a short period.

Sometimes companies will send you a car to come to your interview, but you take the subway home. Mike comes with you most times, more than happy to come tag along and sit in a room with your stuff and bring you your water bottle between shoots.

“Thank you, baby,” you tell him genuinely the fourth time he does it. He kisses your forehead. “You didn’t have to come with me, I appreciate you.”

He hums as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him. “I need to earn my keep somehow, I’ve been your stay at home boyfriend for like two years.”

You giggle around the straw of your water bottle, softening at the way he reaches to take it from you. “And your services have been appreciated and they will be missed when you inevitably book again.”

It’s not something that you expect to be so comforted by. The knowledge that wherever you’re living - Ohio, New York, California, wherever, even if you’re in different states - that you just love being around him. No matter how much time he spends with you, he doesn’t get sick of you, you don’t get sick of him.

You’re infinitely happier when he’s within arms reach than when he’s not.

“Only book I care about is the one I’m reading over there,” he leans in to kiss you briefly. The director of the shoot gives out the five minute warning to roll into the next section, Mike takes your phone and water bottle and heads back to his corner.

It’s almost comedic, the way that the producer immediately starts the next section with asking you “Do you have a celebrity crush?”

You have to make a conscious effort to not look over at Mike, even though you know he’s watching you.

“Uh,” you laugh awkwardly, “I don’t really have one.”

Your coworkers’ faces are stone, and you don’t know if that make you want to laugh more or not. You keep your eyes directed straight at the barrel of the camera and you know everyone’s going to see how uncomfortable you are.

“I guess having one when…” you struggle to find the right words, “when you are where I am in life, is just kind of weird,” you laugh again. “It feels wrong, I don’t know.”

You finally let your gaze land on your boyfriend. He’s smiling at you, and you calm immediately knowing that even once you’re out of this building, back on the train to your one bedroom, your hand in his, sharing earbuds, he’ll be there.

THIRTEEN. april 2022

“Tell me again, what she said,” your feet are in Mike’s lap. You have people over, and you can’t imagine being happier. Your apartment is bustling, a charcuterie board that you are very proud of on the kitchen counter. You still have New Years decorations up, and there’s music playing. Mike got back from his screen test a week ago, and you’re revelling in his presence again.

Mike takes a sip of his drink and moves so he’s resting his arm on your calf. You have a few of your friends sitting on the sofas around you, hanging on to every word. “She told me to tell you-”

You interrupt him, too excited “She brought me up!” You giggle over your champagne.

Mike giggles, the side of his mouth pinching up with his smile. “Zendaya wanted me to tell you that she had just seen your most recent movie, and that she thought you were really good in it.”

You flail back so you’re resting on the arm of a friend. “Zendaya knows my name.”

One of your friends puts his drink down on the coffee table. “Don’t you guys have a Grammy in your bedroom, why are you surprised by this?”

“It’s not mine,” you roll your eyes, tipsy off the champagne and drunk on the party. “I would never take credit for my wonderful boyfriend’s accomplishment.”

“She’s taken so many selfies with it,” the friend you’re leaning on chimes in.

Mike laughs and almost as if by magnet you’re trying to get closer to him. Your head comes up beside his, resting on the wall behind the couch, his hand on the back of your neck.

You don’t even know what you’re celebrating. Just being able to have people over, having a space to have them in. Having someone you’d want to host a party with.

“Okay, and?” you shoot back. “You’ve taken selfies with me.”

He’s kissed the hollow of your collarbone, his hair, getting longer now, tickling your neck. You love him so much, you’re surprised there’s enough room in the apartment for all your guests with how much space it’s taking up.

The apartment itself is obviously a new development in your life, but the area isn’t. Just two streets over is the apartment you were living in when you met Mike. Barely furnished, not decorated, not lived in.

A place so physically close to the room you’re sitting in with a group of people you love more than life, but that couldn’t have possibly been further away. Now you have family pictures on the wall, you have his toothbrush right beside yours. You have a ticket to the show of Dear Evan Hansen you went and saw right when you two got together, sitting front row in the audience and marveling in the fact that the man onstage liked you, pride of place in your clear phone case. He has a ticket stub from that time a theatre in Columbus was playing a rerun of your feature film debut and he’d dragged you with him to go see it wedged in his. You have a delicate chain around your neck with an M on it so well hidden it might as well be lost to legend, he has your first initial hanging on his keychain.

It’s been five years, three lived-in states, several hundred shared meals, and an apartment just two streets away, but as you laugh at a story someone is telling, your cheek pressed against Mike’s, you’ve never felt closer to home.

#mike faist #mike faist x reader #mike faist fic #art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #challengers

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fireboltposts · 3 days ago

Text

"Oppa"

A/N : Gif credit goes to the owner.

• It was a quiet Friday evening and you had come home from work a few hours ago and now had the sudden urge to arrange your closet. Your countless clothes were now scattered all over the bed with your Spotify Kpop playlist on shuffle in the background.

• Chan was busy working on writing some lyrics on his notepad in the other room.

• When he finally was satisfied with what he wrote he decided to check in on you and ask if you needed some help in folding your clothes.

• So he walked into the bedroom, rubbing the back of his neck, as he glanced around, when the familiar notes of Boy In Luv by BTS reached his ears. His eyes landed on you, swaying to the beat of the chorus as you folded your clothes, completely engrossed in the music.

• When the part 되고파 너의 오빠, 너를 향한 나의 마음을 왜 몰라? (I want to become your oppa why don't you know my feelings for you ?) came up, you noticed him standing at the doorway, you smirked at him.

• Feeling completely confident and mischievous this time for some reason, you grabbed an artificial rose from the vase on your bedside table and approached him, singing the lines to him passionately 나를 모른 척해도, 차가운 척해도 널 밀어내진 못하겠어 (even if you pretend to not know me and be cold i still can't push you away).

• Chan's eyebrows shot up in surprise, he clearly hadn't expected you to serenade him with this song, a song meant for a girl by a guy. "Wait what are you - ?! Are you seriously serenading me with this song ?" He continued to look at you in amusement yet he couldn't help but blush at your antics.

• You ignored him and continued to sing 되고파 너의 오빠 너의 남자가 될 거야 두고 봐 (i want to be your oppa I'll be your man, wait and see), as you held the rose out to him, tilting your head dramatically as you waited for his reaction with a mischievous smile on your face.

• Chan was utterly dumbfounded yet he couldn't hide his amusement and the growing grin on his face. He blinked a few times before bursting into laughter and said "out of all the songs in the world you serenaded me with a song about wanting to be someone's man ? Y/N you're unpredictable", he continued laughing, and took the rose.

• "So ? Can't I take charge and serenade you ?", you mock pouted.

• His laughter softened into a warm smile "you're too much you know that ?"

• "Thanks thanks, I aim to entertain".

• "Chan looked at the rose in his hand and said "you're lucky I find this adorable".

• "Adorable ? I was going for bold and romantic Chan", feigning offense.

• "Oh ya that too", he said as he pulled you closer.

• "You know I hated the word oppa ? I mean when I came to know this whole K industry existed that word was everywhere in songs, movies and fans overused it to no end so I found it cringy".

• He raised his eyebrows, "so what changed now ? because you know you literally just serenaded me with a song that had oppa".

• "Ahh I guess I kind of like it now but only in small doses. Maybe I started to like it because of you who knows ? Like it's not cringy when it comes to you, it's cute, I guess".

• He trailed off looking thoughtful. Then he leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a softer tone. "So you think I'm cute ? Anyways if you ever did call me oppa, like, seriously, I think my heart might stop".

• You raised your eyebrows, smirking. "Oh is that so ?"

• "For the record you can call me anything and it would be sweet. But oppa, coming only from you is ..... special", he said quietly. You made a mental note about this.

• Fifteen minutes later, you both had fallen into a comfortable silence, as you continued to fold the last of your clothes with Chan's help, the oppa conversation forgotten for now. That was until you had a mischievous idea.

• Chan had folded a bunch of your clothes and was about to keep it on the top shelf of the closet but you wanted it to be on the middle shelf. So you realised that the opportunity couldn't be missed.

• "Oppa, put the clothes in the middle shelf", you said, trying not to smirk, feigning innocence.

• Chan froze mid-way, his head whipped towards you so fast, you were surprised he didn't pull a muscle.

• "What ? What did you just call me ?", his voice full of disbelief and shock.

• "What ? I just said oppa put the clothes in the middle shelf", you shrugged innocently, your tone nonchalant as if it was the most natural thing to do.

• Chan’s jaw dropped, and he stared at you as if you’d just declared something groundbreaking. "You,did you just, did you actually ?", he stammered, his usual eloquence completely failing him.

• You turned back to your task, suppressing a laugh as you placed the clothes you took from his hands neatly into the cupboard. "What’s the big deal ? You told me you'd like it, didn’t you?".

• "You ! You can’t just drop that on me out of nowhere ! I wasn’t ready !"

• You finally let out a laugh, closing the cupboard and turning to face him fully. "What do you mean, you weren’t ready ? It’s just a word".

• "No no no," he said, shaking his head, his expression somewhere between giddy and flustered. "It’s not just a word. You, you said it so casually ! Like, like…" He trailed off, running a hand through his hair as if trying to collect himself. "You know what you’re doing to me right now, don’t you ?"

• You shrugged, folding another shirt. "I have no idea what you’re talking about".

• "You've ruined me now. I'll be thinking about this for days now".

• "You're so sappy", you said, ruffling his hair.

• "And you love it",he shot back.

• A fortnight later, you walked into the studio with a nicely packed lunch for all the members. When you stepped in, the guys greeted you enthusiastically.

• "Look who's here",Minho said with a smirk. "Oh she's brought food", said Felix, his face lighting up.

• "Don't worry guys I brought extra for all of you, so no fighting over the food". You glanced over at Chan who was looking at you interact with the members with a smile on his face. You chatted some more with the guys.

• The boys laughed at some joke you made , and some time later their attention was completely focused on the food. Meanwhile you took the specially packed lunch you had brought for Chan and approached him.

• "I made this for you Channie", you said with a smile on your face.

• "Thanks love", he blushed as he took the box from your hands.

• The moment seemed innocent enough until, just as you were about to leave, you turned back to the room, saying your goodbyes to the other members. But as you reached the door, you turned to Chan, a mischievous idea in your head.

• "Oppa, eat well," you said sweetly, leaning in to kiss his cheek, your lips lingering on his cheek a moment long than usual before stepping back. You glanced over your shoulder, catching his stunned expression as you added a playful knowing wink before walking out. The room went silent.

• "Did she just - ?", Seungmin asked, looking up from his food in shock.

• "Oppa ? Since when does Y/N call you oppa ?" asked Hyunjin, his mouth half full with food, his eyes wide.

• Felix nearly choked on some rice, hastily patting his chest before he says "Wow i didn't know she even had that word in her vocabulary".

• Chan, on the other hand, was frozen in place, holding the lunch box like it was the most precious thing in the world. His face turned a deep shade of red, and he touched the spot on his cheek where you’d kissed him, as if to confirm it actually happened. "She just called me -" he began, his voice soft and incredulous. "She called me oppa a second time."

• "Yeah, we heard,"Jeongin deadpanned, though his eyes were still wide.

• "And kissed you on the cheek", Jisung added with a grin. "In front of all of us, too. Bold".

• "A second time ? What do you mean ?", Changbin asked him.

• Chan recounted to his members what happened two weeks prior in brief. He was met with a response of wolf whistles and loud 'woah's and clapping.

• Chan turned to glare at them, though his blush gave away his embarrassment. "Shut up guys,"he muttered, though there was no real heat behind his words, hiding his face with his palms. " I didn't know she was going to do that. She just.. caught me off guard again"

• "Oh, you’re enjoying this", Jisung said, nudging Chan with his elbow. “Don’t even try to deny it".

• "Maybe a little", he admitted softly.

• "A little ? You look like you're on cloud nine", Hyunjin said smirking.

• The room erupted into laughter as Chan buried his face in his hands, his ears burning. " Can we just drop it already ?"

• "No way", Minho said. We're not letting you live this one down".

• Despite the teasing, Chan couldn’t stop the warmth that spread through his chest. The memory of your playful wink and the way you’d said oppa replayed in his mind, making him smile despite himself.

• As the laughter died down and the members turned their attention back to the food, Chan sat quietly, still holding the lunch box you’d given him. He couldn’t help but think about how effortlessly you managed to turn his world upside down with just a single word.

A/N : Hope you liked it. Do like, comment and follow if you did. Meanwhile you can find the rest of my masterlist here.

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notenoughdragons · 2 days ago

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okay so i actually wrote something for this bc the idea possessed me, please enjoy everyone :3

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The ruin’s… well, ruined. Half a cave, perhaps an underground temple, but the walls on the surface are mostly rubble. Still, beside the entrance looms a statue of a wolf, overgrown with moss and lichens and ivy, yet otherwise whole.

Solas sucks in a quiet breath. Saar gives him a look.

“You all right?” she asks quietly. Felassan is already climbing onto the statue’s back, egged on by Sera.

“I—yes. Of course.”

Saar watches him a moment longer, then pats his back. “All right. Tell me if that changes, will you?”

“Saar!” Sera yells. “Look! Does Fenny wanna play fetch?”

She’s holding up a big stick, pretending to throw it for the statue. Saar snorts out a giggle. Felassan, meanwhile, stands on the statue’s back and is resting his elbows on the wolf’s head, watching all of them.

“What is this, the tenth statue like this?” Saar muses as she approaches. “Someone either really wanted to make sure the Dread Wolf stays out, or they actually liked him.” She reaches out to pet the wolf’s snout. Felassan’s eyes follow the motion like wisp lights.

“There are stories of Fen’Harel where he—” he begins.

“Legends born from nothing but superstition, I'd wager,” Solas interrupts flatly from behind Saar.

Saar keeps her hand on the stone. Lets her magic seep through her skin. And from deep within the carved rock, a whisper responds…

“This isn’t superstition,” she says. “I think—someone tried to protect this place? There are, were wards woven into this. But they set them into a statue of Fen’Harel, like he’s… I don’t know, the guardian of this place?”

Felassan rests his cheek on one hand, eyes still lilac-bright. His gaze drifts somewhere past Saar.

“I wonder what he’d think of that,” he says. “Of you, calling him a guardian, I mean.”

“Well, I know what Keeper Deshanna would call me for it, and it’s a reckless fool.” Saar chuckles. “But she called me that for plenty of other reasons too.” Absently, she pats the wolf’s flank as she goes past it to the entrance of the underground area. “Let’s see what he’s protecting, huh?”

“Thank Andraste’s knickers and tits and ass,” Sera groans. “I thought you were gonna have another hour-long yapping about old elf shit.”

Saar grins. “Oh, I can do both, trust me.”

Halfway down the stairs, she turns around to see where in the blights Solas and Felassan have gotten to because neither of them made so much as a peep. They’re still standing before the entrance, staring at each other. Felassan’s leaning against the wolf statue’s chest, arms crossed, radiating belligerence. Solas’ knuckles are pale where they wrap around his staff, his spine a stiff line. Saar half expects them to start screaming at each other and is about to haul them down the stairs…

“Oi! You two’re gonna get grown over if you keep loiterin’ like that!”

Like a spell releasing, they relax, and turn to follow.

That’s gonna explode at some point, Saar is pretty sure. But for now, they’ve got a ruin to explore.

Solas had to kill Felassan because Felassan would have heard that a man named Solas joined the Inquisition and signed up immediately just to follow the Inquisitor around and be like “you know this reminds me of a Dalish legend about Fen’Harel stop me if you’ve heard this one before have I told you about the time Andruil almost tricked him into being her lover for a year” while Solas sweats bullets in the background knowing he can’t interrupt or stop him without looking suspicious as hell

#for clarity's sake; saar is an adaar inq. clan lavellan just had one of their seasonal camps near where she grew up; hence she knows them #felassan #solas #adaar #sera #da:i #fanfic #my stuff #saar gets her own tag #inquisitor #felassan survives au #will there be more? probably. they are COMPELLING ME

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coffeegnomee · 3 days ago

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There's something about how Mapicc will go full out on the attack over an assumption or something that fits with your reputation.

But then when confronted that that is not the truth, he will back off and say, maybe i was wrong.

But then he keeps you on the watch list and his trust is forever wavered.

There's two instances and both came up in the past month, though one was season 6 and the other season 4.

When Zam confronted Mapicc about Mawn on the first day, Mapicc confronted him back saying he only ever calls on him to fight and nothing else: tldr Zam uses him.

Zam of course is shocked and horrified that Mapicc would think that, and after going back and forth and a lot of insisting from Zam, Mapicc goes,

MAPICC: "I don't think you did. I don't think you were intending to like, use me for personal gain, but i think lowkey even if you don't agree you did- i think you did”

And then after more confrontations he goes,

MAPICC: “[pause] i think.. That maybe just a lot of people subconsciously do that and now I see it in people when it’s not happening. It's possible”

(12/15/24 "RECOLLECT" zam, conversation starts at 2:45:00)

And that interaction bothered me a lot. When it happened I thought it was a sign that Mapicc actually did start changing his mind about mawn, but by the time I wrote the post there were more mawn streams and Mapicc had clearly not been changed by that convo. So what was going on?

The rest of mawn continued, Mapicc kept denying it was all about Zam while making it all about Zam.

And on the last day, Mapicc brings back up the feeling used by Zam.

MAPICC: “i don't feel abandoned. I feel used. [..] i'm perfectly fine bro. I- I can make it back to 20 hearts, i can live on my own. Like [..] like i do some crazy ass action out of nowhere and like i die in the middle of it and the first thing you message me it to come bail you out of a bunch of wardens pit?"

Mapicc does an entire takeover of spawn and Zam doesn't enter into the play. He doesn't reciprocate. He doesn't embrace mapicc's idea. He doesn't care about him and what he cares about.

Zam just wants Mapicc when he needs help.

Stab the knife and twist it.

And all this after Mapicc put aside his "oath" (killing people whenever he thinks they deserve it) for Zam and Zam's plot. Mapicc changed himself to do stuff with Zam, but Zam wouldn't change himself to do stuff with Mapicc.

They go back and forth debating on whether or now mawn was good. Mapicc is less and less confident, while zam says he thinks it did do good but he couldn't be involved.

MAPICC: ‘what is it you would like from me” ZAM: “i don't know. Thats what im trying to figure out. Cause like, i don't even know” [..] MAPICC: “i think im in the wrong.” ZAM: "really?” MAPICC: "im sorry” [..] Zam asks if he wants to join his team with derap and poafa. Mapicc just looks at zam. Zam says he can think about it MAPICC: "i just don't want to team with derap and poafa” ZAM: “fair enough” MAPICC: ”lets just- why can’t you just be in two teams? [..] why can't we be in the mapicc-zam team and then you have your teammates” ZAM: “[jumping on it so fast] im okay with that as well”

(12/23/24 "to ashes and blood" zam. convo starts 2:49:00)

All of mawn has been about getting Zam back to spawn, Mapicc shouting once, "just- COME OUT OF EXILE! Just come back to spawn” (1:31:40 zam "dynasties and dystopia")

There's this war within Mapicc over knowing he will continue to feel used by Zam, but still just wanting to be by Zam. All of it centers back to wanting to be teammates - doing plots together.

Bc "teammate" means something for Mapicc. It's a "do everything together" type relationship. "Support each other in all things" type relationship. Look at how he was in dualities. (before the finale. which is actually really interesting to think about)

Which brings me to the second moment Mapicc reacted aggressively only to take it back and say it was all based on assumptions: the Dupe War.

Spoke dropping the unreleased footage within the same month as the above really created a parallel within the Mapicc characterization.

57:00 MAPICC: "honestly no, honestly, here's the thing, i think, i really do, okay? I really do think it might've just been the reputation [..] you were saying some ominous things. and me and zam thought about it [..] and you kept saying things that were making your case worse and worse."

After feeling like Spoke was playing them, Mapicc went and killed Spoke. Spoke, enraged and upset, confronted Mapicc and eventually Mapicc said he acted out of turn, it might've just been the reputation.

It's so similar to the s6 belief, now I see it in people when it's not happening.

And so similar to s4, he'll admit defeat in the battle, give the benefit of the doubt. But the nagging suspicion continues and he's never quite able to shake it.

MAPICC: "I wish this guy wasn't such a snake, i would like 5 minutes hanging out with Spoke" ZAM: "[finishing sentence] without thinking he has some kind of ulterior motive"

("Night of the End", zam vod 1:54:40)

Mapicc's mind runs at a million miles an hour, making connections, providing assumptions, giving gut checks.

And he's right a lot of the time.

But he doubts himself all of the time. Going back on his observation when someone presses him in the opposite direction. Caving and placating so as to not loose a friendship.

but that self-doubt seems to be louder in the conversation that it really is within his own mind. And once he notes something it's very hard for his mind to be changed.

And it's interesting how his assumptions that Zam would oppose mawn and would be responsible for these things that kept happening, were wrong. He said during the final mawn convo that he felt like zam kept 180-ing after every convo, though he admits he was wrong about who did the suspicious things.

But the assumption that started this whole thing was that Mapicc felt used, not that Zam would oppose him.

And that assumption has still not been proven incorrect.

Though Mapicc will go along with it for now, being more cautious than before. Just like he was with Spoke after that dupe war confrontation.

It's a haunting ending, and it's not helped at all by how Mapicc ended his video. My general belief is that Mapicc went 180 on what actually happened bc the video is public and all the lifestealers will watch it, and he did say he would keep mawn going and just let it exist in people's minds. You can't do that if you end your video saying it's all over.

And yet.

MAPICC: "Me and Zam had made up, but it didn't mean we could team. If i could go back in time i would have never done mawn, but now that i have full control over spawn, i can't just stop"

it is a complete 180 from what was decided in the conversation.

and that was mapicc speaking days later, after reflection. What went on in his head, alone while editing?? Where will this go? why did he have to go skiing??

#lifesteal spoilers #gnome rambles

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callsign-rogueone · 3 days ago

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unfit to serve

Sawyer Henrick x reader (peach!) words: 3.0k 🏷: no book spoilers, getting into october in the iron flame timeline. mentions of a self-inflicted wound (not described in detail / not shown "on screen"), everyone's least favorite infantry cadet makes an appearance, stalking / unhealthy obsession behaviors, sawyer to the rescue. I promise these two will figure their ish out, but today is not that day.

“There’s nothing we can do — nothing he’s done has been an explicit violation of the infantry code of conduct. I suggest you make it clear to him that you aren’t interested -- no more mixed signals. Now run along. Believe it or not, you have patients to attend to.”

“She really said that to you?” the younger healer asks, slack-jawed.

“Word for word.”

She looks both ways, leaning forward to whisper to you. “What a heinous bitch.”

You raise your hands in playful surrender. “You said it, not me. She’s the one person I won’t miss when I graduate.”

“Besides him.”

“Besides him,” you agree. “Alright. Your turn to go eat. I can hold down the fort for a while. Sawyer will be here in a bit, anyway.”

“Are you ever going to make a move on him? If I had a handsome rider boy making me jewelry in his free time, I’d definitely kiss him. And it would be so cute. It already is cute. Childhood friends to college sweethearts to cute old married couple. Just like the colonel and his wife!”

“I told you—”

“It’s just pretend,” she says, sighing, “I know. But don’t you want it to be real? Even a little bit?”

“Get out of here before I change my mind,” you say dryly, and she laughs, scampering off.

“See you in half an hour!”

Speak of the devil and he may appear. You’d hide, but it’s too late — you’ve already made eye contact. You pull your gaze away, down to the bloodied towel he’s holding around his left arm. So he’s actually injured this time — but you really don’t feel like being behind a closed door with him, and going to ask one of the senior healers to do it for you wouldn’t be a great idea. It feels like they’re already out to get you.

Thankfully there’s supplies in every room here, including the intake area.

You nod to one of the chairs, turning to wash your hands. “Have a seat.”

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he starts, sitting down. “How have you been?”

“Well, thank you.”

No details, no extra pleasantries -- no information he could use to keep the conversation going, or to be creepy about at a later date.

He lays his arm across the table, unwrapping the towel. It’s not gushing blood, thankfully, but it’s a nasty scratch that will definitely need stitches. You turn to scratch out a note, needing a break from his stare. Friday October 5th, 634 -- 11:20am. Laceration, left forearm, ≈4 inches long, ¼ in deep.

It occurs to you that all the injuries you’ve treated for him, bar the first one, have been to his left side. You flip back through the thickened folder that holds his records, confirming; left arm, left leg, left side, left leg, left arm… And the times… 9:07, 8:19, 7:45, 9:24, 8:21… always when you’re on shift. Once is an incidence, twice is a coincidence, and three times is a pattern, but five? Five is getting toward concrete proof.

“James,” you ask gently, and he perks right up — you never call him by his name, one of the lines you’d attempted to draw that he’d breezed right past without even noticing. “Can you tell me how this happened?”

He blinks at you for a second before he makes a recovery that isn’t as smooth as he thinks it is. “I was helping some of the first years with sword fighting. They’re pretty good.”

“Uh-huh,” you reply, looking back at the wound. You’ve held a sword before — not that you know how to use it — but if he was in a proper stance, using two hands, they would have come down against his right arm, not his left, and it wouldn’t have been so straight, or so deep. This wasn’t sideways pressure, but downward, into the muscle.

But he wouldn’t… Would he?

“I’m just concerned about you, is all,” you say carefully. “You’ve been in here a lot lately.” You tap the folder with a fingernail to illustrate your point.

You really don’t know where to go with this, but you’re letting him steer the conversation, to see what he’ll tell you. You’ve watched the older healers do this dozens of times; empathize with the first complaint and wait to see if they tell you something serious. You’d fallen for it yourself once as a younger cadet, having mentioned how tired you were that week — and then when Winifred asked more questions, and you told her that you’d been having dizzy spells, you were promptly whisked away for examination and given supplements to take. You felt perfectly fine again within three days.

“Occupational hazards,” he offers with a smile.

“Yeah,” you reply distantly. “Guess so.” You’re just jumping to conclusions. There’s no way that he did this to himself. It would hurt like hell, for a start. But he doesn’t show any signs of discomfort, smiling at you even as you apply the extra-strong disinfectant that you’ve seen make even the toughest riders wince. You press near the edge of the wound with a gentle fingertip — no reaction to that, either. He remains completely straight-faced, his eyes not leaving yours.

He takes advantage of the lull in the conversation, changing the subject. “Did you get my letter?” He looks genuinely eager, and for a moment you almost feel guilty for letting Sawyer have Sliseag torch it.

“I did,” you answer, regretting it immediately when you realize that you just confirmed which room you sleep in. “James… I’m sorry, but this isn’t happening. And I’ve told you before, I already have a boyfriend.”

He laughs. “That rider friend of yours? Please. You do know that he was held back a year, right? Couldn’t hack it the first time, so they made him start over again. I guess the second time’s the charm, not the third.”

Your jaw clenches, but you remain silent.

“You deserve better than some second-pick farm boy, anyway. What you need is stability,” he offers. “Someone who has enough so you won’t have to work, and who won’t be in service for the rest of their life — and won’t break their neck falling off a dragon, and leave you to raise the kids alone.”

You can’t hold it back. “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know what I want, because you’ve never bothered to ask, and you certainly don’t know what I need. I made my choice, and I love him. I’m sorry that you don’t understand, but you don’t have to.”

He sighs. “What’s it gonna take for you to stop playing hard to get? I’m tired of this game. And it’s such a bitch to change bandages every time I shower.”

He thinks this is all a game?

So you were right, after all.

“You did this yourself?”

“Of course I did. They were turning me away when I needed anything less than stitches, so I didn’t really have a choice.”

There’s a soft rustle from the other side of the room, and you come back to your senses just in time to see someone slip down the hallway, a blur of black and auburn. That can only be Sawyer. Did he hear all of that? If the gods haven’t forgotten about you, then he did, and he’s going to get… someone. But will the older healers even believe him, after they’d dismissed your complaints weeks ago? And what are you supposed to do in the meantime, sitting alone with him?

Finish stitching, you suppose. The bleeding has slowed to a trickle, and he’d made a clean cut, so it’ll be easy enough. You occupy yourself with preparing your supplies, hoping he won’t press you further — you still haven’t responded to his question, or expressed any reaction to what he just told you.

Thankfully he seems content to just be sitting in your presence, but the feeling of his eyes on you is incredibly unsettling — like you’re being watched by a wolf who’s ready to strike.

But a wolf would only kill out of necessity, and make it quick. Men like to play with their food.

Just breathe. The odds of someone walking in right now are pretty high, and if it’s anyone but his two infantry friends, you’ll be safe physically.

You just need to tell someone what he told you. Someone with authority.

“Cadet Lowen,” the mender greets, and you stand too quickly, hands behind your back in the position of attention.

“Colonel Colbersy,” you reply, trying not to sound too relieved. Caleb is with him. He’ll believe you. He has to.

The mender looks exhausted, and so he, but they still offer James disarming smiles. “Let's get you fixed up, son. Come back to my office.”

As soon as he’s turned away from you, you catch the healer by the elbow, signing — he did it. hurt himself.

Caleb nods. Your rider told me.

You press the file into his hands, continuing. Five times.

His eyes widen.

Because of me.

His lips part to speak, but Nolon beckons him forward, steering James through the double doors leading to the exam rooms. You hold your breath until he’s out of sight, releasing it in a soft shudder as soon as they’re gone.

You strip off the healer’s robes with trembling hands, tossing them aside carelessly and striding toward the sink. You finally start to cry, your vision blurring with tears as you lather up to your elbows, desperate to get this terrible feeling off of you.

“Peach,” Sawyer begins delicately, laying a hand on your arm to stop you from scrubbing your skin raw, and you flinch away.

“I’m sorry, I just… I don’t want to be touched right now,” you sniff.

He retracts his hand immediately. “I understand. Say the word and I’ll leave.”

“No,” you whisper, watching the water run, “I don’t want to be alone.”

“Okay.” He leans against the counter beside you, a few feet away, speaking softly. “From what I saw, you handled that incredibly well. And you did the right thing. The leadership is going to get him help.”

You nod numbly, rinsing the soap from your skin and turning the tap off. He hands you a towel, and you take it silently, drying your hands. You feel like you need a full shower after the last ten minutes, your skin still feeling unclean despite being washed thoroughly with soap and water — maybe too thoroughly. Your hands feel dry and irritated, stinging from the steaming water you’d used.

You’re still trying to wrap your head around all of this. “He was injuring himself because of me. Because he wanted an excuse to see me.”

Sawyer doesn’t hesitate with his response. “He did those things because he’s unwell. None of this was your fault, peach. I need you to understand that.”

You don’t respond, still wrestling with the guilt, wracking your brain to think of anything you could have done differently. But if he hadn’t gotten so attached to you, would he have become obsessed with another of your classmates instead? Any girl who smiled at him and listened when he spoke, like all healers are instructed to? Would another girl have accepted his advances, and unknowingly walked into his trap? What would he have done if she realized who he really was inside and decided she wanted out?

“Lowen,” the colonel says gently.

You look up at him through teary eyes, placing your hands behind your back again — regretting taking off your robe. “Yes, sir?”

“You did the right thing. He’s going to be declared unfit to serve, and he’ll get the help he needs.”

You nod quietly, not sure what to say.

“I’m grateful that your friend found me before anything else could happen. And I’m sorry that I hadn’t had a proper handle on this situation until now. I hadn’t realized how serious it was. Take tomorrow off, and get some rest. I need my best third-year in good condition,” he says warmly.

The compliment doesn’t fill you with pride like it usually would — you just feel numb, hollow except for the guilt churning in your stomach that still hasn’t gone away. “Thank you, sir.”

You remain at attention until he leaves, disappearing back down the hall to whence he came.

You look up at Sawyer. “I’ll be okay,” you say softly. “He’s right, I just need to wash it off.” Literally. You’ll take the longest shower of your life, and probably cry again, and that will help — hopefully. “Thank you. For all of this. If you hadn’t been there to see me… I’m just so relieved that this is over.”

“Of course, sweet girl.” He picks up your hastily-discarded robe, draping it over his arm. “Let’s get you out of here, hm?”

“I still need to clean up and do some paperwork,” you say softly. “You go on ahead— I don’t want you to be late for class, and I’ll be fine to walk back on my own now that he’s gone.”

“Okay,” he responds quietly.

You take the robe back from him. “Tell the others I say hi.”

“I will,” he promises, still lingering.

You offer him a sad smile, starting to clean up the supplies you’d used. You’ll need to wash your hands yet again after this, but you need to occupy yourself with something or you’re going to start crying again — and you can’t bear to watch Sawyer leave right now.

Hearing his footsteps retreat is hard enough.

Sleep doesn’t come easily to either of you that night — you both lie awake for a while in your matching beds across campus from one another, thinking about the day’s events, and wondering what this will mean for you and your little ruse of a relationship.

——————

“It’s almost eleven thirty, dude. Scoot,” Ridoc reminds, but Sawyer makes no move to leave. “Okay, something is definitely up with you. Spit.”

“James is being declared unfit to serve,” he answers tiredly, still looking at his textbook. “Turns out he was injuring himself just to have an excuse to see her.”

There’s a collective inhale from the table. “Yikes.”

Rhiannon looks at him, confused. “So he’s finally going to be out of her hair. That’s good — why are you so bummed?”

“She doesn’t need me anymore.”

Oh.

There’s a short silence before his friends jump in to help. “Did she tell you that?” Violet asks.

“She thanked me for everything, and said she’d be fine on her own. This whole thing was supposed to get him out of her hair, and now he’s getting discharged, so the logical conclusion is that it’s over.”

“So that’s a no,” Ridoc says. “Got it.”

Sawyer ignores him, continuing to scratch out notes half-heartedly.

“You don’t have to stop seeing her, you just might stop the boyfriend stuff for a while,” Violet reasons.

He finally looks up at them. “I can’t.”

Three sets of eyes blink back at him, confused.

He sighs, shutting the textbook. “You don’t get it, guys, I’m screwed. So, so screwed. I look at her and I just want to take care of her. It’s been like this ever since I saw her again at land-nav. When she told us about that infantry creep, I was ready to go over there and knock his fucking teeth out, but she looked so scared that all I wanted to do was hold her, because she is so good and pure-hearted and she doesn’t deserve to be scared or in pain, ever. And now that we started this whole fake-boyfriend thing, and I get to take her out to town and pick her flowers and all that, I can’t just stop and go back to being friends. I want to do that stuff for her forever, but I know she doesn’t want anything real with me, and even if she did, in less than a year she’s gonna graduate and leave to gods-know-where, and it’ll all be over like that, all because I wasn’t good enough to be chosen at Threshing the first time around.”

“Okay, first of all, breathe,” Rhiannon instructs, “and quit the self-deprecation thing. That’s water under the bridge. If you hadn’t repeated, you wouldn’t have seen her at land-nav, and you wouldn’t have been able to protect her from that creep, because you wouldn’t even have known about him.”

The thought makes him feel sick. What would have happened if nobody had seen you with James yesterday and gotten help? If Sliseag hadn’t protected you in the forest? Would James have hurt you for declining his advances, or hurt himself again?

“Second, did she tell you that she doesn’t want you? Or are you just assuming?”

Sawyer is quiet in a way that the table interprets as another no.

Ridoc chimes in, never one to stay silent. “Just take her out again, drop some line about wishing this was real, and boom. Instant happily-ever-after. It was so easy for you guys to click again after two years apart — you can handle a year of long distance! And then if you get married, they have to station you together for the rest of your service,” he adds. “And they pay you more.”

Sawyer doesn’t look convinced. “I can’t just pretend that this never happened. I don’t want to. She’s fragile right now. The way she looked yesterday… I haven’t seen her cry like that in years. And she didn't want me to touch her, which isn’t like her at all. It was scary, honestly.”

“Poor girl,” Rhiannon frowns. “This all must have been traumatic for her.”

“So be there for her,” their newest squadmate stresses, finally speaking. “Keep showing up, and let her talk to you about all this. She doesn’t need a boyfriend right now, or a bodyguard, but she does need someone, and that should be you.”

Everyone turns to her, having forgotten she was there — she flushes at the attention, returning to her sketch.

Sawyer sighs. “Nolon gave her the day off today, but I might go by tomorrow and see her.”

#sawyer and peach #mine #fourth wing #fourth wing x reader #sawyer henrick

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love-and-war-on-cybertron · 1 day ago

Note

Since you mentioned dead dove request. 👉👈 Could it be possible to request Synthetic Energon!Ratchet? I feel like that mech would do unspeakable things when horny.

Maybe he has a crush on reader who is a mechanic helping him out, and he gets jealous when he sees reader bond with Knock Out now that he doesn't have the medbay and you to himself. Reader could casually offer to buff/polish Knock and that pushes Ratchet over the edge and just yanks you and takes you to his quarters after giving you the silent treatment all day. Highly doubt that mech would show any restrains.

"How's it Hummin'" Will forever be HOT. Like goddamn sleazy but HOT. Sorry It's being split into a two-parter XP

cw: Heavy Dub-con. Reader wants it, but maybe not quite like that.

It had been innocent. Or so you thought. Ratchet had been moody, especially ever since he tried that synthetic crap. Ignoring you all day, even when you came directly to him, asking if you could help with anything. The huff you received in return was enough to know you didn't want to deal with whatever he was upset about.

Knockout was better company today anyways.

The formerly Decepticon Medic had warmed up to you despite being human. You knew your stuff and didn't joke or distrust him for being a turn coat. You could even share a few laughs and talk about Movies. He offered to let you ride with him to see one at the drive in.

Ratchet mumbled something. You assumed it was annoyance at what ever project he was working on. After some chitchat, you and Knock Out get to work, snarking back and forth. It was a project you had been working on for awhile. Something Ratchet said you didn't need his help on.

A couple hours in, you're taking a break, sitting next to Knock out. He holds up an arm, sighing at a scuff.

"I miss Breakdown. He could get this out and polish it away like it never happened." He seemed lost in thought for a moment.

Knowing what happened to his friend, you felt a little bad, "Well maybe I can Buff that out for you later?" Ratchet drops a tool but you pay it no mind, "I got some tool in my truck if you're okay with human tools. I could-" You stop, seeing Knockout's face.

He isn't looking at you, but past you, Optics wide. Heavy footsteps rapidly approach and knockout backs away, servos held up. He speaks in Cybertronian. There is a sharp response behind you before you are snatched up.

The grip is a bight tight, but nothing damaging. You try to struggle out of it but you're brought up quickly to meet green Optics. "Quiet."

It's Ratchet. What was up his aft? You try to speak again, but he growls at you. The sound and vibration sending a shiver down your spine. He stomps through the base all the way to his quarters. Far in the back. He liked the quiet. You are none-too-gently dumped onto the slap of rock he made into a berth. The room is dark, save for the glow of his eyes. The green makes you uneasy. As does the way he leans close, servos flat on either side of you.

"What's up Ratchet?" You sit up on your elbows, heart racing, trying to keep your voice steady.

The Medic glares down at you, silent. Servos dragging off of the slab as he stands straight. Glowering down at you, he looked even more massive.

"Getting real fragging close to that Con." He spits the last word out.

"He's not a decepticon anymore. You know tha-'

A massive metal fist slams down beside you, his face close. You're bathed in that sick green light. Vision drowned in his optics. His voice, a tense whisper.

"Getting. Real. close."

You start shaking, unable to look away as the mechanics of his optics shift and focus on you. Who was this, cause it sure as hell wasn't Ratchet. All this change started with...

"Ratchet. Come on. You-" you take a shaky breath, "You haven't been yourself. Lets just-"

"No." His voice is firm as he grabs your ankle and drags you to the edge of the berth, "I have never felt more myself. Stronger. Faster. Better. Can't you see it? Can't you see I'm better than everyone else? Especially that scrap excuse for a doctor?"

Trying to scoot away only made his hold on you tighten enough to earn a grunt.

"The frag do you see in him, when I'm right in front of you?"

You had always suspected something, Ratchet was a bit softer with you compared to the other humans. Always excluding you from his complaints about humans. Taking time to talk to you, teaching you about Cybertronian physiology. But this...

"Ratchet, that shit is making you act weird." You say, reaching out to touch the servo that grips you. The large Metal thumb running up and down your leg. It sent another shiver down your spine.

"No, I'ts making me act just right. I'm not holding back anymore." His thumb slides under your shirt.

#if you see inconsistencies in how i spell knockout no you didn't #ratchet x reader #ratchet x human #transformers x reader #ratchet #since tumblr has been hitting me with word limits #I may be splitting future ones into 2 parts as well

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pinkkkkat · 21 hours ago

Note

Hi!! Hope ur having a good day! Could I ask u to write something abt caitvi x fem!reader who forgets to take care of herself (bonus points if she's a workaholic)

hi i’m SO late i’m so sorry baby

(reader is a student because i’m an overworked student and this is self-indulgent like everything else i write also this is nsfw sorry if that’s not what you wanted anon! no use of y/n)

it’s not new for you to work yourself to the bone. whether it’s pulling more than one consecutive all nighter to get papers finished on time, or spending full twelve hour shifts in the library pouring over your books and notes, you slip easily into an all-work and absolutely no play mindset (not that showering or hey, eating, counts as ‘play,’ but anyways)

usually, nobody notices. so what, you disappear sometimes (for weeks), but you always pop back up looking normal, so it doesn’t draw attention. everyone knew that you were a dedicated student. the only reason caitlyn notices you’ve stopped caring for yourself is because she sees the trait of obsessively working until you drop reflected in herself

you started dating caitlyn and vi in the early summer, so they had ever seen you in your element. when the academy starts back up in the fall, your girlfriends are excited to see the sparkle in your eyes when you tell them about your passion, hands moving animatedly as you talk at a rapid pace. vi often teases you for being a nerd, but cait is much the same, so it’s two against one there

anyways

i think cait would bring it up to vi first, asking if she’s noticed how you’re starting to pull away a little, and when they do get to see you, you’re not yourself. usually, you keep your appearance well put together, hair down and outfit chosen to bolster your look-good feel-good attitude. lately though, the bags under your eyes have become prominent, and some nights you don’t come home, saying you’re gonna work late at the academy, but then not going home at all

at first, vi is just super proud of you, for working hard at what you love. she understands what it’s like to want something so bad that you can’t help but “stay in the grind.” she sends you texts in the group chat often throughout your busy days, pictures of her at the gym or a gif of little cat, always with a message saying she’s so proud of her girl, that she loves you

after cait mentions how worried she is, vi starts to notice that you’re not as cheery as before, on top of the eye bags an disheveled appearance that is starting to become your staple look. she’s frustrated with herself for not noticing and taking care of you, and with you a little for not taking care of yourself. cait convinces her to let her try and help first, as someone with a more similar academic experience

caitlyn starts showing up at the academy, at least once every day. she brings food, and coffee, and sometimes she gets jayce, but more often viktor, out of the lab to accompany you. she always takes your hand, dragging you from what you’re doing to sit with her and just talk. she’s subtle about her worry, not wanting you to feel guilty, but wanting to change your habits slowly without you noticing (cait is so conniving i love her)

as the semester continues, you only seem to get worse, despite cait’s best efforts. cait is consistently holding vi back from saying something blunt, because she doesn’t want to upset you, or to cause you to give up on what you love all together out of guilt. in the end, you end up coming to them, having completely exhausted yourself and tilting your last straw

it’s late when you get to the kirraman household, knowing you girlfriends are there. you don’t know what time it is, the sun having set some uncounted number of hours earlier. you knock on the door (even though you know you can just walk in), embarrassed about how bad you’ve let yourself get. cait opens the door and envelops you in a long hug after taking one look at you, standing on her porch in a big sweatshirt, sniffling a bit, unwashed hair piled onto the top of your head

“oh my darling, come inside”

she’s warm and so soft with you, and you’re already feeling better. cait shushes every attempt you make to apologize, for showing up out of nowhere after not really showing up at all for a little while. she brings you up into her room, where vi sits on the end of the bed

vi nearly knocks you to the floor with the force of her hug. she’s strong, and she’s whispering to you about how much she loves you, and how proud she is of you for coming to them for help when you need it, for recognizing that in yourself. her words bring you to tears, and her arms wrap tighter around your torso. you feel cait join in on the hug, tucking you and vi under her chin and squeezing her arms around you both

they bring you to take a bath, and vi gets in first, hissing at the hot temperature of the water. you sit between her thighs, and she wraps her arms around your torso, calloused hands covering your entire stomach. cait sits on the edge of the tub, asking you about your work, and sternly but lovingly detailing how much time you’re allowed to spend at the academy from now on, until you find an appropriate balance between your work and your life. vi hums in agreement with everything cait says, punctuating every particularly harsh sentence with a soft kiss to the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder

they leave you in the bathroom to wash your hair in he shower, and when you come out of the bathroom, you’re wearing one of vi’s hoodies from her gym, and cait’s too long pyjama pants, and you look more refreshed than you have since the summer. you look so cuddly and cute that cait starts cooing at you, and you giggle, batting her hands away when she squishes your face

vi is sitting on the bed, manspreading in that way that she does, and she’s smiling softly at her two girls

(NSFW NOW BTW)

“c’mere baby”

and you do, standing between vi’s legs as she wraps her hands around your waist. you lean down to kiss her, and soon enough her tongue is licking at our b otto’s lip, and you’re opening your mouth to let her in, your hands draped loosely around her neck. you sigh into the kiss when vi’s hands starting palming at your hips, your waist

vi pulls you into her, lifting you effortlessly into her lap so you’re straddling her. the kiss gets deeper, and you whine when vi pulls back. she smiles at you, and tilts her head towards the top of the bed

“how pretty is our girlfriend, huh baby?”

you turn to look, and there’s cait, wearing your favourite set of pink lingerie and sitting up against the headboard, hair down and legs spread open only slightly. you flush a bright red when you see her, mouthing parting slightly when you lick your lips. vi bounces you on her lap for a moment when you don’t say anything

“tell her baby”

“cait, you’re gorgeous”

vi leans into mouth at your neck, murmuring to you about keeping your eyes on caitlyn, and you do. you’re still blushing, silly in your position, but you can’t help it, with how caitlyn is staring at you while vi sucks marks into our soft skin. vi shimmies further onto the bed with you, and hooks her hands under your thigh to lay your down softly on the bed, your back pressed to cait’s chest

cait is immediately sweeping your hair to the side and digging her teeth into the side of your neck, causing a sweet little noise to slip out of your mouth. vi groans at the sound, pressing a strong thigh up against you as your hands make purchase on her biceps. cait’s mouth on your neck is teasing, a nip followed by soothing kitten lick, and vi is holding herself up above you, her free hand hooking under your knee to bring your leg up over her hip as she pushes her leg against you more firmly

eventually, you’re getting desperate and whiny, and vi gives in as soon as she hears the first “vi, please,” slip from your beautiful mouth. she pulls your (cait’s) pyjama pants down, panties too, and your immediately rucking your hips into nothing, searching for some friction to help you out. normally, vi is a lot more teasing, but not today

“vi is gonna take care of you, okay sweet girl?”

and vi does. she presses her hands onto the backs of your thighs, pushing them open and up. without any prelude, she gets to it, licking through your wetness and groaning at the taste. you’re arching away from cait, whose one hand has taken to holding your hips in place to help vi, the other tucking itself underneath your (vi’s) hoodie to pluck at your nipples

it takes no time at all for your girlfriends to have you a whimpering, squirming mess, begging to cum. cait is whispering softly to you, hot breath slipping over the shell of your ear, shushing you and telling you how good you’re being for them, how much you deserve to feel good, and could you cum for them, please?

you do, of course. it cracks through you, hips stuttering on vi’s mouth, legs trying to clamp shut but stopped by vi’s strong hands. vi works you through it until you’re whining and pushing at her head, overstimulated. you collapse in heavy breaths, thoroughly sated and exhausted

caitlyn is instantly tugging at you to turn around, head resting on her chest. she pulls you tight to her with a hand on your waist after readjusting your sweatshirt to be comfy. her spare hand comes up to run through your still-damp hair. vi slides your panties back on but abandons the pj pants, kissing her way up your bare legs and rewinding you of how well you’ve done, and again how proud she is

vi tucks herself up behind you, spooning you, arm thrown over both you and cait. that’s how you fall asleep, pressed tightly between the two of them. you drift off instantly, and over your head, vi and caitlyn smile at each other

you don’t overwork yourself again

#anon ask #anon answered #caitvi arcane #caitvi x reader #caitvi x you #caitvi x reader smut #caitlyn x reader #caitlyn kirraman x reader #vi x reader #vi x you #vi x reader smut

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sanjisleggy · 2 days ago

Text

in the eye of the beholder (portgas d. ace x reader)

req: You wanted an Ace request? 👀

How about Ace with a zoan mythical devil fruit reader that never really changes into their devil fruit form or variables of it because she felt like it would scare them or something, but when Ace is near death, the reader comes in full force and saves him

I don't know what type the zoan will be, but can you have it be a big creature like a dragon? I just love the trope of a person going ape shit for their beloved/crush

a/n: omg i love that trope too ;;0;; i love any trope that involves one person losing control in order to protect someone else dat shit Hits also oops i think i got a bit overenthusiastic with the descriptions of reader’s body changing so i hope it’s not too much for anyone :0 !

ALSO MORE ACE REQUESTS PLS AND THANK U MUAH

contents: somewhat gory descriptions of bodily harm(? but nothing too gross i don’t think), mild body horror, some angst, fluff, hurt/comfort!!

wc. 1.8k

wanna be on my taglist?

despite being your boyfriend for nearly two years now, Ace still doesn’t know what your full Zoan form looks like. he knows you have the Dragon variant of Devil Fruit but that’s pretty much the full extent of his knowledge, aside from the rare occasion you use your hybrid form to fly but even during those moments you move so fast his eyes can barely keep up

Ace would be lying if he said he wasn’t a tiny bit upset he’s never seen your full form–back when he was a fresh member of the crew he’d even pestered you quite a bit in hopes you’ll cave in and show him–but he understands why you’re hesitant to use it

“you do know it hurts her, right?” Thatch said out of the blue one day when Ace had nothing better to do and decided to watch him cook to kill time.

“what does?” the second division commander replied through a mouthful of bread.

“transforming into her Zoan form,” the head chef continued. “i’ve seen it myself only twice but both times it was kind of hard to watch.”

the more Ace listened to Thatch’s descriptions of the sounds of your bones cracking and flesh tearing as your human screams gradually turned into monsterish roars that shook the very earth, the more guilty he felt for all the times he’d asked you to show him. he’d seen Marco transform so many times, he ignorantly assumed the process was just as easy and painless for you.

“the last time she did it,” Thatch added, “she scared some civilians by accident and they got hurt trying to run away. i think that fucked her up a bit for quite a while.”

it’s safe to say, he stopped asking you to transform after that. though the suddenness of it all surprised you, it was nice being able to hang out with him without worrying about being asked to show your Zoan form. a few months afterwards, you even end up dating him–something your past self never would have considered

Ace still is very interested in what your full form looks like but he can see himself spending the rest of his life with you so he’s sure he’ll see it one day–and soon he learns he’s right, he just never thought it would be under such dire circumstances

for the first time in a long time, Ace finds himself panicking on the battlefield. his heart pounds painfully against his ribcage and no matter how much air he tries to inhale, his lungs are constantly begging for more air. Ace’s vision blurs but he refuses to lose consciousness, blinking rapidly to clear his sight as he stares down at his blood soaked hands.

he’s not wounded, though. you are.

lying on the dirt in front of him as the two of you take cover behind an abandoned cottage, you gasp for air as fresh blood slowly pools beneath you; the red, hot substance pouring out from the bullet wounds in your torso and legs.

what was supposed to be a simple recon mission turned out to be an ambush by the marines.

“stay awake, you hear me?” Ace shouts as he tilts your head to look at him, staining your cheek with your own blood from his hands. “give me one minute and i’ll be back. i just need a minute and we’ll be safe, okay?” his words are confident and firm, in stark contrast to his teary eyes and trembling hands; but you trust him with your life so you simply nod.

from where you lay, you can see most of the battlefield. you watch as he burns down the endless waves of marines almost effortlessly, like he always does, and you nearly break your promise as you’re nearly lulled to sleep by the familiar sense of security he brings you. in fact, you’re on the brink of dozing off when you’re startled awake by the sound of Ace screaming.

your eyes snap open as you frantically scan the area, bile rising up your throat as you struggle to find Ace. when you do finally see him, it takes all of your willpower not to puke out of fear.

at the feet of what looks like a Vice Admiral, he lies near-motionless, the only sign of life being the faint rise and fall of his chest and the hacking cough that tears its way out of his blood-filled mouth. the Marine orders his remaining soldiers to fall back and to “leave them to me.” with a sadistic smile painted on his face. he speaks to Ace briefly though you’re unable to catch what he’s saying and then, with a haki-imbued kick, he sends your lover flying across the battlefield in your direction.

wheezing and coughing as tears drip down his grimacing face, Ace reaches out to you with a trembling, blood-covered hand. his fingers brush against your own tear-stained face and with all the remaining strength left within him, he smiles at you.

“i… i’ll protect you… no matter what.” he mutters as you watch the Vice Admiral close the distance, taking step after step towards the back of your lover.

it’s in the moments that follow does Ace learn that Thatch’s description of your Zoan transformation did little justice to the real thing.

he watches helplessly as you begin to scream while you lift your upper body off the ground and at first he thinks it’s from the pain from your wounds but once your skin starts to turn into scales, he realises it’s so much worse. as your body grows in size, your limbs crack and shift and massive wings sprout out of your spine. your head’s tossed back as you shriek to the heavens while your eyes turn a golden yellow and your pupil transforms into a slit.

the ground trembles as your voice transforms into a deep roar that shakes even the faraway trees of the surrounding forest. too wounded to turn himself around, Ace can only guess the looks of terror on the marines’ faces from the sound of their panicked shouting and uncoordinated gunfire. he watches in awe as the bullets that reach your body fall uselessly to the ground.

Ace feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as his instincts scream at him to get away from the looming threat still approaching him from the back. under normal circumstances, he’s sure he’ll be able to get away from the Vice Admiral through sheer willpower alone, escaping death is nothing new to the young man–right now, though, he knows he’s safe when you lower one of your massive wings to shield him from the rest of the world.

he listens as the cries for mercy gradually die down into a peaceful silence composed of the evening wind, insects chirping and the crackling of small fires that are soon to fizzle out. although Ace can tell he’s not fatally wounded, his body hurts to the point where it feels hard to move–arrogance always was the achilles heel of logia users.

the setting sun shines on him once more as your wing retracts while you slowly transform back to normal. he calls out your name but you don’t respond and for a moment, he feels the same sense of panic from before rising up in his chest. his poor heart only settles once he has your unconscious body cradled in his tired arms. you’re still badly wounded but your chest rises and falls steadily as you rest in his embrace.

Marco finds the second division commander and the Whitebeard Dragon asleep in each other's arms surrounded by nearly hundreds of dead marines, all burnt to a crisp. though most would naturally assume Firefist Ace was the main culprit, Marco suspects–just by looking at the faint scaly pattern still lingering on your skin–that you might have done all the work this time

Ace wakes up first, not in an infirmary bed like he thought he would but still on the battlefield, face-to-face with his close friend who’s leaning over to pull you out of Ace’s arms. it takes both men a second to realise the true extent of his protectiveness over you; and it takes another second before Marco starts making fun of the younger man for being so whipped

it takes a long time for you to wake up even after Marco uses his Devil Fruit abilities to help heal most of your wounds. “it takes a bigger toll on her than normal Zoan Devil Fruit transformations would,” the doctor had explained to a distraught Ace, “her body goes through a lot to become something so massive, y’know?”

being patient was never Ace’s strong suit but he has zero complaints while waiting for you to wake up. for weeks he stays by your bedside, talking to you about his day, playing with your hands, and taking naps whilst curled up by your feet. the other crew members who come in to check on you daily constantly poke fun at him and yet it’s these same people who leave snacks, drinks and comics for him to use while waiting by your side.

almost a full month passes by before you wake up to the feeling of something warm and heavy resting on your chest; and moments later, Ace is roused from his nap when he feels your fingers brushing through his hair.

“hey,” he whispers, head still resting in the valley of your breasts, tilted up just enough for his eyes to meet yours. his legs are tangled with yours as the infirmary bed blanket lays uselessly on the floor.

“hey,” you reply, voice hoarse from the dryness of your throat.

“you’re really cool,” Ace says, eyelids forming into crescents as he smiles–the simple expression almost infectious in the way you feel the corners of your own lips tugging upwards in spite of being reminded about the sheer agony of your Zoan transformation.

“it must’ve been shocking, huh?” you ask, “watching me transform? i’ve heard some people say it’s gross and scary–”

“no!” he cuts you off, eyebrows furrowing, “it was amazing.” Ace runs his warm fingers up and down your bare arms before trailing downward to meet your hands, all the while staying laid on top of you with his eyes locked onto your own. “you were amazing. i’d never felt safer in my life.”

you can’t help but sniffle as you feel your eyes begin to burn with tears. “it wasn’t disgusting? i… wasn’t disgusting?” shaking his head, Ace inches forward until the tip of his nose brushes against yours.

“you were beautiful,” he murmurs, “you are so beautiful.”

gen taglist: @irethepotato @i-reblog-fics-i-like @grierpilots @appalost @hyper-fic-ation @dressycobra7 @38lyra38 @chaseyui @paraparakiss @krooschl @teewon @olliesoxenfree @misstraffy @riftmage27 @aletch

#one piece #one piece x reader #one piece x yn #one piece x you #op #op x reader #portgas d ace #portgas d ace x reader #portgas ace #portgas ace x reader #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort #body horror

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novaursa · 1 day ago

Text

A Lion's Folly (duty)

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the price

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @butterflygxril @lordofthunderthr @mrsnms @itisjustwhatitis

Jaime approached Cersei’s chambers. His steps were slow, deliberate, each one a reminder of the conversation he’d been avoiding for days. Confronting his father about leaving the Kingsguard and marrying you had been difficult, but this… this was something else entirely.

He reached her door, the ornate lion carving glaring back at him like a silent judge. Taking a deep breath, he pushed it open without knocking.

Cersei was standing by the window, her hair catching the last rays of the sun as it spilled into the room. She turned at the sound of the door, her face immediately hardening when she saw him.

"Jaime," she said, her voice low and cold. "You dare to come here?"

Before he could respond, she crossed the room in three quick strides and slapped him hard across the face. The loud crack echoed in the stillness, but Jaime didn’t flinch. He stood there, his cheek stinging, as she glared up at him with eyes blazing.

"You promised me," she hissed, her voice trembling with fury. "You swore you’d always stay by my side. That nothing would come between us. And now? Now you throw it all away—for her?"

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, letting her words wash over him.

"For a Stark," she spat, the word dripping with venom. "For that girl you barely know, with her pretty face and her noble airs. Don’t think I didn’t see the way you’ve changed since Winterfell. Even then, you were weak for her."

"It’s not like that," Jaime said finally, his voice calm but strained. "This isn’t about her—"

"Don’t lie to me!" Cersei shouted, cutting him off. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her chest heaving as she struggled to contain her rage. "You think I don’t know you? You think I can’t see what’s happening? You’ve convinced yourself that there’s some… bond between you. That she’s different. Better. That you can save her, and somehow, that will make you whole again."

Jaime looked away, his lips pressing into a thin line. Cersei’s words were cruel, but they struck dangerously close to the truth.

"You’re pathetic," she continued, her voice dripping with disdain. "You think this will make Father proud? That throwing away everything we’ve built—everything we are—for her will somehow redeem you? You’re fooling yourself, Jaime."

"It’s not about redemption," Jaime said quietly, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. He turned to face her fully, his gaze meeting hers. "It’s about doing what’s right."

Cersei let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Right? You? Since when do you care about what’s right? You killed the king you swore to protect. You pushed a child out of a window to protect us. Don’t pretend you’re some noble hero now, Jaime. It doesn’t suit you."

"I’m not pretending," Jaime said firmly. "I’m trying to be better. And maybe it’s too late for that, but I can’t keep living like this. I can’t keep living for you."

The silence that followed was deafening. For the first time, Cersei seemed genuinely stunned. Her eyes widened slightly, and for a moment, the anger gave way to something else—hurt, perhaps, or disbelief.

"You don’t mean that," she said softly, her voice trembling. "You can’t mean that."

Jaime exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging as if the weight of his words had drained him. "I do," he said quietly. "Cersei… we’ve been lying to ourselves for years. This—us—it’s not what it used to be. And maybe it never was."

Her expression hardened again, her eyes narrowing as tears glistened unshed. "So, this is it?" she asked bitterly. "You’re walking away? For her?"

"This isn’t about her," Jaime said, though he wasn’t sure if that was entirely true. "This is about me. About what I want. And what I want… isn’t this."

Cersei stared at him for a long moment, her face a mask of fury and heartbreak. Then she turned away, her voice low and venomous. "Get out."

Jaime hesitated, his good hand clenching at his side. He had loved her once—had lived for her. But now, standing here, he realized that love had become something twisted, something that no longer felt like love at all.

Without another word, he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

As he walked back through the dim corridors of the Red Keep, Jaime felt an unexpected sense of liberation. The weight that had hung over him for so long, the chains that had bound him to Cersei, seemed to loosen with every step. It wasn’t a clean break—nothing ever was—but it was a start.

Jaime Lannister felt like he was finally free.

The training yard in the Red Keep was quiet in the early morning, the sun still low in the sky. The usual bustle of squires and guards was absent, leaving the space empty save for Jaime and Bronn. The loud clang of steel against steel echoed across the yard, followed by the grunts of effort and muttered curses.

“Keep your wrist steady,” Bronn said, stepping back to observe Jaime’s stance. He twirled his own blade lazily, the smirk on his face widening as Jaime adjusted his grip on the practice sword.

“I am keeping it steady,” Jaime snapped, his tone sharper than his strikes.

“Doesn’t look like it from here,” Bronn replied, dodging Jaime’s next swing with infuriating ease. “You’re too stiff. Relax a bit, will you? Or do you want me to carve you up like one of those roasted pigs in the kitchens?”

Jaime huffed, his left arm trembling slightly from the strain of holding the sword. Every move felt wrong—awkward and unbalanced, as if his body had yet to accept that this was his only option now.

Bronn stepped closer, rapping Jaime’s blade with his own. “Again,” he ordered. “And this time, don’t hold the damn thing like it’s about to bite you.”

Jaime adjusted his grip, narrowing his eyes as he swung again. Bronn blocked effortlessly, his smirk never faltering.

“You’re improving,” Bronn said casually, sidestepping another strike. “Still terrible, but less terrible than last time.”

“Glad to know I’m meeting your high standards,” Jaime muttered, his tone dry.

Bronn grinned, lowering his blade momentarily. “So, word around the Keep is you’re leaving the Kingsguard. Trading white cloak for lordly robes, huh?”

Jaime stiffened, lowering his sword. “Let me guess—Tyrion told you.”

“He might’ve mentioned it,” Bronn admitted, his grin widening. “Said something about you giving up the sword for a girl. Didn’t think you were the type, Kingslayer.”

Jaime glared at him, raising his sword again. “Tyrion talks too much.”

“Maybe,” Bronn said with a shrug. “But he’s not wrong, is he? Leaving all that glory behind for… what, exactly? A pretty face?”

Jaime lunged, his swing harder this time, though Bronn blocked it easily.

“It’s not about that,” Jaime snapped, his irritation bleeding into his movements.

“No?” Bronn asked, dodging another strike. “So, it’s not about the Stark girl? Not about making sure she doesn’t end up flayed alive by Bolton? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like she’s got you wrapped around her finger.”

Jaime gritted his teeth, his swings growing more forceful. Bronn danced around him, letting the blows glance off his blade with practiced ease.

“Careful now,” Bronn said with a chuckle. “You’ll wear yourself out before you’ve even started. And I’d hate to see you keel over before you’ve convinced her to stop hating your guts.”

Jaime froze for a split second, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. “She doesn’t hate me,” he said, though the uncertainty in his voice betrayed him.

“Doesn’t she?” Bronn countered, stepping closer. “From what I hear, she’s not exactly thrilled about this whole arrangement. Can’t blame her, really. A Stark marrying a Lannister? That’s the kind of thing that makes bards weep.”

Jaime swung again, the force behind his strike making Bronn take a step back.

“And how’s Cersei taking it?” Bronn asked, his tone deliberately casual. “Bet she didn’t like hearing you’re shacking up with someone else. Especially not a Stark.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. He feinted left before swinging right, his strike glancing off Bronn’s blade.

“Hit a nerve, did I?” Bronn asked, grinning. “Let me guess—she slapped you, screamed a bit, told you you’d regret it. Am I close?”

Jaime lowered his sword slightly, his chest heaving from the effort. “Cersei’s reaction doesn’t matter,” he said curtly.

Bronn tilted his head, his grin fading slightly as he studied Jaime. “Doesn’t it? Funny, I’d have thought you’d care more about her opinion.”

Jaime’s silence spoke volumes, and Bronn’s smirk returned, sharper this time. “Ah,” he said, his tone laced with amusement. “It’s not Cersei you’re worried about, is it? You’re more concerned about what Y/N thinks.”

Jaime didn’t respond, his gaze hardening as he raised his sword again.

“Careful, Jaime,” Bronn said, his voice lower now, almost serious. “You keep thinking about her like that, and you’ll end up doing something stupid. Like falling in love.”

Jaime lunged again, but this time, Bronn disarmed him with a swift twist of his wrist. Jaime’s practice sword clattered to the ground, and Bronn stepped back, grinning.

“Not bad,” Bronn said, nodding approvingly. “Still need work, though. Lots of work.”

Jaime glared at him, retrieving his sword. “We’re done for today.”

“As you wish, my lord,” Bronn said with a mock bow, his grin never fading.

Jaime turned and walked away, his thoughts a whirlwind of frustration and confusion. Bronn’s words lingered in his mind, poking at something he wasn’t ready to confront.

But as much as he tried to push it aside, the truth was undeniable: you had taken up residence in his thoughts, and there was no escaping it.

The solar was warm, the golden light of the afternoon spilling through the tall windows, glinting off the polished wood and gilded ornaments that adorned Tywin Lannister’s private chambers. Jaime sat in a high-backed chair near his father’s desk, his gaze fixed on the servant kneeling before him, carefully securing the golden prosthetic Tywin had commissioned to replace his hand.

The weight of the metal was heavier than Jaime had expected, its surface smooth and cold against the sensitive skin of his stump. The fingers were articulated, though they served no practical purpose. It was a symbol, more than anything else—a statement of wealth and power, a reminder to anyone who saw it that Jaime Lannister, even diminished, was still a lion.

Tywin sat across from him, his pale green eyes watching the process with an air of detached satisfaction. He looked every inch the lord of Casterly Rock, his posture straight, his hands folded neatly on the desk in front of him.

“It suits you,” Tywin said finally, breaking the silence.

Jaime glanced down at the golden hand, flexing the wrist experimentally. “It’s flashy,” he remarked, his tone dry. “Almost garish. I suppose that’s the point.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change. “It’s a reminder of who you are. A Lannister. Even in loss, you project strength.”

Jaime let out a faint scoff, though he didn’t argue. The servants stepped back, bowing as they left the room, leaving father and son alone.

“You’ve adjusted well,” Tywin said, his tone even but firm. “That’s good. There’s much to be done.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “I assume this is the part where you outline my duties as the prodigal heir?”

Tywin ignored the sarcasm, reaching for a stack of documents on the desk. “Your position will require careful management. I expect you to oversee the transition of power at Casterly Rock. Your presence there will reinforce our authority, particularly with the unrest in the Westerlands.”

Jaime nodded slowly, though his gaze remained distant. The idea of returning to Casterly Rock, to the place he had left behind so long ago, felt strange. Foreign.

“And,” Tywin continued, “there’s the matter of the upcoming wedding.”

“Joffrey’s and Margaery’s,” Jaime said, his tone growing sharper. “Yes, I’m well aware.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver. “After the wedding, there will be another announcement.”

Jaime stiffened, his jaw tightening. “The betrothal.”

“Yes,” Tywin said, his tone calm but final. “Yours and Y/N Stark’s. The timing is ideal. With all the noble houses gathered for the king’s wedding, the news of your union will send a clear message: the North may be fractured, but it is still under Lannister control.”

Jaime exhaled slowly, his golden hand resting heavily in his lap. “And what does Y/N think of this grand anoucment?”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Her opinion, while noted, is irrelevant. She is a Stark. Her value lies in her name, her bloodline. She will understand her role in time.”

Jaime clenched his teeth, his gaze darkening. “She’s not a pawn, Father.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his voice hardening. “She is whatever I need her to be. You may have developed a misguided sense of sentimentality, but I do not share your weakness. This union is about strategy, not affection.”

The words stung more than Jaime cared to admit, but he forced himself to remain calm. “And what exactly do you intend to say to her?”

Tywin leaned back in his chair, his gaze cold and calculating. “I will speak with her personally. She needs to understand the importance of this alliance, the role she is to play. I expect you to keep your emotions in check, Jaime. This is not a negotiation.”

Jaime’s hand tightened into a fist, his golden prosthetic gleaming in the sunlight. “She’s not going to agree easily,” he said quietly.

“She doesn’t have to,” Tywin replied, his tone final.

The room fell into silence, the weight of Tywin’s words settling heavily between them. Jaime’s thoughts churned, a mixture of frustration, guilt, and an unwelcome sense of helplessness.

Finally, Tywin stood, his movements precise as he gathered the documents on his desk. “The wedding is in three days,” he said. “You will attend, you will conduct yourself with dignity, and you will ensure that this house remains united.”

Jaime nodded stiffly, rising from his chair. “Anything else, Father?”

Tywin’s gaze lingered on him for a moment before he spoke. “Yes. Remember who you are, Jaime. And what you represent.”

Jaime turned and left the room, the golden hand heavy at his side. As he walked down the corridor, his mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. He had always thought he understood his father—his cold pragmatism, his relentless pursuit of power. But now, standing on the precipice of a life he chose to save you, Jaime couldn’t help but wonder if there was still a way to claim something for himself.

And if there wasn’t, he wondered if he could live with the man he was becoming.

You sat by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the distant horizon. The door creaked open behind you, and you turned sharply, your features hardening when you saw who had entered.

Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, strode into the room with the air of a man who owned everything he set his eyes upon. His lion brooch gleamed against his crimson doublet, and his gaze, as sharp and cold as ever, settled on you.

"You seem comfortable," Tywin said, his tone devoid of warmth as he gestured to the sparse chamber. "I trust your accommodations are adequate."

You stood, your expression icy. "They’re a cell, no matter how you dress it up. But I doubt you came here to discuss my comfort."

Tywin inclined his head slightly, acknowledging your sharpness without reacting to it. "Indeed, I did not. I came to speak to you about the future."

You crossed your arms, refusing to be intimidated. "Jaime already informed me of your so-called plans for my future. My answer hasn’t changed. I’d rather die than marry him."

Tywin didn’t flinch, his face as impassive as stone. He stepped closer, clasping his hands behind his back. "You may find that choice taken out of your hands, Lady Stark. This union is not about your personal desires. It is about strategy, stability, and the survival of your family’s name."

"My family’s name?" you scoffed, anger flaring in your voice. "You destroyed my family! You orchestrated the death of my father, you allowed the Boltons to betray my brother, and now you dare to speak of my family’s survival?"

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver, his voice calm and measured. "The war destroyed your family, not I. I merely ensured that House Lannister would emerge stronger from the ashes. And now, I am offering you a chance to secure what remains of your legacy."

"My legacy doesn’t need securing by you," you snapped. "And certainly not through marriage to Jaime Lannister. He may have convinced himself he’s doing this to protect me, but I see the truth. This is about your power, your games. I won’t be your tool."

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression growing colder. "You misunderstand, my lady. This is not a negotiation. Your marriage to Jaime is a necessity, and it will happen. Your consent, while preferable, is not required."

You clenched your fists, your chest heaving with frustration. "You’re no better than Bolton," you said, your voice trembling with anger. "You speak of honor and stability, but all you care about is control. You think you can break me the way you’ve broken others, but you won’t."

Tywin stepped closer, his towering presence filling the room. "This is not about breaking you, Lady Stark. It is about ensuring your survival. You may not see it now, but this marriage is the best option for you. For your sister. For whatever remnants of your house remain."

"I don’t want your protection," you spat.

"That much is clear," Tywin said evenly. "But your wants are irrelevant. You are a Stark of Winterfell, and your name carries weight—weight that must be used wisely. Refusing this union would be foolish. And I do not tolerate foolishness."

You turned away, your shoulders trembling as you fought to keep your composure. The room felt suffocating, the walls pressing in as Tywin’s words loomed over you like a shadow.

"I won’t forgive this," you said finally, your voice low but firm. "Not you. Not Jaime. Not any of you."

Tywin inclined his head slightly, as if acknowledging a fact that held no consequence to him. "Forgiveness is not required," he said. "Only compliance."

The room fell into a heavy silence as his words lingered in the air. Tywin stepped back toward the door, pausing briefly before he left.

"You have three days to prepare yourself," he said. "After the king’s wedding, your betrothal will be announced. I suggest you consider your position carefully. Good day, Lady Stark."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving you alone in the quiet, your chest burning with a mixture of fury and helplessness.

Three days.

You stared at the window again, the world beyond seeming farther away than ever. But despite the storm raging inside you, one thought burned brighter than the rest.

You would find a way out of this. No matter the cost.

The midday sun poured through the windows of your chambers the next day. You sat by the window, staring out at the distant horizon, your thoughts a swirling storm of anger and despair. The faint sound of footsteps approached, and you stiffened as the door creaked open behind you.

Turning your head slightly, you weren’t surprised to see Jaime standing there, his golden hand catching the sunlight and gleaming like a trophy. He leaned against the doorframe, his expression unreadable.

“Lady Stark,” he greeted, his tone light but cautious. “I come bearing news.”

“I can’t wait to hear it,” you said flatly, turning your gaze back to the window.

Jaime stepped further into the room, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. “It seems my father has granted you some leniency. You’re allowed to leave your chambers.”

You looked at him sharply, suspicion flickering in your eyes. “Under what conditions?”

Jaime smirked faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “An escort, of course. You didn’t think Tywin would simply let you wander the Red Keep freely, did you?”

“I suppose I didn’t,” you replied, your voice tight. “And I assume you’ve graciously volunteered to be my shadow.”

“Graciously, no,” Jaime admitted. “But I thought you might appreciate some fresh air. The gardens are quiet this time of day, and we could... talk.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, your suspicion deepening. “Talk? About what, exactly? My upcoming forced marriage? Or perhaps you’d like to reminisce about Winterfell and the time you pushed my brother from a tower?”

Jaime flinched slightly, the smirk falling from his face. “I deserve that,” he said quietly. “But I thought you might prefer to have this conversation somewhere other than here. Unless, of course, you’d rather stay cooped up in this charming little cell.”

You glared at him, the temptation to refuse clear in your expression. But the thought of stepping outside, even briefly, was too enticing to ignore. With a sharp exhale, you stood, brushing past him without a word.

Jaime followed you into the corridor, his steps measured and deliberate. The silence stretched between you as you walked, the distant hum of activity in the Red Keep filling the void. Finally, Jaime broke the silence.

“You’ve been here for days,” he said, his tone softer now. “I thought you’d want the chance to breathe.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, your lips pressing into a thin line. “And I’m sure your father approved of this... gesture.”

“Not exactly,” Jaime admitted, his smirk returning faintly. “But he didn’t object, which is as close to approval as Tywin Lannister gets.”

You didn’t respond, your gaze fixed ahead as you descended a flight of stairs. Jaime studied you from the corner of his eye, noting the tension in your posture, the way your hands clenched at your sides. He wanted to say something, to ease the burden he could see weighing on you, but every word he thought of felt inadequate.

As you neared the doors leading to the gardens, Jaime hesitated briefly before speaking again. “Y/N,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of sincerity that caught you off guard.

You stopped, turning to face him, your expression guarded. “What?”

Jaime met your gaze, his own softened by something you couldn’t quite place. “I know you don’t trust me,” he said, his tone steady. “And I don’t blame you. But for what it’s worth, I meant what I said. I’ll do everything I can to protect you.”

Your eyes narrowed, your voice sharp. “Protect me? From what? From your family? From the man you’re forcing me to marry? Oh, wait, that’s you.”

Jaime winced, the barb hitting its mark. “I know,” he said quietly. “And I don’t expect you to forgive me. But... I’m trying, Y/N. For whatever that’s worth.”

You stared at him for a moment, searching his face for any sign of deception. But all you saw was a man weighed down by guilt and something that almost resembled regret.

Without a word, you turned and continued walking, leaving Jaime to follow in silence.

The gardens were a riot of color, their vibrant blooms softened by the afternoon light. The air was thick with the scent of roses, lavender, and freshly turned earth. You walked a few paces ahead of Jaime, your shoulders stiff and your hands clenched tightly at your sides. The gravel path crunched underfoot, and the faint chirping of birds filled the silence between you.

Jaime, keeping pace just behind you, broke the quiet. “It’s strange,” he said, his voice softer than you were used to.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, your expression guarded. “What’s strange?”

He gestured vaguely to the gardens around him. “Walking through here without a duty hanging over my head. No orders to follow, no kings to protect.” He paused, flexing his golden hand absently. “I can’t remember the last time I walked through these gardens simply… to walk.”

You raised an eyebrow, your tone sharp. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you, Jaime? That your life as a Kingslayer and Lannister golden boy hasn’t been a constant stroll through roses?”

Jaime stopped, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No,” he admitted. “I don’t expect your sympathy. I just… thought I’d share.”

Your eyes narrowed, but you turned back to the path, continuing onward. “Well, don’t,” you said curtly.

Jaime followed, the faintest chuckle escaping him. “You have a sharp tongue, Y/N. I think it might be sharper than your brother’s sword.”

“That sharpness has served me well,” you replied coolly. “Especially when dealing with Lannisters.”

The hostility between you eased slightly as you walked further, the path winding through rose-laden trellises and carefully pruned hedges. But the moment was short-lived. As you turned a corner, your gaze landed on a small group gathered around a table beneath a shaded pavilion.

At the center of the group was Lady Olenna Tyrell, her distinctive headdress unmistakable, flanked by Margaery and Sansa. Servants flitted around them, pouring wine and arranging plates of fruit and sweets. Several of Margaery’s ladies-in-waiting sat nearby, chatting and laughing softly.

It was Sansa who saw you first. Her face lit up, her blue eyes wide with surprise and joy. She pushed her chair back abruptly, nearly knocking over a goblet in her haste. “Y/N!” she exclaimed, her voice carrying across the garden.

Lady Olenna’s keen eyes flicked toward you, her lips curling into a faintly amused smile. “Well, well,” she said, her voice dry but not unkind. “It seems we have unexpected visitors. Come closer, dear, and bring Ser Jaime with you. Don’t linger in the shadows like conspirators.”

You hesitated, glancing at Jaime, who looked equally uncertain. He raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, it seems we’ve been summoned,” he said lightly.

You sighed, bracing yourself as you stepped forward. Jaime followed close behind.

As you approached, Sansa moved toward you, her hands reaching out to clasp yours. “Y/N,” she said again, her voice trembling slightly. “I didn’t know you were allowed out of your chambers.”

“Only under escort,” you replied, your tone clipped as you glanced at Jaime.

Lady Olenna watched the exchange with obvious interest, her shrewd gaze flicking between you and Jaime. “Quite the escort,” she remarked, her tone laced with dry amusement. “Ser Jaime, it’s rare to see you outside the Red Keep without your sister at your side.”

Jaime inclined his head slightly, his smirk faint. “A pleasure to see you as always, Lady Olenna.”

“Is it?” Olenna replied, her tone cutting but not cruel. “I suppose even Lannisters can appreciate good company now and then.” She turned her gaze back to you, her expression softening slightly. “And you, my dear. You look well for someone who’s been hidden away like a prized relic. Sit. Both of you.”

You hesitated, but Sansa’s pleading expression was enough to sway you. Reluctantly, you took a seat beside her, Jaime settling into a chair opposite you.

Margaery offered you a warm smile, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “It’s wonderful to see you, Y/N,” she said graciously. “Sansa has spoken of you often.”

You returned her smile with a faint nod, though your focus remained on Sansa. “Are you well?” you asked her quietly.

Sansa nodded, her voice soft. “I am, for now.”

Jaime remained quiet, his gaze flicking between you and the Tyrells as the conversation continued. Despite the tension that lingered in the air, he found himself strangely at ease.

The servants poured more wine into the goblets on the table as you settled into your seat, the scent of fresh roses mingling with the sweetness of ripe fruit arranged artfully on silver platters. Lady Olenna studied you and Jaime, her lips quirking in faint amusement as Margaery leaned in to speak with you and Sansa.

“You’re fortunate to be out of those dreary chambers, Y/N,” Margaery said warmly, her hands folded gracefully in her lap. “The Red Keep can feel so suffocating, don’t you think?”

You nodded slightly, your tone clipped. “More like a gilded cage. I wouldn’t call it fortunate.”

Margaery’s smile faltered slightly, but Lady Olenna’s laugh cut through the air. “Spoken like a true Stark,” she said. “Blunt as a hammer and just as subtle.”

Jaime smirked faintly, leaning back in his chair. “She’s certainly mastered the art of subtlety. Why use a knife when a sledgehammer will do?”

You shot him a glare, your fingers curling around the stem of your goblet. “And why speak at all when silence is an option, Ser Jaime?”

Lady Olenna chuckled, her gaze darting between the two of you. “Oh, this is delightful. I can see why you’re escorting her, Jaime. It’s not every day you find someone who can keep up with your wit.”

Jaime tilted his head, his golden hand resting lightly on the table. “I’d say it’s more a matter of survival than wit. She’s had plenty of practice hating Lannisters.”

“And for good reason,” you snapped. “It seems you lot make it your life’s work to ruin everything you touch.”

Jaime’s smirk faltered, and for a moment, his gaze softened. “Not everything,” he said quietly.

Lady Olenna raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the exchange. “I must say, the two of you make quite the spectacle. It’s been some time since I’ve seen a proper sparring match outside a tournament.”

Margaery glanced at her grandmother, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Perhaps we should give them swords, Grandmother. It might make things more interesting.”

Jaime chuckled lightly, his eyes flicking to Margaery. “That wouldn’t be fair to Y/N. I’d hate to embarrass her.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to resist the bait. “Embarrass me? I’ve seen your swordsmanship, Ser Jaime. Perhaps you should focus on keeping that golden hand attached before you worry about embarrassing anyone else.”

Sansa stifled a giggle beside you, her expression brightening at the familiar bickering. “You haven’t changed at all, Y/N,” she said softly, a touch of relief in her voice.

Jaime’s smirk returned, his eyes glinting with amusement. “And here I thought we were making progress.”

“Progress?” you scoffed, setting your goblet down with a clink. “You mistake tolerance for progress. The only reason I’m sitting here is because your father hasn’t given me much choice.”

Lady Olenna leaned forward slightly, her sharp eyes glinting with mischief. “Ah, Tywin. Always so practical. But tell me, Y/N, how do you find his golden son? Has he been insufferable as ever?”

You met Olenna’s gaze with a faint smile, your tone dry. “If anything, he’s more insufferable now. The golden hand’s only made his ego worse.”

Jaime placed his hand over his chest in mock offense. “You wound me, my lady. And here I thought we were bonding.”

“Bonding?” you repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you call this?”

Lady Olenna chuckled, her laughter cutting through the tension like a knife. “Oh, I do enjoy you, Y/N. You’re exactly the sort of entertainment this dull court needs. If only we could bottle your wit and sell it to the Tyrells.”

Margaery smiled, though her gaze lingered on Jaime for a moment. “And you, Ser Jaime? How do you find Lady Stark? She seems to have quite the talent for keeping you on your toes.”

Jaime hesitated, his smirk softening as his gaze flicked toward you. “She’s… spirited,” he said finally. “A rare trait in the Red Keep.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, unsure whether to take the comment as a compliment or an insult. Before you could respond, Lady Olenna clapped her hands together, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Well, I must say, this has been thoroughly entertaining,” she said. “But don’t let us keep you from your walk, Jaime. Do try to keep her out of trouble, won’t you?”

Jaime rose from his chair, offering a faint bow. “I’ll do my best, Lady Olenna. Though I make no promises.”

As you stood to follow him, Sansa reached out to squeeze your hand, her eyes shining with unspoken gratitude. You offered her a faint smile before turning to leave, Jaime falling into step beside you as you exited the pavilion.

The faint sound of Olenna’s laughter followed you down the path, her sharp wit lingering in the air like a pleasant sting. For the first time in days, you felt a flicker of warmth, even if it was fleeting.

Jaime walked in silence beside you, his smirk faint but genuine. Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but feel that something between you had shifted, though you couldn’t quite name what it was.

109 notes · View notes

zepskies · 1 day ago

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Omgg girl I'M so excited to see what you thought of Part 3! It's a bit slower than Part 2, but we've got some big emotional hurdles in this one... (loll mommy needs some you time. 💜💜)

I love this description btw Really painted a picture in my head 😍👏

Aww thank you so much! I went to Seattle a few years ago in the fall, and it was absolutely beautiful with the trees changing their colors and basically painting the ground with different colors. 💜

Ouch. That line probably haunted her afterward 😂🙈 (but I loved their banter! You can totally see they have a close and loving relationship 💕) And her dad's optimism and "fate" was so adorable ☺️

Oh definitely, poor thing. She's so very done with bears too. 😅 Aww I was hoping people would see that, even in this small glimpse of her and her dad's relationship. I always find it so adorable when dads are the bigger "sap" in the relationship. 😂

Ah, our boy entered work mode 🤓

Oh you BET loll!!

Oh God 🙈 No, I can't watch him leave alone. At least get Sam!!! Oh God, no, no, no, no... 🫣 I also realized in that moment why my readers are usually "from the same foxhole" because this is exactly what I can't do. Freaks me the fuck out and gives me so much anxiety. Like, I have to be there 😂 I don't know how you do it. Bravo, friend 😅👏

The tensiooooon loll.

Ooh that makes sense loll. For me I thrive in that angst for some reason. Like, making it through all the uncertainty and fear appeals to my hopeless romantic heart to have the battered hero eventually come home to the one he loves. 🥹💗

But yeah, she really shouldn't be going out there on a suss ankle in the middle of winter. 🫠🫠 (Also I'm saving that worried Ross gif LLOL)

Ooooh, btw, super interesting what you said about the bear meat! I figured something like this. They did wear bear fur, right? And I know people back then never wasted anything, so makes sense they'd eat the meat, too 😄

Ooh yeah I learned about that from watching modern survivalists talk about their experiences on Joe Rogan's podcast lmao. They literally eat the whole caribou, moose, etc. Cartilage and bone and all. 🤢 So it still goes on today, believe it or not! But oh yeah, when America was still being settled, for example, certain Native Americans tribes would trade with European settlers and American traders for furs.

I cackled 😂 Love her feistiness!

bahaha I'm glad you liked that little internal monologue. 😘

Aww 😭😭 Poor thing... 😢 (Loved how she explained not taking his room. While invasive, I think if Dean came back to this in his room, he would've melted 🫠🫶)

Honestly you're probably right loll. At first he'd be like "wtf?" But then he'd probably melt and smile ruefully/soft. 💕

I knew it was a long shot, especially when her father wasn't with Dean, but still breaks my heart for her 💔😢

Yeah I feel like we all knew it was headed here, but it was still heartbreaking for me to even write too. 😭💙

The anxiety is long forgotten. All is forgiven... *sighs dreamily* 😍😍

Ahaha that's what I hoped you'd say. 😏💓

Oh no, you come back here, young man!!! It wouldn't be Dean, though, without the "you can't date me, I'm dangerous and not good enough" freak out 😂

LOLL I imagine you grabbing him by his ear. 😂 But right? I feel like in any kind of canon setting, you have to deal with Dean's (lack of) self-worth, as well with his fear of being a danger to the ones he loves. 💙💙

Legit crying right now 😭😭😭 This is exactly why we always want what's best for him in fanfics. He deserves it so much 🥺

Honestly this is why I keep writing that "deal with your self-worth" stuff when it comes to Dean, because I really wished he could've found his happiness like Sam got in the end of S15. 😭

Love that little detail. Makes such a huge difference ❤️

Aw thank you!! That's one of those details I hope people notice when they read this chapter. 🥹

Oooooh, I so can't wait to read the finale now! This is absolutely amazing, Alex! It's got the right amount of angst and heartbreak, only to haul me back into this sweet cabin romanticism 😍🤍🤍🤍

I so hope you enjoy the final part, my friend!! 🥹🥹 This little series was so fun, especially to explore the omegaverse trope/world with some Alpha Dean, giving those post-S15 angsty feels. In a way, it's kind of a S15 fix-it fic. And idk if you remember, but our convo way back about spicy goodness in a cabin in front of the fireplace is more or less what inspired the next chapter (and the whole fic, really). 😂💜

Against the Wind - Part 3

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: Merry Christmas! I'm dropping this chapter a day early for you guys. Now, here's the full story, and what Dean is going to do about it…

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates @jacklesversebingo

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.8K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Angst, mentions of blood, hint of spice.~

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Part 3: Nothing Left to Burn

“We should start heading back,” you say, looking up at the mid-afternoon sky. It was starting to dip toward the top of the trees in the distance. “It’s going to take a couple of hours to get back before nightfall.”

“Yep, it’s about that time.” Your dad groans as he starts to haul himself back to his feet, where you two had been taking a rest against a tree. “Jesus, I need a new pair of knees. Help your old man, would ya?”

You smirk as you help the middle-aged alpha to his feet. His joints pop and his back cracks as he stretches his arms high.

“Damn, Dad. You’re creakier than the trees,” you quip.

He tosses you a wry look. “Just you wait. In a few years, after wrangling a couple of pups, you’re gonna feel my pain.”

“A few years?” you laugh. “Did I miss the part where I actually met a decent guy, let alone one worth mating?”

“Oh, you’ll find him,” your dad nods, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder. “Or he’ll find you, like your mother did with me.”

You follow his lead with your own rifle, falling into step with him through the forest clearing. It’s a beautiful day in late November. Already you can see the edge of frost on the shrubs and half-barren trees. The ground is littered with dead leaves painted in browns, oranges, and dappled with reds.

“You met her in college. It’s not like you guys defied fate,” you say.

“Yeah, but if she hadn’t walked into my psychology class by mistake, and stolen my latte at the campus café, maybe you wouldn’t be here,” he teases.

You huff and roll your eyes. Yes, your parents are a walking cliché. And by far, your dad’s the bigger sap.

“I’m telling you. Sometimes, the universe does us a solid,” he says, reinforcing his point with a literal pointed finger your way. You push it away from your face in exasperation.

“You might wanna watch where you’re going,” you say, “before you roll your ankle on another pebble.”

“You kidding me?” he exclaims. “That thing was the size of my fist! You’re lucky I didn’t break an ankle. Make you carry me all the way back to the car.”

You snort. “Right. Think I’ll just leave you for the bears…”

You trail off when a sound reaches you and your father. The sound of leaves crunching in the underbrush, quick and light. Your father’s shoulders straighten with alertness, the alpha’s head cocking toward the sound.

“Maybe I spoke too soon about the bears,” you whisper. He shakes his head.

“Nah, too light. It’s probably an elk.” He tosses you a smile. “We’ll have one hell of a haul to bring home, plus a good story to tell your mom.”

Your mother, the vegan veterinarian?

“Yeah, because she loves elk meat.”

“Would you quit being a smartass for two minutes? You go a little west. I’ll see where it’s at,” he says.

He quietly wracks his rifle and steps away from the clearing, farther into the woods. You do what he says, veering west. You don’t see the elk, and soon enough, you don’t see your dad either. You do hear a whistling on the wind, and the cold of it cuts right through your coat.

Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.

“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.

A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name, taking off in a run to find him.

You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.

Not for himself, but for you.

“Go, get out of here!” he shouts and waves you off.

“What? What is it?!” you yell.

He shakes his head, like he’s unable to answer your question. “Run! Run and don’t stop!”

He moves further into the denser trees until you can no longer make him out. With a frustrated huff, you sprint down the hill and try to follow his tracks with your gun at the ready. On the wind, in the distance, you still hear his voice.

Until it cuts off abruptly, along with the terrible cracking of bone.

You gasp and halt in your steps. What the fuck was that?

Tears fill your eyes and blur your vision. Despite what you heard, you realize just how very alone you are in the clearing. Fear and adrenaline make your breath tremulous and shallow, but you can’t just give up. You search for a while longer, making yourself hoarse calling out to your father.

No matter what direction you take, you never find him.

“I ran back to town to get the rangers,” you say, brushing a couple of stray tears from your cheeks. You sniff, licking your lips and swallowing a hard lump of emotion in your throat.

Dean continues to listen intently with his brows furrowed.

“It was too late,” you sigh. “He disappeared. They explained it away, thought a grizzly bear got him, but I know it wasn’t a damn bear.”

You shake your head as the tears come harder and faster, all over again. Dean’s jaw clenches in sympathy.

“No one believed me about what I heard, not even my mom,” you confess. Your mother had been too distraught to entertain “anything else.” No matter how strongly you’d felt about your suspicions, you understood that she just wanted to put your father’s death behind her after his funeral. Part of you had stopped believing yourself.

A stronger part of you hadn’t been able to let it go, however. So you had to come back here and try to find any trace of your father.

When you finally run out of words, you see the proverbial gears turning in Dean’s eyes.

“What’re you thinking?” you hazard to ask. You can’t help but reach out and grab at his wrist. “Do you…do you believe me?”

Dean’s gaze softens a fraction. He lays his larger hand over yours.

“Yeah, I do,” he says. “I’m willing to bet on what took him too.”

He squeezes your hand before he lets you go and gets up from his seat. He soon returns with his father’s journal in hand. He reclaims his spot across from you, sitting close to your thigh on the end of the chaise. His gaze falls away from your face to the journal in hand, and he flips it open to a page he knows from memory. You suck in a subtle breath to steel yourself when he turns it toward you—to the very page that had given you nightmares the first night you read it.

Wendigo.

“Nasty son of a bitch,” he says. “It hibernates for decades at a time, but when it surfaces, it knows how to get through long winters like this. It takes a handful of people at a time, feeding on its victims slow.”

You feel sick at that, but still, his words elicit a sliver of hope.

“So there’s a chance he could still be alive,” you say, in a brighter voice. Dean gives you a measured look, dragging a hand over his mouth.

“Look, I’m gonna be straight with you,” he says. “It’s been months, right?”

You nod, though you realize what he’s saying. Don’t get your hopes up.

“But there’s a chance,” you insist, with tears in your eyes. Dean holds your gaze for a moment, and he nods. He squeezes your knee this time, then shuts the journal with one hand as he moves to stand.

You follow him on your crutches over to the kitchen. He pulls out a drawer and retrieves a folded-up map. Tossing the journal on the kitchen counter, he opens up the map and lays it out flat next to the sink. It’s a map of the mountain, and the entire forest surrounding the mountain of Big Sky. Dean’s eyes flick up to yours.

“Where did it happen?”

Dean has packed up his supplies and put on his winter gear. You watch him from the living room sofa, trying to hide your unease. You know he’s doing this for you, but there’s part of you that doesn’t want to see him leave, for his own sake, and selfishly for yours.

“Try not to go outside again unless you absolutely friggin’ have to,” he warns. “And if you do, don’t go too far. Make sure you take a weapon, preferably a gun and a knife.”

“Dean, I know,” you reply. You get up and hover by the couch while he finishes lacing his snowshoes and hooks his backpack on. You’re unable to hide your concern.

“You shouldn’t be going out there alone,” you say.

Dean tosses you a grin. It has the shade of how he was with you before the “journal” incident—self-assured, a hint teasing.

“Don’t worry. This isn’t exactly my first solo mission,” he says, though his devil-may-care attitude soon subsides into something more serious. “If I’m not back inside a week, you need to ration out the supplies here as best you can. That new meat in the fridge should last you a while.”

By new meat, you have to assume he means the bear.

“When you’re healed up, you can make your way down the mountain and back to town with that map I left for you. Kitchen counter,” he says.

Your frown worsens. You step closer to him with the pretense of closing and locking the front door for him after he leaves.

“Dean,” you say, stopping him at the door. He turns to look at you over his shoulder. You hesitate, fidgeting slightly, but you gain your courage.

“If you don’t come back, I’m going to find you,” you warn him.

Dean frowns. He turns to you fully and tilts his head as if to say, come again?

“No, you’re not, Omega. You understand me?”

His terseness doesn’t scare you anymore. You glare up at him, quite literally standing your ground.

“You didn’t leave me out there when you didn’t even know me. You think I’d do that to you?” you counter.

At that, Dean has to pause, tilting his head slightly. He almost smiles at your stubbornness, and just like that, his annoyance dissipates. It softens him, making him reach for your arm in an assuring squeeze.

“I appreciate the thought, but trust me. I’d rather you look out for you,” he says.

Right now, you don’t really give a shit about what he’d rather, but you don’t say so. It’s written across your face anyway. Dean’s mouth tugs at a smile.

“All right, I’m out,” he says. “Save me some of Yogi in there.”

You huff, but you shut the door behind him after he steps out onto the porch, down the steps, and beyond. You move to the living room window and watch him get farther and farther away from the cabin.

Despite the crackling fireplace, you begin to feel cold inside.

After the first three days, you’ve managed to clean the entire cabin, top to bottom. With the “new meat,” you make a large batch of soup to last you throughout the week. You freeze a couple of servings for Dean.

For when he gets back.

You try to fill up your time in other ways, like attempting, and failing, and trying again more successfully to make bread from scratch. You haven’t binge-watched every season of The Great British Bake-Off for nothing.

Then you organize all of the alpha’s books by author. You wash all the laundry you can find and fold everything neatly on his bed, and you put away the couple of sweaters you’ve borrowed from him into your own dresser.

On Day Four, you create a nest of pillows and blankets in the middle of the living room floor. In your anxiety, it’s a reflex you can’t help. Your initial instinct was to nest in his room, but you thought that was too invasive of his privacy, so the living room was your next best option. At least his scent is still somewhat imbued into his favorite chair, and around his records. (You do steal another shirt of his to sleep with though.)

On Day 8, your worry becomes a living thing. You pace the living room and the kitchen on your crutches, probably wearing down the wooden ends of them while you debate what to do. Despite what Dean told you to do if he didn’t get back, you know you’re not just going to leave him out there. But the reality is, you have a problem of mobility.

With a frustrated huff, you decide to try setting your problem foot down normally. Your ankle hurts, a sharp pain shooting up your calf and nearly sending you to the floor.

“Fuck!” you gasp, both in shock and aggravation.

You know this isn’t just a sprain. At best it could be a fracture, since no bone is protruding under the skin. It still means you shouldn’t go after him either.

But you’ll have to try.

After you manage to clamber back onto your feet using the crutches, you put together some supplies, including the extra med kit in case he’s hurt. (Or in case something happens to you while you’re out there.) This is a bad idea, you think, even as you heave on your jacket.

Then, you hear the sound of a lock turning, before the front door shoves open.

A yelp of surprise escapes you, though you soon realize that it’s Dean, looking worn down and ragged, but alive.

“Home, sweet home,” he says wryly, but he looks relieved to see you too.

You help him sink down onto the chaise, where he stretches out with a groan. He tips his head back on the cushion. His jacket is torn in a few places. Blood has dried on his cheek, his neck, and near his hairline, and you worry about where else he might be hurt.

You quickly go to the kitchen and pour a bowl of warm water and grab a hand towel. You bring it all back to Dean, where you set your supplies on the floor and sit down beside him on the cushion.

“Are you okay?” You try to calm down your racing heart (and the nauseous feeling in your stomach) as you help him work open his jacket, followed by his shirt. Discreetly, your eyes take in the expanse of his tanned skin and pebbling nipples exposed to the cool air, even with the fire roaring nearby.

“Yeah, just peachy,” he says.

You smile a little. You take the towel, dampen it, and begin to clear the blood from his cheek, his neck, and the upper part of his torso—even his scuffed hands. Then you squeegee out the blood in the bowl and continue your task. Dean subtly watches you, his gaze a bit softer than usual.

He eventually looks you over with a frown as he takes in the way you’re dressed, and then the backpack by the door.

“What, about to go for a little afternoon stroll?” His sarcasm turns to annoyance. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put until you can actually walk?”

Your mouth flattens into a line, but any anger you might’ve felt is waylaid by your relief. It brings tears to your eyes.

“I thought something happened to you,” you say.

Dean hesitates. Your hand has stilled on his chest. He softens a little more, grasping your hand in his larger one.

“I’m fine,” he says. “The job’s done.”

Your eyes widen. “You found the…thing? The wendigo?”

His mouth pulls at a cocky grin, tempered only by his tiredness, and the way he’s looking at you. “Sure did. Tried to take a chunk outta my ass, but a little aerosol deodorant and a lighter’s all you need to barbecue that ugly son of a bitch.”

You smile in amusement, but all too soon, it fades.

“Did you find my dad?” you ask.

Dean’s expression sobers as well.

“Yeah, I think so.” His face gentles. “Was he wearing a blue puffer jacket?”

Your lips tremble. As that horrible realization dawns, you break down into tears. You already know from his tone that your father was dead when he found him.

Dean guides you down to him by your shoulder and wraps his arms around you. You bury your face into his neck, and your body shakes with quiet sobs.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your hair. “Believe me, I am.”

He holds you close, warm and secure. He allows you to stay there as long as you need, where you feel safe, even if this world has become a colder, darker place.

After a few minutes longer, your intense sobs begin to subside. You don’t mean to, but you turn your nose into Dean’s neck, scenting him on reflex. It calms you down, but it has the unintended effect of arousing him. The alpha rumbles in pleasure.

You blink in surprise and lean back enough to see his face. Dean’s lips press together as he looks down on you; he seems embarrassed, but you also see the heat reflected in his gaze, so intense in those forest greens. Your face begins to warm in a blush.

He brushes your cheek with his thumb, collecting your tears there. You glance down at his plush lips again, your own parting with a breath. His hand moves to cup your cheek, framing the side of your face. Please…

He finally drags you to him in a kiss.

It’s heady and passionate, and also comforting. Your fingers wind into his hair, your nails scraping along his scalp. He growls as his arm tightens around your waist. You shiver in delight.

You press a hand to the center of his chest, giving you leverage to rise up and slide your thigh over his legs. There you sink into his lap. Your breasts pillow against his chest when you lay on top of him, your elbows digging into the cushion on either side of his head. His hands move down your body, feeling down your sides, squeezing your hips, and then your ass. You hum into his mouth and roll your hips into his. Already you feel him hardening through his jeans.

But somehow he breaks away from your kiss, even though your hands are still in his hair.

“Sorry…we can’t do this,” he says, with difficulty.

He sits upright and nearly makes you fall over in the process. He grabs your arm before you tip over, but he keeps himself at arm’s length from you after you’re forced to slide off his lap, sitting on the end of the chaise instead. Your eyes glisten with hurt and confusion.

“Why?” is all you can ask.

He doesn’t want to answer.

“Dean?” you ask, inching towards him. He raises a hand to keep you at bay.

“Just…it’s not a good idea, okay?” he says, with the clenching of his jaw.

That cuts into you even more. Your heart pulses with pain.

“Do you know what your scent is to me?” you ask, in a voice slightly trembling. You glance at the fireplace that has dimmed to embers. “It’s better than that fire at full blaze. Every time I went camping with my dad, that’s what I loved the most. Sitting by that fire, talking, laughing, and for the millionth time, telling the story of when I gave my sister micro bangs in her sleep when I was ten.”

You wipe a stray tear from your eye, but you respect the distance he’s put between you two.

“The second I met you, I knew what this was,” you say. “I think you know it too.”

Dean shakes his head. His face betrays his wariness, his desire, and his obstinance.

“Look…even if that’s true, you don’t want this with me,” he says. His handsome face becomes marred by a frown, his brows knitting together. “I don’t even own this place. Besides my car, I ain’t got much of anything to give.”

You shake your head in dismay. “I know that’s not true.”

“I’m not bullshitting,” he says. “Listen…I’ve never had much. And what I did have, I found a way to lose. I’ve let my people down. Just about everyone I’ve ever…”

You can’t help but reach out a hand for him, your heart hurting, but he leans away, pressing himself back against the seat. It cuts even deeper into you; now though, you wonder if it’s because he feels the same gut feeling you do when he’s this close—close enough to touch, but almost afraid of the burn.

“They’ve been hurt, almost always because of me.” His voice shakes imperceptibly, with a wry, humorless turn of his lips. “So take it from me, sweetheart. You’ll wanna steer clear.”

“Dean,” you say. You expel a breath, digesting his words, while thinking of what you want to say.

“I’ve never not felt safe with you,” you confess. “Even when I screwed up and drove you crazy, I’m sure, I knew you’d never hurt me. The same way I know…”

You reach out a tentative hand to lay in the center of his chest, over his heart. Your thumb brushes the edge of his strange tattoo, over the dark ink in his skin.

“You’re my mate. My one, true mate in this world,” you say, meeting his eyes. “And I want to know you.”

You see inner conflict in the depths of Dean’s eyes, dark green and troubled. You take a chance and lean in, brushing your cheek against his, nuzzling, laying a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Omega,” he warns, but the grit in his voice has little heat.

Or at least, it’s heat of a different kind, as his strong hands once again find your waist. They hold you still, but also hold you to him. Your gentle affection is making him ache, deep in the shadowy cavern of his chest. He’d never admit it, but loneliness had set in there, burrowed deep with a stronghold on his heart. Without knowing, you’ve been carving it out with those gentle hands.

You now slide your hands up his chest and over his shoulders, warm palms on his skin.

“Alpha, I want to know you,” you insist. Quiet, but steady, your voice is a mere brush of words near his ear, against his cheek. “Please.”

Dean’s brows furrow as he briefly shuts his eyes tight. With your whispered plea, the brittle chain of his restraint finally snaps free.

He cradles the back of your head and guides you back into a feverish kiss.

AN: Sorry to cut it off there lol, but the big (steamy) finale is coming up next week! Perhaps a little earlier than Friday. 😘

Next Time:

“Were you nesting, Omega?” he teases, between the sinful meetings of his lips with yours. You hum your affirmation before his tongue swipes across your lower lip, seeking entrance.

You open yourself to him in more ways than one; you slip your hands across his naked shoulders and explore the smooth planes of muscle, the dips and softness in between. You encourage him to lower down, to cover you with the length and broadness of his frame. His weight is a welcome one between your thighs and against the softness of your body.

“Was worried about you,” you whisper a confession against his lips. Dean briefly pauses, meeting your eyes.

“Thanks for waiting up,” he says, with a hint of a smile.

Your lips curve upwards in return.

▶️ Keep reading: Part 4 (Finale!)

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