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godihatethiswebsite · 2 months ago

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Tethered Bonds

✽ Poly 141 x f!reader (Omegaverse AU)

A lucky stroke of fate led you right into the arms of your alpha soulmates. But is it everything you dreamed it would be or just the continuation of a nightmare?

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part Three - Deja vu

Remember when I said this was supposed to be the easy side project made of easy to consume chapters that was supposed to be easy on my brain? Oh the way life throws a wrench in things.

Apologies for the wait but thank you for the patience! A bit longer of a chapter this time (almost double the length) because if you also read my other fic you'll know I have a moderation problem :)

Trigger warnings: angst, depression

Time converted its seconds into a slow-motion camera, capturing the hectic moment as a series of shutter clicks in your mind. Rich earthy elixirs trapped like icicles in a frozen pour from heated spouts. Spare precious change suspended in mid-air spilled from jittery hands. A systolic heartbeat waiting to finish its rhythm. An overplayed Christmas jingle with the record player set to the lowest speed.

How did you not pick up on the telltale signs sooner? It wasn’t as if this was a first occurrence for you anymore. Precious moments of escape wasted daydreaming of warm comfort when it could’ve been spent backpedaling to the safety of your vehicle. Even more insulting when you considered how perceptive you’d been not ten minutes prior, untrusting of your nose to keep you from trouble in the supermarket bakery, head on a dizzying swivel for any more unwanted surprises.

Yet here you were again, betrayed by the very caffeine that was supposed to be your savior, too slow to duck back out the shop before your scent had a chance to reach his nostrils.

Now you were pinned in place by a complete stranger who had no business smelling that edible.

Pupils blown wide mirrored your own. Blue irises framed by full lashes contrasted against a faded tan that spoke of time spent abroad in warmer climates. Dark brown hair shorn close on the sides peaked into a mussed up mohawk, slightly damp from melted snow and tousled by the wind. Your eyes unfocused to take in the body belonging to the man - shifting lower, past slightly parted lips greedily inhaling your scent and a craggy chin scar encircled by a dusting of dark stubble.

A deep brown leather bomber jacket stretched tight across broad shoulders only a few shades darker than his hair, upturned against the elements and protecting a tree trunk neck, accented along the trim by matching tufts of a lighter insulating sherpa. A hint of medium wash jeans caught in your periphery, unable to glance further at the lower portion of his body, too encapsulated by the cosmic force that kept you snared within his gaze.

The back of your neck prickled with the knowledge that whatever was passing between you in the charged space across the checkerboard tiles was a transient mirage at best and a dangerous amalgam of broken aspirations at most. That grim lesson had been embedded into your retinas the hard way–

No matter how potent the connection, this man was not yours.

You shouldn’t be here. You should not be here.

The alpha didn’t miss the way you transferred your weight onto your back leg. Predatory focus latched onto the subtle way you shifted, instincts preparing behind barely contained canines. You’d accidentally triggered something; a millennia’s worth of ingrained primality overriding the structured norms of good societal behaviour. Like an old timey saloon, it was an overstrung standoff to see whose will would break first.

Your need to run outweighing his need to possess.

Eyes narrowed slightly, he pointed right at you with a warning look. In a rough brogue, “Don't…”

You didn't listen.

“Hey hey hey–!”

It was all too familiar now - this choreographed dance of avoiding uncomfortable affairs instead of facing them head on, ignoring the startled clamor of bewildered customers as you darted past a group of unsuspecting teenagers through the narrowing gap of the cafe door.

Nearly bowling an elderly couple over in your haste to escape, you fumbled out a half-hearted apology as you skidded around the next corner with a high pitched squeak, losing traction on the glassy ice in your well-worn snow boots and catching yourself on a vintage lamp post that you used like a springboard to gain a few precious milliseconds of a head start.

This was twice in two days now that you’d undergone a fateful encounter the majority of the population could only dare dream of. And here you were bolting from destiny like a frazzled rabbit scurrying helplessly through the underbrush from what should have been your savior.

What the hell kinda luck was this?! And why did it have to choose now of all times?!

The door flung open only moments after, the previously innocent bell chime now a harbinger of doom. Heavy footfalls slapped through the condensed slush of snowfall. Something feral rose up in the presence of a hunter in pursuit of his quarry.

There was something on your tail, and it felt far more intimidating than a starving wolf leering at his lunch.

Your pulse was bellowing in your ears, weaving through the conglomerated foot traffic as best you could with a body not prepared for a long winded chase. A hot poker stitched your side and hobbled your gait. Frost coated your lungs with every ragged inhale, sapping what little breath capacity you had and crippling until you were little more than a wounded mammal, panicky and acting on pure foolish adrenaline. The rational part of your brain spoke of the futility against someone his size, the brief glimpse afforded to you of his stocky frame earlier proof that your alpha was capable; well fed, sculpted for survival, muscles made of endurance and stamina.

Everything desired in a good mate, the back of your mind unhelpfully supplied.

Long strides ate up the distance, navigating the pavement far more sure footed than you.

“Bleedin’ Christ!” growled out the voice. “Will ye jus’– wait!”

The firm grip on your bicep rather than his frustrated words was what halted you in your tracks. The slippery slush beneath your feet gave way to an involuntary squeak as another hand snapped out to steady your skidding, keeping you from tucking ass over tea kettle. Heavy breaths turned visible in the frigid winter air as you panted from exertion, sucking in a heady mixture of espresso and chilled vapors that fogged up your mind and muddled your senses.

Fuck, he smelled good.

A gloved hand shuffled you further out of the way from the crowds of passersby, huddling beneath a shopkeeper's veranda, muffled conversation from the building’s interior a muted buzzing compared to the ringing in your ears. He shifted so as to take the brunt of the whipping winds on his back, sheltering you from the worst of it and allowing you to blink clear the stinging snowflakes from your eyes.

Although you never really stood any substantial chance of escape, there was still something surreal to be said about standing toe to toe with an alpha outside your family circle. He beheld you with the same wide eyed stare you gawked at him with, pupils stuck in a constant state of dilation as he huffed in your shared air, just as drunk off his scent match as you were. At this proximity, even the outside breeze wasn’t enough to dampen the waves of pheromones spiking like heated tesla coils between you. Unlike you, he found it in him to scrounge together just enough self control to soften his stance and manage a relaxed smile your way.

“There now, lass.” His words weren’t winded in the slightest, something that petulantly annoyed you in your weakened state - even if the accented baritone of his vibrato was soothing the consternation from your veins. “See? No need fer misbehavin’.”

There was an obvious gentling to his tone; something placating with an edge of sternness that felt at odds with his choice of haircut. Blue orbs roamed your face as if he half expected you to collapse on him, no longer holding on to you but keeping a readied hand hovering in case your shaky legs gave way. Truthfully - with how you were still sucking in breaths - you weren’t quite sure his assistance wouldn't be needed.

“Christ, LT was right about ye. Got a scent that can skelp a man flat on his arse.”

Even in your current state he must’ve judged you steady enough to maintain balance, despite still keeping the rigid preparedness in his shoulders as his hands sought a place in denim pockets. “Got a habit fer runnin’, dontcha?”

The capability of speech was all but lost to you, tongue cemented to the roof of your mouth and dry as a wilted prune abandoned on the vineyard soil. You’d at least managed the bare minimum of appearing less like a beached guppy by snapping your jaw shut, but the snicker from his lips at whatever he found while searching your face revealed your inadequacy to mask as a functioning human.

Azure eyes sparkled with mirth. “I ken I’m a looker, hen, but I ‘ave tae say it’s been a while since I’ve left a bonnie lass like yerself truly speechless. Strokin’ my ego a bit, ye are.”

“Your coffee…”

The first words you say to the man of your dreams and all you can think of is his wasted cup left unoccupied on the counter.

“Eh, it’s only a drink.” His shoulder’s finally loosened with a shrug. “More concerned about yers. Not tae make ye feel bad, lass, but ye’re lookin’ a wee bit peckish if I can say.”

So your mirror liked reminding you every morning.

You waved him off on instinct, not needing the alpha to start concerning himself with your health. Not like there was much either of you could do about it. “It’s fine. Shouldn't be spending the money anyways.”

He wasn’t satisfied with that answer, raising an eyebrow at your justifiably frazzled appearance, but choosing not to question it just the same.

“Gonna be honest, lass. Wasn't exactly expectin’ ta bump into ya.”

You could tell by the bite marks on another woman’s neck.

No. Stop it girl. That’s not fair to him.

You shoved back the bitter taste of jealousy, forcing a smile you both knew was awkward. “Yea… what are the odds…”

“Mind ye, when the others mentioned their wee run-in with ye at the shop the other night I ken’d there was a chance– Christ, when Cap’n finds out the…” His words carried on, but you stopped processing them beyond a certain point in his ramblings, focusing more on the melody as it slowly faded to the background. There was a lilt to his speech that didn’t quite fit the occasion - at least to you. A restrained awe; measured happiness so as not to overwhelm you right off the bat with unbridled emotion.

Part of you was thankful for his careful insight considering the delicate nature of the situation. But even so, the squiggly edges of his personality felt forcefully crammed into an elaborate puzzle rather than fitting naturally into a predetermined space.

You should be thrilled to be having this conversation. Things should be clicking and the world should make sense and his voice should be songbirds twittering in your ear on a beautiful summer’s day without a cloud in the sky and…

All you can hear is the man in a blue camry honking at the lady jaywalking in front of his car, the squeal of halted tires and shouted insults from hot spilled coffee across his lap. The poor woman on the corner shaking a can of loose pennies in hopes of a two dollar meal from the shop down on 7th Ave. Dogs barking at strangers and high heels clacking on wet slushy pavement.

Overstimulation hits you hard, leaving you incapable of making out anything but the shapes of his mouth without any of the feedback. His voice muffles despite only the foot distance between you, and try as you might you have no idea what’s causing that smile on his face. For all you know he could be just as easily discussing the week's snowy forecast or reciting Chaucer like those lunatics on the steps outside the performing arts college.

The nagging presence makes itself known in the back of your mind, adding to the chaos plugging your senses and making the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end in a way that has nothing to do with the chill. The disgruntled alpha half a country away calls to your fraying nerves, taking advantage of your weakened mentality and twisting like a gnarled root around your windpipe. You disguise the full body trembles with a forced shiver, the restlessness of your fingers giving in to the urge to claw at your mating mark, hiding the motion by readjusting your scarf more securely and clearing your throat. A cold sweat breaks out underneath the insulating layers of warmth, adding to the already miserable conditions of the snowy bluster. There’s only so much more you can take before you split apart at the threads and reveal to the stranger just how rotted your insides were.

You needed to end the interaction.

“Look–” you interrupt his languid tirade, voice barely holding steady and as timid as a field mouse, mittened palm up to keep him from going any further and stunning him into silence. “You don’t have to do this. This kinda thing just… doesn’t happen to normal people. I’m not gonna hold anything against you when it was a one in a billion chance of us ever crossing paths. You have your life and I have mine.”

Something hard caught in your throat and gummed up your words, threatening to crawl into your lungs and make a permanent home if you focused on it for too long - gave it too much power. You hoped he didn’t see the way you forced yourself to push through. “Let’s just… be adults, acknowledge that it happened, and go about our day as if we were two strangers passing by on the street. No expectations, no mess. ‘Kay?”

Clearly not envisioning that reaction now that he’d finally gotten his paws on you, something in his look tightened at being told ‘no’. “Hardly seems fair.”

Who was he to know ‘fair’?

“And what about us?” he continued with an unexpected bite. “Ye think we can jus’ ignore the fact that our scent match is wanderin’ about somewhere in the city unguarded and at risk of bein’ hurt or– or taken?”

You could almost taste the self satisfaction flaring across the tainted bond, fighting back a wave of nausea and bristling at the emotional wound he unknowingly gut punched.

“And your omega?” You watched him flinch at the obvious retort, both hating and relishing in his discomfort at having reality thrown back in his face. At least you both knew there was an element of betrayal lingering beneath the surface. “You really want her to have to come home every day with you smelling like another woman? Your fated woman? Do you realize the damage that’ll cause not just to her but to your mating bonds?”

In a perfect world, this whole encounter would be different. He’d say hi, you’d give him your most winning smile. The two of you would go back to the cafe and he’d pay for your coffee. You'd sit across from each other with stars in your eyes, getting to know the ins and outs of their soul for however much time your schedules allowed, blowing off prior commitments in favor of lyrical words dancing sugar plums around your head. Numbers would be exchanged and you’d both part ways feeling lighter and hopeful and impatiently waiting for the start of the next exciting chapter.

God, you hated fairy tales.

The alpha was clearly frustrated at how the conversation was playing out, scratching a rough hand through his mohawk with a groaned out hiss, eyes darting around empty space as a grimaced mouth searched for the right words. “Look, lass. The four of us–”

Four. There were four of them. Four mates.

“–aren’t gonna stop worryin’, not now that we ken ye’re within reach and without a pack of yer own.” Blue eyes skimmed downwards trying to peer beyond the veil of your scarf, flicking back up to your face when he failed, searching for a sign that you remain unmated as he suspects by your reactions thus far.

Glancing off to the side, you avoid his gaze and focus on the piles of brown snow gathered along the curb, not trusting yourself to keep a straight face under his careful scrutiny. He must take your avoidance as confirmation, returning to the conversation at hand.

“Alright, yea. We’ve already bonded another. Nothin’ tae be done about it now and there’s no use bawlin’ o’er what might ‘ave been. But if ye think that's gonna stop us from tryin’ tae be a part of yer life then yer sorely mistaken.”

There’s an endearing quality to his convictions - as misguided as you believe them to be. So sure of himself, reflected in the take-no-objections posture and firm set of his brows. All confident alpha bravado.

A small part of you keens at his certitude, recognizing it on a primal level and wanting to bask in the commanding presence your– the alpha provides. But those same instincts that scream at you to welcome his protective nature also serve as a reminder of why that could never work.

There’s a reason packs only keep one omega. While alphas are stereotyped as being the possessive pigheaded brutes who covet your kind like unstable beasts, everyone knows there is none so fierce as a territorial omega, baring her teeth to encroaching females without a moment’s hesitation to defend. It’s not like you’re the worst sorts of overly attached pack mates though. Society wouldn't be able to function if an omega snapped every time they all came within three feet of each other.

But to have the two coexisting within the same ecosystem fighting over the affections of the same alphas…

If the heartbreak wouldn’t kill them, the blood on their teeth will.

The fact that he’s trying to send all that flying out the window is both impressive and infuriating in its stubbornness.

Your own voice is far more subdued as you fidget with the hem of your coat. “That’s not how this is supposed to work…”

“Oh aye? Turnin’ down gaggles of soulmates jus’ a light Saturday mornin’ fer ya then?”

Despite the dour mood, you huffed in something akin to levity at his words, feeling some of that tension unreel from your bones in the face of the small upward curve of his lips that accompanied them. “If I say yes will that convince you to throw in the towel?”

Enchanting eyes sparked with determination and something playful. “Hate to break it tae ya, lass, but we’re a right stubborn bunch o’ blokes.”

“And her?”

Cerulean eyes hardened again. “We’ll sort that out between us.”

A leather covered arm reaches out to guard your left side, a firm body stepping into your space to block you from a passing beta encroaching too close on your private conversation. You don’t miss the slight rumble in his chest given as a warning to the traipsing man, the subtle growl claiming this spot and two of you in it, an intimidating scowl berating him for nearly knocking into you because of it. It catches you off guard, unconsciously leaning into the alpha's safety from the unaware intruder, the heady scent of freshly ground coffee beans permeating his clothes and coating you in a fresh pot to ease your delicate nerves.

It takes the two of you a moment to separate despite both of you knowing the ‘threat’ is gone; and even then the amount of space between is kept minimal at best. It’s hard to deny the pull molecularly chaining you to this man whose pheromones are carving out spaces in the cracks between the marrow like rapids, filling the pock marked gaps and branding your existence as something completely different than it was before.

The structural fibers in your body are being split in half like colliding atoms in a particle accelerator. It’s a molecular tug of war between listening to ancestral instincts imploring you to stay with the protective alpha and past emotional trauma begging you not to give in to complicated matters of the heart. You’ve been hurt once before by someone of his kind and the last thing you needed was to punt yourself all the way back to square one when it had taken you so long to reach this part of your healing journey.

You know where that path leads. There’s nothing waiting for you but despair.

Unknowing or lacking regard for your internal struggle, the alpha surprises you by shifting his arm to sprawl across your shoulder, a gentle but unrelenting force ushering you back in the direction you’d originally come running from, the deceptively casual grip brokering no room for argument. “Now, what’s say we make up fer scarin’ ye earlier with that cup of caffeine ye were gantin’ after, eh?”

Maybe if you’d possessed a stronger will you might’ve opened your mouth to protest his commanding treatment over you. Instead, nestled close to his body and tucked in tight against his shoulder, he was gentleman enough not to comment on the small whiff you snuck on your way back to the cafe.

The soft instrumentals playing festive tunes over the cafe speakers were an appreciated break from the harsh monotony of whirring kitchen equipment. Depictions of snowmen and candy canes painted artistically on the inside glass celebrated the joyous season. Evergreens and mistletoe; frozen fractals falling from white fluffy clouds. A veritable winter wonderscape - the natural frost accumulated on the outside only adding to the weathering effect.

Red and green twinkle lights hung strewn across overhead support beams. Garlands with small plastic ornament bobbles snaked around the insides of display cases. An electric votive nestled cozily in miniature wreaths and placed at every table flickered warmly for an added ambience to the already welcoming interior.

The holiday decorations had been up since Thanksgiving, but you’d never taken a moment to really notice them, too focused on the transactional exchange and the time on your phone to give it more than a passing glance of acknowledgement. Fidgeting in your seat, it was a welcome distraction.

You’d been ushered towards one of the secluded tables upon returning to the cozy cafe, your companion either ignorant or uncaring of the odd glances tossed your way by those still inside who witnessed your previous outburst. You kept your head ducked from the initial embarrassment, blood heating your face as he helped you out of your coat and slung it over the back of your chair, making sure you were settled before sauntering off towards the register to place the drink order you’d rattled off.

While he stood distracted at the counter amongst a sea of waiting customers, one of the older baristas with a candy cane apron discreetly tried to flag down your attention, meticulously cleaning one of the espresso machines with a soiled napkin purposefully tilted away from his view.

The words in scribbled sharpie pointed your way: ‘You ok?’

Touched by her concern, you gave her a surprisingly genuine smile despite your jittery insides, easing her enough to pass along a thumbs up as she goes back to working on whatever festive drink concoction the lady at the drive thru has deigned to torture her with. It was kind of her to look after you given the strangeness of the day. But against what should be all rational thought you trusted the man who was for all intents a complete stranger.

Here’s to hoping life didn’t pair you with a serial killer.

Shaking your head of such nonsense (hopefully), it took you a moment to recall the last time you gave yourself permission to linger somewhere. With the exception of the hour spent every week in Dr. Miranda’s office, you avoided congregating in public spaces for more than the few minutes it took to get in, get out, and return to the safety of your abode. Crowds made you skittish; the abused animal inside burrowed deep within your rib cage voicing its objections and reflecting its displeasure in the way it made you outwardly twitch. Once upon a time even stepping foot in a place like this - enclosed, swirling with clashing aromas, a singular point of escape - seemed like such an unattainable goal. Even now the awareness of the situation caused your agoraphobia to writhe under your skin, poisoning like fire ant venom and tempting your lungs into anaphylactic shock.

Deep breaths, girl. In… out… in… out… let it wash over you… inhale… exhale…

You are safe. You are safe. You are–

Like nails on a chalkboard, the scratching of wood against ceramic jostled you from your meditative process, an involuntary yelp met with a small grin of apology as the imposing alpha placed your own drink in front of you before taking up residence in the open seat across. Something about the setting exacerbated his already potent smell, mixing with the sweetness of the beverages and leaving you with a deep gnawing ache to lean across the table and drink it straight from the source.

The tide of anxiety receded back to the depths of your mind, your inner omega settling in the presence of your scent match. Even if you couldn’t escape the dark presence prowling like a half-starved panther on the other end of the bond, the natural relief that came with sitting three feet away from your opposite designation had you breathing steadier than you had since leaving therapy a short while ago. You may not be entirely comfortable with this predicament, but at least the attention came with a few built in perks.

The fake candle in the center highlighted the limited edition designs on your respective drinks, but it’s the name scrawled in sparkly black sharpie that catches your attention on his disposable cup. “MacTavish?”

“John,” he confirms, “pleasure ta meet ya, lass. Though I s’pose tha’s how I should’ve started things out in the first place. With, ya know… manners.”

“Not like I made introductions easy for us…” you mumbled with a wince, tracing over the cafe’s symbol on your cup as a small distraction from having to make eye contact at the admission.

“Aye, ye didn’t. But I cannae fault ye fer havin’ a sense of self preservation starin’ down a big burly Scotsman, now can I?”

It had been moreso about running from your problems than being outright intimidated by the man, but you weren’t about to question his assumption and open up a whole new can of worms in the process. “Right...”

There was a brief pause as he stared at you expectantly, hoping you’d return the favor now that he’d taken that first step with an official greeting. Something about offering up even that little part of yourself scared you though. It felt like handing over power to the fae folk; like once he knew your name he could strip the autonomy from your spirit and ensnare you forever in his enchanted domain.

Instead, you took a sip from the hot liquid in your hands, soothed by the syrupy blend like a steady palm rubbing lines down your back. Not nearly as good as the earthy bouquet your nose had been sampling with every inhale. Maybe if you’d added a pump of caramel…

You fought desperately to ignore the part of your brain that whispered comparisons to the rich espresso-y figure across the way, stopping any and all sidetracking towards scandalous thoughts of a more private taste testing.

This was not the time for slick inducing fantasies.

Once he realized he wouldn’t receive an echoing answer, he mirrored you with his own brew, humming in approval at whatever pleasant taste he found and dropping the subject temporarily. Thankful he didn’t push, you read further down on his own drink, unable to help the small scoff of surprise after reading the incriminating label.

“A sugar cookie latte? Not the most masculine of drinks, is it?” You’re not sure where you found the courage to softly tease him over his beverage of choice. Clearly his heavy alpha pheromones were messing with your logic receptors. “Thought your kind liked to keep things dark and bitter.”

“I'm an alpha, lass. Chasin’ after sweet smellin’ omegas is what we do fer fun.” There was a sparkle there that hinted towards your earlier predicament, a not so subtle implication combined with his cheeky grin that reassured you it was all good natured. You at least had the decency to duck your head abashedly, face heating up from more than just the warming drink. “Kinda gives us a wee proclivity fer honeyed tastes.”

Honestly, he had a point. Can’t say you’d ever thought of it that way before. I mean, seriously. Whoever said alphas needed to be gritty when they came naturally ingrained with a sweet tooth?

“Guess that’s why she smells like chocolate.”

Your lips formed the words without thought, something mean tugging at you the same time he did. Nails bite into the recycled coffee sleeve like sharpened teeth, taking out the urge to scratch on the poor item rather than call attention to the scarf still secured around your neck. Couldn’t even get through a normal outing without him adding his two cents to the mix.

A hard tap on the tabletop called your attention back to John. You’d maybe expected an affirming response, but what you don't expect is to find him staring at you from across the table with a suddenly serious expression, speaking to you in an almost chiding manner. “I'd rather ye didn’t bring up sore spots to intentionally cause yerself pain.”

He didn’t allow you to hide, his face moving in tandem with yours as you attempted to duck his gaze, the blunt observation leaving you sheepish as you worried your bottom lip.

“...can't avoid the conversation forever.”

“Aye. But the least we can do is get ta know each other first.”

That genuinely puzzled you. “Why?”

Even through the bulk of his winter coat you could see the way the material stretched to make way for his biceps as he crossed them over his chest, leaning back in his seat as he regarded you with easy going eyes. “Yer my scent match, lass. Ye think I'm not o’er ‘ere stewin’ in a fruity cocktail wishin’ I’d ‘ave taken ye tae a juice bar instead?”

Your face heated again at the implication. Seems his own thought pattern wasn’t too terribly dissimilar to the wiley suggestions pawing at your psyche with scintillating ideas of debauchery. “Wouldn't go that far...”

“Got no shame in admittin’ yer drivin’ me up the wall.”

He really didn’t, did he?

“Not sure you should be saying things like that.”

“Probably.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Ne’er been one fer followin’ rules though. Doesnae make sense when we're both wantin’ the same thing.”

You examined him over the rim of your cup, forearm resting on the sticky laminate as you leaned in closer, almost imploring in your tone. “Isn't that just further proof we shouldn't even be talking right now?”

Taking a sip of his own, he brushed off your concerns like a piece of lint from his sleeve. “Ye really think ye can jus’ wipe yer hands and forget about us?”

Silence laid thick in the air between you. There was no point denying when he felt every bit the earth-rattling gravity well that had the two of you touching toes beneath the table.

He didn’t even bother trying to hide the smugness from his expression. “Exactly. I may not be takin’ ye ta my bed, lass, but yer mine nonetheless.”

You shouldn't have liked the way that sounded. For the past four years of your life you’ve been unwilling property to a man holding you confined in a secret realm of bleak oblivion. You’ve begged and pleaded through every starless sky to go back to being the woman you were before fate intervened, desperate for peace in an internal war. All you ever wanted was freedom; to bound over mountains and soar across fields. To scrape off the layers belonging to him and build castles in the clouds far beyond his reach.

Yet here you were thanking the maker of scent wicking panties that your match couldn’t detect the perfume wafting up between your legs at the thought of him staking his claim over you.

“So,” he went on, “we figure out a way tha’ we can be in yer life that doesnae cross any boundaries and ye gain four brutes that'll gladly shank a man fer ya.”

You raise an eyebrow at his choice of wording before taking a sip from your cup. “Sounds a tad extreme if you ask me.”

Canines gleaming, the look he sends you is downright carnivorous. “Oh, yer in fer a spell, lass.”

Chatter turns to small talk in an effort to distract you from the discomfort of previous conversation. Turns out he’d drawn the short straw when he and his pack mates realized over piles of paperwork and exhaustive meetings that certain individuals who would not be named - but he’d been more than happy to throw under the bus - hadn’t checked some things off their list while out doing a routine grocery run the other night. Seems like the previous two you’d met were left nearly as shaken as you after the encounter, forgoing the last few needed aisles in favor of ending things early to process tough decisions behind closed doors.

That’s all the information he offers; no further details exchanged on the matter. The internal workings of your personal lives kept private. It didn’t take a mathematician to understand why you prefer to remain guarded, but you assume on his end it had a fair bit to do with the obnoxious purple elephant in the room, trumpeting and stampeding all over the future you could’ve built had it just stayed locked in a zoo. There’s still some moments along the line where he lays a trail of tiny bread crumbs, challenging you with hungry eyes to follow the path through winding woodland and glittering caves towards whatever lay beyond. You’re tempted a few times to chance a couple steps, toeing the line of curiosity but always pulling back to the safety of the unknown.

The less you know about their lives the better. You never even inquire as to the missing three names.

Eventually you settle on the topic of just how exactly he proposed this hairbrained… relationship?... was going to work. Fuck, there really had to be a better word for it. Not friends, not lovers. Not a situationship. Not total strangers anymore.

Companions? Counterparts? Symbiotes?

Either way, you’d both been spouting suggestions for the better part of five minutes and you weren’t any closer to a solution that would leave both parties feeling satisfied. Granted the only thing that could work for you would be as little interaction as humanly possible, but he was firm in his convictions.

“We can keep it ta texts fer right now if ye like.”

“But then she'll feel bad if she sees you writing them.”

“Then we'll jus’ ‘ave tae come visit.”

“But then I'll feel like some sleazy homewrecking call girl.”

“Now yer jus’ bein’ a numpty.”

“I’m being realistic.”

“Yea, ye should stop tha’.”

“John!”

“Lass.”

Oh, how you wanted to wipe that flippant laughter off his face and pry it from his mouth with dental tools. The damn thing was unfairly infectious in the way it warmly beckoned a smile to your lips. Here you were trying to be sensible about the situation he created and so far all attempts to come to some sort of compromise were met with off handed ribbing and facetiousness.

You wouldn’t admit that some of the holdup was partially your fault - looking for desperate excuses to keep this from happening - but it hung suspended in the quiet between your words. And what’s more he knew it too.

“What about the occasional email?” you threw out for the hell of it.

John outright guffawed at the ridiculous suggestion, drawing the attention of some of the surrounding tables without a care towards who heard, brawny arms tossed upward in fond exasperation. “This ain’t a business transaction, hen! Saints, what a notion…”

“Well…” you sputtered, “then it seems like we’ve reached an impasse.”

Please just drop it.

He just looked at you with further amusement, swirling circles on the table with the bottom edge of his now empty coffee cup. “Ye always a neurotically charged mess or is this jus’ my lucky day?”

Oh god. In your desperation to undo the upheaval he’s already causing in your life you really weren’t painting a pretty picture of yourself were you?

You cringed backwards at the realization. “Pretty sure you’re the reason I’m making myself look like one.”

“Aye, but a bonnie one,” he agrees.

“And you’re not worried about the mental stability of the person which life has comedically deemed yours and is making a complete fool of herself?”

“Just tryin’ tae make ye smile. It's been workin’.” A fact he looked quite proud of.

And it was. You couldn't deny that. For how much havoc this was wreaking on the parts of yourself that had become so ill equipped to handle basic human interactions outside your minuscule inner circle, there was a part of you that was glad to find you still possessed the capability of laughing with a stranger.

The conversation paused as his brow knit in confusion, the faint buzzing of a cell phone rattling in his pocket barely audible over the din as he drew it from the interior lining of his coat. The way he held the device and flicked through it with his thumb implied a text message as opposed to a phone call, huffing as he read over the contents before palming it in his meaty hand.

“Och, the louses are houndin’ me fer their caffeine fix. Hang on a tic, lass.” Flashing a quick smile, his chair slid back with a sharp squeak as he stood, strolling back towards the counter and flagging down an unoccupied barista. It was impossible not to follow him with your eyes, ogling his stocky frame as he rattled off coffee orders from the conversation pulled up on his phone. Even the sweet beta girl behind the register wasn’t impervious to his roguish charms; just a little more subtle in the way she admired the casual arrogance in which he leaned against the marble.

How long had it been since you last let your eyes wander over the shape of a man and thought of something other than a rancid dumpster and abrasive brick scraping morse code across your exposed back?

There was something uniquely disarming about the alpha. In many ways his ability to break past your bullshit reminded you of Dr. Miranda. Both refused to let you spiral to darker thoughts, spinning the world into one of muted colors rather than shades of desolate gray. But where she spent years undoubtedly locked in a study hall pouring over dissertations and cramming decades of designation theory over red bulls and ramen, John had accomplished that same level of trust in a matter of–

You checked the time on your phone. The pair of you had been sitting in this cafe for roughly fifteen minutes now. That’s all it took for this whirlwind of a man to blow away the cobwebs accumulating in your chest and deliver a shot of adrenaline to your synapses.

Too bad the monster in your veins would make sure it didn’t last.

John came back from the counter holding a cardboard coffee carrier by the handle, looking down at you expectantly from his position towering over you. “Right, lass. Need tae be droppin’ these,” he raised his arm a smidge, gesturing to the drinks, “off tae the lads. So hows about we quit the stallin’ and skip tae the part where ye stop overthinkin’ things and lemme have yer number?”

He didn’t even let you open your mouth in feeble defense of that (true) statement before serving you a warning look that dissolved the syllables from the tip of your tongue. From what little you’d gathered during your brief stint together, you didn’t doubt his potential gumption to wrangle you to the cold tile floor - even in the presence of all these people - just to fish the device out of your pocket himself if need be.

Personally, you didn’t feel up to testing his bluff.

Working off pure muscle memory, you handed over your phone and watched as he pulled up your messaging app, inputting his name amongst the scant others on the list and shooting off a fruit emoji. If he noticed the sparse amount of contacts in your phone he didn't comment on it. Not like it was hard to miss a grand total of four separate text chains.

His phone buzzed again from the text he sent himself, handing back your device with a smile that erred on the side of slightly devious contentment. The bastard knew he won and was being unfairly smug about it. “There now. See how easy that was, lass? Perfectly painless.”

That’s when it hit you.

“What if she says no?” The sheer panic gripping your chest catches you off guard as much as the blurted out words. Trepidation crushes like a hydraulic press, the thought of this precious fleeting moment being all you ever get seizing your body like a hundred electrified shocks. The rickety tower of emotional stability you’d been working so hard to keep steady seemed to crumble beneath your feet now that there was a chance he wouldn't be around to keep it from falling. “What if this is all just some big mistake and we never should have met and I end up ruining your pack–”

Gods, this was so fucked up. A minute ago you wanted nothing more than to never hear from John again and now your inner omega was giving you whiplash trying to cling to an alpha that wasn’t hers by the skin of her blunted teeth.

This was exactly why you didn’t want to have anything to do with them in the first place! It was a no win scenario that was only going to make things worse by confusing your already emotionally precarious omega. Delaying the inevitable. Dragging things out. Torturing her wounded soul trying to wring water from stone.

But you couldn’t give him up anymore - not now. Maybe once you’re home safe in your nest and can breathe clean air not tainted with his fragrance. When you’ve forgotten the oceanic hues that gleam at you with such open eagerness. When his brogue and his candor are replaced with flashes of doe eyed brown and thick flowing locks and the taste of chocolatey truth cuts too deep to heal. Maybe distance will make this ache inside easier to bear.

But at this moment, despite your earlier hesitations, you weren’t ready for the clock to strike midnight on the impossible.

If he couldn’t read the distress on your face then he certainly was made aware of it by the sour smell of overripe fruit cascading off of you, bitter and tart and pungent as you began to spiral, getting lost in a torrent of what ifs and worst case scenarios.

You never got to finish your verbal stream of consciousness. Alpha instincts snapped into action before you could begin blowing fumes, disregarding his coffee as he hoisted you up from your seat with immediate alertness. Strong arms encased your vulnerable form, one hand cradling the back of your neck with gentle pressure, engaging the bundle of nerves located there with a direct line to the body’s limbic system. An omega’s weak spot; it overrides all internal circuitry and sends calming signals to the brain, disengaging stress receptors, activating the amygdala, bringing you to a headspace of obedience and security. It was highly taboo to touch an omega there without their explicit permission; a right reserved only for close family members and chosen pack mates.

You should be angry– you should be furious. How dare he assume that just because he was your scent match that it gave him any right to manhandle you! Robbing your ability to retake control and leaving you just as helpless as that fateful night in the alley.

But he was. And you just didn’t care. Call it biology working against you, but all you felt in that moment was a deep rooted need to sink into his grounding embrace and let your mind go blissfully blank. Trusting in fate to send you an alpha with morals and integrity. Handing over the keys to a man who knew how to drive.

Releasing more of his smooth creamy scent into the air around you, body and designation worked in tandem to soothe every aspect of your overwhelmed being. Outside influences floated away with all the cares of the world, revolving around a fixed point in space exactly where you stood. Nothing else existed in this fraction of the universe. Just two souls destined to be together by forces beyond comprehension.

This was what you were made for. This felt right.

And, god– he was purring for you.

“Hey hey– shhh shhh. Settle, omega, settle... easy now. Jus’ like tha’... There’s a good lass.”

Slowly but surely, the acrid odor of anxiety faded back into the sweet juicy scent of a fresh crisp pear. A small whine escaped your lips as he sapped your body of strength, held aloft only by the taut muscles in his forearms. Glazed over eyes reflected the haze fogging your senses, melting you down into something gooey and malleable that dripped like corn syrup, sticky and coating every inch of your skin in a clear varnish. Breathing became easier. The heavy thumping in your ears faded back to white noise. Bones turned rubbery and tendons fell limp until you could no longer remember what upset you in the first place.

No longer needing the subduing effects of gentling, his hand moved from its spot at the back of your neck to the base of your skull, thumb tenderly stroking where skin met hair, shushing soft assurances against your temple.

“Ye needn’t worry a strand on tha’ bonnie wee head of yers. Ye dunnae ken her like we do. Jus’ leave everythin’ tae me. I’ll sort things right as rain, yea?”

The rational part of your brain knew better than to believe honeyed lies, but in the cloudy serotonin you simply nodded into the dark leather of his coat, spellbound under his tranquilizing touch.

“Atta girl. C’mon, let’s get ye tae yer car.”

Helping you back into your coat, he made sure you were bundled up nice and snug before shuffling you outside into the frosty air, a hand resting over the small of your back in a way you didn’t object to in your current slothful state. The chime felt a little less abrasive this time around as you exited the cafe, moving in the direction of your car parked in its spot alongside the bustling rush hour traffic.

You knew the elderly thing was a spectacle to behold; all chipped paint and rusted metal, duct tape holding the bumper together, a dent in the passenger door from where your neighbor’s kids had kicked a ball into it last spring. There was a crack across the windshield from where a bird made friendly with it earlier in the year that sliced through your vision but didn’t impede you from driving.

‘Character’ was the word you used to describe it, but it certainly wasn’t what everyone else usually chose. John obviously fell into the latter camp.

“Ye sure tha’ thing’s operable, lass?” He scrutinized every banged-up, well-worn inch of it, pulling a face at what he found lacking and raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “Not sure I trust it ta get ya to point b without a few bumps and scrapes.”

You sighed at the familiar criticism, having heard much the same from your fathers. “It gets the job done. Still safer than walking around by myself anyways. I promise I wouldn’t drive it if I thought it’d get me killed one day.” Only a partial lie at least.

He was clearly unconvinced, but blessedly didn’t say anything further besides whatever mumbled remark he kept under his breath. Watching quietly while still keeping an eye on the surrounding area, he stayed near your side as you fumbled with the keys, grabbing the handle to hold it open as you tossed your bag on the passenger seat. “Right. In ya go then.”

You thought that would be the end of it as he closed the door behind you, buckling your fraying seat belt and hoping he was far enough away that you could safely attempt to start your car without any more judgment from him if this ended up being the one time it didn’t turn over.

You jumped slightly as his gloved hand tapped on the glass, turning your head to watch him motion for you to lower the window. Rolling the old school contraption down, you were again hit with a velvety shot of espresso as he half leaned in towards you, forearm resting against the top of your car.

“If ye think fer one minute tha’ I’m gonna jus’ up and forget about ye now tha’ we’re partin’ ways ye’ll be sorely disappointed lass. Tha’ there thing in yer purse’ll be ringin’ before ye ken it and I’m not afraid to come lookin’ if I dunnae get an answer.”

The promise in his tone felt suspiciously like a threat, but one without any real intended consequence. His relaxed posture and sparkling irises assured you that while he’d probably still be cross if you ignored his attempts to reach out, you wouldn’t be awoken in the middle of the night to someone taking a battering ram to your flimsy front door.

At least, you hoped they wouldn’t.

Flashing you a playful wink, John took a step back from the vehicle. “Take care, omega. Be seein’ ya real soon.”

You’re shouting your name at him before you even realize what you’ve done, the small part of you that longs for a deeper connection clawing free from the part that fears having her heart shattered. From a few feet away you could still see the fireworks bursting in his eyes, the way he stands a little taller and puffs out his already broad chest with euphoria at your proffered olive branch. You can’t bring yourself to regret it when his unabashed smile conjures images you never dared hope for.

He waited until you rolled up your window and heard the telltale click of the locks on your doors engaging before finally taking off, crossing to the other side of the slippery street and walking with a hand tucked into his coat pocket until a line of cars finally blocked his retreating form from view.

You sat there for a moment with your hands on the steering wheel, the silence in the vehicle more deafening than the wind howling outside. The past twenty minutes played like rewind on a VCR, speeding through the chain of events leading to the present to be watched again and again and again.

After the fifth or sixth replay, all you could think of was rushing back to your apartment before fate could intervene once more and you accidentally run over your fourth scent match’s pekingese with your fucking car.

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author-morgan · 10 months ago

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Title: Daylight Rating: M Pairing: Arthur x fem!Reader Summary: Arthur always knew you and he would make a fine match. ...hiding all of our sins from the daylight... I've now collected all(?) your husbands for my infinity gauntlets. a late merry christmas and an early valentines for you boo. @mrsragnarlodbrok.

“SORRY,” ARTHUR MUTTERS, “hands are rough.” He noticed how you pulled away from his calloused touch as he pressed the stained damp cloth against the bloody wound on the back of your shoulder—remnants of an arrow after Bedivere and the Mage helped him dig out the bodkin point. It’d likely been meant for him in the heat of the battle and he cursed himself seeing you fall nigh feet from him, pulled away to shelter by his kingsguard. Even with the power of Excalibur, he’d been unable to protect you—an age-old promise broken.

You lift your gaze from the charred stone floor, looking at your reflections in a fogged-over mirror on the opposite side of the room. Focus has his brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. “You always say that,” you tell him, words slurred from the pain, exhaustion, and strongwine, and voice rougher than normal. This isn’t the first time Arthur Pendragon has tended your hurts and woes, and at this rate you doubt it’ll be the last.

Dried blood and sweat washed away, Arthur picks up the piece of tree bark with a salve prepared by the Mage to stave off the pain for a while and keep the wound from festering. Then, Arthur binds the wound with fresh linen and wipes his hands, kneeling in front of you—hands resting on your hips. You lay your hand on his cheek, thumb sweeping across his cheek, marred with dirt and soot. Leaning toward him, he meets you halfway, and you set your lips on his—a soft, fleeting kiss like the touch of butterfly wings.

“Thank you, Arthur,” you tell him, fingertips mindlessly combing through the scruff on his jaw. He straightens to full height but does so with a grimace. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?” You ask again.

“Just bruises,” he assures you, and this time, it seems like he’s being truthful, besides the few scratches on his hands and the slim, already scabbed-over, cut on his forehead.

Arthur sits next to you on the edge of the bed, looking toward the open balcony. You both can hear the joyous shouts and chants. Bedivere and the others will only be able to satiate the men for so long. They will want to hear from the one who led them to victory. From the Born King. “They’ll be waiting for you to give a speech,” you tell him.

“They’re waiting to go headfirst into the barrels of grog,” he amends, but if the out-of-tune songs are anything to go off of...

“Sounds like they already have,” you laugh. Tonight, there will be revelries for the victory against Vortigern and his forces. In the following days, there’ll be feasts to honor the fallen and growing lists of preparations for a coronation. But right now, Arthur Pendragon doesn’t want to be a king just yet. Right now, he’s content just to be Arthur the street rat, especially when you lean your head against his shoulder and link your fingers through his—and then he’s certain there’s no one else in all of England for him except you.

“HIDING FROM ME? Or everyone else?” Your head quickly swivels to the side, only to relax at the sight of Arthur approaching. You cannot help but wonder how he isn’t cold. He's not dressed anywhere near as layered or warm as he should be for the winter evening, but somehow, he manages to look cozy even in just a scarlet linen-and-wool doublet. Stepping back, your eyes flit up to the scarlet-tinged leaves, still clinging to the branches of the white-bark birch, before looking beyond to the fresh falling snow.

He stops at your side and looks up, too. “Was just thinking about what a bad influence you’ve been on my person,” you tell him, a small half-smirk creeping onto your features. Arthur tilts his head back in amused question, then stares up at the leaves and the silver sliver of the moon peeking through the winter clouds. “As I recall, I was an innocent girl before you came along and ruined all that.”

His blue eyes narrow, arms crossing over his chest. “You’ll have to refresh my memory on how I did that, darlin’.” He moves a little closer, and you sense his ploy, twisting and ducking when he moves to grab you.

You face him with brows raised, smiling. “Such a brute,” you taunt, “grabbing at innocent girls in the castle courtyards at night. Is that any way for the King of England to behave?”

Arthur only rolls his eyes, trying to smother another smirk, and this time, he catches your arm as you move around him. It takes little strength to move you how he wants—pressing you into the trunk of the great tree at the heart of the courtyard. His hands press against the smooth bark beside your head as he leans in enough to look down at you. The glint in his eyes is mirthful, but there’s something else shining in his gaze too—you’ve seen that look a dozen times now, and you’re almost afeared to think about what it can mean. “Maybe you have a point,” he drawls, wearing that crooked, boyish grin that makes your heart flutter.

Your laugh almost catches him off guard. His hand slips down to run gently along your waist, the other toys with the hair at the side of your head. You lean back into the tree more, relaxing as your hands find his waist to rest on. “My father sends his kind, innocent daughter to study in Londinium, and what does this strong, noble boy do?” Arthur raises his brow. “He shoves her against a wall in an alleyway because he has no reasonable way of expressing his feelings with words.” He was just a street rat orphan and you were the daughter of some fancy lord from far away—opposites in nigh every way but more alike than you ever could have imagined. “I was never the same after that.”

His head dips down into the crook of your neck, nose training across your throat and inhaling the scent of roses and lavender. “No,” he smiles, voice low—more of a muttering husk—lips twitching as he pulls back, glancing to your lips and up, “but you’re more fun now.” Your expression falls flat, and Arthur laughs. It’s nigh impossible not to grin or melt at the sound and how little it seems you’ve heard it of late—and by Merlin’s beard, he’s impossibly handsome with laugh lines crinkling the edges of his eyes and a lopsided smile. Leaning further into him, his breath dances across your cheek, the back of his fingers brushing along your neck.

You exhale shakily, and Arthur teases you again with light presses of his lips along your jaw and neck—hands smoothing up and down your waist as he does. For a moment, your hands find their way to his chest before you remember how open the courtyard is and that anyone can happen upon the two of you like this. Glancing around, you breathe his name in a flustered whisper, hand pressing against his chest—the last thing a new king needs is rumors to turn into scandal.

Arthur takes a step back, giving you both room, but then there’s a new glint in his eyes. The playful mirth disappears from his cornflower eyes, replaced by something more serious—kingly, even. It’s something he’s been thinking about for years. Maybe even since the two of you first met by happenstance in the streets of Londinium and struck up an odd friendship. But over the years, Arthur thinks he cannot just call you a friend, not anymore. What he feels runs deeper than that, and given his newfound title and responsibilities...“I’ve been thinking,” he starts.

“And does it pay well?” You quip in a poor attempt to lighten the now solemn mood.

He rolls his eyes, exasperated, unable to hide how his lips quirk upwards. “Would you let me finish?” And so you do, unsure what he must say or ask that warrants such a dramatic change in his usual demeanor. Arthur reaches for your hand, the rough pads of his fingers curling around and into your palm. He stoops forward, lips brushing against your knuckles—reverent. “I’d like you to stay,” he breathes, straightening back to full height. Your brows furrow. “Here,” he adds, “with me.”

You know what he is asking of you—marriage—and it should be an easy answer. Yes, of course. You’ve loved Arthur since before you knew what the word truly meant. But given the events of the last few months and the precipitousness of his proposal, you’re left speechless, heart beating in your throat until all you can do is run to the haven of your chambers with tears pricking your eyes.

A LOUD KNOCK on the great wooden door echoes in your bedchambers. You rouse from sleep, righting the oversized tunic hanging off one shoulder in an attempt to appear decent at the late hour. Part of you already knows who will be waiting on the other side, but when you crack open the door, it still surprises you to find him standing before you—wearing only a loose, nigh threadbare tunic and pair of dark britches. “Arthur,” you greet, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before motioning for him to come in.

There’s still an uneasy air between you after the earlier events and conversation in the courtyard—his proposal. “I shouldn’t’ve….” he starts as you do. “I should not...” You both fall silent, eyes searching the other’s face for an indication of who will be the first to speak, the first to act, but there’s only silence.

“Yes,” you quickly tell him—the shock of his initial proposal has faded, and now you’ve never been more certain about something in your life. You still can’t say what it is that caused you to react in such a way—Arthur’s the only man you’ve ever loved, the only person you could have ever thought of having a life with, even before all this Born King shite. The answer is ‘yes.’ It had always been.

“Yes?” He repeats with furrowed brows, not sure he’s heard you correctly. “I’ll stay” —you reach to comb your fingers through his close-shorn beard, and he leans into the touch— “with you.” Forever.

He smiles, and it’s as though a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Arthur cradles your face in his hands, thumbs running over your cheekbones. You smile for him, and he leans toward you, closing the distance. His lips are on yours in an instant.

You answer his kiss, slowly at first, then with more fervor when you settle your hands on either side of his neck, drawing yourself closer. Parting, you press your forehead against his and meet his heated stare. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that?” Arthur asks, breathless.

Then he’s kissing you again and again—hands straying to your waist and backside, pulling you closer, tighter. And it fans the embers burning low in your belly to flames. Arthur breaks the kiss with an anguished groan—fighting a losing war with himself. He brushes back the hair falling in front of your face, the rough pad of his thumb running over your lips. “Tell me to stop,” he mutters—it’s almost a plea. And then he’s adrift in your soft and dark gaze, knowing if you do nothing to stop this, he’ll be acting on countless years of love and pent-up desire.

“No,” you breathe, catching his wrist and sliding his hand up from your neck—peppering his fingertips with gentle kisses. He watches you, lips parted and heart aching. Closing your eyes, you draw in a slow breath, and with a final kiss to his palm, you guide his hand to rest on one of your clothed breasts.

“Arthur.” You speak his name as though it is a quiet prayer. “I want you.” He pulls on the string at the neck of your nightshirt, loosening it until the gauzy material falls off your shoulders—puddling around your ankles,

Though bare, you still hold his clear blue gaze. He goes silent as he draws in a sharp breath—eyes dart over the length of your body. His eyes darken, though, a mix of lust and adoration. “Think this is the longest you’ve been qui–” He cuts you off with a kiss, and one of his hands rises to cradle your cheek—the side of your neck again—and his lips coax yours open.

You sigh into his mouth, hands instinctively dipping under the hem of his roughspun tunic, fingertips trailing over the taut muscles of his abdomen and the scar on his ribs. Arthur breaks the kiss, quickly shrugging off his shirt, and lets the undyed piece of wool fall to the floor.

Then, suddenly, he lifts you off your feet effortlessly. You hastily grip his shoulders for balance until he lays you on the bed—standing back to take off his trousers, and you watch him with a weird mixture of hunger and wistfulness as he strips. Arthur kicks aside his discarded clothes, then crawls onto the bed, making room for himself between your thighs—his clear and cold gaze burning with the warmth of the Sun and never once straying from yours.

You gaze tensely at his face as he studies you. His expression is greedy and appreciative, and the firelight glowing in his eyes just makes him look all the more ardent, and the longer he stares at you without doing anything, the more restless you are for him to act. You want his touch, his cock, his lips on yours, and all he’s giving you is this appreciative greedy stare, and it’s not enough.

Arthur kisses you again, and then he leans away from your lips and kisses the angle of your jaw. His mouth travels to the side of your neck, and your pulse flutters in your throat. His lips are surprisingly soft, and as his mouth trails from your neck to your collarbone, the delicacy of his kisses makes you feel lightheaded —a mix of pleasure and disbelief.

He nuzzles your collarbone, then places a kiss just above the swell of your breast, and you arch helplessly toward his mouth. The heat of his breath wafting over your breast, making your nipples go taut with anticipation, and when the scruff of Arthur’s beard brushes over your nipple, you jolt and make a helpless little mewling sound. You twine your fingers into his golden hair, trying to hold him in place against you. But Arthur shoots you a quick smile, then shuffles lower on the bed still and kisses your breast —and you twist your hips, hands slipping from his hair to his shoulders.

A sob leaves your throat—not a crying kind of sob, but an instinctive noise tore from your throat without your permission. He lifts his mouth from your breast and smiles at you, and you stare stupidly at his handsome face—the spark in his clear eyes and the boyish smirk twisting his lips.

Arthur palms your breast and squeezes gently. He shuffles lower still on the bed and places a sweet, open-mouthed kiss on your navel, and your sense of surreal disbelief ratchets to a nearly unbearable degree. His mouth drifts lower now, the scruff of his beard tickling your belly as he presses his lips to the skin below your navel and eases your thighs further apart.

Arthur places a kiss between your legs, and your mind goes blank with pleasure.

“You alright, darlin’?” He smirks. You stare at him, too stunned by pleasure to find a clever response. Instead, riled by the teasing sparkle in his face, you spread your knees wide. His gaze drops between your legs, and his expression darkens with interest as he places his hands on your knees—stroking up to your thighs. He places another firm, wet kiss between your legs, and a helpless moan leaves your lips, and he hums with approval, a smug, half-growly little hum.

You gasp in a breath, realizing you haven’t been breathing at all. Arthur lifts his head to look you in the eye. “Relax, love,” he croons, smoothing his palm over your belly as he laps at your cunt with slow hot sweeping strokes of his tongue. It’s not long before a finger presses into you, working you slowly open.

Your hips jerk softly along with his movements, and there’s unspoken interest in his gaze as he stares down at you, relentless in his efforts to see you come undone. His tongue and lips are at your clit, fingers stroking and curling deep within you. You jolt, and then he moves slower, dragging over the sensitive spots he’s discovered inside you and leaving your nerves tingling with every touch.

Pleasure washes over you in waves, making your calves twitch, your fingertips feel numb, and that high-pitched mewling noise leaves your throat. Overwhelmed—enraptured—you buck your hips toward his face and clench your fingers convulsively in his hair, and he keeps licking and kissing you until you can’t take it anymore. You pull on his hair to stop him, and he finally pulls away, lips glistening in the moonlight and fading glow of the firelight. “Enough,” you groan. “Need you.” It’s nigh a broken plea.

You shudder as he moves, situating himself between your thighs, calloused fingers dipping into your cunt to gather your slick and spread on his hard cock as he strokes himself. “Arthur, please,” you whimper, impatient, and he won’t keep you waiting.

He slides his cock through your folds before his angle changes just slightly, and on the next pass, your breath stutters as his cockhead presses just inside you—barely splitting you open. Arthur’s hand grabs your hip and angles you up just a bit so he can slide deeper inside you, and you cling onto his biceps—feeling his scars press into your palms and admiring the way his muscles flex under your touch.

Arthur hisses through his teeth when he fully seats himself inside your warmth, then releases his breath slowly and smiles at you. “You’re lovely,” he murmurs, twining his fingers through yours, pressing the back of your hands into the mattress. From the moment Arthur first saw you in the Londinium streets, he knew your fates were intertwined—just as your bodies and hands were now. He trembles at this personal heaven, then draws his hips back, starting to move.

You laugh breathlessly, mindlessly. “Charmer,” you pant, hooking your legs around his waist. You roll into his thrusts, pulling him deeper. His ragged breaths and grunts mingle with your sighs of pleasure—panting scarcely keeping up with your racing heart.

He huffs in amusement. “Can’t say that’s something I get called often,” Arthur says as he pumps his hips slowly, teasing you and pleasing you almost more than you can bear. Then he lowers his lips to yours in a kiss—there’s something sweet on his tongue, like honey wine.

His whole body begins moving, surging, and writhing against yours. One of his hands releases yours and caresses your cheek before he slides it down your body. Without thought, your body arches into his hand as it moves, ripening under his touch—thoughts clouded by lust and love. His fingers find your clit at the same time his mouth latches to your neck.

Another guttural cry bursts from your lips. He’s pounding into you now, and he’s still holding your hand while his other grips your hip. Your breathing is loud, and so is his, and his hand is tightening on your fingers. He drags in a breath, then expels it in a strained groan.

He shudders, then pounds into you hard, twice, thrice, and then he pauses with his cock deep inside of you. His jaw clenches, and his grip on your hip is so tight that it’s almost painful, but you like it—just as much as you like the guttural sound he makes as he shudders in completion. A few long seconds later, he gasps in a breath, then sighs and releases your hand. “Fuck,” he groans, holding his weight above you on shaking arms.

You beckon him to lie atop you, his golden head pillowed on your breasts as his breathing steadies, sighing when you kiss his hair and whisper a quiet, I love you, for him to relish. He stays sheathed inside your warmth, unwilling to part just yet. “I love you,” he murmurs in turn, never tiring of how you smile when he says the words. Sighing, he rolls to the side, and you whine at the loss of him and the empty feeling between your thighs.

He lays on his side, and you pillow your head on his outstretched arm, nuzzling close against his chest and threading one of your legs through his. Arthur presses his cheek to the crown of your head and strokes your hair as the first dregs of daylight break over the horizon, shining upon England, Camelot, and his future wife and queen.

[Forever taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rigshak ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my forever taglist, or any other character/fandom taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

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1000roughdrafts · 9 months ago

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Just Another Day

Summary: Fluffy Dean x female!reader Valentine's Day post

Warnings: some language (like 2-3 words), light mentions of angst, but mostly fluff

Word Count: 1.6k

A/N: Not betad, all mistakes are my own 😊 and bear with me, I’m a little rusty 🥰 happy love day 🥰

Valentine's Day has never really been a favorite of mine, let alone anything I'd consider more than 'just a day'. Hell, Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Years, even birthdays are all just 'another day' for me. It's kind of difficult not to harbor ill feelings about them after constantly being let down by the people in my life, one broken promise after another.

Dean and Sam have kept every promise they've made, though. In fact, they're managing to break down my walls bit by bit from stolen candy on Halloween to a fried chicken meal with beer on Thanksgiving all while living in cheap motels chasing monsters. When I told them this morning that I just wanted to hunt as usual for the day, I couldn't help but to feel a tad disappointed that they agreed. Bit by bit, I'm breaking my own rules about not getting my hopes up on holidays.

This is our first Valentine's Day as a couple, and I've known Dean long enough to know that chocolate and flowers aren't exactly his style. But I can count on him to bring me a piece of pie "just because" or he'll clean my weapons for me after a particularly grueling hunt because he knows all I want to do is shower and get in bed.

After a long day of exorcising demons, we are on the road again. Burnin' For You by Blue Oyster Cult plays low on the radio, but the clattering of rain on the roof has my full attention. Sam loudly rifles through the papers in his lap with one hand, flashlight held in the other, hesitant to ever let himself relax. Dean's eyes flicker between the road and the rear-view mirror to periodically check on me.

"Hey, you seem off today, you okay?" Dean asks, picking up on my vacant eyes and slight frown.

I suck in a breath, inhaling the scent of the Black Ice air freshener and a hint of stale whiskey, "yeah," I say curtly, keeping my eyes on the trees swaying in the wind as we drive past, lit only by the moon above us. The wind howls against the windows of the Impala, sneaking in and covering my skin with goosebumps.

His face scrunches a bit and he nods before the tick of the blinker signals that he's turning off the highway. I feel a twinge of discomfort knowing we're only minutes away from the motel now. As much as I hate the numbness I feel in my butt and thighs, there is something meditative about being a passenger on a long drive.

We pass an abandoned gas station before I can see the dim lights of the Wandering Inn. Dean parks us by the front desk, leaving the Impala to run with a soft purr as he gets us a key to a room. Neither Sam nor I take our time getting the bags together, so by the time Dean is back out and we find a parking spot near the room, we're ready to head in.

The door whines as Dean pushes it open, immediately palming the peeling wall for a light switch. The overhead light flickers a few times before settling on a weak glow, and before I can even shut the door behind us, the smell of burnt dust and old pledge assaults my nose. I glance around the small room. The musky yellow walls seem to make it feel even smaller, somehow.

Dean turns to me with outstretched arms and a smile, asking for my bags. I dutifully and sleepily hand them over, not realizing the weight they bared until the relief of their absence waves over me. Dean nods his head towards the bathroom, "ladies first on a shower," he says softly. His boots click on the tile as he walks over to toss our bags onto the bed, plopping down next to them to remove his boots.

In a few short strides I head over to grab my bag for the bathroom, stopping in front of him to plant a kiss on his forehead. His eyes, droopy and half-closed, look up at me in a smile. He places his hands my back, thumbs rubbing circles on my skin as he pulls me in for a kiss.

"Thanks for first shower, Dean," I say, letting my hands rest on his shoulders.

His eyebrows rise and fall before he says, "yeah, well, by the looks of it, you need it more than we do tonight."

My ear to ear smile is real, but I fake a laugh before pulling away. "Whatever," I say, but I slowly lose my smile on the way to my shower. Dean's ability to pick up on even the most subtle of changes in me are a testament to how great of a hunter he is, and even greater boyfriend. How he can't pick up on how torn I'm feeling about this wretched day I've no idea. What conflicts me further is that I know it's my responsibility to share these feelings with him. Dean may have an attention to detail I haven't seen in a partner in, well, ever, but he's not a mind reader.

The tile of the bathroom is cold under my feet, so I remove my shirt to stand on it while I wait for the water to heat up. I hear the guys shuffling and moving things in the room, keeping their voices hush, but I'm too tired to give a shit. Waving a hand under the water I decide that it's the perfect temperature and remove the rest of my clothes to get in.

I don't even realize how tense I am until the water hits my shoulders, nearly forcing me to relax under it. My body's reflexes take over and I go into autopilot as I think about today and Valentine's Day is already almost over, but we did nothing… at my request. I roll my eyes at myself, brushing my teeth while the conditioner sits in my hair. The scent of fruit and mint fill the room among the steam. When I rinse my hair, I imagine I'm rinsing the day away.

The mirror is completely fogged up by the time I get out. With slightly damp skin, and a towel wrapped around my head, I struggle to get my clothes on, and it frustrates me.

I open the door and allow the steam to pour into our room, and I'm immediately hit with a surprising smell. It's almost as if someone is roasting marshmallows in our motel room. I take a small, careful step and peek just my head out, eyes zeroing in on the lit candles on the table.

My eyes skip over to Dean who sits on the edge of the bed with his elbows resting on his knees, a single flower in one hand, and a mix-tape in the other. Beneath his feet is a trail of rose petals leading to the door of the bathroom. He keeps his eyes on me, a smile peaking through his lips as he awaits my next move.

Sam's eyes and mine meet before he offers an awkward smile and shuffles a few things around on his bed. He grabs his shower bag, and I take a few steps towards Dean to allow him to enter the bathroom. Dean and I are both silent until the door closes behind Sam.

"What is all this, Dean?" I asks, astonished. Moldy motel room, or 5 star suite, never in my life has anyone laid out rose petals for me. I feel my heart racing like it's ready to burst right out of my chest.

Dean smiles, standing to hand me the flower with a kiss on my cheek. My skin is warm where his lips just were, and he reaches to take my hand, guiding me to sit on our bed.

He notices my eyes glance down at the mix tape before jumping back up to his. "I've been working on this for a few weeks now," he says, shaking the tape in his hand before handing it to me.

My hand shakes when I grab it, and I flip it to see "To my Y/N/N, Love Dean," scribbled on the front. My cheeks grow hot again, but this time with embarrassment that I'd spent the whole day thinking about myself, when here's Dean blowing expectations right out of the water.

"It's, uh, all the songs that remind me of you," he says softly, and I notice the scent of my favorite candle as the flame burns. My head spins.

"I don't know what to say, Dean," I start, and he just smiles, caressing my hand with his calloused fingers, "I mean, thank you. This is the kindest, most loving thing anyone has ever done for me," I say, tears welling in my eyes.

It's overwhelming to think a personal could love someone so much that amidst hunting Heaven, Hell and everything in between he could find the time to make this moment so special.

"Aw, sweetheart, don't cry," he says, arms wrapping around me, pulling me in for a tight hug.

"I'm not crying, Dean," I contest, but I nuzzle my face into his soft, comforting shirt, allowing my arms to wrap around his torso, and under the warmth of his jacket.

I soak in the smell of his sandalwood cologne and tighten my arms around him. Kissing his chest, I mutter another "thank you" before lifting my head to look him in the eyes. He brings his hand to either side of my face, eyes looking back and forth between mine, "you're very welcome," he says, kissing me with a tenderness that takes my breath away, and I realize that it's moments like these that I want to fill my heaven with.

~~~~

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megxplryxb · 8 months ago

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How Can it be Over When it Never Really Started?

Pairings: Colby Brock x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Slight mention of smut, Kat and Sam's break up is discussed (no sides taken), No mentions of y/n

Notes: I haven't written for Colby in over a year so please be kind, I know i'm a little rusty.

The Las Vegas air was hot and sticky as you reluctantly opened the car door, removing yourself from the refreshing air conditioning of your BMW. The car locked with a beep as you tossed your keys into your handbag, rummaging around for a clip to tie your hair back, already feeling uncomfortable in the warmth of the desert. Dry gravel crunched under your converse, the hot sun already kissing your skin as you approached the entrance of an all too familiar house.

Everything looked as it did the last time you’d been here. The overgrown bushes at the side of the house still needing to be trimmed, the walls still screaming for a fresh coat of paint and the lights you’d all hung up for Christmas still dangling from the trees in the yard. But while things looked the same, the feeling was completely different. It was strange, quiet and sad. Any other time before today, you’d have walked in, skipping through the house, singing and dancing, looking for Katrina, but she didn’t live here anymore and that’s exactly the reason why you were here now.

Kat and Sam had broken up three weeks ago, ending their seven plus year relationship which came as a shock to many. While it was mostly amicable, she just couldn’t bring herself to return to the house she had shared with her ex boyfriend to pick up the last of her things. So instead, you had volunteered to go, wanting to make things as easy as possible for her.

It had been a rough couple of weeks for your best friend, the break up hitting her hard and she'd never felt more alone. Kat had been staying with a friend for the last couple of weeks, tying up some loose ends before she left Vegas in the rear view mirror once and for all. You arrived yesterday, driving to Sin City to help with her move back to LA, knowing that she needed you now more than ever. Break ups were never easy and you wanted her to know she didn't have to go through this alone.

Taking a deep breath in, you pressed the ring doorbell, stomach in knots as you waited patiently for a response. Sam knew you were coming, you’d organised it with him yesterday to make sure it was ok, not wanting to completely blindside him upon your arrival. Of course he didn't mind. It hadn't been easy for him either and you were sure he was just as heartbroken as Kat.

“Hey, I’ll be right down.” You heard a familiar voice say through the speaker, your eyes widening upon the realisation that it wasn't Sam. Fuck.

“Oh hey, yeah cool, take your time.” You reply, moving back from the door, tugging at your bottom lip nervously, a sudden feeling of uneasiness creeping up on you.

There was a slight shuffle on the other side of the door before it opened and you were met not by Sam but by his best friend Colby, who you'd slept with two months ago.

“Hey stranger, long time no see." He smiles, pulling you in for a hug, wrapping himself around you. His scent was intoxicating, warm and comforting and you hated how much you had missed being in his arms.

“Hi.” You blush, reluctantly pulling away from him, avoiding his gaze until he closed the door behind you.

“You could have just walked in y’know, like you always do.” He teases as you shake your head, shrugging. “I didn’t really know what to do honestly, I guess it’s just kind of weird now that Kat’s gone.”

“Hey, you know you’re always welcome here, right? That’s never gonna change.” Colby states but you’re not sure even he believes that. You’ve seen how break ups go, how it damages not just the couple but the friends involved too.

“How is Kat? I texted her a couple of times but she hasn’t really been responding.” He frowns, biting his bottom lip. You could see the sadness in his eyes, he was hurting too. You all were.

“She’s doing ok. I mean, she’s devastated obviously but she’ll get there, it’s just going to take some time.”

“Yeah, I can’t imagine what they’re both going through right now. Sam is so quiet, he’s not really talking about it much.”

“Where is he anyway?” You look around, noticing the place was oddly quiet.

“He kind of chickened out last minute. I think he was afraid you were going to murder him, so he went for a run.” He jokes but you know he’s also kind of serious.

“Why would I do that? I mean, he just broke my best friend’s heart, it’s no big deal.” You reply sarcastically.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I kind of want to kick his ass too.” The black haired boy smiles and you can’t help but notice how utterly beautiful he looks right now.

“He knows I don’t hate him, right? Like, I wish I did because it would make things a hell of a lot easier but, at least he was honest y’know? He didn’t string her along or cheat on her. I’m just sad it didn’t work out for them.” You admit, holding back your tears.

“I know, I am too, it fucking sucks.” Colby sighs, throwing an arm around you, trying to pull you closer to him but he feels how reluctant you are to lean into him.

“I better get this stuff packed into my car. We’re heading back to LA in the morning.” You say as Colby nods his head, the corner of his lips turning downwards, leading you to the kitchen where Katrina’s things are laid out on the dinning table. There’s not too much left, just some clothes and shoes, bits of make up and unopened post and a framed picture of you all at the beach from last summer when Sam and Kat were still happy and you and Colby hadn’t blurred the lines of your friendship.

“That was a good day.” Colby chuckles from behind you. His hot breath hitting the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Yeah it was. They looked so in love here.” You frown, running your fingers over the picture.

“They were.” Colby agrees, holding the other side of the frame. “You looked so beautiful that day.” He whispers, causing you to shake your head.

“Yeah right.” You laugh, rejecting his compliment.

“I’m serious. Shit, I remember seeing you in that bikini for the first time too. All of the guys were looking at you and that douche bag asked for your number, remember?” He quizzed, causing you to chuckle. You remember it like it was yesterday, the guy strutting towards you while you sunbathed with Kat. He’d been so cocky, certain he was leaving with your number until you ran to Colby, kissing his cheek. Pleading with him to go with it and pretend to be your boyfriend. He did it without a second thought, arms draped over your body, nuzzled into your neck, placing little kisses on your shoulder until the guy got the hint and left you alone.

“Of course I remember, you wanted to kill that guy.” You tease, turning to face Colby who looks at the picture once more. “Yeah, I did. Fuck, I was so jealous.” He curses as you furrow your brows, a little surprised by his admission.

“Why?” You ask, your breath hitching as he takes the frame from your hands, placing it on the table.

“You know why.” He insists, his lips hovering over your own, backing you into the table as your heart fluttered.

There had always been something between you and Colby, an unspoken attraction that neither of you dared to explore until two months ago. The timing for anything other than a friendship had never been quite right, one or both you seeing other people. But he had always been flirty with you, sharing subtle touches or glances when no one else was looking and for the longest time, that had been it. That was until New Years Eve, at a house party hosted by Jake and Tara. Colby had been by your side all night, getting your drinks, laughing and dancing and when the clock struck midnight his lips were immediately on yours, like he’d been waiting an eternity to kiss you. It only took you a moment to kiss him back, his hands finding a home on your hips as you wrapped your arms around his neck, ignoring all the whistles around you, your friends screaming that it was about damn time.

Not long after, you arrived back at the house, the kiss not being enough for either one of you, both of you needing more urgently. Colby had quickly dragged you upstairs, undressing each other before you even reached his bedroom, lips never parting as he pressed you into his mattress. It wasn't what you thought it would be like, it was slow and sweet and Colby took his time with you, afraid he'd only get one chance at this. The next morning you awoke in his arms, limbs still tangled under the sheets until you managed to wiggle your way out without waking him, leaving before you had to have an awkward conversation about the night before.

"Colby, I can't do this right now." You sigh, shaking off your thoughts as you move away from him again.

“Do what?” He asks, raising a brow.

“Do this, whatever this is..” you state as he lets out a deep breath.

“Are we ever gonna talk about it?” He questions, folding his tattooed arms across his toned chest.

“What is there to talk about? It was just sex, wasn't it?" You shrug, causing him to scoff and you swear you can see a look of hurt on his face.

“We both know it was more than that.” He states, staring at you, almost begging you to be honest with yourself.

“When has it ever been more than that for you, Colby?” You argue, taking aim at his long list of conquests.

“When it was with you." He answers honestly, leaving you shocked. “That night when we kissed, I thought that was it, you know? That me and you were finally on the same page about us. But when I woke up the next morning you were gone and I never heard from you."

"I wanted to save you the trouble of telling me it was a one time thing." You admitted, lowering your head, embarrassed to look at him right now.

"That's all you thought that was to me? Do you not know me at all?" The boy asks as you let out a nervous laugh.

"Yes, I know you Colby, which is exactly why I left! I've seen your countless one night stands walk out that door the next morning, hoping that you'll call them again and you never do! You just move on to the next one and I'm not judging you, that's who you are. I just didn't want to be one of those girls that expected more from you." Colby looks at you, shaking his head, a prominent frown on his face as he walks closer to you. This time you don't move, frozen still as he cups your face.

"But that's just it, you're not like those other girls. There's always been something between us, more than a friendship, more than just sex. You make me laugh more than anybody, I don't have to pretend to be someone else when I'm with you. You've seen me at my worst and you got me through it, you Kat and Sam. Baby, I was an idiot for so fucking long, dating people I shouldn't have dated, being friends with people who I didn't even like. But I know what I want now and I want you. I want everything with you." He confesses, as you try to hold back tears.

"Colby, I..."

“What, honey? Tell me what you want?” He asks, his face inches away from yours and you could easily kiss him right now.

You know exactly what you wanted. When it came to Colby Brock, you’ve always known.

You’ve wanted it before he ever put his lips on yours, before you ever let him take you in his bed all those weeks ago and before he ever muttered that you were his as he came deep inside of you for the first time.

You wanted him, all of him but you knew that was something that just wasn't possible right now. Just as you were about to speak, the front door opened and closed with a gentle bang, footsteps approaching the kitchen as you quickly broke apart.

"Hey." Sam spoke, removing his headphones as you placed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His eyes moved to Colby, who he knew would chew him out for this later.

"Hi." You greeted, moving to give him a hug.

"I'm sorry, I totally just interrupted something didn't I?" The blonde boy questions as you shake your head.

"Yep." Colby nods as you shoot him a look.

"No you didn't, honestly. I was just leaving." You reassure Sam but Colby takes your hand. "Please, don't go, we still have things to talk about."

You bite your lip, eyes focused on Colby as he pleads with you to finish your conversation.

"I really need to pack Kat's stuff."

"Hey, it's ok, I'll take Katrina's things to your car and leave you guys to it." Sam says as you give him a thankful nod. Once he's gone, Colby moves towards you again, his hands finding yours as you look into his ocean blue eyes, trying not to fall deeper than you already have.

"Colby, you know how I feel about you. Jesus, I was never good at hiding it." You joke, earning a small laugh from him as his fingers circle your palm. "But, right now, Sam needs you, like Kat needs me. We can't be together when they're like this, still heartbroken and lost." You state, beginning to choke up.

"Why not?" Colby questions, raising a brow.

"Because if we're together and one of them eventually moves on with someone else, it's going to get messy. They'll fight about it, they'll ask us to take sides and then we'll fight about it and probably break up and both be miserable too! Everything's just too complicated right now, not to mention we'd have to do long distance because I'll be in LA and you'll be here and–" You ramble on as Colby places his forehead on yours.

"It kind of sounds like you've already thought about this a lot." He teases, as you wrap your arms around his waist.

"Being with you, is all I ever think about." You whisper before he captures your lips with his. For a moment, you finally give in to him, melting into his touch as he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue over your bottom lip before he slides it into your mouth. He swallows a moan from within you, pressing you up against the counter as you grab his shirt, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful." He groans, placing wet kisses on your neck as you throw your head back. Suddenly, your phone vibrates in your pocket and you know it's Kat checking up on you. You had asked her to call you to make sure you didn't accidentally end up in Colby's bed upon your arrival and you were sure you would have ended up there if not for your best friend saving you at the last minute.

"Colby, shit, it's Kat." You whine as he finally detaches his lips from your skin. Once you told Kat everything was ok and that you were on your way, you hung up, both of you attempting to catch your breath.

"I really have to go." You state as he nods his head, pulling you close once more.

"Look, I know you think things might get complicated but that's only if we let them, right? I want to try and make this work, I want to be with you no matter what happens between them. I've honestly never felt this way about anyone before and I don't want to lose you." He confesses, kissing your hand as your knees almost go from under you.

"I don't want to lose you either." You reveal, a tear sliding down your cheek as he wipes it away.

"So, can we do this? Me and you, like officially?" He asks, grinning like an idiot as you shake your head.

"Slow down Mr. Brock, you haven't even taken me on a proper date yet." You tease as he kisses you again. "Oh, so it's like that huh?"

"Yeah, it's like that." You chuckle.

Well lucky for you I'm coming to LA next week, so how about I take you out then?" He suggests, as you wrap your arms around him.

"If we do this, we take this slow ok? Start with a couple of dates and see how things go?" You suggest as he nods in agreement.

"Sweetheart, we can go as slow as you want, just give me a chance to show you how happy I can make you?" He begs but you already know the answer.

Yeah, Colby Brock was a risk worth taking.

#colby brock x reader #colby brock fanfic #colbybrock #colby brock #sam and colby #sam golbach #colby brock one shot #colby brock fluff #colby brock smut #colby x reader

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ask-adamsapple66 · 2 months ago

Text

Fight With Lucifer

Behind the scenes, Adam, Hazbin Hotel @ 7:45pm.

Adam sat there on the floor of his shared room at the hotel with Lucifer. Lucifer had just left in an angry blaze of fire, they had just had their worst fight ever since getting together.

Adam covered his mouth to muffle a sob, his eyes watered with tears. He fucked up, he really fucked up and he knew it. Why didn't he pick up on the fact that Lucifer was actually getting pissed off and not playfully pissed off?

How can you possibly be this useless? It's no wonder no one would ever willingly want you. Lilith's voice echoed in his mind.

Adam: What the fuck is wrong with me?

You're a stupid useless piece of shit that's what.

Adam got up off the floor and went to the bathroom, he looked himself in the mirror and hated what he saw. What did Lucifer even see in him?

Temporary insanity probably.

Adam: Shut up.

Don't be surprised when he asks you for his ring back, you clearly don't deserve it.

Adam: SHUT UP!!

Adam hauled off and punched the bathroom mirror as hard as he could shattering it into many broken pieces. A physical representation of his heart right now.

His hand was bleeding but he didn't care. He wrapped it in a little gaze and walked out. Adam looked at the bed.

Their bed.

He couldn't sleep there, it would be too cold and lonely.

Adam walked out of their room and into his old room, he wouldn't sleep there either he just wanted to grab his angelic steel blade if he was going to go out.

He grabbed his blade and made his way to the hotel, he couldn't let himself feel sad around others so he placed the comfortable mask of anger on. Adam was angry at that fucking fat jester Christmas tree, pissed at that douchbag Michael for saying whatever it was he said, and more than anything Adam was furious at himself for being so fucking stupid.

But that's nothing new is it?

When Adam passed Alastor in the hallway the radio demon sneered at him.

Alastor: What's the matter, trouble in paradise?

Adam: Fuck off asshole.

He wasn't in the mood to deal with him.

Alastor: What, your short little-

Adam saw red, he turned and stabbed Alastors hand to the wall with the blade, the radio demon actually yelped in pain.

Adam: Do not fucking talk about him like that. Next time it will be your heart, if you even have one.

Adam removed the blade and stalked away and left the hotel. No one in the city bothered him as he walked around at night, people may not mind getting beaten and dying but they didn't want to permanently die. Seeing the angelic blade on his hip kept people away.

Adam went into the Heaven Embassy, he may not be able to go down to Greed and fuck up that fat prick, but he can call down the other one.

There was a phone on the desk in the Embassy, Adam picked it up and he got ahold of Peter.

Peter: Hello, Heavens Gate this is Peter.

Adam groaned: Yeah, it's me get Michael down here.

Peter: Adam?

Adam: No it's Santa Claus.

Peter: Yeah it's you Adam..... Look I can't just get Michael to-

Adam: I DON'T FUCKING CARE IF HE'S GETTING A BLOWJOB YOU TELL THAT SON OF A BITCH TO GET HIS UGLY MUG DOWN HERE!!! AND NOT A HOLOGRAM EITHER!!

Peter: ...... One moment.

Adam didn't have to wait long before he was told to go to the nearest room where Michael looked pissed to see him.

Michael: What do you want?

Adam: The fuck did you say to him?

Michael: Who?

Adam growled and glared at him: WHO DO YOU THINK!?

Michael: Oh, him? Please, what's the matter did he get his little feelings, I know how short he can be with people, is he-

Adam had heard enough and punched Michael in the eye so hard it already started to bruise.

Adam: That's for whatever you said to him and what you just said now asshole!

Michael: You are going to regret that! Extermination Day is coming, maybe someone will finally finish the job so you can return to the filthy dirt where you belong.

Oh, maybe you should just stand outside and let someone do you in.

Adam: Lay the fuck off of him, or I'll be sure this finds it's way through your fucking eye.

Adam held up the blade.

Michael: That a threat?

Adam: More like a promise.

Adam turned to leave as Michael called out to him one last time.

Michael: What does he see in you?

Adams heart clenched in his chest, he wondered the same thing.

Adam: Fuck off.

Adam left, he didn't know if he just made things worse but Michael deserved a good punch in the fucking face for more than just today.

He didn't know how long he was walking around for, but the night was very dark the only light coming from the moon in the sky. Adam, found himself at the park.

Adam walked over to where their tree was and he felt his anger melt away and sadness creep back in.

A + L inside a heart carved into the tree. Adam remembered the day Lucifer did that.

Adam was leaning against the tree, the day was actually cool for once.

Adam: What are you doing?

Lucifer: Scoot over for a second.

Adam didn't question it and did as he was told, Lucifer sat down on his knees and used his claw to carve into the tree. Sure it was a little cheesy, but Adam was touched that Lucifer wanted to do something like that.

Lucifer: So we can always find our spot.

Adam: Our spot?

Lucifer cupped one of his cheeks: Yeah, our spot where we can come and just be together.

Adam: I love that Luci.

Lucifer smiled: Good.

He leaned in and kissed Adam under their tree.

That was one of the first times they came here for a date. Adams eyes welled up with tears as he gently touched the carving.

Fuck, he was so stupid......

Well you come by is honestly.

Adam walked away from the tree, it hurt too much to look at it. He sat down in front of the pond, there were a few ducks there swimming around. Hell ducks were like the ones on earth only they had horns for some reason.

One came over and Adam picked it up, it quacked at him and he smiled sadly, lip quivering. He'd never be able to look at one again without thinking of Lucifer.....

He placed the little duck in the water and it swam away. His eyes landed on his engagement ring again.

Adam wouldn't blame Lucifer if he wanted his ring back. Lu deserved someone better than Adam.

Some soulmate he turned out to be.....

Like you ever deserved him.

That one wasn't Lilith, it was him. He didn't deserve everything Lucifer did for him, he didn't deserve his kindness, and he sure as shit didn't deserve his love.

So if he wanted his ring back........ Which he probably did, Adam had never seen him that mad, Adam wouldn't put up a fight.

Adam pulled his knees to his chest as tears fell from his eyes.

Lucifer deserved to be happy, even if it wasn't with him.

@the-king-of-hell-66-6

#adamsapple #ask adamsapple #ask blog #rp ask blog #angst #depressing shit #hazbin hotel adam #guitarduck #adam/lucifer #send asks #past abuse

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satoruoo · 1 year ago

Note

VIA VIA VIA HEAR ME OUT. secret santa b they get u and accidentally spill it / the big reveal…

(NOT SO) SECRET SANTA - aki hayawaka

summary: despite aki's best efforts to keep your gift a secret, his (stupid) roommates somehow manage to spoil the surprise.

genre: fluff, non-devil au, everyone is happy, crack

warnings: swearing, denji, f!reader, suggestive

notes: hope u like it babe !! this is my apology for the recent aki slander 😈🔥

now playing: rockin' around the christmas tree - brenda lee

"for the millionth time, do not tell [name] i got her, understood?"

denji and power sit crossed-legged on the floor, looking only half interested in what aki is saying. they're dressed in christmas gear from head to toe, heads swaying slightly to the christmas music coming from the record player.

power looks awfully happy with the pair of antlers that denji unwillingly brought her from the store after she threatened to throw a fit in the middle of the aisle. they're decorated with little bells, and every time she nods her head, aki can visibly tell how delighted she is from the jingles that they make. she now refuses to take them off.

denji's gone for a more traditional approach, sporting a santa hat with a light up pom pom at the end.

(the hat also says "ho! ho! ho!" if the button on the left is pressed, but denji had overused it so much that aki cut it open and took out the speaker. he then burnt the speaker. denji was told told it must have broken.)

"duh, i ain’t a snitch!" denji claims, saluting his roommate with a shit-eating grin. he would snitch, aki is fully aware of that. bribe him with a lollipop or a tit squeeze? done deal.

"why are we not allowed to tell her?" power asks, fiddling with rudolph's nose on her christmas jumper.

aki audibly groans, fingers working at his temples in exasperation. "because, it’s a secret santa. we aren’t supposed to tell anyone who we got."

power's face twists in mild disgust, "what is the point of that?! just give me my present now!"

aki rolls his eyes, raking his fingers through his dark hair, "because it builds the suspense, power. do you want to have all your gifts now and have none on christmas day?"

she seems to quieten at that, closing her eyes as she mulls over his words. after three agonizing seconds of her silence and aki wondering whether it'd be easier to just throw himself out of the nearest window, power pouts and nods.

denji dramatically sighs before aki can say anything further, slapping her twice on the back in an attempt to comfort her, "i feel ya, powey."

the girl mirrors the sigh, slumping against denji as she flips aki off with a scowl.

"you should thank me, human! i will not go and tell [name] that you have her!" she declares smugly, resting her body weight on the male next to her.

aki vaguely hears "ow, fuck! power, y’re crushin’ me! how the fuck are ya so heavy?!" and a loud slap that probably came from power as he walks away.

• . ✿ ° × . *.

aki really does try his hardest to keep the secret.

he finds himself slapping a hand over denji's mouth when he almost lets it spill, and shoving a piece of food into power's when the topic of the secret santa comes up.

it's only halfway through december. he doesn't know how much longer he can keep this up. he can tell you're starting to pick up on something fishy and it's beginning to stress him out.

"and so aki has-"

"what are you doing?"

power freezes up at the sound of aki's voice, head lifting from your lap as she scrambles to defend herself.

"nothing!" she says a pitch higher than usual.

your eyes narrow at aki who sends a subtle glare in power's direction before taking a seat beside you on the couch. you're immediately taking his hand in yours, rubbing the pad of your thumb over his knuckles to soothe his anger.

the man melts so quickly that it should be embarrassing, shoulders relaxing with a simple touch.

"she was telling me about secret santa," you fill in gently, "something about who everyone has."

power wishes she was dead.

the glare that aki gives her makes certain that she'll be banned from chocolates for at least a week. that's practically the same as death.

"was she now?" aki asks, an angry rumble in his throat.

the girl is looking at anything but his face; when had the wall become so interesting? look at that, is that a new vase? what are denji's pornos doing on the floor-

"why don't you tell both of us, power?"

before anything else can be said, she shoots up from her spot on the couch sweating bullets.

"meowy needs to shit!" is all she says before leaving the room at hurricane speeds. (if only she were that quick to close her mouth.)

you smile, turning to look at your boyfriend with a raised eyebrow.

"so?" you question, idly threading your fingers through his.

"so, what?" aki responds.

he can tell from the way a small laugh escapes those pretty lips that playing dumb isn't going to work.

"nothing, just a bad day." he tries, resting his head in the crook of your neck.

"you're snapping at power because of a 'bad day'?" you state, scepticism evident in your tone. "righhhht."

aki chuckles into your flesh, placing a chaste kiss there before pulling away. "yeah, that's all."

you press a kiss to his lips, tongue swiping over his. "sure, okay. i'll let you have this one, handsome."

the edges of his mouth tip up at the nickname and silent relief fills his veins at the clarification that you won't push the matter.

"thanks, love."

• . ✿ ° × . *.

aki swears on his life that he tries his hardest to keep the secret.

it's just that denji and power are not good secret keepers. they're a pair of loudmouths who are easily bribed. if not for your presence to keep him sane, aki's sure he would have strangled denji and confiscated power's antlers. actually, he's sure that if the gift he'd gotten you wasn't so important, he'd have let his roommates tell you already.

"makima, c'monnnn! i licked the floor so ya owe me a tit squeeze!" denji whines in a kneeling position on the floor.

going out for christmas lunch with you, his two roommates and makima may be one of the best and worst decisions aki's ever made in his life.

power still has her antlers on with a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, you had to persuade her to wear it, as she makes fun of her friend. there are still remnants of the snowball fight he was forced to engage in on her coat, and her nose is pink from the one denji threw in her face.

denji is as desperate as ever - shame didn't seem to find a place in his vocabulary. his purposefully broken santa hat is still finding a home atop his dirty blonde hair, though the pom pom looks like it's about to give up and fall off.

you on the other hand look ethereal in his eyes, a smile etched into your gorgeous features. with every small giggle that escapes your lips, aki feels his chest constrict almost painfully, heart thumping loudly within his ribcage.

you're still holding his hand; you have been for the past three hours.

"only if you tell me who aki has for secret santa, denji." makima answers, voice silky smooth.

it's meant as a joke 100%. everyone else in the room, even power, understood the joke. curse aki for forgetting denji's inability to read social cues.

"he has [name]!!"

on december 23rd, the day before christmas eve, denji tells makima who he has for secret santa in exchange for a tit squeeze. typical.

there's silence for a while. no one really knows what to say. all eyes are on the dark-haired male who genuinely seems to be in the middle of a breakdown.

denji's all frozen up and fully ready to make a run for it if needs be.

"i already know he has me, though." you say, confused.

comically, multiple heads whip towards you.

"...you do?" aki breathes, annoyance towards denji disappearing as fast as it came.

"well if you didn't already know, you suck at keeping secrets, honey. i've known for ages."

part of him feels relieved. if you already knew, then technically he didn't fuck up. technically, it didn't even count-

"it doesn't take a genius to figure it out, you know."

"for real, bro. i knew ya sucked ass like in general but not at lying as well-"

denji will be dead by morning.

BONUS:

"your secret santa gift was an engagement ring?" power asks, mortified.

"what a shitty gift!" denji pipes up, "it's not even edible- ow!"

you chuckle, fiddling with the ring that fits perfectly around your finger as aki smacks denji's arm.

"really? i think it's a wonderful gift." you muse, "it'll last way longer than food."

"so what?! food stays in your tummy forever!" power argues with her hand pointing at her stomach.

"no the fuck it doesn't! ya shit it out, duh!"

their bickering falls upon deaf ears as aki steals a sneaky kiss from you.

"merry christmas, [name]. i hope we'll spend many more together." his cheeks are definitely not dusted pink as he says that. not at all.

#♡. viascribbles #♡. now playing...#csm x reader #csm x you #csm x y/n #chainsaw man x y/n #chainsaw man x reader #chainsaw man x you #aki x you #aki x reader #aki hayakawa #aki hayakawa x y/n #aki hayakawa x reader #aki hayakawa x you #ask n answer !!#∞. loves

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chocolatechubby · 11 months ago

Text

Maybe it was the glass of heavy cream and dozen gingerbread men I ate just before bedtime. Or maybe it was the fact that it was Christmas Eve, and the residue of waiting up for Santa Claus hadn’t diminished in the 23 years since I was six years old. Maybe it was the hard on that wouldn’t go away if I thought about growing fat and round. Whatever it was, I couldn’t sleep. I reluctantly pulled my bloated body from my warm bed to take a piss and a crap in the bathroom. On the way to the john, I passed the Christmas tree in the living room. The shiny packages underneath danced with the reflections of twinkling lights. I’d made quite a haul this year. I was pretty sure the small neatly wrapped package in the front was an Ipod from my mom. And I was pretty sure that the envelope from my ex-partner was a membership to a gym. My gaining sixty pounds had a lot to do with our break-up. It was nice that we were still friends. “Funny…” I thought. “The thing I REALLY want Santa to bring me won’t fit under a tree.”

When I had finished in the bathroom, I took a long look at myself in the mirror. The 160lb gym rat was gone. There in front of me was a 220lb jock-gone-soft. Since I had continued to go to the gym, I was thick and solid. The roundness of my face was beginning to cut away my cheek definition. The beginnings of a double chin made my cock jump. The definition in my arms was beginning to fade: I loved putting on sleeveless shirts and seeing the thick round guns that were once defined biceps and triceps stretching through. My legs were growing huge. The size 38 pants were straining to keep my thighs in. And I had a real belly. Not the beginning gut I was so proud of in college, but a thick waist protruding over my jeans and a noticeable round mound that jutted out from my plump tits and curved forward six inches. It had gotten a number of rubs and stares from my co-workers over the past few weeks. I thought my pecker was going to fall off from all the jerking off I did in the office restrooms after each “Woah! When’s the baby due?” or “You’d better lay off the holiday food Chris!” But it wasn’t enough. I wanted more. I wanted to look like all of those fellas that I admired online. I wanted people to move out of the way when I walked down the street. I wanted to look in the mirror and be awed by my girth. I reached down in my shorts and began massaging my cock. I imagined what it would be like to have to work pass mounds of belly fat just to touch it. I could feel my hard on growing, and my dick was responding to both my touch and my fantasy. It wouldn’t be long now—at least not for the explosion from my balls. The weight gain would take more time.

As I was going for climax, I heard a sound. Not from me but coming from the living room. At first faint, it grew louder—a slow and steady rise and fall. A snore? It sounded like someone snoring. Maybe somehow the air conditioner had turned itself on. I listened a little more intently. No, this was a HUMAN sound. Someone had broken into my apartment! I pulled up my shorts, looked around for a blunt object, grabbed the toilet brush, and headed towards the sound. As I rounded the corner, I was not prepared for what I saw. There in my leather armchair next to the Christmas tree, snoring to high heaven was Santa Claus.

Only it wasn’t Santa Claus. I mean he was dressed in a beautiful red suit—far superior to all those costumed Santas that you see in department stores. This suit looked like it had been tailored for him: luxurious and warm—trimmed in ermine and leather. It fit his big round frame to a “t.” He had to weigh 350, if a pound, and his thick beard was close-cropped, neatly trimmed, and a deep auburn like the wavy hair that curled from under his fur cap. This guy couldn’t have been more than thirty-five years old. And he was gorgeous. During my whole relationship with my ex, Zach, I had never cheated. But I will admit—especially towards the end when he started nagging more about the weight—I had serious fantasies about dudes like the one asleep in my easy chair, but they never included being robbed by them.

Next to him on the floor was a big, empty red velvet sack. I had to admit: this guy had class. I’d read stories in the newspaper about thieves breaking into houses dressed as Santa Claus and taking people’s presents. I never thought it would happen to me. Pictures of the Grinch stuffing Cindy Lou Who’s Christmas tree in his sack crowded my brain. Well this sucker wasn’t getting MY Ipod without a fight!

I tiptoed over to where the hot thief was snoring, and I kicked his engineer boot and stepped back—toilet bowl brush held high. “Hey you!” I shouted. The guy stirred. I gave him my best grimace and said: “What the hell do you think you’re doing in my place?!” He opened one eye and peered up at my brush and me. He grinned (and of course he had a killer smile) and said, “What are you going to do? Tidy Bowl me to death?”

I wasn’t quite ready for such a laid-back attitude. It took me aback for a moment. “No, smart ass…” I answered finally. “… I’m going to call the police and have you hauled off to spend Christmas in jail—that’s what I’m going to do!!!” I bellowed triumphantly. “Oh, and for future reference: Santa has a WHITE beard—not red! You are NO Kris Kringle.”

“Actually, his beard isn’t white. It’s silver. And you’re right…I’m not Kris Kringle. He’s my dad. I’m KARL Kringle—his youngest son.”

Of all the responses in all the scenarios that I could imagine, not one of them included that particular statement. I stood in shock with my mouth open. He fumbled around for a bit and spoke: “This is what I get for breaking the first rule of Christmas Delivery: Don’t Fall Asleep. It’s just that it’s been a long night and seeing as this is my Last Stop and all, I couldn’t help myself.” He yawned and started hauling his big belly out of my chair “Look, don’t set off your loaded brush—I’m just looking for my wallet.” He was even more appealing standing. He was a fireplug: about my height (which made him somewhat short), he reminded me of Sean Astin as Samwise Gamgee in “The Lord of the Rings”: much bigger, but as cute as he could be. He patted himself down, searching around his big gut and barrel chest for a bulge. “Ahh, here it is!” He pulled out a simple leather wallet and flipped it open. “See.” He said.

I slowly inched forward and took the wallet out of his chubby hand. There he was, smiling with rosy cheeks. NORTH POLE DMV: Driver’s Permit was printed in white at the top of a red and green card. “May operate cars, trucks, motorcycles, snow skis and High-Capacity Sleighs” was prominently placed in the lower right hand corner.

“Real cute” I smirked. “So you’re a clever bandit. I’m sure your cell mate will get a real kick out of your sense of humor.”

“Man, some things don’t change, do they?” He smiled. “You’re still a closet believer posing as a skeptic aren’t you? I remember when you were six years old and wanted ‘Dream Date Ken’. You said to yourself, ‘I’ll believe in Santa if he brings me Ken.’ When you didn’t see it under the tree that Christmas morning, you were really sad, but you said, ‘I knew he wasn’t real.’ Boy were you surprised when you found it…”

“Hidden in your stocking!”

“Hidden in my stocking!”

We said it at the exact same time. My mouth was agape. “How did you know that?” I uttered. “Because I asked Dad if I could put it there.” Karl said. “I was twelve. Dad had been training me to take a route of my own. I had been coming with him since you were a baby—watching you grow up. I wanted you to work harder to trust your beliefs.”

I stumbled to my couch and sat down. This was incredible! So it was true: Santa really DID exist. “Yup.” Karl said, as if he’d read my mind. “Only the doubters have got part of the story right: he DOESN’T circle the world and deliver toys in one night. He hasn’t done that in a few hundred years. He has help from his sons.”

“Sons” I gasped, with emphasis on the “s.” “You mean there’s more of you?”

“Oh yeah” said Karl. “It's the family business. There’s Kris Jr., Kevin, Kurt, Klaus, Kyle, Keith, and Kwame.”

“Kwame?” I asked.

“Yeah, a little incident with dad and an African Queen a few years back…we don’t talk about that.” He whispered.

“So we divide up the earth and each take a chunk. Dad spends most of his time these days with the kids that need him most. He took India and New Orleans this year.”

“I see…” I said. “And you got my area.”

“Well, not so much GOT, as CHOSE your area. I told you. I’ve been watching you for many years. I’ve been waiting for that jerk of a boyfriend of yours to exit the picture. I’ve been crushing on you for a while now. I happen to be gay.”

“Oh.” My dick was jumping at regular intervals now. “Are all of you uh…?”

“Gay?” He said. “I doubt it. Nobody’s talking so we don’t really know. I’m pretty sure Kwame is. He keeps picking San Francisco as one of his stops. Listen, do you mind if I make myself comfortable?” he asked. “Uh…no.” I stammered, still trying to make sense of the fact that I had a big, bearded Santa Claus in my living room that was hot for me. “Great” he said and proceeded to undo his belt and buttons. His velvet coat fell to the floor, revealing the magnificent fat physique bulging from his white undershirt. His big, gorgeous arms were covered with a layer of soft red fur, and I could see tendrils of the same curling from under the neckline of his t. He began playing with his nipples as he slowly moved his ball belly towards me. “Listen,” he said again. “…do you mind if I make YOU more comfortable?”

“Uh…no.” was my startled reply.

We stood face to face. The heat between us was more intense than anything I’d ever felt before. He smelled of smoldering fires and apples and cinnamon. He leaned in, and I felt his cock. “So THAT’S what’s meant by Christmas Sausage! “I thought. He pulled me into him and whispered, “I’ve been waiting 29 years for this” and moved his tongue over my lips and into my mouth. He tasted like warm cocoa. His belly met mine and I moaned at the solid thickness of his girth. Our tongues swirled together in a hot dance that left me weak and energized at the same time. I could have stayed like that forever.

Karl ran his thick hands over my nipples, slightly squeezing them between his fingers. He slowly traveled down to my belly and began massaging it with both hands. I was in heaven. “Such a beautiful starter belly. I was so hot for you when you started putting on weight that I had to stop working in the toyshop—couldn’t concentrate. Kept making Barbie dolls with penises!”

“Oh.” I mumbled—trying to get his tongue back in my mouth.

“And now I’m with you” he said, caressing my cheek. “And we’ve got all night. He leaned over and kissed my gut. “I’m going to give you that present that won’t fit under the tree.”

For a moment I was stirred from my reverie. Had he really the power to know what my deepest desires were? I tested him. “Oh yes? “I whispered in his ear. “What might that be.”

“Don’t be coy Chris” he smiled. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. By dawn, you will be fed, fucked, and fat as a house. Are you ready to get started?”

TO BE CONTINUED

#ccstories

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rainintheevening · 2 months ago

Text

Part I - Part II ... Part XVIII - Part XIX

It hurts to see Peter hurting.

More than the state of their city (still theirs), more than the shattered buildings (he imagines the inferno of Christmas with a little shiver), even more than the dark smudges under their mother's eyes (he and Susan make all the meals during the holidays), it's Peter who wrenches at his heart, ache welling behind Ed's sternum.

He sees how Peter yearns for a sword, an enemy, a way to make all the brokenness around them right. More than sees, though, Edmund knows.

Knows the hunger that eats at the back of the throat, the way a single page in the newspaper swamps security like a tidal wave, the helplessness that weighs shoulders and hands till falling to fury or despair seem the only choices available. Hunger and helplessness had been his old play-fellows, back Before, and now he finds their heads reared again, but he also finds himself too taken up with watching over his brother to pay much attention to them. He forgets himself in his concern for Peter.

Peter does not cry again, not that Edmund sees or hears at least. He sleeps little, laughs less.

The girls too are shaken by the alterations to what had once been their world, but Lucy laughs more than she cries, and Susan steps easily into the motherly role.

Peter does all the shopping. In the span of their three weeks holidays, he also fixes all the bicycles in the garden shed, digs up the whole bed of the Victory garden, mends two broken chairs and a chest of drawers, takes a broken clock to pieces (Ed is the one who finds the problem), and fights four different boys, two of them more than once.

Many of the children who had stayed through the whole of the bombing are quick to sneer at those who did not.

“As if we chose to go!” Edmund complains.

“Cowards,” hisses Daisy Moore as she passes them in the churchyard, and her brother laughs.

“Got scared by a few rockets, and left your poor mother all alone in her shelter, listening to us all burn?”

Ed does not relax his grip on Peter's arm until Daisy and Danny have disappeared, until the tremble of taught muscles under his hand has melted away, until the growl has died in Peter's throat.

“Look,” Ed says with forced lightness, guiding Peter toward the street where Lucy leans against a small tree, singing to herself. “I know it was terrible, but there's no call for talking like that. It might make you feel better for a moment, but it makes someone else feel horrid for awhile, so it's definitely a sum-total loss.”

Peter does not answer.

The next day he and Susan come home from a walk, and his sleeve is torn and there is blood on his knuckles.

“They insulted Susan,” is all he says to Edmund in the mirror, bent over, washing wounded hands.

Edmund is glad when they go back to school.

At St. Maurice’s, Peter's responsibilities are clear, he's respected, he has the wide open sky and the wild moors to ride over.

They step off the train at the village station, and Ed sees him breathing deep, smiling at Colin's enthusiastic greeting, leaping to catch a stolen cap and prolong a wild chase along the platform.

Ed joins Peter very early for a ride the next morning, slapped awake by the cold wet May air, but he sees the light in Peter's eyes, the way he greets each horse in turn, and Ed strokes Rose's neck, tickles under her chin as he smiles himself.

“Perhaps he'll be alright.”

But then this term Wollers is gone, graduated, good, steady old boy off to the war, and the new Head Boy ticks Peter off twice in the first week for ‘interfering’, slaps Alexander Morrow in Ed's form with a hundred lines (in French!) for cheeking him in the hall, and generally does his best to let everyone know he's in charge, while also making everyone hate him for it.

Ed hates it, especially for Peter's sake, when Peter's only a year younger and also named head of the Sixth Form. A few weeks in, Peter joins Ed on the way in to lunch, and his brow is drawn low over still-smouldering eyes, jaw set in a hard line.

“Beaumont”, he says, without preamble. “Trying to tell me what to do about Gilly when it's a Sixth Form matter. Now who’s interfering?”

“Not you,” Ed says mildly, watches Peter's shoulders drop, watches him exhale. “Just don't give him the satisfaction of marking you up for anything,” he adds.

“I know, I know,” Peter sighs. “Jolly well wish I could box him, but I can't unless he starts it. I don't know why they chose him.”

At least Pete has rugger to shine at, Ed thinks. Peter had sat his Junior Cert at the end of last term (and passed with Credit or Distinction in all subjects, which Ed is very proud of him for) so he's more relaxed with his own studies, making time for more tutoring of the young ones, and making the rugby team.

Edmund tries out for the Junior team, gets named a spare. He knows he's not strong, but he is fast, and slippery.

A letter from Dad comes, forwarded from Mum, and it is cheerful, telling them things they already know about the successes in North Africa, expounding on his work learning Arabic, giving a brief written sketch of the desert sunset that strikes up vividly at them like heat from the sand till Edmund can see it as clearly as the view west from Tashbaan.

Peter is quiet though, broody for days after. Ed watches, wonders, worries.

Three months and Peter will be 17, a year off of signing up. Sometimes Edmund is certain Peter would have already gone, fudged his age and signed his name; he doesn't doubt they would take a strapping youth like Peter with very few questions. But he'd promised Mum, and Peter Pevensie is not a promise-breaker.

He's also not the only one hurting, not the only one missing Dad, missing Narnia, but Ed doesn't like to worry his brother, doesn't want to add to the concerns Peter carries.

There are questions sitting somewhere in his stomach, and he tries to ignore them, but they've grown heavier over the days, weeks, months. Time ticking by, another spring, and something about the sunrises, the green flush racing across the quad, rising in the victory garden, the apple trees by the stables bursting into bloom, it makes the longing flare bright in him.

As always the memories stay hazy, sometimes fearfully so, only brought back in sharp relief, a cleared streak in fogged up glass, in odd moments. Ed thinks there's a pattern in it—when a lie hovers on the tip of his tongue, he hears Oreius's voice; when Peter turns with an angry word, he remembers tense council rooms; when an apology fails to melt Edmund's own shame, he sees Tumnus's face. But there are smaller, less specific flashes too, and one day, hard at work with the violin in one of the practice rooms, he gets lost in the music, notes dancing under his fingers, spinning, swooping, diving, soaring, and he plays and plays and plays until he coasts to a halt, stands breathless and a little dizzy, feeling exactly as he had after his first real flight on the back of a gryphon, and his hand on the bow grips involuntarily tighter, as if feathers and fur are slipping through his fingers.

“Oh, don't stop.”

A hoarse whisper making Ed spin round, but it is only Peter leaning in the doorway, yearning writ large across his face, until their eyes meet and it twists into sorrow.

Only then does Edmund realise his cheeks are wet, and he pivots quickly back, lays the violin down gentle, deliberate.

Peter says nothing, but he comes across the room, stands close behind, close enough that Ed decides he doesn't care, and turns, falls into Peter's chest.

Arms wrap strong around him, smile bunches the cheek that presses against his head, but still Peter says nothing, and Edmund is glad. Just for a minute he hides his face in his big brother's shoulder, and lets himself cry. Peter holds him, safe and tight, and he stays, sniffling into Peter’s vest, until Peter says, “It sounded like Narnia. What was it?”

Ed sighs, pulls away to scrub a sleeve across his nose. “I don't know. It just sort of… came over me. Or out of me. Or to me– I don't know.”

Slow grinning pride breaks across Peter's face. “So you're a composer now too!”

And Ed must needs shove him away, rolling his eyes. ��I didn't exactly write it down, so I'll probably never be able to play it again.”

“That doesn't change how beautiful it was,” Peter says, hopeful and true like Edmund needs him to be.

He fingers the violin strings, plucking them gently, tick tock tick tock tick, and he says it quiet.

“It's been about ten years. In Narnia. Without us. If the time difference between the professor's visit and ours is consistent.”

“Corin will be a man,” Peter murmurs in the surprised tone of grown-ups talking about nieces or nephews they haven't seen in ages. “And what would you bet Aravis and Cor are married?”

“Peridan and Anna must have several children by now.” Ed’s voice catches in his throat at the thought of his friend, who had sworn he would make Edmund godfather of all his sons, as well as letting him teach them all how to fight. And oh, Ed had stood up at his wedding as best man, hadn't he? While Peter had given Anna away, in lieu of long-lost father or brothers.

“Erah and Pearl–” Peter starts, but can't finish.

“We weren't trying to leave,” Edmund says. “I wish they knew that.”

“We were only following Lucy into another adventure.” Peter has a little half-smile on his lips, and then his arm around Ed’s shoulders is warm.

“The professor said it wouldn't all be easy.” Edmund rests his head on Peter's shoulder.

“Do you ever wish-?” Peter starts, but cuts himself off with a decided “No, I don't.”

Edmund knows, he's wondered himself, once or twice on difficult days, but he always answers the same as Peter. He'll always be grateful they had been brought to Narnia.

But there's one question he does hesitate over, as the seasons change, and the clock ticks on, and he voices it now, barely above a whisper: “Are you so sure we'll go back?”

“Of course,” Peter says at once. “Aslan said we would always be kings and queens of Narnia. We'll get back somehow.”

“You're sure?” Edmund pulls away enough to look hard up into Peter's eyes, searching for a hint of doubt.

“Quite. We have to.” Peter swallows hard, looks away out the window where the rain falls steady in the quad. “We have to,” softer now.

Ed sees the longing in his brother's eyes, and he wishes suddenly that just being here with Edmund and the music and the rain was enough for Peter. But he loves his brother anyway.

“Alright, your majesty,” he says lightly. “Now come on, the supper bell will ring any minute.”

He snaps the clasps on the violin case closed, leads the way out of the room, humming the whisper of wings in a blue sky.

Behind him, Peter is silent.

#hello yes i'm back #what even is this? i don't know #it went in directions i wasn’t planning on #tired of second-guessing how i'm writing peter in the context of the movies. he's struggling okay? sometimes he needs ed to be the stronger #one. that's how siblings are supposed to work. but he still sees ed needs him when it slaps him in the face.#oh and the tune ed plys sounds something lile the how to train your dragon theme #i want to say this isn't very good but it's my fault for trying to wait for the perfect tine to get back to it and nearly waiting too long #anyway #pevensie brothers #peter pevensie #edmund pevensie #my writing #narnia fanfiction #narnia movies #narnia #chronicles of narnia

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lavendermunson · 11 months ago

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ribbon - steve harrington

day 4 of leia's christmas tree farm

cw max has a tiny accident. er/hospital setting. one use of y/n. grey!reader (she is mer’s sister, it can be half sister too). steve calls max his sister. they all moved to seattle for some reason

a/n i had a very different idea for this but it didn’t work out, i hope you like this i came up with at the very last minute

“What do we have here?” Doctor Torres approaches Max, she whines as the pain in her arm only gets worse. “A broken wrist, how did this happen?”

“An accident on the sleigh ride,” Steve says, “Although I’m sure she was just being rebellious”

“I told you I had to beat Mike” Max groans, feeling the doctor’s hands on her as a resident comes back with an X-ray sheet.

The resident is all glammed up. Red lips, red shoes. The lab coat covered her black dress and most of her figure. She looks absolutely beautiful and Steve can feel himself drooling over her.

The thing that makes his knees buckle, is the big red ribbon on her head.

“Looks half fine, just broken. I’ll get someone to put a cast on you and you are free to go” She smiles at Max, who is only focused on her pain going away soon or she’ll start complaining again.

“I can do it!” you say, your sweet voice piercing Steve’s ears.

“But we have to go to our party!”

“I’ll tell Mer to take me, she’s still in surgery,” you say, approaching the patient’s chart to check some things before calling an intern to help. “I will do this quickly, Max. Don’t worry”

As you leave to get all prepared, one of your interns comes to Max’s room. Waiting for you to help the little girl as soon as possible.

“Hey,” Steve calls the intern. “What’s the pretty doctor’s name? The one with the red ribbon?”

“Can you not? I'm working!” he says, slightly annoyed.

"Yeah, Steve. Keep it in your pants" Max says, making fun of Steve's flushed face.

You come back to the room, while a nurse helps you with everything you need to get Max a cast.

“Are you close relatives with the patient?” you ask Steve, looking at him. His eyes get lost in yours, on how they shine under these big and creepy hospital lights.

“Yeah, I’m her brother”

“Alright, then you can stay and fill this form for me please” Steve takes the chart out of your hands and you help Max to sit down. You start teaching your intern and guiding him through the process.

Steve can only get lost on you. The way every one of your words comes out so soft as your cherry-colored lips move. He glanced at your chest, his cheeks go red when his eyes make contact with your cleavage. He looks away, this is not the place for that, he says to himself.

The blue disposable gloves cover your manicured hands but he sees your gold, delicate bracelet fall from your wrist. He makes a mental note not to mention it until you’re done, Max comes first rather than some casual flirt.

“We are done! How are you feeling?”

“I feel better, thank you,” Max says, a smile finally showing on her face. You mirror her excitement and relief, with a big smile on your face too.

And Steve, he wants to fall on his knees and ask you to marry him right now. He notices how you talk to your intern, to the nurses, and to other people walking by. Your bubbly personality has him captive, he just stares and stares until you are gone.

As the intern takes the chart from Steve's hands and disappears he gets lost in his thoughts.

“Steve! Look, her bracelet” Max screams, calling for the older boy as she gets up. And finds your gold bracelet on the floor “Go get her, something good has to come out of this” she encourages him. Steve runs away from the ER as fast as he can. Looking for the big red ribbon on your head.

“Hey, you okay? Do you need something?” A doctor, much taller and older than him stops him on his way.

“I’m okay i just-“ he tries to ease his breath “Do you know the doctor with the red ribbon? I think she is a resident here”

“Oh, little Grey?” The man makes fun of him, looking how desperate he looks. Steve only wants to know your name, maybe get introduced to you, damn. Why is this so difficult?

“Grey! Yeah, I think” he murmurs, looking around for you. “So you know her”

“I do, I'm pretty close with her sister. Do you need anything from her?“ He looks at Steve and laughs again. He doesn’t look worried or sick, he looks like he just got up on a cloud.

“I just want to get her this” he holds the piece of gold in his hand “It fell when she was taking care of my sister”

“Oh! The ladies are in a rush today, they have Christmas ladies’ night” Steve’s face is pale, from being in love to running for the pretty girl in a space of minutes. He was having a normal day and then all turned upside down “But I'm sure you can catch them in the parking lot, I don't know. I hope you do”

He nods, getting ready to run again. “Thank you…”

“Derek, Derek Shepherd”

“I’m Steve Harrington. I owe you one!” his voice echoes in the empty hallway, He runs towards the stairs because the elevator would take so much time.

You got this, all those years of basketball should work now. But they don’t, Steve is slightly older and slower. As much as he hates to admit. But he makes his way to the parking lot, searching for your ribbon again, and when he finds it, he finds you. His heart skips a beat.

“Hey! You were with my sister earlier I just wanted to give you this” Steve says as you turn to face him, blushing as your eyes meet his.

“Oh! you are so kind, thank you so much” You smile. “My sister gave it to me, if I were to lose it I swear she’d kill me!”

“Looks like I saved your life today, you were so kind to Max- my sister. I’m the one who should thank you” he glances at your hand while carefully holding your bracelet between his fingers, a dash of anticipation in his eyes.

“Don’t thank me. It’s part of my job and I love to help”

"Can I?"

"Please"

You get closer to him, and he can feel his hands shake. Your scent invades his nose, soft remnants of your vanilla perfume and a dash of your lavender body wash. He clasps the bracelet around your wrist, the touch of his fingers against your skin is velvety. He pauses for a moment, savoring the quick seconds close to you.

“And what you just did was so kind, i hope this pays up” You leave a peck on his cheek, it’s soft just like he imagined. But it only makes him yearn for more.

“I’m Steve, by the way,” he says, offering you a hand for you to shake it.

“I’m y/n, nice to meet you”

“Can I, uhm. Can I see you again? Some time?” he looks at the way your cheeks are also flushed, just like his. “If you want, of course”

“Yes. Yes, I would like that”

“Tomorrow around eight sounds good?” he asks, smiling proudly as his charm seems to work.

“I actually can’t, I have surgery at six and I'm not sure if I’ll make it”

“I can just come by at eight and wait for you, I can get you every oversized candy bar you want from the vending machine”

You giggle, covering your face with your hand and trying to hide your rosy cheek. Everything you do is so adorable.

“Sure, only if you let me get you a coffee after”

He nods, looking at you. He can’t keep his eyes away from you. “I’m new in the city so I’ll accept the coffee and maybe a tour?”

“A night tour, of course!”

Lucky, lucky Steve.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, and you look pretty by the way”

“Thank you, I’ll see you tomorrow Steve”

You leave another peck on his cheek, this time the opposite one. He waves his hand as you meet your friends to leave for dinner.

When Steve gets to his apartment with Max by his side, he forgets everyone was waiting for him. But he returns home proud, looking like a winner while everyone asks and comments about the lipstick stains on his cheeks. He looks at himself in the mirror, the way the tint of your red lipstick left a mark on either side of his face. He smiles, knowing that he can get them off and tomorrow he will get home with new ones. He is sure of it.

reblog to support your creators! comments are appreciated !! ♡ thank you for following my christmas event, remember you can still request a gift!

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setthephaserstorot · 8 months ago

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Mfw

Apologies to future mes and yous

But I can't help feeling like we're through

The ripping of the tape hurts my ears

In my years, I have never seen anyone quit quite like you do

Twin bruises on my shins

From where I kicked the back of the seat in

They meant what I went through for you

But now they're fading, now they're gone

These teenage hands

Will never touch yours again

But I remember you, you had a body

You had hands and arms and legs and et cetera

Did I fail? Did I fall?

(In the morning when I wake up, are you mine?)

Did I waste my time, waste my time on a broken heart?

(Take the trash out like a bad dream, are you gone?)

Or is this the start of the great silence?

(From the old house, the fiercest heart spoke, are you mine?)

Is this the start of every day?

(Christmas tree's dead, you know how time flies, are you gone?)

I'm not gonna end up a nervous wreck

Like the people I know who are nervous wrecks

Though I'm not gonna name names

(Yours was an exception)

Did the sound just stop?

At the end of every day

There'll be nothing left to say

There'll be no backstage pass

We gotta go back

Don't get too impressed

You might lose your breath

Don't predict your death

'Cause I like you the best

Don't you fall apart

You might lose my heart

You know I love your art