#cured it by downing the whiskey

[i-the-fluffo]

You want to know how to get rid of food poisoning? Eat eight charcoal tablets, eat two gut pills, drink an entire bottle of blue label whiskey.

It works. I'm the tried and tested source.

[littlcdarlin]

Into Temptation – the Outing

part 1 | part 2 | part 3

summary: Reader hasn't left Joel's side since they spent the night together. When he brings her to the Tipsy Bison days later, Tommy is pissed, and people stare at them. It should bother Joel, but it has the opposite effect. warnings: girthy juicy age gap (20 & late 50s), daddy kink (duh), overstimulation, forced orgasm (kinda sorta, consent is enthusiastic the whole time), breeding kink, praise kink, Joel calls reader “kid” or “kiddo”, dacryphilia, Joel gets off on people seeing them together, reader is really sweet

note: this Joel has me so weak in the knees I actually need to either be locked up or put down like a dog. Position inspired by that Narcos scene. You know the one. Enjoy!

For a man who likes to keep to himself, Joel sure doesn’t mind all the eyes glued to him – to you, your little hand clutching his, your torso drowning in one of Joel’s pullovers, his scent lingering all over you like some sort of sick perfume. They know what he did to you. What he will continue to do, once you’re back at his place. He took you there after your first day together at your place, because your house is still so empty – you haven’t been in Jackson long. Joel’s home smells like you now, and neither of you could come up with a good enough reason for you to go back to your place, when it’s so quiet and empty and Joel-less.

So he washed your clothes for you in the tub while you were sleeping, all fucked out, limp, and naked in his soiled sheets. This way you wouldn’t even have to go home to pick up new clothes, not for a while at least. He wouldn’t want you to be cold, though, so he gave you one of his knit sweaters to wear over your dress, and a heavy brown leather jacket. They are way too big on you of course, but for some reason they fit. Not physically, but it looks so right, you in his clothes, your hand in his, your hair still a little tangled in the back from where his hand buried itself when he kissed you right before leaving.

Truth be told, he wasn’t even keen on going to the Tipsy Bison. Hell, he went without a drink for four days and he didn’t mind a bit, your pliant body under his a pleasant distraction from all he tried to drown in whiskey. No, not a distraction – a cure. That’s what it felt like when he heard your voice, when he smelled your sweat and sweet perfume and felt you clench around him.

So no, he doesn’t mind people looking. You and him – it’s unusual, he knows that, knows how much of a pervert it makes him, but you moaned so sweetly for him, begged so politely, wanted him so bad. Unusual is the word for it, unusually good. You don’t seem to be very nervous, which validates him further. You feel safe in his hands, as safe as you did when you asked him to walk you home that first night, and if you don’t mind the looks people are giving you, he sure as hell can put up with them.

"Your friends here?"

You like to play cards in the evenings, he knows, and even though he’d rather sit down at the bar and pull you onto his lap, he’d be happy to leave you to it if it’s what you want.

"They’re on patrol, I think," you answer, eyes glued to his as the door of the bar slams shut behind you two, effectively blocking out the cold. "What day is it again?"

Jesus Christ, you don’t even know the fucking day, all perception of time lost to your endless naps after Joel made you come in various ways over the last couple of days. He feels that insatiable fire in his loins start again, even though he’s already fucked you two times today. Either you’re supplying him with the best cardio of his life, or he’ll die of heart failure any day now.

Before he can tell you the day, he feels a hand on his shoulder, and reluctantly drags his eyes away from your pretty face. He likes when it’s flushed, from the cold or from sex, he isn’t picky.

"Have you lost your fuckin’ mind, Joel?"

 Of course it’s Tommy. He saw right through Joel the first time he caught him watching you from across the bar, and came over to your place as soon as he figured out where his brother was.

Tommy’s angry face, the curses on his lips, the way his fist banged against the door frame. 

Joel, she’s twenty fuckin’ years old. There are plenty of women who’d be happy to keep you company. Just send her home, alright? She’s been in Jackson for like a minute, she doesn’t need you complicating things for her. 

But just before Tommy knocked, hadn’t you seemed so ecstatic in Joel’s arms, your body entirely relaxed? 

She’s an adult, Tommy, ’n it’s what she wants.

He heard your bare feet on the floor, was glad Tommy couldn’t see you with the door only half open, because if he turned around to look at you right then, Joel was sure he would be able to see his spent dripping out of you and the marks his lips had left all over your neck.

"Look, Tommy, it’s like this: you think you have a say in this cause of Maria’s position in Jackson, but it’s got nothin’ to do with you. At all. So back off."

Joel’s voice is quiet, he doesn’t want to cause a scene. What he wants is to have a glass of whiskey, watch the look on every man’s face in Jackson when they realize you’re sweet on him, and then go home and fuck your lights out. By the way you won’t let go of his hand, he guesses you’re not opposed to that plan either.

So he ignores Tommy and helps you out of your jacket – his jacket – for which you reward him with one of your dazzlingly sweet smiles. He watches as you take off his pullover, too, and although it fills him with a sick pleasure to think of everybody seeing you in his clothes, he’s blessed with your naked shoulders and arms instead. Immediately, his hand finds your back, right below your neck, the spot that isn’t covered by your dress. If he’s not mistaken, you shudder under his touch. God, he wants to take you to the bathroom and really make you shudder, but he’s more than testing Tommy’s patience already. His brother is watching with a deep scowl on his face, dark brows pulled tight together.

You smile at Tommy when Joel walks you over to the bar, ever sweet to everyone around you, and it makes him weak for you. You’re everything he isn’t.

"The usual, Joel?", the barkeeper asks, his eyes widening when he spots your hand holding Joel’s, the marks on your neck he forgot to conceal for you. A scarf would have done the trick, but Jesus, he likes this physical proof of how often he’s had you stretched on his cock already. It’s near primitive how much he wants to defend his territory. For a second he wonders if the kid who pestered you the night he took you home is here, and almost snorts at the idea of you and him together. What made his blood boil that night, now seems like a joke. You didn’t want a twenty-five year old kid, you wanted Joel, Daddy, with his bad back and greying hair and popping joints. Too good to be true, but true nonetheless. 

You sit down at the bar and he joins you, nodding at the barkeeper. Your leg presses into his immediately. He understands your need to be close to him, he feels the same way, so he reaches out and drags your barstool closer to his, until he can feel your body heat even through his flannel. You fingers clutch at his knee, as if there’s no other option for you but to touch him when he’s this close. He lets you, revels in the fact that you would probably let him touch you however he wanted in return.

The barkeeper gets Joel his whiskey and you your usual – Joel smiles when he realizes you’re both creatures of habit – and you clink your glass to his.

"Cheers," he says with a smile, watching your eyes that remind him so much of Bambi, and you chuckle.

"Cheers, Daddy."

It comes naturally, and it makes something deep within him stir. He doesn’t think anyone heard, but he knows if Tommy somehow got wind of what you call him, the debauched name he drags from you with strokes of his cock or fingers, or just with a smile, well, he’d probably wring his neck. He knows he should tell you not to call him that in public, but you seem so happy to be here with Joel, any thoughts of chastising you are wiped from his mind.

"You look so pretty, baby, I forgot why we ever left the house," he mutters, making you blush and laugh lightly. His eyes follow your movement when you clench your thighs and he wants to groan. Whenever he thinks it’s sick how much, how often, he wants you, you want him right back, and any doubts shrivel up inside of him. He wishes he could take you here, make everyone watch how willing you are for him, and maybe then they’d understand that there was never another outcome than this one, maybe then he’d get you all to himself again, with nobody knocking on the door after he just pumped you full of his load. He thinks you might just let him, too.

Instead, he takes a sip of his whiskey. You’re quiet, and he wonders if you’re uncomfortable, but before he can ask, you lean up and catch his lips in a kiss. God, he should really put a stop to this before his brother has an aneurysm, but you taste so sweet. It’s just a peck, but it leaves him wanting more, and he wonders how quickly you two can get away with leaving again without making people talk more than they already will.

You’re here for a reason of course, something about keeping up appearances, though the details escape him with you fogging up his brain. But he can’t steal you away completely, or people will do more than whisper and point. A pretty girl like you, not leaving the house of an old man like him – it wouldn’t be received well, and you’ve been pushing it with the last couple of days already. So, a nice public outing, where everybody can see just how content you are, and then it’s back to Joel’s bedroom. He wonders for how long he can stop going on patrols before Tommy will threaten to throw him out of town.

"You know," he mutters, leaning down so he’s sure only you can hear him, "when we get home, you’re not wearing clothes for a week, baby. Already miss you naked."

You blush violently, but a satisfied smile curls your lips upward.

"I’ll get cold," you answer, half pouting. Joel wants to feel that pout with his thumb, but doesn’t dare.

"I’ll keep ya warm, don’t worry," he answers darkly, thoughts of your sweating, exhausted body flooding his brain. There are so many things he still hasn’t done to you, like letting you suck him off, or fucking you in his lap, your back pressed against his front. A million ways he could have you, will have you, and one by one they come to him as he watches you drink your drink in a bar full of people he knows.

It doesn’t take either of you long to finish your drinks, and Joel knows it’s stupid to leave so soon again, but he can see the way you’re subtly rubbing your thighs together, how your gaze drifts over his arms, his chest, his belly, and he really can’t leave his little girl hanging when she clearly needs him. He plans on making you say it, though he knows it can’t be here.

So the two of you leave after Joel pays, you’re out the door, jackets in hand, before Tommy can stop you. Joel will deal with him later, when he’s gotten this frenzy for you out of his system.

You’re needy, hands clutching his arm as you walk through the cold, and Joel can’t help himself, he puts an arm around you and rests his palm low on your hips, so low it makes you squirm. He strokes you there, teasing you when he knows you can’t do anything about it, and you whine for him, even though you’re in the middle of the street.

"Jesus, kid, pipe down or they’ll have my head," he mutters, and you do your best to stifle any sounds his hand coaxes out of you. Despite what he said, he doesn’t stop teasing until you’re at his doorstep, and he opens the door. He doesn’t waste time kissing you, just slams the door shut and guides you to the sofa, where you lie down on your back immediately.

"Fuck," Joel curses, "look at you, baby. Thought I was gonna have to fuck you right over that barstool, that's how sweet you look."

You moan and your hands grasp at his collar, opening the buttons one by one, trying to get him naked as quickly as possible.

"Needed you so bad, Daddy, and I couldn’t tell you," you admit almost timidly.

"Oh baby," Joel answers, helping you with the buttons, "If you need Daddy to get you off, you tell me and I’ll help you out, alright? We could’ve gone to the bathroom."

His shirt is off now, and starts pulling your dress over your head.

"They would’ve known what we were up to," you breathe, half naked under Joel’s big form, your breasts exposed now.

"Shit, kiddo, they knew already," Joel groans, opening his belt buckle, "'s all over your face how bad you want this cock, bathroom or no bathroom."

You blush at his words, watching him pull down his jeans and boxers with wide eyes, and he can almost taste your desire.

"Don’t worry, baby, I like how much you need it," Joel breathes, and finally kisses you, his practiced fingers finding your panties easily and dragging them down, your hips lifting from the couch to help him.

"Yeah," you breathe against his lips, "Need you all the time, Daddy."

Something in him snaps at this admission, because part of him expects you to run out on him any day, that you’ll snap out of whatever craze you’re in and realize fucking a man almost forty years your senior can’t possibly be what you want – but you never do. You just look at him the way you are now, all doe eyed and docile, like his every whim is your command. It shouldn’t turn him on the way it does, it really shouldn’t. A better man would send you home, a stronger man would admit Tommy is right, but Joel hasn’t been good since the end of the world began, and he’s tired of being strong, so his thick fingers find your clit and he watches in awe how your head falls back, your pretty eyes rolling upwards.

"Say that again, angel," he orders gently, fingers insistent and relentless, building the pressure in your tummy with practiced ease.

"I always need you, Daddy," you whimper, hips bucking on their own accord. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve a sweet thing like you to bury himself into, to want his seed so badly you beg him for it, but he’s done questioning, and pumps his fist over his hard cock a couple of times, watching your face contorted in pleasure.

He aligns himself with your entrance, easing up on your aching clit, because he can sense your orgasm impending, and pushes into the tight heat of your body with a grunt. He stopped being careful several days ago, and although you yelp, your face splits into a satisfied smile when he fills you up, like you really have been waiting for it since the moment he pulled out of you this afternoon.

"Take my cock so well, baby," he mutters, and starts slamming into you. His pace isn’t punishing, but it’s fast and deep, after seeing you among other people, his need to stake his claim over you having grown. He wants to pump you full of his load, have it dripping out of you wherever you go, have it swelling up your belly and making it impossible for anyone to take you away from him. Surely, if you were pregnant, even Tommy would admit it’s best for you two to be together.

He fucks you into the mattress, hips snapping into yours, his belly nudging your body and the wiry hair at the base of his cock rubbing your clit just right. There’s no need for you to move with him, not when his pace feels so good, when it builds that coil in your stomach so unrelentingly, and soon he can feel the way you flutter and clench, that telltale sign that you’re almost there. Normally he would make you wait for it, tell you to ask for Daddy’s permission, but you were so good at the bar, didn’t want to expose just how badly you needed his cock to stretch you out, so he plans on rewarding you. There’s certain benefits to his age, like the stamina he built over the last four decades.

"Daddy," you cry, your whole body rocking with the impact of his thrusts, and he chuckles.

"'S okay, angel, you let go whenever you want to, but I’m not near done with you."

His hands roam over your body, your pebbled nipples, the column of your throat, your waist. When he presses down on your stomach, feeling himself all the way inside of you, nudging against that spot only he seems to be able to reach, you tip your head back and gush around him, a trembling mess under his big body.

"Goood girl, there we go," he mutters, but doesn’t stop even when it starts to feel like it’s almost too much and your orgasm fades. You don’t ask him to stop either, though he would, if you did. No way he’d harm you, it’s just that you seem to enjoy a little hurt.

He hoists you up and slips out of you briefly, which draws a petulant whine from your throat.

"Easy, baby, just a second," he soothes, and sits you both up so that you’re on his lap, his belly pressed against your back, and his hot breath right at your ear. His voice is so close, it might as well be inside your head.

"There you go, you quit your whinin’," he drawls, and forces his cock back into you. His arms wrap around your torso, holding you to him completely, his hips snapping upwards forcefully, your whole body rocking against his with the impact.

His right hand comes up to your neck, clutching your hair, while his other hand grabs your tit, and you’re helpless to do anything but crane your neck and grasp his large hand with your little one. Your body is overstimulated from your first orgasm, but Joel doesn’t let up, and quickly, he can feel another one building inside of you by the way you clench, the way your cries become a little more breathy.

"Gonna give your Daddy another one, sweet girl? Gonna come on this cock again? Yeah, I think you will, think you’d come as many times as I tell you to," he huffs, the vibrations of his voice sparking goosebumps on your skin.

"Yes, D-daddy," you groan, "as much as you want."

"Go on then, kiddo, let me have it."

He thrusts up particularly hard, his big arms trapping you against his wide body, engulfing you, as you shudder and whine. When you’re done, you go limp against him, barely able to hold yourself up, but Joel’s arms hold you steady, and he mouths at your neck, sucking fresh bruises onto your skin. He marvels at the way you let him fuck you like this, even when you’re spent, and speeds up his thrusts.

"One more and you’re done," he tells you, and you shake your head against him.

"I can’t, Daddy, too much," you whine, but your core clenches and trembles, and Joel knows you have it in you.

"You can take it, baby, come on, one more for Daddy."

It takes a while, this time, your body spent, but Joel has no trouble holding off spilling his seed inside of you. If he really wanted to, he could probably make you come five times before he did himself, but he wants so badly to paint your insides with his load, to have it take and watch your belly swell. And anyway, he can just fuck you again in a couple of hours, if his age allows it. The past days, you woke up in the middle of the night and begged him for it.

"Need me to talk to you?", Joel asks, when you whine and splutter, but don’t come, and you nod frantically.

"Yes you do, angel, course you do. Just listen to Daddy’s voice, alright? Doin’ so well, takin’ everythin’ I give you."

His thrusts are slower now, but deeper, grazing your cervix, his hand still clutching your hair so that your throat is exposed.

"You’re really something, baby, lettin’ an old man like me fuck you like this," he rambles, not really sure why he’s bringing up his age when surely it will make you see sense, but if anything, your whines grow louder, like his age is turning you on.

"You like that? You like letting and old man fuck you full of his cum?"

Your sweet pussy flutters around him at the mention of him filling you up, and he almost comes. His jaw is slack, mouth bumping into your neck with every thrust.

"Not an old man, Daddy," you whimper, "just you."

Joel’s hips stutter for a moment, but he quickly regains control over his rhythm.

"That’s right, baby, only I get to cum inside of you," he groans, "You want it?"

You nod, a weak twitch of your head, and usually he’d make you use your words, but you’re limp and exhausted, so he decides to let it slide.

"Alright baby, you can have it as soon as you come again for Daddy."

He can feel you actually put an effort into it, the muscles in your stomach clenching and unclenching, and the idea of you wanting his load that bad makes him curse. He can feel your body tense, can hear the way your breathing grows shallow, and then you’re crying, a real sob tearing through your chest, as you come on his cock for the third time.

He wants to praise you for it, but he just keeps punching into you, feeling your hot tears drop onto his hand and making a sick satisfaction pool in his stomach, and then he’s clutching you to his body tightly, burying himself inside of you as deeply as possible, and white hot pleasure erupts behind his eyes as his cock twitches and coats your inside with his spent. He fucks it up into you, imagines the effect it might have if he does it often enough.

You’re weak in his arms when he pulls out of you, your eyes closed, and he gently lets the two of you sink into the couch, your legs automatically wrapping around his thigh. He can feel himself drip out of you. Next time he vows to let you sleep with his cock still inside of you, so that there’s no way you won’t fall pregnant.

"Good girl," he whispers into your hair, and even in your exhausted haze, you smile, mouth half slack. He tugs you close to him, his hands tracing patterns on your skin.

Tommy is not right, he thinks, it cannot be wrong to feel as happy as he feels, as happy as you look, tucked against him and dripping onto his thigh.

[littlesoulshine]

dean’s knuckles were bone-white around the impala’s steering wheel. the engine idled, the low purr filling the suffocating silence between you two. his jaw was clenched so hard you swore his teeth might crack. his leg bounced—anxious, angry energy rolling off him in waves that could choke you. he wouldn’t look at you, just stared straight ahead, face set in stone, while the weight of his ultimatum crushed the air in the car.

“last chance,” he said, voice low, dangerous. “either you come with me, or you stay with sam and waste your time on some dumb cure that ain't gonna work.”

your heart thudded against your ribs. you’d seen dean mad before. you’d seen him wrecked, broken, torn apart, but this? this was something else. this was the mark of cain talking, twisting him up from the inside out, and you hated it. hated that he couldn’t see what it was doing to him. hated that he thought this was the only way.

“dean—”

“don’t.” he finally turned his head, eyes sharp as shattered glass. “don’t start with the goddamn speech. just answer the question.”

you swallowed hard, fingers twisting the ring on your hand, the one dean had given you. "i can’t leave sam, dean. but that doesn’t mean i’m leaving you."

the muscle in his jaw jumped. his fingers flexed on the wheel, like he was imagining wrapping them around something else. “right.” he nodded once, a tight, clipped motion. “that’s all i needed to know.”

then he threw the car in gear, gravel spitting up behind the tires as he peeled out, leaving you standing there on the side of the road with your heart in your throat.

the taillights burned red as he sped off, disappearing into the night, and you exhaled a shaky breath. sam was waiting back at the bunker, surrounded by lore books and dead-ends, trying to find a way to fix this. but standing there, watching dean drive away like that, you wondered if there was anything left to fix.

when you found him later, he was holed up in some dive bar, half a bottle of whiskey down, shoulders hunched over the table like he was trying to fold in on himself. the air reeked of sweat and booze and something sour—hopelessness. he didn’t look up when you sat across from him.

“told you to stay with sam.” his voice was hoarse, rough like gravel.

“yeah, well, you don’t get to tell me what to do, dean.”

his lips twitched, something bitter that never became a smile. “you should’ve listened.”

you sighed, leaning forward, hands clasped together. “i’m not gonna let you run yourself into the ground.”

he scoffed, shaking his head. “ain’t your call.”

“the hell it isn’t.” you reached out, fingers brushing his arm, and he flinched. not much, but enough. “you’re my family too, you jackass. my stubborn, impossible, pain-in-the-ass jackass. and i love you. you think i can just sit back and watch you go full dark side? that’s not happening.”

his eyes flicked to yours then, something raw bleeding through the cracks in his armor. for a second, just a second, you saw the real dean, the one buried under all that rage and grief. but then he blinked, and it was gone, swallowed up by the mark, by everything that had led him here.

“you don’t get it,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “it’s already done. there’s no coming back from this.”

“bullshit.”

he exhaled hard through his nose, shaking his head. “just go back to sam. you guys will figure something out, you always do.”

“and what about you?”

he didn’t answer. just knocked back the rest of his drink and slammed the glass down on the table. the sound cut through the tension like a gunshot.

“dean…” your voice softened, breaking a little. “i love you, you know that?”

his shoulders tensed. his fingers tightened around the empty glass. he didn’t look at you, didn’t speak, just sat there, staring at the table like if he tried hard enough, he could burn a hole through it.

“you think i’d fight this hard if i didn’t?” you swallowed, heart hammering. “i’m not leaving you.”

his throat bobbed, an almost imperceptible movement, but you caught it. for a moment, you thought he might say something—anything—but instead, he reached for the bottle and poured himself another drink.

“you should,” he muttered. “it’d be easier.”

“for who?” you shot back, voice shaking. “because it sure as hell wouldn’t be easier for me.”

he closed his eyes, took a slow breath, but didn’t argue.

it wasn’t a victory. not yet. but you weren’t giving up on him.

not now. not ever.

taglist: @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend @figthoughts @deanssun @ambiguous-avery

[innerfare]

Smutty Shanks Headcanons

Summary: a collection of NSFW Shanks headcanons

Genre: pure smut

CW: oral sex, penetrative sex, slutty Shanks

———

Has a habit of asking people to join his crew when he wants to sleep with them. Beckman no longer wastes his breath trying to stop it, has simply resigned himself to the reality that his captain is a whore because… well, he is a whore. 

More than happy to share with others.

Has so much game, it’s unreal. Nobody had to teach this man how to pick people up at a bar, he was just born that way. And he has perhaps the most colorful body count of anyone in any of the seas, a list of past lovers that include pirates, marines, aristocrats, bureaucrats, and many a bar maid (there’s a green-haired one in the East Blue whom he is particularly sweet on and often finds himself reminiscing about). Gender, appearance, profession- none of this matters. If Red Hair Shanks has you in his sights, he’ll have you in his bed soon enough. 

Not the biggest dick, but above average and on the thicker side; definitely has a nice curve in it. Has never manscaped in his life, would be deeply offended if you suggested he should. He’d probably be offended if you shave, too. This man likes it natural and nasty. 

Kisses like he’s trying to swallow your tongue. Seriously, the messiest, sloppiest kisser, aims to swap as much saliva as possible with you; the type to share chewing gum with you. This holds true for when he goes down on you, too. 

Speaking of going down on you, he’s religious about it. He swears your pussy is a hangover cure and he’ll have a headache all day if he doesn’t get to taste you. You’ll end up with a rash on your inner thighs from his stubble, but if that’s the case, he’ll just bend you over and lick your cunt from behind to give your inner thighs a break. As much as the stubble bothers you at first, you quickly reach a point where you don’t think you’d be able to cum if a clean-shaven man put his face between your legs. 

Sometimes gets a case of whiskey dick (happens far more often than he’d ever admit), but he always makes it up to you come morning- to the point you’ve assured him repeatedly there’s no need (help, you’re so sore), but he feels he has something to prove. His whiskey dick isn’t even straight up dysfunction because he can still get hard, he just can’t cum, so even though he’ll fuck you good and make you cum, he feels like you haven’t been fucked properly until he’s finished inside you. 

Has a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde thing going on in that there are two versions of him in bed: 1) the easygoing drunk who is more than happy to lay back and let you do all the work while he watches your tits bounce (Shanks is a titties man, it’s practically canon), and 2) the pirate emperor who will pound mercilessly into you from behind, hands digging into your hips so hard they leave bruises. 

You always know when the pirate emperor is going to be the man waiting for you in bed that night based on how many jokes he cracks over dinner/drinks. If he’s in rare form, making even more jokes than usual, leaving the entire crew keeled over in laughter, he’ll be bending you over and snapping his hips against yours for a solid hour; basically, if Lucky Roux laughs until he cries, you are about to get fucked. Once you notice this pattern, you realize he makes eye contact with you while the crew is distracted by whatever joke he just told, and he always has a wicked gleam in his eye, as if his Conqueror’s Haki might just rear its powerful head. 

Pirate emperor Shanks is willing to risk it all, too. He’s not going to wait until his cabin door is shut to start tearing your clothes off. He’s not going to tell you to keep it down in case the crew overhears. He’s not going to double check you took your birth control that morning. He’s just going to fuck you, and you’re just going to take it. 

That being said, he’s never rough with you when you blow him. Blowjobs actually bring out the sweetest version of Shanks there is, the version who tells you to pace yourself and smiles brightly when he cums. He’ll hold your hair back for you, being very careful not to tangle it, and be sure not to thrust his hips forward; not into face fucking. 

Has the most ridiculous nicknames for you outside the bedroom, and these carry over into the bedroom, too. His favorite is to call you his red panda. Sometimes uses these silly nicknames to break some of the tension. 

Your most common position is with you on top, but his favorite position is prone bone. He likes your body flat against the mattress with his on top of you while he bottoms out inside. He’ll make you cross your ankles, too, so he can get even deeper. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[alastorss]

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Alastor does not have a heart.

You think that most Sinners do. A form of punishment by the divine—to suffer every squeeze of pain and loneliness; to have that wretched thing in your chest just to feel human when you are far from.

Sinners deserved to have a heart more than the winners, if only to bring the ache that comes with it.

But Alastor, he has no heart.

You’ve been told that the place where he should ache and hurt the most is missing. Incinerated before he ever materialized in Hell. Lost to fire.

He was a heinous monster when alive—most think he didn’t even have one when he was human.

He didn’t know the feeling of it plummeting from your chest to the pit of your stomach, or the way it could get caught in your throat. He was a demon through and through. He would never understand what it meant to be human.

You believed it despite wanting to see the best in him.

Alastor was your friend. One of your first after manifesting in Hell. You’d like to think that he trusted you a little more than the others in his life—that you were as special to him as he was to you.

However, you could never look past the ways he took care of his shady business. How he drenched himself in blood as if it were the only cure for his everlasting boredom. You especially could not stomach the way he dismissed his other supposed “friends”.

He kept you around, but for how much longer? You would never know.

Still, you allowed yourself to be strung along by his enchanting personality. You loved him the way the moon loves the sea—yearning, wanting. But he is beaming in the sky and you are at the bottom of the ocean.

You would never know what it was like to own souls, or drink whiskey until it burned, or smile forever. The same way he would never know a heart.

That was the wall you wordlessly put up between you and him.

And he never mentioned it, never wondered why you would stand a foot away when usually you were all over your friends. You suppose that he didn’t have the same ache in his chest.

Alastor is heartless. That much, you thought you knew.

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Jealousy is a petty, ugly emotion.

To think that he even has the capacity to feel it makes Alastor’s skin crawl. He thought that he had abandoned such worthless feelings long ago.

Yet here he is, watching with envy bubbling in his stomach while you drape your arms around Angel’s neck, laughing at some horribly obscene joke he cracked. You were always like this—hands never to yourself when you wanted to show your love for others.

But for him, you were reserved—hands behind your back, standing an arms length away whenever you chatted.

At first he appreciated how hands-off you were when everyone else was usually so touchy. He never had to worry that you were going to be breathing down his neck or irritating him while he tried to read his morning paper.

Now, though, it irks him.

Not only because you and him have become quite close, sharing late night conversations and admiring the dark, red sky of Hell together on more than one occasion. That alone would have been enough to allow you the special privilege of clinging to him. But he’s also grown a soft spot for you—embarrassingly soft, and now he’s stuck pouting like an toddler not getting what he wants.

Attention. Attention that says you care about him the way you do everyone else.

Alastor knows his first course of action should not be confrontation. That he shouldn't be cornering you with such a pouty, dramatic expression on his face like a child who just got told to put the toy back on the shelf.

But he can't help it when it comes to you. All inhibition is thrown to the wind.

"You're avoiding me," he accuses, static buzzing in his throat.

You raise a brow, back pressed to the bookshelf behind you. "I'm not," you tell him for what must be the fifth time.

"You are!" He narrows his eyes.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you press, slightly irritated by his sudden attack. What is he going on about?

You think back, wondering if you'd been unintentionally ignoring the demon in any way. It's been business as usual, as far as you can remember.

"Are you really this oblivious?" He tilts his head, ears flopping to the side. "You are unbelievable, cher."

You squeak in surprise when he gathers your hand into his, soft skin raked gently by his claws. He's careful not to hurt you as he maneuvers you around.

He presses your palm firm to his chest where his heart should be. And instead of the hollow emptiness you expect, you find the chorus of his heartbeat.

It sings slow and steady, pulsing faintly beneath the pads of your fingers. You don't even realize that you've been holding your breath, as if just that minute action would cause him to draw away.

Alastor's fingers curl a little tighter around your palm and you finally suck in a sharp breath of air. A small smile settles on your face, cheeks growing warm from the contact.

"It... It's—"

"A heartbeat," he tells you, reaching down to pull your other hand to his throat. You feel the rhythm at his pulse point, the tandem beats filling you with ease.

All this time you had believed that Alastor was heartless. That he did not have the capacity to hold other people dear.

You blink at him, dumbfounded. When did he open up his heart to you?

He sighs indignantly, leaning down toward you with a strange look on his face. As he does, the pace beneath your fingers increases, pounding faster than your own.

Alastor stays there for a moment, staring at you stubbornly with his smile curled into something more exasperated. You can't decipher what kind of conflict is dripping from every part of his expression, instead too focused on trying to keep your breath.

The drumming beat coursing from his body through yours rips away from you, leaving your hands dangling in the air. He brushes off his coat, unable to meet your eyes anymore.

"Do you understand now?"

You're not entirely sure you do—if you ever can, but you nod anyway.

He coughs, his usual demeanour quickly slipping into something unprecedented. Is he... flustered?

"Very good," he says, more to himself than to you. You don't miss the way his ears flatten above his head. "Then I expect the same treatment as everybody else."

You pull your hands back to yourself as he stalks off, muttering to himself.

They're impossibly warm.

~

taglist: @the-lake-is-calling @dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice @averylonelysea @bri22222 @cxrsedwxrlds @amarokofficial @anae-naea-zacheria @for-hearthand-home @fantasy-is-best @angixyc @th3-st4r-gur1 @dilemmaiscool @concentratedconcrete @squiword7 @clarakainda @heartfeltcherie @cedarrthefluffylee @alastorthirsty @queermaxwooo @readergirlstuff @alastor-simp @jyoongim @rosie-irisa2010

hey guys do u still remember me hahhagh.....

[hyunnielix]

already over. | h.h

Series Masterlist

'kissing after a conversation

'bout how we'd probably be better off as friends'

— hyunjin x (f) reader

— word count: 3.9k (unedited - another long one!)

— genre: non-idol au, artist!hyunjin, second chance romance. dance coach!reader

— warning's: felix being a sweetheart, minho being a protective and jealous asshole, angst, fluff. Kissing! (smut in the next chapter...) they're so domestic together it makes me sick.

→ playlist on spotify

Unlike yesterday, today's schedule had been relentless. You'd finished teaching back-to-back classes and your muscles ached, your mind heavy with the kind of exhaustion that begged for sleep. Every step home felt like a victory, and all you wanted to do was collapse into bed and let the world melt away.

You couldn't allow yourself to entertain the thought of what had happened between you and Hyunjin. Each time your mind threatened to wander back to the moment you rested your head on his shoulder, you quickly shoved it aside, afraid of what it might mean, afraid of what it would unravel inside of you.

But as you opened the door to your apartment, it was clear your plans for a quiet evening weren't going to happen. The unmistakable sound of laughter and the clinking of bottles greeted you, along with the sight of Minho and Felix making themselves comfortable in the living room. Felix's bright smile was almost blinding, holding up a bottle of something that looked way too strong for a Tuesday night. Minho leaned back on the couch, swirling a glass of whiskey with casual confidence. You knew it already. He had no intention of letting you off the hook tonight.

“Finally! We were wondering when you'd get back.” Felix teased, his eyes lighting up as he gestured for you to join them.

“Come on, we’re celebrating,” Minho added, his tone lighter than usual but with an underlying firmness that left little room for argument. “You’ve been running yourself into the ground. Time to loosen up.”

You groaned, dropping your gym bag by the door and kicking off your shoes. “Celebrating what? My impending collapse from exhaustion?”

Felix snickered, patting the seat next to him. “Nope. Celebrating you. We figured you’d be too tired to object, so here we are. Sit. Drink. Relax.”

Minho poured a glass for you without waiting for your response, holding it out as if daring you to refuse. “If nothing else, think of it as a preemptive cure for your bad mood.”

You sighed, the weight of the day still pressing heavily on your shoulders, but their smiles were infectious. Despite everything, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of gratitude for their efforts to cheer you up. “Fine. But if I fall asleep halfway through, it’s on you two to take care of me.”

You reached for the glass Minho held and lifted it to your lips. The liquid smelt foul, you closed your eyes and downed it in one go.

Felix's deep laugh reverberated through the room as he poured himself another round. “Deal. Now, tell us how your day went before Minho starts lecturing about your lack of work-life balance.”

Minho smirked, raising his glass, the amber liquid swirling under the soft glow of the living room lamp. “It’s a lecture worth giving!” he quipped, his tone carrying that sharp edge of teasing that only he could pull off.

You groaned dramatically, rolling your eyes, but the corners of your lips tugged upward despite yourself. “You’re insufferable, you know that?” You gestured with your empty glass toward him.

He shot you a grin, leaning back against the armrest of the couch, his legs sprawled comfortably. “And yet, here you are, still listening.”

Shaking your head, you slid between Minho and Felix, who had nestled into the opposite corner of the couch with his own drink, the rim of the glass resting lazily against his bottom lip. As you sank into the plush cushions, the fabric cool against your skin, you let out a sigh.

As the evening unfolded, their lighthearted banter and relentless energy started to chip away at the exhaustion clinging to you. Even if you were tired, there was something undeniably comforting about having them here, making you forget, even if just for a little while.

The warmth of the whiskey barely began to settle in your chest when a sharp knock cut through the laughter. Your heart immediately jumped into your throat. You exchanged a glance with Felix, whose eyebrows shot up, and Minho, who frowned and set his glass down.

“I’ll get it,” you murmured, already rising from the couch. The weight of their eyes followed you to the door, and as you pulled it open, there he was. Hyunjin, in all his glory.

He stood in the dim hallway, his long coat damp at the hem from the evening drizzle, hair slightly tousled as though he’d been running his hands through it. In his arms was the canvas—the one he hadn’t finished when you left his studio yesterday. Your breath caught as his gaze locked onto yours, a storm of emotions swirling behind his dark eyes. His plush lips parted, as if he was enamoured in the same way you were.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice carrying both urgency and hesitation. “I finished it.”

You hesitated, the doorway suddenly feeling far too small. You could sense Felix and Minho’s curious gazes boring into your back. “Hyunjin, you didn’t have to—”

“I did,” Hyunjin interrupted gently. “It’s yours.” His long fingers gripped the edge of the wrapped canvas as he stretched his arms toward you, offering it like an unspoken apology, a fragile truce. The warmth in his eyes was almost unbearable, and your heart twisted in response.

The raw vulnerability in his tone broke through your defenses, and instead of taking it from him, you stepped aside to let him in. Before he could fully enter, Minho was on his feet, already bristling as he approached the door. You shot him a look.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve showing up here,” Minho growled, his posture tense.

Felix still sat on the couch, his head leant in his hands, already sensing the brewing storm. You winced at Minho's tone but didn’t get a chance to say anything before he advanced on Hyunjin.

Hyunjin straightened, his grip tightening on the canvas. “I didn’t come here to argue. I just wanted to give her this.”

Minho’s laugh was cold, biting. “Oh, let me guess. Another masterpiece of her? Did you paint her like a whore again? Do you want the whole word to see it this time? Plaster it up in a gallery?”

The words were a slap to the face. Minho's words were calculated and mean. Your breath hitched, and Felix immediately shot to his feet, his expression a mixture of shock and anger.

“Minho, what the hell?” Felix snapped, storming to the door and stepping between him and Hyunjin.

Your head spun, the alcohol clouding your thoughts, making it nearly impossible to grasp what the hell was happening.

Hyunjin’s jaw clenched, his knuckles white around the edges of the canvas. He kept his voice low and seething. “What gives you the right to talk about her like that?”

“Me?” Minho’s voice rose, his anger spilling over. “I’ve been here! Watching her tear herself apart over you! Over everything you left behind! Don’t act like you’re some saint for showing up now with another goddamn painting!”

“Stop it!” you shouted, stepping forward. “Both of you, stop!”

Minho wasn’t finished. He scoffed, his lips curling into a bitter sneer. “You think you can just waltz back into her life, throw some paint on a canvas, and fix everything? You're fucking pathetic."

Hyunjin’s eyes burned with fury, his usually calm demeanor shattering as he stepped closer to Minho, closing the distance between them. “Pathetic? Coming from you?” he shot back, his voice sharp as broken glass. “You’ve been sitting on your feelings, haven’t you? Watching her struggle while doing nothing but sulking in your jealousy.”

A sharp gasp escaped your lips. Your gaze darted to your roommate, seeking clarity in his reaction. Minho avoided your eyes entirely, his jaw tight, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. While Felix shifted awkwardly, his expression caught between discomfort and guilt, like he was carrying a secret that wasn’t his to tell. That was all the confirmation you needed. Minho... liked you?

“Jealousy? You’ve got some ego if you think this is about you. I’ve picked up the pieces while you were too busy playing tortured artist somewhere else.” Minho’s jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring.

Hyunjin took another step forward and his voice rose. “I left because I thought it was what she needed. But I’m here now, trying to make things right. What have you done besides use her pain to make yourself feel superior?”

Minho scoffed, his anger bubbling over. “At least I didn’t exploit her. What kind of person paints someone at their most vulnerable and calls it art?"

The room froze and Felix let out a sharp, “Minho, enough!” But it was too late. Hyunjin’s hand twitched at his side, his knuckles whitening as his restraint slipped.

Hyunjin snapped, his voice thundering, “You don’t get to talk about her like that.” His shoulders squared, pulling his body taut like a arrow ready to fire.

Minho stepped closer, chest to chest with Hyunjin now, his voice dripping with venom. “Or what? What are you going to do? Paint another masterpiece?” He spat the word like it was a slur.

Hyunjin’s expression darkened, and for a second, it looked like he might swing.

Felix rushed forward, wedging himself between the two of them with his arms outstretched. “Stop it! Both of you!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the room. “This isn’t helping anyone!”

“Get out of my way, Felix,” Minho growled, but Felix didn’t budge.

“Minho, listen to yourself,” Felix yelled, his tone cutting through the tension. “You’re not mad at him." He pointed to Hyunjin. "You’re mad because you’ve been hiding how you feel, and now it’s blowing up. You need to back off before you say something you’ll regret even more.”

Hyunjin with his chest heaving, pointed a finger at Minho. “You think you care about her? Then stop using her to fuel your self-righteous anger and actually support her.”

“Support her? What like you have?” Minho shot back, but his voice wavered, the heat behind his words faltering.

“Enough!” you finally announced, coming to your senses and stepping between them. Your voice cracked with frustration, your hands trembling as you glanced between the two men. “Both of you—just stop. Please.”

The room fell silent except for the sound of heavy breathing. Minho turned his gaze to you, guilt flickering in his eyes, while Hyunjin’s face softened, his anger melting into something else entirely—remorse.

Felix sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “We’re done here,” he muttered, his tone exhausted. He shot a pointed look at Minho. “You need to cool off. Now.”

Minho hesitated, his jaw clenching before he stormed into his room, the door slamming behind him. Lifting a hand to your temples, you rubbed them in small circles, trying to ease the dull ache forming behind your eyes.

Turning to Felix, you caught his gaze. He hesitated, reading the unspoken request in your expression, and then gave you a small, resolute nod. Without a word, he followed after Minho, his footsteps fading as he disappeared into his room.

Hyunjin's gaze settled on you, his voice quiet but steady. “I’m sorry. For all of this.”

You couldn't stand it any longer. The suffocating weight of the argument, the tension, and the silence that followed made your heart race in a way that didn't feel right. Minho’s words echoed in your mind, but they weren’t the ones you wanted to hear. You needed Hyunjin to know that this wasn’t about what Minho said or how angry he got. It was about what you felt and what you still feel.

You swallowed hard, your heart aching as you reached out and touched his hand lightly. “Let’s talk somewhere else,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Hyunjin nodded, his shoulders slumping as he followed you to the front door, the canvas tucked beneath his arm.

The walk to his apartment felt like hours. A faint hum of distant cars filled the quiet spaces between your steps. You and Hyunjin walked side by side, the tension between you like a thread stretched taut, fragile and trembling. Your hands brushed briefly, an unintentional spark that sent a shiver through you, but neither of you made the move to hold on. A weird middle ground. Neither love nor hate.

Hyunjin broke the silence first, his voice low, almost hesitant. “Did you know? That Minho had feelings for you?” He didn’t look at you as he spoke, his gaze fixed on the pavement ahead. “It was obvious as ever to me.”

Your breath hitched, and you turned to him, searching his face for any hint of humor or misunderstanding. But he wasn’t joking—his expression was serious, tinged with something deeper, something that tugged at your chest.

“Even when we were together,” he added, even quieter now. His words were tinged with a bitterness that felt out of place for him. Heavy and undeniable.

You stopped walking, forcing him to pause as well, and turned to face him fully. “Hyune…” you began, but the words felt stuck in your throat. Did you know? Maybe. Subconsciously. But to hear it like this, now, from him, it made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite place.

You hesitated before asking, tugging your coat tighter. “Is that another reason you left?”

The air bit into your cheeks, cold and unwavering. You recognised he wore his heart on his sleeve, but it felt as though the wrong response could shatter what little balance remained between you. He continued walking.

Hyunjin exhaled heavily, his breath forming a mist in the crisp evening air. The dim glow of the streetlights cast long shadows on the path ahead, their golden hues flickering as the breeze whispered through the trees. His hands were tucked deep into his coat pockets, and his steps slowed, matching the hesitance in his voice. He halted, then turned to face you.

“I thought you deserved better than me,” he admitted, his words laced with quiet regret. “I knew it was just my own insecurities, but… I couldn’t shake it. Minho—he was always steady, always knew how to make you laugh, how to be there for you. And me? I was this mess, trying to juggle my art and ambitions, feeling like I’d never measure up.”

You caught the way his jaw tightened as he spoke. He looked at the ground as though the words themselves were a weight he’d been carrying for too long. You wanted to reach out to him, wrap your arms around his torso and breath him in—the faint scent of strawberries and mint.

"I think I—," He cleared his throat, tapping his shoe against the slick pavement. "Well, I sort of hoped you two would get together so I could prove a point to myself that I was right."

His confession struck you. Gooseflesh peppered your skin and an uncomfortable feeling crawled its way up your throat. How could he think that? even for a second? He began walking once more, and you followed in tow.

The path curved gently ahead, lined with bare trees that reached for the night sky. An occasional car passed by on the road nearby, headlights cutting through the darkness. The rhythmic crunch of gravel underfoot was the only sound for a moment as his words settled between you.

“You could’ve talked to me,” you murmured, your voice steady but tinged with sadness. “I would’ve listened, Hyune. I would’ve understood.”

He stopped walking and turned to you, his eyes searching yours, glistening under the soft glow of a nearby streetlamp. “I was scared, Y/N,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly. “Scared you’d see me the way I saw myself. Scared you’d realize you were better off without me before I was ready to let you go.”

Your chest tightened, and you blinked away the sting of tears, your gaze dropping to the ground. “You didn’t even give me the chance to decide that for myself,” you whispered, clenching your fists by your side.

Hyunjin reached out, his fingers brushing against your arm as though he was testing if he still had permission to touch you. His touch was warm despite the cold, and you looked up at him again, finding a raw honesty in his expression that you hadn’t seen in a long time.

The two of you stood there, caught in the quiet chaos of your unresolved emotions. Hyunjin gave you a small, tentative smile, his hand lingering. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

He hooked his pinky with yours and you almost breathed a sigh of relief at his touch. Your heart ached at his words, and without thinking, you reached up to brush a strand of onyx hair from his face, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. The air between you felt electric, charged with all the things left unsaid, all the years apart, and the unspoken truth that no matter what, something between you felt alive.

"I like your black hair," you admitted, your voice softer than usual. You couldn't help but admire how it framed his face, though you didn’t want to admit just how striking it made him look. The slit in his eyebrow only added to the allure of his features, making him even more captivating in a way you didn’t want to acknowledge.

He blinked at you, his hand instinctively running through his hair as if he hadn’t expected the compliment. "Thanks," he breathed out, a slight flush creeping up his neck. His eyes darted down for a moment, clearly a little thrown off by your comment.

You quickly looked away, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks, hoping he wouldn't notice and continued strolling along the path. The streetlights reflected the water of the night's earlier drizzle.

His gaze followed you, and a small, shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “It suits me?” he asked, almost as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

You glanced back at him. "Yeah, it suits you well," you muttered, though the words felt strange on your tongue, too soft for the tension which hung between you two.

His apartment building radiated a sense of chic-ness, white marble and trimmed hedges lined the entrance. A lot different from how you remembered it. Although, the familiar creak of stairs echoed in the otherwise quiet hallway.

As you both reached the entrance to his apartment building, the weight of the silence between you felt heavier, more pressing, though neither of you seemed eager to break it. The dim light from the hallway cast long shadows on the walls, and with each step up, the sound of your footsteps reverberated, filling the space.

Hyunjin walked just a few steps ahead, his fingers still gripping the canvas tightly. You couldn’t help but notice how his grip tightened every time you drew closer, like he was holding onto something precious, something fragile— like how it would've been if he held onto you.

You followed him, your mind swimming with thoughts—of the evening, of everything that happened, and the words left unsaid. You could feel the heat of his presence just ahead of you as you both approached the door to his apartment.

He reached the door first, hesitating for a brief moment as if contemplating whether to say something. But when he turned to face you, his expression softened.

"Come in," he murmured, stepping aside to let you in. His voice was quiet but welcoming, as though he was offering you the space to breathe, to feel safe again.

You stepped over the threshold, the door creaking slightly as he pushed it open. As you entered, you immediately noticed the change in the atmosphere—his apartment, though familiar, felt different now, more intimate, more charged. The slight hum of an old refrigerator in the corner filled the silence that followed you both into the room.

Hyunjin carefully set the canvas down on the nearby dining table, his fingers brushing lightly over the edges as if it was something delicate, something important.

Without a word, he turned to you, his eyes searching your face, waiting for you to speak, to fill the void left by the quiet. You couldn't even spare a glance at the canvas, too intertwined with your own thoughts and feelings.

Hyunjin’s apartment felt suffocating and intimate all at once. The scent of paint and faint traces of lavender lingered in the air, grounding you in a place that once was distant but now felt overwhelmingly close.

You stood in the middle of the room, your arms loosely wrapped around yourself like a fragile shield. Behind you, the canvas he’d brought sat on the table, the strokes of his art silently judging. Across the room, Hyunjin leaned lightly against the dining table, his knuckles brushing its edge as though grounding himself. His dark eyes never left you, and their intensity made your stomach churn with nerves.

“What are we doing, Hyune?” Your voice cracked, barely more than a whisper, the words trembling with the confusion and vulnerability you couldn't keep bottled inside. Your lips quivered, tugging downward as the tears you fought threatened to spill.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” you admitted, your voice thick with emotion. “I don’t know how to be with you again.” The truth of your words hung in the air, raw and echoing in the quiet room.

Hyunjin moved toward you with careful steps, closing the distance with a deliberate tenderness that made your breath catch. He stopped just short of touching you, his presence overwhelming and his gaze heavy.

“I don’t know how to make this easy,” he admitted, his voice low and steady, tinged with vulnerability. “But I know I don’t want to keep pretending I’m fine without you.”

His hand lifted, hesitating for a moment before cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing the edge of your jaw. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver through you, your body betraying the turmoil in your heart.

“You don’t have to know right now,” he murmured, his eyes searching yours, pleading for understanding. “I’ll wait for you. I’ll wait as long as it takes. I just… I need you to know that I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The words cracked something open inside you, and a tear slipped free, trailing down your cheek. He caught it with his thumb, his touch so tender it made your knees weak.

Your hand instinctively came up to his, holding it against your cheek. “You make it sound so easy, Hyune,” you said, your voice trembling.

“It’s not,” he confessed, his forehead coming to rest against yours. His breath mingled with yours, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it. Always have been.”

The room seemed to shrink around you, the walls closing in, but not in a way that suffocated. Instead, it felt like the world was forcing you together, creating a space where nothing else mattered.

Without thinking, you leaned into him, your lips brushing his in the softest of kisses. It wasn’t rushed or desperate but slow, filled with the kind of longing that had been buried for far too long.

His arms slid around your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss, pouring everything he couldn’t say into it. The table, the paint, the world beyond the apartment—all of it melted away. There was only Hyunjin, holding you as if letting go wasn’t an option.

[Tag List] @nujeskz @myfavoritedelusion

[metranart]

ft. Hawks, Dabi and Shoto x Reader. Raging Threesome influenced by the mating season, booze and secret obsessions. (teaser)

Dabi had noticed the subtle signs of your body as well as Hawks, even Shoto had. The way you pressed your thighs together, that little sway of your hips, that longing sigh, all firm signs that you were in a special and festive mood. Maybe the mix of alcohol, Christmas and your open mind could be a trigger for something interesting.

You bite your lip when you find all three Proheroes staring at you, hungry gazes that make you feel like you were naked, and that shyly provocative grin you give them back. Damn! It’s too sensual to be an accident, you just sealed your evening.

“I forgot something in my office," Keigo mutters under his breath, and his fists clench as he swiftly sneaks his body behind yours. If you didn’t get it before, you feel it now. He is hard, and he is grinding against your ass. You stiffen. 

“Uh… Keigo?” You ask in a squeak, but he doesn’t stop and instead begins to guide you where he wants, "would you come with to look for it?"

To his office again? You know what he wants, so you nod wondering if what he has in mind might cure the recent itch in your crotch. You barely manage to kiss the curve of his neck with a clumsy turn of your head and before you know it, you're already in the office of his Hero agency, the door locked behind you ... and before you know it, you're not alone in there.

“This room smells like sex,” Dabi spats, absentmindedly, slowly stripping off of his jacket suit, “… got any lube around, birdbrains?” 

“Sure, I think I have some in the bottom drawer." 

Dabi walks over to the drawer and starts searching through the items, while Hawks starts serving drinks as if it were a private party. With a casual stride, your boyfriend offers you a drink and it's only when you hear a sober 'thank you' that you realize Shoto is here too, drink in hand, stoic gaze in an invisible spot as he, Hawks and you awkwardly clink your glasses together before taking a sip of the aged whisky.

“Agh,” You stick your tongue out at the bitter, potent taste of the whiskey, "baby, it's too strong-"

"Just enough, darling." Dabi replies, stealing a sip from his brother's glass, and sipping it with a mischievous smile as his eyes stay on you. "The more spirited we are, the easier it will be to get comfortable, if you know what I mean.”

Hawks chuckles and although he tries to sound cool, you notice the note of nervousness in his voice, which he ends up defeating by gulping down the rest of the whiskey in his glass.

"He's right, (Y/N)." 

The whiskey takes effect on your boyfriend sooner than expected and his already rosy cheeks turn bright red, eyelids dropping a little, sensually, his eyes lock with yours as he strips off his jacket, letting it fall to the floor to start an awkward fight with the knot of his tie, effectively nullifying the sensuality of the striptease while making himself look incredibly adorable.

"Awwww," Dabi beams, sarcastically, "apparently daddy can't get undress without mommy helping him, do you mind, doll?"

You shake your head in amusement and Keigo's arms wrap around your waist in reflex as you begin to undo the knot of his tie, depositing whiskey kisses to each cheek, the tip of your nose, each side of your mouth, your forehead and eyelids. It’s all Keigo Takami, sweet and devoted while his naughty hands keep trying to lift up the skirt of your dress.

"I know I already said this,” Hawks spells a little drunkenly, “but you look incredibly sexy in this dress… guys?"

"Top tier," Dabi snaps with a smirk.

"Beautiful," Shoto joins as well, slapping his brother's hands away. The older Todoroki trying to undo the buttons of his shirt, "stop it, Touya.... I don't need your assistance-"

"Silence, pup. By the way, I think it is prudent to mention that my little brother here…. is still a rabid virgin, please treat him well."

"Touya!"

"Easy, baby bro." Dabi pushes Shoto until he crashes the edge of Hawks' desk and once out of earshot, he mutters just for him. "This is my Christmas present, Shoto," the half-and-half Todoroki stares at him suspiciously and Dabi smirks, wildly, "...I know you think you hide it well, but I can see right through you, you're head over heels for (Y/N)." 

Shoto's blushing cheeks are the only thing disturbing his calm expression, "you love her in secret and even though she'll never be yours," he glances over his shoulder where you are kissing- no! devouring Hawks passionately. Dabi snorts to then returns his gaze to Shoto, "I want you to have your first time with whoever you dream of, I want that for you," Dabi admits, seriously. "I didn't have that, so...I want to give you at least this."

"Touya." 

The tone Shoto uses is enough for Dabi to know that he understands the deep meaning behind his actions and with enthusiasm rejuvenated, he grins, but not his usual sassy smirk but a warm, kinder one, meant only for Shoto.

"Then, play along, I'll distract birdbrains, and you fuck his girlfriend’s brain out."

"Touya!"

This time the tone used is more scolding, but the implicit agreement is already in action. The Todoroki siblings had a plan, and the evening is set for success....

....READ THE 7000 WORD FIC COMMISSION IN HERE! (Includes NSFW art from three scenes of the fic and lots of smut. Plus, lot of MHA NSFW content in general) ;)

[sidthedollface2]

Something Borrowed (Part 2)

Read part 1 here

Pairing: Azriel x Reader (Rhys sister)

Series summary: Rhys tells Azriel to back off Elain and find release at a pleasure hall. Instead, Azriel finds you, Rhys' younger sister.

Chapter Summary: Right after we find Azriel and Elain in a compromising position, Azriel tries to smooth things over only to drive you further away. Feelings escalate when Azriel sees another male touching you.

Word count: 5k

Series Warnings: MDNI 18+, ANGST, hurt/no comfort, smut (p in v, oral) no use of yn, nicknames, fighting, jealousy.

A/n: Thank you for all the love on part 1, I really appreciate all the comments, likes, and reblogs. This is part 2 of Something Old Something New. Please read that first, this ch continues right where we left off. I’m sorry it took so long to make this part. I’ve decided to make it a mini-series so expect 2 or more parts. It’s not over till I say it’s over. I'm a daydreamer, not a writer so if you see any mistakes that's how I dreamt it. Lol

Rhys clenched his jaw tightly at the scene in front of him. His brother, a broken shell of a male on his knees, pleading for a love that would never be his. “Azriel, my office now! The rest of you go back to your chambers,” he commands, jerking his head towards his office. Azriel stands, wings dragging behind him as he makes his way towards his inevitable demise.

Rhys enters behind Azriel, closing the door to his office with a wave of his hand. “How dare you disobey me. Not only was my demand about Elain ignored, but you went behind my back to court my sister and then decided to break her heart! I told you to go to a fucken pleasure house to get laid not to fuck my baby sister! ” Rhysand yelled, fury evident in how this neck strained from raising his voice. Azriel lowered his head in shame. “I should kick your ass right now, but your lucky Vi said not to, now sit. I’m not done with you yet.”

Rhys gestures to one of the armchairs that are placed in front of a very large bookcase. A round table sits between the two chairs, an intimate setting for friends to converse. Or for a High Lord to intimidate and test his guest. Azriel would know of such tactics, he’s been a witness to Rhysand's techniques.

Two glass cups with amber liquid are placed on the table, followed by its luxurious bottle. A bottle Azriels never seen before. Rhys catches his curiosity, “I hide the good stuff. This one's aged 50 years.” Azriel’s mouth waters. Of course, Rhys would keep the expensive stuff in his stash.

Rhys takes the seat across from his brother, his gaze piercing into him from above the rim of his glass. “Drink.”

Azriel eyes the glass in front of him. Temptation stared back at him in the form of delicious whiskey. He could really use a drink right now, to cure the hatred that he's brought upon himself.

He opens and closes his mouth, suddenly parched and wanting to soothe the dryness in his mouth.

“I’ll have some water.”

“Good choice,” Rhys hums in approval, and the house magically delivers Azriel’s water. Silence falls between them. The ticking of a grandfather clock is the only sound heard, counting down by the second. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Each male waiting for the other to break the silence. Azriel takes a sip from his glass, hands shaky as he brings the cup to his lips.

“Care for a smoke?”

Azriel chokes on his water, “sorry?” He questions wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, unsure if he’s heard correctly.

“Mirthroot, to ease the tension,” Rhys clarifies, indeed offering Azriel the drug that he smoked earlier, minus the hallucinogen. With a trick of the hands and some magic, the cigarette appears between Rhys’s fingers, bringing it to his lips, its cherry blazing red. He inhales. His chest expands with how deep he aspirates, holding the fumes within his lungs. Slow and calculated he exhales. Swirls of white smoke leave Rhys lips, landing directly into Azriels face. Its white tendrils carve through his wavy hair, coating each strand with its foul scent. A Lingering reminder of his mistakes.

Azriel swipes his hand in front of him, ridding the air of the smoke surrounding him. A slight cough erupts from his throat, “no, uh, I recently had a bad experience.” Azriel tries to joke, but it lands flatly based on Rhys' stone-cold expression.

“Azriel, what do you think your punishment should be for making my sister run away from her court?”

Oh, straight to it then.

“I do love her, Rhys. She's breathtaking in every way and I don’t deserve her.”

“No, you don’t!” Rhys bellowed, slamming his glass down on the table. “What. Is. Your. Punishment?” He seethed.

“Death. Because I can’t live without her, I deserve it knowing I’ve hurt her. That I’ve betrayed you and your trust. I’ve lied to you, taken your brotherly love for granted. I’ve killed for much less.” Azriel slouches in his seat, defeated but willing to take whatever his punishment shall be.

“You must truly love her then if you're willing to die. But I find that to be too swift of a punishment. Will torture suffice?”

Azriels eyes snap to his brother, a look of shock and slight terror in his hazel eyes. This wasn’t his brother anymore, but the words of a High Lord. A cunning, cruel High Lord.

Azriel doesn't say a word, he simply nods. Accepting his fate.

“Very well. You will watch over my sister. You will shadow her every move, her every outing. You will not speak with her or make yourself known. You will observe her interactions with other males. If she happens to love someone else then you will witness their beginning, middle and end. You will endure her loving someone else while she falls out of love with you. That will be your punishment. If you love her, truly, you will see her happy, even in the arms of another.”

Azriel swallowed the knot in his throat, shoving down the emotion that was a breathds away from coming forward. His eyes failed to meet his High Lord as he took a moment to process the terms. A slight sheen was coating his forehead, heat climbing up his spine at the thought of you with someone else. Clenching and unclenching his fists, his nails dug into his palms, creating half-moon shapes on his rough skin.

He did want to see you happy, and in love. You deserved it more than anyone he knew, but not with someone else. Azriels mind flashed back to every tender moment you two shared. Every soft touch under the table, away from prying eyes. Each stolen kiss when the two of you were last in leaving meetings. Morning snuggles after a night of intimacy before he snuck out of your bedroom. Flying together under the stars, in the middle of the night when the rest of the Velaris was sound asleep. He could keep those moments to himself, call upon them when he missed you. It’ll break his heart watching you fall out of love with him, but that was the whole point. And that's what Rhys meant by torture. It would happen slowly, painfully peeling the layers of his heart back piece by piece till nothing remained.

His refusal was on the tip of his tongue, “I can’t….” He shook his head, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. Letting out a shaky breath, “can I at least apologize without an audience, before I begin this punishment?”

Rhys nodded and flicked his wrist, dismissing his brother.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Azriel knocked on Elains bedroom door, determined to explain himself and confront her.

Her beaming smile when she opened the door caught him off guard. Was she happy? Happy for his misery?

“Hi Az,” she smiled wide and stepped aside to let him in. “No, I don’t want to give the wrong idea. I’ll be quick.” Azriel sighed, running his hand through his tousled hair. He winced as Elains scent off his fingers made its way to his nose. Reminding him that he needed to shower before he spoke to you. “Elain, I’m sorry for-”

“I’m not” she interrupted, her doe-like eyes staring up at him as she stepped closer. Her chest inches away from pressing against him. “The only thing I’m sorry for was the interruption and not bringing you to completion. I liked doing it, I wanted more,” she confessed, attempting to close the distance.

“What the fuck Elain!” Azriel's voice boomed as he jerked back, putting distance between them, hoping to get his point across that he did not reciprocate her feelings. His face twisted in disgust at her scandalous behavior. A side of her he had never seen before. He pointed his finger at her, “stay away from me.”

“You said you loved me.” Elain gulped, a tremble in her meek voice.

Azriel lowered his face to meet hers, eyes red with anger and unshed tears for the situation she put him in. “Those words were not meant for you, I feel nothing for you. And definitely not love. You know I adore her, you heard me tell her in the library and you still took advantage of my inebriation.”

“Az, I’m so sorr-”

Azriel lifted his hand, silencing her apology. He shook his head, upper lip curled in a snarl as he looked her up and down. Not even her beauty would mask the bitter taste she left in his mouth.

~~~~~~~

It was late when he finished speaking with Elain, yet every nerve in his body wanted to find you and apologize. Fix the turmoil he had created and start new. He knew it was better for you to sleep on it, let bygones be bygones. First thing tomorrow he’d reach out and smooth things over.

Azriel had been staring at your side of his bed for hours, running his hand across the empty space. He couldn't sleep without your warm body cuddled next to him. Or your soft breathing fanning across his chest. Your very soul had made a home within his heart, and he foolishly never bothered to secure the doors to keep you safe and nurture your love. You weren't a bird to be caged, but he sang your favorite song and each night you’d perch on his arm and stare into his hazel eyes with a look of love and admiration. Azriel was too scared to return the gaze. Too scared to lose the only person that brought him laughter and joy.

He buried his face in your pillow, inhaling the subtle scent of your hair that still lingered. A silent sob escaped his lips. It had been too long. He tried again, inhaling deeper, searching for those notes of magnolia and rose. Gripping the sheets tight in his fists, Azriel let his tears fall freely; your scent was fading. Loneliness followed him to bed that night. The cold of the night, a blanket holding him till he fell asleep. His heaving chest rocked him faster to the nightmares that would now plague him.

~~~~~~~

You sat in the lower levels of the library, the darkness, a familiar friend that brought you company in your solitude. The hum of Bryaxis slumber filled the air, a solemn soundtrack to accompany the tears that rolled down your cheeks. Sadness dotted the pages of the book that sat on your lap, rippled and wrinkled from the volume of your cries.

You could no longer read the pages, vision blurred and hazy. The more you researched the more it became a reality and in truth, you couldn’t stomach the thought. You’d have to visit Helion for clarification. How to undo or break it off before the other end sna-

A gentle shadow wrapped around your wrist, leaving a cool phantom kiss on your knuckles. You summoned a pocket of darkness and quickly sent the book away in a puff of black mist.

Azriel stepped out of a dark corner, concealed in the shadows like a true spymaster. “Love, I’m so fucking sorry. Please, forgive me,” he begged, as he took slow steps towards you.

“I know where I fall in your list of priorities, Azriel. You followed Rhys into his office like a loyal dog, and after that, you went to Elain and now you're here asking for forgiveness?”

Azriels brows furrow, questioning how you knew when you ran out of the house. “Your shadows,” you reply, already knowing his thought process- it seems they’ve betrayed their own master in favor of you. “They’ve told me everything. What you did with Elain and what you did after.”

“Did they tell you how much I love you? How much I crave you?” he cooed softly.

You shook your head. Those words were everything you wanted to hear ‘I love you,’ yet as your head moved side to side, you weren't sure if it was because you didn't believe the words or because It was too late. You wanted to believe him, fall into his arms, and easily forgive.

But your breathing quickens as your memory takes you back to last night. Azriels head thrown back as his hips thrust into Elains mouth. The pleasure that you hoped only you brought him, was written on his face; from the warmth of another female's mouth.

“Forgiveness? I can’t give that to you, not now. Not when every time I close my eyes all I see is your betrayal. All I hear are the words that I longed for mixed with the gagging of Elains throat as she took your cock down her mouth. I’m going to need time and space to forgive you. If the time ever comes.” You look to the ceiling, eyes stinging as you try to hold back the tears, your brave face faltering in vulnerability.

Azriel kneels in front of you, begging for your eyes to meet his. “I’ll spend forever apologizing and when you're ready to forgive me I'll be here. I’ll always be here, as long as it takes.”

“I heard what you said to Cass. That I was a mistake, and a fucking rebound,” you sniffled, fighting back the tears that once again tried to break free from your waterline.

Azriel doesn't miss the way you bite at your lip, the furrow between your brows. He's hurt you. Made you feel inadequate. You had always felt not good enough. Not good enough for your father, your mother. Not good enough to become High Lady of the Night Court.

Once Feyre and her sisters came into the picture you had no place. Feyre became High Lady, Rhysands equal. Not you. Not his flesh and blood. And now Azriels words cemented that feeling. You were the doormat of The Night Court, beloved by its citizens but stepped on by those that mattered to you, and that hurt more than you could bear.

“That's not what I meant! I wanted… I want to do things right. I want us to be together, finally. No more secrets, no hiding. It was a poor choice of words, and for that I’m sorry. But you are not a mistake. If you think you are, I'll spend the rest of my life proving to you that you're not.”

He reaches for your hand to offer a comforting touch. To soothe the doubt within your heart. If anything else, to touch you one last time and caress the smoothness of your skin.

“Don’t touch me. Not with those hands,” you hiss, jerking your hands away and crossing your arms over your chest. A deep sadness settles over you, knowing the hurt you've caused with the double meaning of your words. You knew it wasn’t due to the scars, those hands had been touching someone else. Bringing another female to climax not even 24 hours prior.

It was that single sentence that broke the spymaster. An aching pressure was felt in his chest, growing into a mass of the insecurity he once had. He couldn't hide the quiver in his bottom lip or the way he felt his stomach cave in itself. You didn’t want him to touch you. His hands were now tainted, dare he say more now than ever before.

A soft cry pushed past his lips as the dam holding his composure finally broke. He stood up and turned his back to you. Wiping away the tears that continued to fall. You quickly followed, itching to place a hand on his shoulder, soothing the turmoil within him.

Your caring nature screamed for you to comfort him and apologize. Causing someone's pain wasn’t in your character, a stark difference from most of your family. But you retracted your hand, and wrapped them around your middle, holding yourself together.

“Do you really hate me?” Azriel whispered as he pulled out his gloves from his back pocket, sliding them on in hopes of hiding the repulsion you felt towards them.

You hesitated for a moment if revealing the truth would change anything. If it would alter the path of your relationship into one that was worth fighting for. But there was no Azriel and Vi, so you’d tell him the truth.

“I hate the way you make me feel. I hate that you embarrassed me in front of my family. I hate that you can make me laugh and cry on the same night. Most of all I hate that you didn't choose me.” You end on an exhale, rubbing your arms up and down, attempting to soothe the heartache.

“This is it then? You’re just giving up on us? Let me at least fix this mess I’ve made. I promise I’ll do better,” he pleads, running his hands through his hair, lightly pulling at the root.

You close your eyes and release a heavy sigh, “There was never an ‘us’ Azriel. As much as I wanted there-

“I want ‘us’ now,” he interrupts, closing the distance as he cups your face between his gloved hands. “Please, love. Give me this one last chance.”

Hazel eyes bore into yours pleading with every ounce of desperation in his voice, “please,” he breathes, gently nuzzling your nose with his. The puff of his breath cools the moisture on your lips, a chill that weakens your knees and for a moment you think to give in. It takes every ounce of control for you to wrap your delicate hands around his wrist and pull them away from your face. “I can’t do this,” you choke, shaking your head, trying to hold back the knot of emotion lodged in your throat as you rush past him, wiping at the lonely tears that have breached your waterline.

His happiness was fleeting, running into the arms of another. Except you didn’t. Not yet, not so soon. That was the difference, he realized. Where Azriel drowned in sorrow the moment you first left, his pain lingered on. Holding onto the pain meant; holding onto you. Holding onto what you once were. Whereas You faced the feeling head-on. You talked about what troubled you, about him, through the pain in your eyes and the wobble in your voice.

No matter how painful it was to relive, you pushed through. Felt deeply and wholly, head first into the unknown and you always managed to stay afloat. It scared him, how open you were with your feelings. Heart on your sleeve, willing to give and give. It was easy for you to love, to feel. And if you spoke of your sorrow so openly, then you’d heal faster and surely fall out of love just as quickly or worse forget him altogether.

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

Feyre was the one to scold Rhys for his actions towards his brother. The cunning High Lord indeed had a trick up his sleeve. One that would ensure Azriel had your best interests at heart. Rhys knew all too well how loyal and dutiful Azriel was to him and he wondered how far that loyalty ran. To what end would he go to please his High Lord? Rhys knew sending Azriel to spy on you was invading your privacy. And that would only anger you if you knew. Rhysand hoped though, that Azriels love for you was stronger than the loyalty he held for his High Lord. He was wrong. Azriel took the punishment without thinking how it would affect you. How following your every move would make you uncomfortable and you’d possibly resent Azriel for agreeing to such a thing.

~~~~~~~~~

The next few days passed in a blur. You had avoided the Inner circle at all costs, not quite ready to comment on the love triangle that unfolded under their nose. You tried to continue your work in Hewn City as you had been for centuries. Although the High Fae preferred you over Rhysand, you were finding it difficult to sway certain policies with Keir. You were a brilliant light in Hewn City, creating an education system that opened their eyes to diversity and understanding amongst their people. They no longer detested lesser fae, a tradition that had been extremely difficult to break. The residents were now free to travel out of the city and some even enjoyed Velaris. All the work you had done was more than Rhys could expect, yet you still felt as if you lacked purpose. It then occurred to you that perhaps you could fulfill that purpose in another court.

You winnowed back to Velaris instantly, running up the steps of the house of wind towards Rhysands office. Excitement in each step as you imagined a new opportunity at your fingertips. One that puts space between your fractured relationship with Azriel as well as a chance to step out of your brother's shadow and into your own. As soon as you opened the door to his office you stilled-causing the person who was trailing behind you to stumble into your back. Azriel straightened, careful not to touch you. “Apologies, I,” Azriel narrowed his eyes at the guest seated across from Rhys, “who are you?”

“Kit!” you blurted out, bouncing to him and embracing him in a crushing hug. Kit wraps his arms around your waist as your hands clasp around his neck. Azriels eyes zero in on where Kit’s fingers dig into your sides, noticing the small caress against your skin. And how he’s pulled your body so tight against his, relishing in your radiate beauty. Or the way his chest expands as he inhales the scent of your hair. “Good to see you again Princess. I was just talking to Rhysand about a proposition.”

Kit’s gaze lands on the Shadowsinger, “ forgive me, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Kit, son of Kallias and Vivienne of The Winter Court.” He extends his palm in a friendly greeting towards Azriel. Ever respectful and kind, just as an Heir should be. Azriel runs his eyes over the Princeling, scrutinizing every inch of the male; from his snow-white hair to his pompous pale blue shirt. Even down to how costly his shoes must have been. Seconds passed and Azriel just stared the Prince down, a challenge in his deadly eyes.

“Please excuse my spymaster, Azriel, he's recently gone through a break-up.” Rhysand shoots a glare at the Shadowsinger with a look of disappointment.

A muscle feathered in Azriels jaw. He didn’t like this, not one bit. Kit touched you. Touched what once belonged to him. His shadows curled around his ear whispering all the ways Azriel could kill him. He saw the look in his eyes, longing and desire. Rhys no doubt divulged that break-up comment to open the doors for Kit to swoop right in.

Your eyes drop to the floor, shifting on your feet uncomfortably. Tension in the room doubled as the silence filled the awkwardness.

Kits' attention shifted to you. Noticing your downturned lips and slumped shoulders. Things must have gotten worse between you and Azriel. His icy blue eyes snapped towards the brooding male. “How unfortunate, that when you looked at her you did not feel cauldron blessed to have her. In that case, she must not have been yours to keep,” he pulled you close around the waist, “hopefully she’ll be another males blessing.” Kit smiled down at you, his dimples deep and adorable. You couldn’t help but melt into his side, his touch offering a comfort that you desperately needed.

A dangerous growl ripped through Azriels throat. He rolled his shoulders back, craning his neck from side to side, cracking the tension in his bones. The loud pop of his knuckles rang in your ears as Azriel flexed his fingers into a fist. You’d seen this rage in his eyes many times; right before hand-to-hand combat in the camps.

You quickly glanced at your brother, pleading mind to mind. "Stop this, they’ll kill each other.” Rhys sat back in his chair, legs spread wide and relaxed, "I’ll bet you all the jewels in Velaris Azriel breaks that pretty boy in two."

“Watch your mouth!” Azriel seethed, as he stalked forward, a predator hunting his prey.

Kit moved you to stand behind him, shielding you with his body. He did not back down from confrontation and did not cower. A fighter with words that will knock his opponent where it hurts the most. For wounds heal but poisonous words rot from the inside out. Latching to the mind to burrow and breed the thoughts keeping the nightmares and failures alive.

With every drop of ferocity that flowed through his veins, he struck at the jugular. Pouring salt on the wound of Azriels inferiority complex with malicious intent to hollow him out. “No Shadowsinger! You’re no Prince, nor are you a High Lord or King of any Kingdom. You do not own property and you are not wealthy. You offer nothing to a Princess but anguish and a filthy cock that's been between the legs and mouths of cheap women. You survive by the scraps your friend gives you out of pity for being a bastard born. It is you who needs to watch your tongue. It is you who needs to remember your place.”

Azriel's face was unreadable as he took the insult with his head held high. His breathing turned rapid, with every second that passed. Azriel wanted to wipe that smug look off the princeling's face and scrub the floor with his perfect teeth. Break every finger that had touched you, gouge out the blue eyes that had fantasized about you.

The second Kit took his eyes off Azriel to gawk at you. Azriel pulled Kit by the collar of his shirt, holding him in place as his hammer fist connected with his jaw over and over again. Adrenaline flowed through his body, as knuckles met solid ice beneath the flesh and blood of the heir. Blood sprayed Kit's shirt as a cut splayed open below his eye, most likely from Azriels rings. Kit's head bobbed around lifeless, blood slipping down the corner of his mouth. Azriel couldn’t stop the onslaught of his attack, as he continued to break the heir's nose with a resounding crack.

“Azriel stop!” you screamed, throwing your fist at his back, pulling at his shirt in an attempt to stop the assault. Azriel tried to stop but Kit's crimson smile taunted him each time his fist landed against his pale skin, enraging him more.

“Shit!” Rhys scrambled out of his chair, using his dark power to throw Azriel off the Prince and into the farthest wall. Crashing to the ground Azriels vision cleared, his heart sank at the image of you on the floor cradling the bleeding Prince in your arms, tending to his battered face. “Vi, I’m so sorry I.. I didn’t,-”

“You brutish Illyrian bastard, when will you stop breaking things?!” You looked at Azriel with glossy eyes and blood that wasn't yours smeared against your bosom.

“Pack the rest of your bags sister. You’ll be living in the Winter Court for the foreseeable future. Re-shaping their crumbling Agriculture and stabilizing their infrastructure for future prosperity. The work you’ve done in Hewn City is remarkable, I’m sure you’ll do great things for Kallias and Vivienne. ” Rhys gaze never left Azriel as he delivered the news to you.

‘I’m sorry Az. This was the proposition brought to me today. Vi needs this, she's no longer happy here. And as her brother, I have to do what's best for her.’

Rhys saw the tears well in Azriels eyes. If he hadn't been shattered to pieces before, then this would disintegrate him into ash. Left alone to wander the skies aimlessly, letting the wind tousle and puncture him as he reached for the sun's brightest ray of light.

“Take a good look at him, Vi, He’ll no longer be allowed in The Winter Court after today's attack,” your head whipped from Azriel to Kit, “My father will ban him from ever setting foot on his land again.” A sly grin crossed Kit’s face, victorious in his plan, “Don’t worry shadowsinger, we’re just borrowing her and I promise I’ll keep her safe.” Azriel snarled as Kit grimaced, pushing against your chest for your comforting touch.

He’d fallen into Kit's trap so easily, allowing his anger to blind him from his true intentions. He didn’t even raise his hand to deflect the blows or bother punching back. He took the punches and played victim, the scheming ice Prince. He knew how it looked. The eloquent Prince who had a future and armies at his beck and call.

A Court that he would one day rule for centuries with a palace to call his own, a throne and crown made of diamonds and sapphires. A Night Court Princess turned High Lady to warm his bed and give him Heirs to sit on his throne. Azriel couldn’t offer you any of that. He was a bastard-born Illyrian who tortured people for a living. You deserve a fulfilling life full of happiness, laughter, and love.

You were leaving because of him, and he decided then, that he wouldn’t stop you. It would make him sick, but he’d survive and the sun would rise one day. The future he dreamed of was slowly fading to black and he couldn't imagine a world without you, but you were leaving. He couldn't think of a way to stop the bleeding or to fix what he broke. He couldn’t hold you back. You were a princess, when you were meant to be a queen.

“Throw me in the prison Rhys I don’t care, but if I have to watch her fall in love with him, by the God’s he’ll die by my blade before he lays another hand on her. Punishment be damned” Azriels words pierced through Rhys mind like a violent storm, destroying everything in its way. Rhys chuckled, grinning like a madman towards Azriels words, “there you are brother.” He stretched out his hand to help Azriel get up off the floor, ‘I know now that you love her, but she still needs space. Please respect her decision.’

Rhys jerked his chin towards the door. “Now get out.”

Azriel walked towards the door, looking over his shoulder for one last glance at you. Even with red staining your face, you were still the most beautiful female he had ever seen, yet he took every moment with you for granted. The cauldron was either cruel or he had terrible luck. How is it that his first and ever love would ruin him? How was he to move on from this? He realized too late that he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. You had completely shattered his heart and soul, taking the bleeding organ in your hands. “Be happy, love,” he spoke softly, “and for what it’s worth, I have always loved you.” You saw a lone tear run down his cheek as he turned and walked away.

Part 3 coming soon.....

A/n: Thank you for reading.

Taglist: @fuckthatfeeling @celtic-shadow-wolf @crazylokonugget @leyannrae @rehua @readychilledwine @ellievickstar @siriusblackssun @saltedcoffeescotch @b0xerdancer @tothestarsandwhateverend @anainkandpaper @em-marlenesversion @lilah-asteria @mybestfriendmademe @rogersbarnesxx @nayaniasworld @sam-san-sam @yeahimcrying @olive-main

[mariamakeslemons]

Rough day cured by tummy

You're relaxing on the couch, laying across the whole thing, when the door is practically kicked in. It's been a bad day and your soldier is upset. He drops face first into your tummy, pinning you to the couch. What he does next depends on who it is...

Warning: Reader is chubby/fat/has a squishy tummy.

Price drops into your tummy while you're spread out, and he's not moving for the next year. The muppets at work have been pains in his ass, paperwork's piling up, idiots above him are causing all sorts of problems he now has to sort out. He nuzzles against your softness and sighs contently, already feeling the stress of the day melt away. His perfect treat, all safe and comfy in his home. He starts pressing kisses to your skin, grumbling about the idiots he just left behind while offering praise at how wonderful you are. Eventually, he lets you up so you both can get dinner.

Gaz is immediately in heaven, smelling your skin and soaking in the warmth you give. His hands massage your thighs/arms as he lets out a stream of consciousness. From Ghost riding his ass during training to his "fight" with Soap to worrying about Price seeing him as worthy, he just rambles while occasionally pressing a kiss to your tummy. Once he's all done, if you're okay with it, Gaz blows a raspberry into your tummy and grins when you laugh. It turns into a full blown tickle war, both of you trying to make the other laugh harder.

Soap is immediately groping at everything he can, squeezing your thighs, your tummy, your ass, your tits. EVERYTHING. You are his human stress ball, and occasionally his chew toy. If it's been a harder-than-normal day, he'll gently gnaw at you, especially your tummy. It's the perfect spot, Bonnie, he can get the perfect imprint of his teeth in you skin here. If he gnaws on you too much, you can grab his mohawk and pull. However, that's more likely to make him horny, so do it at your own risk.

Prepare to be a pillow, because it's nap time for Ghost. He doesn't know how or why, but when he puts his head down on your tummy, he's immediately sleepy and relaxed. This man will wrap his arms around your waist and be out in a matter of minutes. Never mind his phone going off, never mind Price stopping by with a folder and apologetic frown. Ghost is sleeping on your tummy and he's not getting up until he's fuckin' ready.

EXTRA!!!!

Nikolai will drop on you before shifting you both around enough that YOU are laying on HIM, head on HIS tummy. You are now his blanket and he's already grabbing his own book and a tumbler of whiskey or vodka. If you're a little cold, he'll toss over a nice blanket over your legs, but don't expect much more in that regard. This is all about him relaxing and he wants you cuddled around his waist, your face on his tummy. A perfect evening in.

[copinghex]

Armistice of the heart | T.S

Summary: Mrs. Shelby worries Tommy’s fits might take him away from her. She vowed to stay with him in sickness and in health and intends to keep it, it doesn’t matter how hard he makes things be. 

A/N: It feels so strange to write for season 6,  I didn’t know what to do with the child death plotline, so I just stuck it up my ass, no child dies here.

WARNING: This fic contains Tommy's fits (obviously), panic attacks and the 1920s mentality

The heavy velvet curtains swayed with the breeze. Even during colder months, Tommy insisted a crack of the window should be open, he breathed better this way. The bedroom smelled of Mrs. Shelby’s moisturizer and clean sheets. The fireplace cracked, Tommy turned a page of his book and a maid in high heels walked past the door. Those were the louder sounds of that night. The world was quiet.

Mrs. Shelby’s eyes were fixed in the same spot for a while, resting her head on Tommy's thigh, her mind kept drifting back to the state she found him that morning. At first, she thought he had only slipped, then he didn't stand up. Against his will, she called a doctor, who only defined the episode as a fit. There had to be something more, Tommy barely reacted to the diagnosis. She knew he was reckless, his life was always on the line, but was he really selfish to the point of not searching for a diagnosis? If his condition was grave, would he abandon his family just for some more hours of work?

In a deep inhale, she pressed a sloppy kiss above his knee, desperate for assurance he was still there, with her, where he belonged. Tommy was slipping through her fingers and she was scared, scared he'd fall and never get up again, scared his brain would be damaged, scared there was no cure. Unconsciously, she dug her nails on his skin, she'd never find peace if he was gone. Thomas was her peace.

The man who had a long criminal record, cursed every three words and hid corpses under their wine cellar, was an angelic painting in the canvas of her brain. He looked so fragile in sleepwear and a book in hand, his long lashes blinked on the captivating eyes, they were the first thing to catch her attention years ago, blue, not like the ocean or the sky, blue like sadness itself, challenging, his full lips tasted like whiskey and remained closed, it was his eyes that said come closer, take down the walls around this heart. 

His hands, built as fighting machines and carrying a ring of loyalty to his criminal organisation, were also so gentle on her, touching her skin with the tenderness she had never experienced before, he supported her waist, bouncing her up and down in a rhythm of her choosing and kissing her chest, right where her heart was, those, neither of them knew yet, but would be marked in her forever. Only the thought of losing him one day terrified her.

Nuzzling his thigh, she brushed her face on him, a habit he was often entertained by, if he was a horse, she was the barn's cat, you couldn't take one without the other. Peeking above the book, Tommy ran a heavy hand on her hair. “Promise me will look for a better doctor, Tom,” 

“I will,” he answered.

They didn't talk about it again.

—

She didn't know why Tommy still went to the parliament, in his endless scheming, he drained his own health. In their bedroom's suite, she hoped her kisses would keep him home a little longer, her head was off the shower’s curtain. How bad could it be to get a little late and be an attentive husband? 

“I have to go,” he said against her lips, holding her hand that was locked to his tie.

“Just a little longer? Please?” she tried to persuade him into the shower.

“Begging for a quickie, love?” Tommy teased, setting himself free and heading to the exit, “I expect the same enthusiasm when I get home.” 

The sunrise shone beautifully through the windows, lighting up the dark green walls. The early mornings were Tommy's favorite, he stopped at the top of the stairs, watching the passage of sleepy-looking maids, still tempted to return to his wife's arms.

A single minute later, she heard a heavy thump and the maids screaming. She didn't even turn the shower off, grabbing her robe and running off the bedroom. In the middle of the steps, Tommy's suitcase was open, a cascade of documents fell to the floor, inches away, his body shook with violence. “Oh my God, Tommy!!!” 

She fell to her knees beside him, unsure of what to do. His pupils had rolled to the back of his head, making his eyes completely white, his face was red and his breath trembling at the same pace of shakes. What if he was choking? Cradling his head, she held him like a baby. “Tommy! Tommy, love! Can you hear me?!” Her hands ran through every spot of his head, as if she'd find a power off button. Nothing could be done, she held him against her body tight enough to restrain his movements.

As suddenly as he started, Tommy stopped shaking. He covered his face with a hand while his other arm kept still beneath him, broken. She looked up, helping him hide from the circle of maids around them. “What are you looking at? Go back to work!” She barked.

The crowd dissipated, without realizing, she lulled her husband back and forth, “it’s okay, it’s okay now,” she whispered. It soothed both of them. She caressed his head, following the way down to his neck and back, finishing with circular moves between his shoulder blades. “I got you, eh?” 

Tommy moved slowly, hissing when his arm hurt, had had his ribs smashed before, he recognized the sort of pain. His eyes moved around the room, his house’s entrance hall, not a tunnel. Looking up, his wife stared at him, hand cupping the back of his head. He frowned, using his leg to try to get up, since the arm he was laying on was unusable, he only managed with her help, she pulled him up by under his arms exactly like she did with their children. How humiliating. 

“Go to your office,” she instructed, “I’ll get your papers and call a doctor.” Her tone was calm, Thomas was no fool though, she spoke softly to induce his mood, not because she was calm herself. The worry was still clear on her face. Holding his broken arm, Tommy headed to his office, as soon as she was alone, Mrs. Shelby snapped her fingers for a maid to pick up the papers, at that moment she didn’t care for any of the business. As a matter of fact, she wished the company and the parliament exploded, it was them that made Tommy sick.

-

“You need some rest, no driving or playing sports, other than that you're alright, Mr. Shelby,” Dr. Holford put a cast in Tommy's arm. After the incident, the house was full of whispers, the kindest maids pitied Tommy, the meanest claimed his condition was punishment for his sins.

“What about his head?” Mrs. Shelby asked.

“What about it?” 

“Doctor, as I told you, Tommy has been going through fits, like fainting but- I don't know, wouldn’t you recommend we do some deeper examinations in a hospital?” 

Tommy and the doctor switched a look. His lips pursed as he explained, “Look, Mrs. Shelby, an unhealthy lifestyle, such as drinking or working too hard might lead to fits,”

“But Tommy doesn’t drink anymore,” she argued. Tommy nodded to Holford and he left against her protests, “can you believe it?! I’m not- Fuck it, that’s it, we’re going to a hospital now,”

Tommy sighed, his eyes had dark circles since early in the morning, the fit seemed to make them worse. As he walked to his desk, she noticed he had lost weight, for the first time she saw how much older he looked compared to before Polly’s death or before he became a MP. Those people were destroying him, she couldn’t allow that. “What is it, Tommy? Do you really trust that fucker? He only looked at your arm! He ignored me!”

Tommy unlocked a drawer and revealed an examination file, she rushed to get it, lifting the X-ray against the sunlight as he had done months ago, the tumour was huge, pressing parts of the brain she couldn’t tell the function, not that it mattered, the thing simply shouldn't be there. “That’s me,” Tommy said, “it’s inoperable, non transmissible, but I’ll get me gone in six months,”

Her face was blank, Tommy’s voice got farther and farther, her silky dress got too warm for the current season, sticking to her body as if it was two sides smaller. “What?” The office suddenly felt sultry, she frowned at the sight of the windows open. It didn’t make sense. Taking a step back, she turned her back on him, the bookshelves were blurry and her face got sweaty. No, she wanted to look at him. “Tommy,” she called, the X-ray fell from her hand. Her legs were weak and her lips dried. “No,” she whispered. Six months? Tommy would be gone in six months. The paintings she had carefully helped him choose were spinning. The world got darker…

And darker…

Tommy held her head before it hit the floor, he called for help. It was the last thing she heard.

-

A weak hum was the only sound she was strong enough to make, some nice wind refreshed her face while her left hand was too warm. “She’s waking up!” a female familiar voice said, Clara? No, perhaps Sandra. Her brain found out the warmth on her hand was Tommy, he was holding her hand a bit too tightly. The wind was gone, the maid with the fan got dismissed. “Can you hear me, love?”

She turned her face to the sound of Tommy’s voice. Weakly nodding. In their bedroom, all windows were open, the heavy blanket replaced by a light sheet, everything set up for her comfort. She felt something cold on her lips. “Here, have some water,” he said. Mrs. Shelby kept her eyes closed until she felt normal again, wishing that when she opened her eyes, Tommy’s arm wouldn’t be broken, she’d tell him of the dream she had and he’d conclude it was from the nerves. She was worried about his fits but he’d be diagnosed and medicated, nothing grave, only her worrying too much.

“Francis told me the same thing happened when I had the accident with Father Hughes,” Tommy commented, “Why did you never tell me?”

“Accident,” she scoffed, a cracked skull with internal bleeding was not an accident, “what would you have done? Doctor said it’s emotional.”

He sighed, caressing her fingers, her hand looked so fragile in his, her knuckles were delicate, not battered like his own, her wedding ring was displayed with pride, she always kept it clean and lustrous. The only person to never try to limit him. She was always there, now he’d have to leave her, defeated by his own body. He didn’t want to go, if he received the same news from her, his reaction would probably be similar. The truth was, in those circumstances, he’d do anything she asked. 

Her eyes opened, she looked at his cast, the grey in his hair, in six months it’d be all gone, what an awful wife she was, Tommy was not even fifty yet and looked so much older, wasn’t she meant to take care of him? “What will you do?”

“Y/N…”

“Don’t kid me, Thomas,” she demanded.

“What do you want me to do? I’ll finish this business, then-” his jaw clenched as he looked away from her, “Then I’ll go away, I can’t drag down you with me,”

“You already have,” she coldly stated, “I’ll go with you,”

“No-”

“And don’t try to stop me, I’ll find you anywhere! If you go to the hills, I’ll find you, if you go back to France, I’ll find you and I’ll stay with you until you’re gone!” She snapped, “And I swear to you that if when I’m gone you don’t come to take me to the other side, I’ll find you in heaven or hell!” 

Tommy gulped, “So I don't have a say on it?” 

“No,” she nodded, “you can make things easier or harder for both of us.”

-

Eight months later

Marianne Allen grew up in a catholic school, unlike some of her friends, she never looked at the boys sitting at the other side of the isle, her eyes were fixed in the rosary in her hand. At seventeen, she went to a charm school, becoming remarkable for her polite and delicate manners, her tea, embroideries, dancing and piano play were the best. She knew the bible inside out. The perfect wife. The most moral amongst the women. All her dedication was wasted by the Great War, her husband died and she’d been alone since. Her hair got grey, her beautiful smile put wrinkles around her eyes, she was still virtuous, but no one looked at her in the streets anymore.

It never stopped her from looking at people, Mrs. Allen had mixed feelings about the couple who rented the house across the street. The rumors didn't go easy on them. They were gypsies, criminals, the whispers went far enough to say the man was a MP, the type to make your life worse and never show his face. They were in fact strange, she thought the gypsy part was right, they were barely ever home, if they were, their children were too, brought by a woman in a Rolls Royce she overheard was called Ada, they only stayed for a few of weeks and disappeared again.

 Although reluctant, she was determined to know the couple better to satisfy her own curiosity. A sunny Friday evening, she learned by watching through the window the children had left yesterday, she baked a Shepherds pie and crossed the street, she was short on time before they left again. Close to their door, she heard the woman laughing, the man kept talking excitedly, they sounded like newlyweds.

Breathing in to get some courage, she knocked, the laugh immediately stopped, everything got quiet, she heard the man asking something and steps coming to answer the door. The woman was wearing a yellowish dress, the cut was simple but the cloth showed how expensive it was. She carried an orchid brooch in her chest which Marianne’s eyes fell on. 

The woman sized her up and weakly smiled, “Hello,”

“H-hi,” Mrs. Allen greeted, “I'm Marianne Allen, your neighbor from across the street, hm, I never got the chance of welcoming you, you're rarely ever home,”

“Y/N Shelby,” she shook Marianne’s hand, “I’d invite you in for some tea, but my husband and I are just about to leave,”

“I imagined so, please, take this pie,” Marianne kept looking at the brooch, “An orchid? It means-”

“Love and strength,” she completed, “my husband stole it from Tiffany's,”

“Oh, hm, I see,” Mrs. Allen stepped back, the rumours were right, those people were strange, “I must go home now.”

Without bigger goodbyes, the elderly lady crossed the street. Mrs. Shelby laughed, the brooch wasn’t stolen, she only wanted to get a reaction. “Tommy!” She went back inside, “Our lunch is guaranteed.”

“Who was it?” He asked, pouring them two glasses of whiskey.

“Ah, some neighbour from across the street,” she shrugged off, took her glass and proposed a toast, “a last trip before we get that fucker Holford?”

His glass touched hers, they gulped down their drinks and sat down to eat.

They were officially back from under the ground.

[thotthumb]

James Wilson Has A Superiority Kink

Reader is written with AFAB Transmasc people in mind.

Do not read if you are under the age of 18 as there is SEXUAL CONTENT WRITTEN UNDER THE CUT

Content Warnings: Wilson talks about fucking a baby into the reader but it’s just horny talk, Wilson cures his whiskey dick by getting good head apparently, Wilson begs to cum, Wilson is called “Handsome Boy” and “Good Boy” as well as “Baby”, Wilson is intended to be so subby and brain dead during horny hours it’s basically pathetic, Last paragraph is kinda cum eating depending on how you look at it.

Word count: 690

Authors Note: this is legit just James Wilson being a submissive, pathetic man that’s drunk off getting touch his partner (but specifically when and how they tell him to) brainrot because i wanna do unspeakable things to this doctor and it’s gonna be y’all’s problem

James Wilson has a superiority kink and i know it (i thought about it and i like the idea).

James Wilson who gets gets rock fucking hard when you boss him around. But use that specific tone of voice, the tone that sounds like you’re holding back from running your fingers through his hair while you shove a hand down his pants. The tone of voice that sounds like you want to devour him whole but haven’t decided if he’s earned it yet.

James Wilson who has cured his whiskey dick simply by bedding the Head of the Psychology Department (there’s quite a few more mental health cases running around than there are cancer cases so technically Psych is a higher position and YES. It does still confuse James as to how cancer isn’t upmost priority but neither of you get paid enough for that). That’s all it took. Just him having his superior looming over him after pulling away from a kiss and caressing his jaw. All you had to do was touch him and he started acting like a schoolboy.

James Wilson who could barely feel his face when the aforementioned Head of Psych had their nose pressed to his pelvis with his cock so fucking far down their throat. You had him gripping the sheets in effort to keep from splattering your face when you told him if he kept being good you’d let him cum wherever he’d like. Please, you know how much he likes getting to leave his mark with his release (he was slightly possessive when it came to his partners).

James Wilson who is moaning into the back of your neck, pistoning his hips almost furiously into yours as he has you on your hands and knees. He wants this release so bad he borderline needs it. He barely got through you edging him, he nearly came too many times but now he was so close. “Please le’me cum.. wanna fuck,” He pushed you down onto the bad with a hand in between your shoulders, “wanna fuck a baby into you please.” He sounded pathetic but in an oddly hot and sexual way. “I’ve been so good, please just let me cum inside. Need it so bad.” He’s babbling horny nonsense now. “James, baby, you wan-“ You were cut off by him giving a series of harder thrusts, strangled moans slipping out. You couldn’t help it, he knew what he was doing far too well (it made you jealous sometimes knowing that other people have also received dick from this man). “Fff-fuck yes! Go on, cum, my handsome boy!” It took a second to finally get the words out due to James not halting his thrusts in the slightest but he didn’t care at the moment.

“Fuck thank you, thank you…” He was beginning to whine out his thank you’s as he felt his dick twitch. He hasn’t came in at least an hour and has been rock hard the entire time. He was aching for this orgasm, even his cockhead was an angry reddish color matching his flushed face. You knew he was biting his lip, hazy brown eyes half lidded and lightly crossing, his eyebrows pinched together, and sweat likely dripping off his nose at this point. He always looked beautiful when he came undone.

Finally, a high pitched gasp and a long, drawn out whiney moan came from the man behind you. He hunched over you, hiding his face in your neck in an attempt to muffle the embarrassing sounds coming from him (it didn’t help at all and it made those debaucherous sounds enter your ears in high definition) as his hips were moving sloppily and barely holding together a rhythm. You could feel your legs beginning to shake as the sounds coming from him finally sent you over. “G’ boy, sucha good boy f’me,” you choked out.

You nearly jumped when you felt James’ breath fanning over your sex, your legs still shaking from the orgasm you’ve barely started recovering from. Then, you nearly squealed when you felt his tongue lick a broad stripe from top to bottom.

[cosmiccrushes]

A Choice Made

Lucanis x Rook || 2k words

Summary: Lucanis finds Rook drowning her sorrows at the bottom of a bottle as she struggles to come to terms with the consequences of her choice to help Minrathous or Treviso

i'm also on ao3 <3

***

Lucanis plops the heavy pot of stew down in the center of the dining table. His team filters in around him, like clockwork. Meal times in the Lighthouse have become an easy routine for them all. Bowls clatter, dishes are passed around, and finally Lucanis takes his own seat. Observing the group, Lucanis registers that one head of curls is missing. 

“Where's Rook?” He asks the group at large. 

Some glance at Rook's empty chair, several of them shrug. 

It's Bellara who speaks up. “I found a note earlier. Rook said she was going out for a drink.” 

Lucanis’ brow furrows with concern. “Alone?” 

Bellara lifts a shoulder. “I guess. The note didn't say, but we're all here aren't we?” She looks around the table at their companions. 

“I don’t like this.” Davrin's mouth is set in a hard line. The Grey Warden, always the pragmatic protector. “None of us should be going off alone, but especially Rook. The Gods must have a massive target on her back.” 

Lucanis is in very strong agreement. “Did the note say where she was going for drinks?” He directs his question at Bellara. Bellara shakes her head, her smile tight and apologetic. 

Lucanis’ chair scrapes back from the table as he stands. “I will go find her.” 

Emmrich’s hand flutters on top of the table in agitation. “But how? She could’ve gone anywhere.” 

Lucanis’ gaze briefly locks with Neve’s. “She could’ve. But she didn’t.” Neve responds with the smallest nod of her head. A shared, silent knowledge passing between them of how Rook has struggled since Minrathous. Since Neve began rejoining the group- at least for meals. 

Davrin stands as well. “I’ll accompany you.” 

“No,” Lucanis says, too sharp. Davrin raises an eyebrow at him. “I know where she’ll be and I don’t think she’ll be all that grateful for company.”

Davrin squints at him, one fist flexing. Then relents, drops back into his chair, pulling a steaming bowl of stew towards him. “All right. But at least tell us where you’re going in case you don’t come back.” 

Lucanis looks to Neve again. She stares impassively at the food in front of her. “Dock Town,” Lucnais answers Davrin’s request.   

***

The streets of Dock Town glint with Venatori steel. The cultists prowl everywhere. Lucanis’ stomach twists as he passes through a square, Shadow Dragons swing from ropes. This could have been Treviso. That could have been Rook. He quickens his pace. 

The Cobbled Swan’s warmth spills onto the street as he approaches. Music and conversation rise up to greet him. He weaves his way through the tavern, shouldering past drunken patrons who get in his way. His eyes peeled for red hair. He finds her. Tucked into a corner, pint glasses fanned out around her. She rests her head on folded arms atop the wooden table, her back to him. Tension releases that Lucanis did not even realize his body was holding.

“Rook?” He eases into a seat beside her, briefly thinking of a time they sat just like this, sharing a cup of coffee in a different city.

She turns her head towards him, not lifting it from her arms. “Luc,” she says in greeting. The smell of whiskey hangs heavy on her breath. 

Lucanis glances at all the empty flagons. “How much have you had?” 

A noncommittal gesture moves through her shoulders. “A few.” 

Lucanis itches to reach out and snatch the half full cup in front of her away. But it’s not his place to tell her what to do- or how to nurse her grief. “Have you eaten anything?” 

“Ever in my life? Sure.” He inclines his head at her sardonic tone. She sighs. “No, Lucanis. I haven’t eaten anything tonight.” 

“This won’t fix anything, you know,” Lucanis says softly. 

“Really?” Rook looks at him with mock surprise. “And here I thought I’d cracked the code to curing bad decisions!” 

“It’s dangerous to be out on your own.” Rook rolls her eyes at him and he grits his teeth. “What was your plan? Get so drunk you couldn’t find your way back to the eluvian? Stumble your way into a Venatori trap?” He can’t keep the anger from coloring his words. 

Rook finally picks her head up off the table. “My plan?” Her words slur. “Oh, my plan was most certainly to drown my woes in booze and then-” Her signature mischievous smirk. “I thought I’d see about stumbling my way into that handsome bartender’s bed.” She points over her shoulder at a man pouring drinks for patrons. “I thought that sounded like a far more enjoyable trip to make. And not even a single Venatori involved.” 

Lucanis’ throat squeezes. He feels Spite’s jeering laughter skittering across his mind. If Rook wanted to distract herself, relieve her pain with pleasure- that was her choice. Lucanis didn’t get a say in who she took to bed.

Yet he couldn’t hold his tongue- or his jealousy- enough not to say, “If you need a distraction, I could help.” 

She smiles coyly at him. “Are you offering your bed, Luc?” Mierda. The intimate way she shortened his name shot straight through him. A familiar, frustrating yearning. Spite laughed harder. No. No, Lucanis was not offering that. Could not offer that. 

“I was thinking more along the lines of a game of Wicked Grace. Or perhaps a friendly duel.”

She huffs. “Your plan would involve swords. I think mine is better.” 

His fingers twitch against the table. If he has to watch her walk out of here with someone else…

Selfish, so selfish, Spite hums. 

Lucanis does his best to ignore the demon. 

Won’t take what you want…won’t let her have what she’d like. 

Lucanis looks away. Shut up, demon. 

Spite is delighted. Let me talk to her! I could help her. I could give her the distraction she seeks.

Lucanis brings a fist down, rattling the drinkware and startling Rook, who looks at him with the most sober eyes he’s seen from her tonight. 

“Forgive me.” 

“Spite?” She asks knowingly.  

“I have it handled.” 

She nods, eyes already skating back to the bartender. 

Lucanis braces himself. “You deserve a night off, Rook. And you deserve whatever joy you can find.” He nods towards the bartender, “If that’s it, then take it.” The words are ash in his mouth. “But eventually, you need to talk about what happened. You cannot avoid it- and Neve- forever.” 

“Talk about what happened…” Rook says faintly, staring at the bartender for so long that Lucanis thinks her decision for the night has already been made. Then she says, in a tone so miserable he has to stop himself from reaching out to take her hand, “What happened is that I made a choice. And that choice cost people, my people, their lives.”

She takes an angry swill from her mug. Lucanis is silent. It seems a dam on her words has broken and they pour out of her now. “I chose not to go to my own people, Luc. How could I do that? Neve is never going to forgive me- and why should she? I betrayed the Shadow Dragons trust.”

Slow and patient, Lucanis nods. “You chose to come with me to save Treviso. Innocent people lived because of you.” 

“And what of the innocent people of Minrathous who did not live? What of my fellow Shadow Dragons, slain by the Venatori?” 

Lucanis suspects this is not a rhetorical question as her eyes bore into him. That she seeks an absolution no one can give her. “You had to make an impossible choice-” A distressed shake of her head. “So- why did you make the one you did, Rook?”

He can see the tears she is fighting hard to hold back. “I thought they would win,” she whispers. Lucanis cannot stop himself from reaching out now, cupping his hand around hers where it rests on the table. She looks down at their joined hands. “I didn’t think for one second the Shadow Dragons would fall. I didn’t think-” She looks back up at him, a rare softness to her that Lucanis aches to wrap up and protect. 

“I know,” Lucanis squeezes her hand, silent permission to say what she needs to say. 

“I thought I could do more good in Treviso, prevent more deaths. The Shadow Dragons, they are accustomed to moving as one, coordinating. But the Crows,” She watches him, something of an apology in her eyes. “The Crows operate alone in the shadows so often.” Another squeeze of his hand around hers. “I feared they wouldn’t stand a chance trying to protect the citizens and fight off a dragon.” 

“Rook,” Lucanis dips his head to hold her gaze. “It is not a crime to have faith in your people. To help those you think will need it most.” 

A tear finally breaches the rim of her eye. Lucanis sweeps it away with his thumb. Immediately dropping his hand away to join his other clasped around hers. 

“But I was wrong,” her voice hardens. “The Shadow Dragons did fall. And I wasn’t there.” She pulls her hand away from his, draining the rest of her cup. She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth and sways in her seat. 

“An impossible choice, with irreversible consequences,” Lucanis offers solemnly. “But we will rebuild and retake Minrathous.” It’s a contract he speaks between them. 

“We?” The single word on her lips sends a thrill through Lucanis. 

“You chose to help my people. I will repay that debt to yours.” Lucanis vows. 

She focuses on him, reaches out a finger to tap his chest. “You would do that?” 

“You are not alone, Rook.” 

Sadness bends the curve of her mouth. “It feels like it sometimes. Everyone is looking to me to make decisions. The team. Varric. I feel like I’m one footstep away from leading everyone off of a cliff.” 

“If you are the one leading, I would gladly go over the ledge.” Lucanis bites down on his tongue, afraid he’s revealed too much in his desire to provide her comfort. Worth it when the sound of laughter falls from her lips. “I only mean to say,” Lucanis goes on. “That you are a good leader, Rook. And all good leaders must make the best of impossible choices.” 

“Thank you, Lucanis.” She smiles. “Well then,” She stands abruptly on wobbling feet. Lucanis rises beside her, anxiety coursing through him that she’s decided to proposition the bartender after all, that this is farewell for the evening. 

She takes a step, stumbling. “Oh!” In her drunken surprise, she throws out a hand to steady herself against his chest as she trips. He moves with an assassin’s instinct, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him. Her hand presses flat against his heart, which he’s sure must be racing.

“Are you sure you don’t have any bad decisions in you tonight?” There’s a challenge in her eyes.  

Mierda. He releases her, steps back, his hand lingering at her waist. “You’re drunk,” he says gently. 

“And you’re possessed by a demon. We all have our issues.” 

He fights down a smile, unwilling to encourage her. Drops his forehead to hers, his restraint slipping for just a moment. But he lets go of her waist, motioning to the tavern’s exit. “Can I interest you in an evening stroll instead?”

“Will it end with Venatori filth on the end of my blade? Surely that’s one bad decision you can allow.” 

Her words still slush together and an unsteadiness vibrates her frame. A vision of her facing off against Venatori cultists in a darkened alley, reflexes slowed from drink floods through him. “When it comes to you, they’re all bad decisions,” he replies gruffly, turning to lead them from the bar. 

She matches his stride on shaky legs, grips his bicep as she ducks under a server hoisting a drink laden tray over their heads. Mutters a curse when she staggers against him, the liquor in her blood proving to greatly impair her agility. Lucanis sighs, wrapping an arm back around her, tucking her in against his side as he pushes through the crowded bar. She closes her fingers around a fistful of his jacket, her knuckles pressing into his abdomen. When they cross the threshold to the street outside, she does not let go. Neither does he. 

They walk, pressed together, all the way back to the eluvian. 

[holdmytesseract]

moodboard by the wonderful @chennqingg <3

One Last Chance [EoH]

Daryl Dixon x fem!Reader

Summary: Can you give Daryl one last chance and let him back into your life? After all, he never left our heart...

Warnings: mentions of drugs and alcohol, swear words, angst? fluff-ish ending

Pre-Apocalypse Era!

Word Count: 2k

a/n: I dunno why, but I truly love this story. It's a very important part of the EoH universe. I hope you enjoy it, too! ☺️

EoH Masterlist °☆• Daryl Masterlist °☆• Masterlist

And I was there standing outside your door

Waiting for you to show me how to stay

~ 'Ready to Fight' by Roby Fayer & Tom Gefen

"Go home, Dixon," spoke the bartender with dreadlocks, tattooed arms and lip piercings, while she was polishing one of the glasses. Daryl sat on the other side of the bar; fifth glass of Whiskey in hands. "You've had enough, don't ya think?"

The younger Dixon brother shook his head and snuffled. "Nah. Ain't enough. Still gotta numb the pain." Chrissie - the bartender - snorted out an almost sarcastic laugh, before shaking her head as well. "Alcohol won't solve yer problem. Whatever it is."

Now Daryl was the one laughing sarcastically. "Yeah? Well, I learned it from ma old man. Didn't fail ta help him." Chrissie rolled her eyes. "You're not yer father, ya know? Try to be better than him."

Daryl answered nothing for a moment; let her words sink in. The noises around him were so loud... Clinking glasses, loud voices and 'Every Breath You Take' by 'The Police' blaring from the old jukebox in the corner - and yet all he could hear were his own thoughts and Chrissie's words.

He took another sip; swallowing hard. "'S about a girl."

The hint of a smile could be seen on the bartender's face. "Thought so." Her words caused Daryl to frown. "Why?" She rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. "'Cause it mostly is. Yer not the first man sittin' here with lovesickness and a broken heart."

Once again, Daryl said nothing and just stared at his glass of Whiskey.

"What am I gonna do?"

Chrissie shrugged her shoulders. "Look, I dunno what the problem is, but I can tell ya this..." She threw the rug over her shoulder, leaned in closer to Daryl, "Go talk to 'er. 'S better than drowning yerself in alcohol." and took his almost empty glass away. The redneck shook his head. "Ain't workin'. Already tried. She ain't believin' me." Once more shrugged Chrissie her shoulders. "Then give her a reason to believe ya."

Those words struck Daryl to the core. Give her a reason to believe ya.

He lifted his gaze to meet the bartender's. "Fuckin' hell, yer right..." Chrissie winked at him. "I know. 'M usually right." Daryl stood up from the bar stool, "'S what 'm goin' to do." threw some money on the bar and immediately turned his back to leave for the door. Chrissie smiled; eyes following his figure vanishing in the crowd.

The redneck quickly made his way home. Well, as quick as possible with being definitely tipsy.

He staggered down the few steps, which led to his and his brother Merle's old, shabby basement apartment - if you could even call it an apartment. It was one room with an even tinier room attached, which served as a bathroom.

Daryl closed the door quietly behind him, but almost stumbled over a sleeping Merle, his empty beer bottles and stacks of Playboy and motorbike magazines with hot chicks on the covers. Merle grumbled and grunted in his sleep, but luckily didn't wake up. Daryl hadn't the nerve to argue with him now.

Reaching his little corner of the room, he rummaged through a pile of magazines, bills and other paperwork, until he found what he was looking for. With a victorious smile, he took the slightly crinkled envelope and made his way to the main door again. Why didn't he think of this right away? The possible solution to the situation he was in and the cure to his heartache was right in front of his eyes for days - maybe even weeks! He just had to grab it. And that's what he did now.

Fifteen minutes later, he sat in a train; heading for Toccoa - your hometown. It took Daryl less than an hour to get to your parental home. He swallowed hard as he set foot on the porch; not exactly great memories flooding his mind.

Running his hand over his face, he took a deep breath and rang the doorbell; praying that you'd open the door and not your mom. Or, if Daryl was very unlucky and your dad would open the door, he was pretty much fucked.

Nervously chewing on his thumbnail, he heard footsteps approaching the door, before it swung open.

Life truly hated him.

Fuck, the redneck thought; fighting the urge to close his eyes.

As soon as your father's eyes met his, the older man's expression hardened. "What are you doing here?" The grey haired man spoke in a harsh voice; crossing his arms over his chest. "I told ya that I never wanted to see your fucked up ass on my yard again - and yet here you are..."

Well, let's put it that way... Your father didn't exactly like Daryl. Neither did your mother. They were convinced that he was nothing but a lost cause. A loser. An alcoholic - like his father. A junkie - and certainly very bad company.

In your mom's opinion he was too old for you and your dad said that he'd rather see you die as a single woman than being together with a man like Daryl.

The chestnut brown haired man clenched his jaw; tried to keep himself together.

"I wanna talk to Y/N. She here?" "Yeah, she is - but I won't let ya talk to her. Never again. Now get lost, before I do something I might regret."

Daryl snorted out his breath. "I ain't lettin' ya forbid me to talk to 'er. She's a grown woman. Ain't a lil' girl anymore. You can't tell her what to do!" Now your dad was laughing out loud, "What do you want to do, huh? Break into the house? Strike me down? Or even kill me right away?" before he gestured around. "Please... Do so. The cops are here faster than you can run - or wait... Are you even able to run? I'm sure you've taken a ship loads of drugs since I lastly saw your sorry ass."

Anger started to boil in the redneck's veins - and he had a really hard time controlling it. But, he also knew, that he could not fuck this up now. He was here to fix things... Not to break them even more.

"You ain't know shit 'bout me or what I do. None of yer business anyways." Your father took a threatening step closer to Daryl. "Oh, I know enough, Dixon. And since you try to get your dirty hands on my daughter, it is my business what you do," the older man snarled; raising his voice.

Daryl also took a threatening step closer; causing the both men to stand mere inches away from each other. The tension was literally cuttable with a knife - but not in the good kind of way...

"Oh yeah?! Well, lemme tell ya this then. I-"

Daryl got cut off by a voice which didn't belong to the man standing opposite him. It was your voice.

"Hey! What the hell is going on here?!" You literally stormed through the door, seeing your (boy)friend and father almost being at each other's throat. "Well, I'm tryin' to tell your junkie ex-lover to move his ass from our property." "I ain't a junkie, you-" "I am a what, huh?! C'mon, say what ya have to say!" Your father immediately cut off Daryl. In return he planted himself straight in front of your dad threateningly; chest puffing.

That was the moment you knew you had to intervene, before something bad would most likely happen. "Stop! Both of you! That's enough!" You yelled and got in between them; pushing Daryl a few steps back - and he let you. Unbeknownst to you, took your sudden touch almost his breath away.

"For fucks sake, we are all adults here! Can we please behave like such, please?!"

Daryl immediately threw you a sorrowful look; while your dad still held his distrustful gaze. You looked both men dead in the eye, "Thanks." before you directed your attention fully on Daryl. "Why are you here, Daryl?"

The redneck swallowed hard. "'M here ta talk. Please." You took a deep breath, but nodded; "Alright." then turned to face your father. "Just a few minutes, okay?" He eyed you critically. "Please, dad?" You added; hoping to get through to him.

Silent second after silent second ticked by until he finally nodded. "Alright. But if he's not gone in ten minutes, 'm calling the cops. Are we clear?" Now you were the one nodding and agreeing to your dad's 'terms'.

With a last threatening look thrown at Daryl, the older man returned inside the house.

Once more, you met the beautiful blue-greyish eyes of the man who had undoubtedly captured your heart. For quite a few moments the both of you just stared at each other, until you cleared your throat. "What do ya want to talk about?" Daryl swallowed hard again; Adam's apple bobbing. "I miss ya..." The man whispered; causing you to immediately inhale deeply. "Daryl..." "No, please... Hear me out." You shook your head; crossing your arms over your chest. "We've had this conversation about a trillion times already..." "I-I know, but..." Daryl stepped closer to you. "Please. This time, 's different." "You say that every time, Daryl. And every time I gave you another chance and every time you fuck it up again," you paused for a moment; already trying to suppress the tears, before you continued. "Look, I really want to choose you, but... You're makin' it difficult."

The chestnut brown haired man squeezed his eyes shut for a moment; feeling the chilly evening breeze brush his bare arms and slip through the holes in his jeans. Chewing on his bottom lip, he nodded. "I know. Shit, I sure know I did. And I also know that I don deserve another chance. Problem is, that I fuckin' love ya, Y/N. 'M life's shit - but it's worse without ya, so please... One more chance. 'M beggin' you."

By now you were really fighting the tears. Still did his words cut deeper than a knife - because you felt the same. "I-I miss you too and you know that I love you more than I can say, but... I don't know how long I can play this game... I don't know if I can trust you over and over again, only for you to break it."

Daryl started to shake his head and took another step closer. "Nah, ain't fuckin' it up this time." He handed you the envelope, which was stowed away in his back pocket. You took it with a frown, "Open it." but did what Daryl told you.

Unfolding the piece of paper, your eyes widened. You certainly didn't expect that. "You... You've got an invitation for a job interview?" He nodded; hope sparkling in his eyes. "I-I- Wow... Didn't expect that, but... It's great for you." The redneck shrugged his shoulders half-heartedly; "Tried ma best, I suppose." giving you the hint of a smile.

"Whatcha sayin', sunshine? One last chance?" You took another deep breath; trying to thoroughly think this through. "I ain't goin' to fuck it up... Please."

What your heart wanted was clear. There was no mistaking, but... Was it the right thing to do?

You closed your eyes for a moment; knowing already that your wit had lost the game. Your heart was stronger. "Alright," you started and reached out your hand to subtly take his in yours. Daryl shuddered at your touch; goosebumps forming on his skin. "One last chance, Mr. Dixon."

Utter relief flooded the man's face - you could tell. He smiled that sweet, crocked smile you loved so much. "Thank ya. I won't disappoint ya. I promise." You lifted your free hand and cupped his cheek; feeling his stubble on your skin. "This was never about disappointment, Daryl..."

Daryl leaned into your touch and moved even closer; his intention clear - but you pulled back. "Not now. Not here. If my dad sees..." You swallowed hard. "We should keep that - us a secret for a while. I dunno what happens if we don't do that..." The redneck took a step back; nodding and lowering his head. "Yeah... Yer right."

You gave his hand a squeeze. "You should go now... Not that my dad really calls the cops. I wouldn't want that."

Daryl knew you were right, so he dropped your hand and walked down the steps leading to your porch. "I'll see ya?" He asked you; voice filled with hope. You smiled; nodding. "Yeah."

Tags: @angelwings-crossbowstrings @belitoxx @lou12346789 @fictive-sl0th @marvelcasey05 @loz-3 @mischief-dream @whore4romance @bigbaldheadname @stitchintimefan @making-the-most-0f-it @erebus-et-eigengrau @km-ffluv @0-aubrie0 @mikaela-granger @sweetz1919 @secretsicanthideanymore @dilfdixon @txtttttttttttttt @stiveroon @cakesandtom @dixons-sunshine @mayday2007

[autumnsvixen]

Distractions

Pairing: Erix x f! reader

Summary: Eris is looking for a stress reliever and you are the perfect cure

Warnings: smut (18+ only), oral (f receiving), fingering, p in v, some fire play, praise, slight degradation, choking, gross men, a very loose understanding of how autumn court money works.

A/N: Yeah i uhh... I have no words for this. But who doesn't like some good old fashioned Eris smut?

request guidelines || masterlist

The lights were dim in the tavern as you hummed softly to the music that filled the room. Your feet gently carried you and the four mugs of ale you held across the room, flashing a smile to the loud laughing patrons you passed. Setting the glassware on the table in front of the four burly males, you grinned, “anything else I can get for you?”

The male with the crooked smile and shaggy brown beard had a glint in your eye you were all too familiar with, “just your name, gorgeous.”

The smile on your face was soft, the result of years of mastering hiding the instinctive scowl at his words. “Y/n,” your voice was just as soft, ever the façade of gentleness.

Another at the table, this one with a head of messy orange hair and a chipped tooth adorning his hungry smile, spoke next, “well, y/n, I’d prefer to call you mine.”

You let out a gentle laugh, “well, if you can still walk straight when my shift is over, I might take you up on that.”

Truthfully, you had no intention of finding the male once your shift was over, not that he could keep up with his end of the bargain seeing as he was already 3 glasses in. But you’d found through your centuries of working at the tavern that males were more likely to leave you a few coins on the table when you played along with their flirting.

“In the meantime,” you continued, “I’ll be around. Let me know if you need anything.”

The night had been routine in every way, flirty patrons, loud groups, and more ale spilled than you cared to measure. You were headed into your last hour of your shift, lips tired fom the forced smile you kept plastered to your face, when the owner of the establishment, an older fae male with a head of white hair, called to you. “Could you help behind the bar? Alastair is getting slammed, and I can’t pour drinks as fast as I used to.”

You gave him a small nod, hiding the distaste that threatened to infect your features. The males at the bar were notoriously loud, handsy, and drunk, but you owed the older male your livelihood, so you complied.

As you took your place behind the bar and began to pout the orders of ale and liquor thrown at you, something in the air changed. The room felt heavier, voices quieted, as a tall, muscular man walked towards the empty seat a few feet to your left.

The deep red hair and wicked glint in his eyes warned you who the approaching man was. He held himself with grace, an air of arrogance and nobility surrounding him. If that wasn’t enough, the pristine clothing he wore was much too nice for a place like this.

“My lord,” you smiled politely, dipping your head in respect, “what can I get for you?”

His voice was deep, yet soft like honey, “what’s the strongest drink you can make?”

A smirk overtook your features as you set to work, mixing cinnamon whiskey with a strong stout. You poured extra portions of the spirit into two glasses, sliding the mixture and one shot over to the male.

“If I had to guess I would say you could use both. The shot’s on the house if you don’t tell the boss.”

The lordling perked an eyebrow at you, but downed it quickly, chasing it with the concoction you’d prepared him. You quickly threw the remaining shot down your throat, the cinnamon and alcohol warming your chest. “The name is y/n, let me know if you need anything.”

You swiftly moved to the patron a few seats down from him, setting back into your rhythm of pouring ale and dodging the hands of rather unruly customers. You couldn’t shake the feeling of the lordling watching you work, but you knew better than to question it, than to invite the wrath of Beron’s son.

You served the high fae male a few more drinks throughout the night, but didn’t pull much more conversation from him. As the tavern grew closer to closing and many of the patrons had filed out, you heard his hot honey voice again. “What gave me away?”

You cocked your head at the prince’s question, “pardon?”

His golden eyes were captivating, a mix of amusement and danger lying in them. His voice entranced you as he spoke, “you said I could use both drinks, and you know that I have the funds to pay for as many as I’d like, so why the free shot?”

Your teeth captured your bottom lip, an anxious habit you’d developed in childhood that your parents couldn’t break. You hadn’t meant to offend the fae, though you felt by his question that you might have.

Eris seemed to sense the nerves that overtook you. “Honest answer, please. I’m just curious.”

Raising your chin, you replied, “well for one, you didn’t care what I poured you as long as it was strong. And second, you’re in a tavern, hours away from the forest house. If I had to guess, you either had a long day away from home and stopped here for a drink before continuing…” You took a deep breath, trying to read the stoic expression of his face.

That damn eyebrow cocked up again, urging you to continue, “or you wanted to get as far away from that place as possible. And if that’s the case, I’m guessing you could use more than just a drink.” You placed another glass in front of him, this one a mix of bourbon, bitters, and orange.

He downed it in one gulp.

“I didn’t think I was so easily perceived.”

You chuckled, “I’ve served fae in this place for hundreds of years, and they only ever come here if they’re running to something or from something.”

His gaze darkened, “I don’t run from anything.”

The shift in his demeaner caused a flutter in your chest. As scared as you were of his tone, you also found it incredibly alluring. You leaned forward on the bar, his natural scent of amber and charcoal mixing with the cinnamon and ale on his breath. “Then what are you running to?”

His eyes roamed your features, glancing at your breasts that were pushed against the wood and your lips that held the smallest hint of a smirk, “a distraction.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place.”

Eris stayed seated at the bar while you finished your shift, only laying coins on the wooden surface once you had tossed your rag in a bin and signaled the other bartender that you were off for the night. You collected the proper amount of gold and tossed it into the jar where you kept the tavern’s earnings, leaving three pieces in front of the male. He slid them towards you, “those are for you.”

You smiled graciously at him, “we split the jar at the end of the week. Keep your coins.”

He shook his head, “now how is that fair? Everyone else benefiting from all your hard work?”

“We all work hard and we split it evenly. That is fair.”

A chuckle, “I don’t see the male bartender putting up with the crude comments of old fae like you do.”

You shrugged, “and you also don’t see me mopping the floors every night like he does.”

Eris picked the coins up from the bar with one hand, the other moving to find your own. His touch was warm and inviting, the effects of the fire that danced beneath his skin. He nudged your palm open, laying the gold on its surface, “then think of this as a personal thank you for your conversation tonight.”

A sincere smile spread across your face, “who knew that the cruel prince could be so generous.”

His warm breath sent a shiver down your spine as he leaned in, his soft lips hovering next to your ear, “you have no idea how generous I can be, darling.”

The hitch in your breath pulled a cocky grin to his lips. With his hand still holding yours, he led you out of the tavern and into the cool autumn night. “Would you let me walk you home?” he asked you, his eyes studying your face for any sign of discomfort.

You bit your lip, trying to decide if bringing the high lord’s son was a smart move. He moved his hand to caress your face, thumb gently pulling your lower lip from your teeth’s grasp, “princess, if you keep doing that, we aren’t going to make it to your house.” His voice was husky, laced with a hungry desire that sent a pulse straight to your core.

Letting out a soft breath, you responded, “good thing it’s not very far.”

The walk to your house was quiet, the pure attraction you felt towards the male keeping you from saying much for fear of disturbing the mood that had befallen the two of you. But once you got to your small cottage, a blush took over your cheeks.

“I know it’s not much, but it’s home,” you said softly, shame burning your face. The realization that you had brought the high lord’s son, a high fae raised in the finest house in all of the autumn court, to your one bedroom cottage had you second guessing your decision.

Your anxiety was only quelled when he took your hand and led you inside, with a soft utterance of, “it’s perfect.”

Once he stepped inside the small structure, his eyes swept over the room. Faelights bathed the living room in golden light and, as you looked at the future high lord, cast shadows over his face that accentuated every sharp line of his jaw. Your eyes drifted down to the veins accentuated in his neck, a neck that you desperately wanted to cover in marks.

You had never felt this level of attraction towards any male, the carnal desire to have him. He looked so large in your small home, the dominance radiating off of him was captivating.

He seemed to notice your stare, turning towards you with dark eyes, “see something you like?”

“I just might,” you muttered, eyes darting from his golden stare to his pink lips.

Eris took a small step towards you, reaching one hand to grab your waist gently while the other found a home under your jaw. There was a moment of hesitation in his expression before he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your lips.

You were shocked at his tenderness for only a moment before you kissed him back, hands finding purchase on his broad chest. As he pulled you closer to him to deepen the kiss, one of your hands traveled to the nape of his neck, pulling him closer in turn.

He tasted like the cinnamon whiskey you’d been serving him all night, combined with crisp apple and something that you could only identify as smoke.

Slowly, he moved the two of you so that your back was pressed against a wall, his lips not leaving yours. You moaned as he pressed his body against yours, the feeling of his arousal on your stomach sending a wave of need to your core. He swallowed your moan, pressing his tongue into your mouth.

The hand that was on your jaw moved down your chest to cup your breast through the fabric of your dress, causing you to arch yourself into him. He groaned at the fullness he found, squeezing tighter. The kiss grew sloppy as he began to grind himself into you, fingers leaving your waist to massage your ass. You whined as he groped you, relishing the way his hands felt all over your body.

His mouth left yours and pressed wet kisses down your jaw, your neck, to the hemline of your dress. He paused at your collarbone, taking his time and sucking a harsh mark into the skin. You moaned, pulling the hair just above his neck.

You could feel him smirk against your skin, “needy, are we?”

You wanted to come up with a snarky response, bit the feeling of his hands in all the right places and his lips sucking bruises onto your skin only allowed you to whimper a response.

He chuckled darkly against the purpling skin, hands reaching behind you to undo the laces of your dress. His mouth left your chest as he struggled to untie the laces and you took the opportunity to reconnect his lips with yours briefly, moving to press soft kisses down his jaw and neck.

A deep groan escaped him as you pressed against a particularly sensitive part of his neck, his crotch pushing into you. Through his pants you could already feel that he was big, and you had no doubts you would need to be prepped before taking him.

You felt the laces come fully undone and Eris easily slipped the fabric of your dress down your arms and chest, exposing your breasts to him fully. He snaked a hand to your hair, gripping it tightly to pull your lips from his neck.

“Princess, you are going to be the death of me.”

A smirk found its way to your lips at the glint in his eyes. It didn’t last very long, as you were soon moaning out as he took a nipple into his mouth. Your hand traveled down to the hem of his tunic, pulling at the fabric. He was wearing far too many clothes for your liking.

He pulled his lips from your chest after leaving a soft bite on the sensitive bud, helping you lift his shirt over his head. His lips met yours again in a fiery passionate kiss, arms circling your waist to pull you impossibly closer to him. Hands pulled at your dress, dragging it down to expose your lacey undergarments. You pulled your legs out of the skirt, kicking it away and giving Eris access to your exposed body.

A soft whine was swallowed by his mouth as he reached to caress your ass. A soft swat encouraged you to lift yourself up to him, his strong arms doing most of the work. You wrapped your legs around his exposed middle, back now pressed against the cold wooden wall of your cabin.

“Bedroom?” he asked softly against your lips, his hot breath coming out in pants.

You pressed your lips against his briefly before responding, “end of the hallway, you can’t miss it.” You then dove down to press your lips against his neck once again as he carried you to your room. At this point you were sure there would be glistening evidence of your arousal on his stomach, but you couldn’t find it in you to care.

He set you down gently on the edge of the bed, pressing a sweet kiss to your lips before kneeling in front of you. His mouth explored the path from your jaw to your breasts, taking time to lick and nip each of them, before continuing further south. Your legs instinctively opened as his head got closer and closer to where you were aching for him.

Eris grasped both thighs in his hands, throwing one over each shoulder. Your hands found their way to his red hair to stabilize yourself as he pressed his lips against the soft skin either side of your heat.

His large hand traveled to the seam of your panties, flicking it against your skin softly. He pressed a kiss to your center, dragging a sigh from your lips. “Need to do something about these,” he muttered against your clothed middle.

Before you could move, you felt a singe of heat. Not enough to hurt, but enough to pull another whine from you. You could feel the air against the skin where your underwear had just been. More importantly, you could feel Eris’s hot breath against your clit, causing you to push yourself closer to his mouth.

He stopped you before you could feel the relief of his lips, strong hands keeping your hips in place. As he spoke, you could almost feel his smirk against your heat, “did you like that darling? The feeling of my fire against your skin?”

Your teeth dragged your lower lip between them as you eagerly nodded. You could only imagine what that slight heat would feel like against your breasts.

As if he could read your mind, you felt one of his hands leave your thigh and travel up to your chest. His skin was hot as he tugged your puffy nipple between his fingers, pain and pleasure fusing together. “I thought I told you to stop biting your lip,” he muttered, pinching your breast harshly.

“Eris,” you whimpered, “need you.”

He blew cold air at your clit, causing your hips to buck softly and your hole to clench around nothing. “Show me some manners, darling.” You should have been embarrassed by the needy whines that escaped you, but you were far too desperate for him to care.

“Please,” you whispered.

“There’s my good girl,” he said softly, before licking a stripe up your entrance.

You tugged on his red locks as he gently sucked on your clit, the feeling sending a spike of pleasure up your spine. Your hips rocked against his head, and this time he let it happen.

His tongue swiped across you again before delving into your heat, a moan escaping him. “You taste just as sweet as I thought you would, doll.”

His praise was making you dizzy with desire, wanting nothing more than to keep him buried between your legs for the rest of your immortal life.

He pulled away for a moment, your hips rising to follow his lips only to be held down by his strong hands on your thighs. He looked up at you with dark, lustful eyes, “you really are a needy princess, aren’t you?” You whined as you tried to move your hips, desperate for the sweet friction his tongue provided you.

He tsked at you, “tell me how much of a needy slut you are, and I’ll let you come on my face.”

Your mind was foggy with lust as you did what he asked, muttering a weak, “I’m such a needy slut for you Eris, please.”

A dark chuckle left his lips before he attached them to your clit again. He ate you out with a hunger no male had ever shown you before. His tongue hit spots others could never reach. He let you ground your hips against his face as he buried his tongue deep inside your hole. If this is what his mouth felt like, you could only imagine how good he was with his cock.

The sound of your moaning grew louder as you felt yourself approaching your climax. You tugged harshly on Eris’s locks, “Eris.” He showed no signs of hearing your breathless utterance of his name, continuing to feast on your center.

The pressure built up in your middle. “I’m close,” your voice was mere whimpers.

Again, he gave no indication of hearing you. His nose brushed against your clit as he dove deeper inside of you, tongue collecting the juices spilling out of you. It was enough for that hot white rush of euphoria to burn through you, your hips bucking relentlessly against his face as you came.

He didn’t stop his ministrations as you came, his tongue spreading the sticky mess that you had made throughout your core as his nose deliciously pressed against the sensitive bundle of nerves just above your entrance.

“Eris,” you muttered, breathless from your orgasm.

He pulled away only briefly before muttering, “want one more darling. Then you can have my cock.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as you moved your hands from his hair to the plush sheets below you, fisting the fabric tightly. Your sensitive mound rolled against him as he continued to devour you.

You were sensitive in the best way, every small movement sending you closer and closer to another orgasm. As you felt the coil inside of you tighten, Eris removed his tongue from your center and sucked harshly on your clit. A hand moved from your thigh to your center, finger dragging down your slit before pressing into you.

He carefully pumped his finger into you a few times before adding another, stretching you perfectly. “Gotta get you nice and ready for me, princess,” he mumbled against your clit.

You hummed in pleasure, closed eyes squeezing in pleasure as he pushed you closer to your crest. When he curled his fingers inside of you, you felt pleasure wash over you in waves as you gushed around his hand.

He continued to pump his fingers into you as you came, dragging out your orgasm until you tugged at his hair with a groan.

Pulling his fingers out of you, he brought them to his lips, sucking your glistening juices from the digits. He hummed with a smirk as he stood, his eyes dark.

“Taste so good princess,” he breathed out, voice thick with lust. “Can you give me one more?”

Your head spun from the orgasms he had just pulled from you, but you gave him a dazed nod in response.

“I need to hear you pretty girl,” Eris whispered, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips. “Tell me how bad you want my dick.”

You followed his lips as he leaned back, chasing the taste of him that you had been deprived of. When realizing he wouldn’t give you anything until you spoke, you mumbled out a small, “please Eris.”

The smirk on his face seemed permanent, as it never left his face. He shook his head, “I’m gonna need more than that, darling.”

You whined impatiently, all sense of shame gone from your mind. “Please, Eris. Just fuck me already.”

“There’s my good girl,” he said darkly, hands moving down to unbuckle the belt that held his trousers up. You could clearly see the outline of his hard member, a shiver of anticipation shooting up your spine.

Despite him already pulling more orgasms out of you than any male you’d been with previously, you ached for more. Eris’s beauty was unlike anyone else, an effect of the high lord’s blood that ran through his veins. He was ethereal, seemingly crafted by the gods of sex, and from the way his mouth worked you, it was safe to say he would fuck like it too.

He released himself from his pants, long, leaking cock pressing against his stomach. He motioned for you to lay further back on the bed and you eagerly followed his command. Your head rested on the pillows as he climbed over your body, parting your legs to lay on either side of his lap.

You ran a hand up his broad chest, his muscles rippling under the attention you were giving them.

“As much as I love your hands on me baby girl, I want you to remember exactly who in charge here.”

An expression of confusion flashed across your face as he took your small hands in his large ones, forcing them on either side of your head. You felt a slight heat against them as an orange hue illuminated his face. Looking to the side, you saw a rope of flame wrapped around your wrist, tying your arms to the bedposts on either side of you.

He pressed a soft kiss to your lips before mumbling against them, “let me know if its too much.”

You whined as you rolled your hips upwards, searching for friction, “it’s good.”

Another kiss was pressed to you, harsher this time, before his lips began to travel down your body to your breasts. Despite the purple marks that were already blooming on your skin, he sucked more into them. You pulled at your restraints, desperately wanting to touch him.

As he rose from his position to hold his body over yours fully, one of his hands wandered up your body gently, leaving goosebumps in his wake. You whined out, tired of his teasing, to which he just chuckled. His hand left your body to align himself with your entrance before he slowly pushed his tip into your entrance. Even just the small part of him he gave you was enough to stretch you and elicit a moan from your lips.

He dragged his tip out of your hole, only to push it back in. After a few repetitions and a frustrated huff from you, he pushed his hips towards you, driving himself in to his hilt. It was delicious, the feeling of him filling you up, stretching your walls. You gasped at the sudden pleasure, eyes closed in bliss at the simple movement. Eris then pulled out completely before slamming into you harshly, groans escaping both of you. He set a steady pace of euphoric thrusts, his cock dragging against your walls and hitting every spot imaginable.

He pushed himself up to his knees, your legs wrapping around his middle. Your bodies were still connected in the most delicious way, but this new angle made your head spin.

One hand moved to your waist while the other fingered lazily at your nipple, his thrusts picking back up, much faster this time. The sound of skin hitting skin and moans filled the room as your hands struggled against the fire that bound you. You needed to hold onto something to ground you in the intense pleasure you felt as he drove deeper into your heat.

“Fuck, you’re perfect baby. Pretty fucking pussy squeezing me so tight.” He said, words occasionally being interrupted by his groans of pleasure. You couldn’t help the way your walls squeezed around him at the pure lust in his tone.

He hit a spot that made your eyes roll back, a loud moan ripping from your throat. The hand on your breast traveled to your jaw, pulling your face down to absorb the look of your pleasure. “You look so pretty getting fucked, doll.” His thumb pressed against your lips and you greedily sucked it into your mouth. “So eager to ruin yourself on my dick, yeah?”

You nodded eagerly with a whine, the feeling of him all over you combined with the filthy words he was saying to you was too much. You could feel another orgasm bubbling up, ready to release yourself all over him.

He seemed to notice the tightening of your walls and the fucked out expression on your face, “gonna cum on my cock, baby?” His husky voice was only making matters worse, pushing you closer to the edge of bliss. All you could do was give him another nod, hips thrusting to meet his own.

The hand on your jaw traveled to your throat, squeezing softly on the pulse points and making your mind feel numb. His other hand snaked to your clit, thumb rubbing you in harsh circles. You moaned out, squeezing your eyes shut as he spoke again, “cum on my cock, slut. Show me what a good, dirty fucking girl you are.”

It was enough to send you over the edge, your body shaking as the orgasm took over you. He followed soon after, spilling his hot seed into you. His thrusts continued as you both rode out your orgasms until they slowed to a stop.

You felt like you were in a haze as he leaned down to kiss you softly, softening dick still inside you. You could barely return the kiss, only opening your mouth to invite his tongue in. He indulged you briefly before pulling away, sliding himself out of you as his sticky substance leaked out of you. The heat on your wrist was gone, but your arms felt too heavy to move from their position.

A soft peck was placed on your forehead as he mumbled, “took me so well princess.” He forced himself up and moved towards your washroom, grabbing a towel and wetting it, he let his power heat the cloth enough to be comfortable. When he reentered the room, he found you with a blissed out expression on your face, watching him stroll towards you.

He knelt on the bed, gently holding your thigh with one hand as he brought the washcloth up to your core with the other, swiping softly. You groaned at the contact, feeling overwhelmingly sensitive. He leaned towards you, another kiss planted on your lips, “just cleaning you up, darling.”

You gathered the strength to move your hand down to the one on your thigh, gently grasping it. He cleaned you up slowly, making sure not to overwhelm your sensitive heat. When he was finished, he tossed the washrag towards the basket in your room and lied in the bed next to you, arms wrapping around your middle. You turned to nuzzle your face into his strong chest, leaving light kisses where you could reach, and let his steady breathing lull you to sleep.

[hazbinshusk]

Kiss prompt 26 with Husk?

prompt #26: a kiss while one or both parties are crying.

“You’re up late.”

You look up in surprise as the soft cadence of Husk’s voice breaks the silence you were ensconced in, and even as low as it was, it echoed slightly off the new marble floors. You wipe your eyes hurriedly before standing and facing him properly.

“Hey,” your voice is heavy, and you hope he doesn’t notice. “I thought you’d gone to bed.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says simply. You notice then that his suspenders, his tie and hat are gone, his usual slacks traded for a pair of deep red pajama pants. You’d never seen him out of uniform before, and despite the sickening feeling still settled in your gut, you feel the softest smile touching your lips at the sight of the longer, much more disheveled fur between his ears. “What’s your excuse?”

You shrug, tugging your robe tighter around yourself. How it managed to get cold in Hell of all places, you still had no idea, but regardless, a chill clings to you in a way that seems to sink right down into your bones. “Neither.”

“I’ve got a cure for that,” he tells you with a self-deprecating smirk, reaching over the bar and holding up a bottle of cheap whiskey pointedly. “Join me?”

You hesitate for a moment before you feel yourself nod and Husk gives you a small smile, fishing two glasses out from the other side of the bar and moving to join you. You take a seat on the sofa again, twisting your hands together in your lap. He pours you both a couple of fingers, the soft sound of the amber liquid splashing into the glass the only sound between you.

You accept it when he taps his own glass against it, warmth touching your cheeks as he settles back on the sofa beside you.

“So,” he says after taking a sip, watching you from over the rim of his glass. “You gonna go ahead and tell me what’s botherin’ ya?”

“Who says something’s bothering me?” you reply, the whiskey burning against your throat.

Husk raises an eyebrow, his end of his tail twitching back and forth as it hangs down over the edge of the sofa beside him. “Call it a hunch.”

You smile despite yourself, toying with the glass in your lap. “Hate it when you do that, Husk.”

“I know,” he replies, gently taking your glass from you before leaning over to set both of them on the coffee table beside the bottle. “Should know better than to let your guard down around a bartender.”

You breathe a soft, brief chuckle, wrapping your arms around yourself. “Guess so.”

Husk’s brow furrows, real concern in the downward curve of his lips. “C’mon, doll. Not gonna make me beg for it, are ya?”

You feel your lip tremble as you meet his soft smile, but you can’t hold his gaze, eyes dropping to your lap. Then, you cast your eyes upwards, over the still smouldering fireplace. Husk follows your gaze, and a sad, feline grumble sounding under his breath, and he sighs. The portrait of Sir Pentious watches over the two of you, and you feel your heart clench again.

Husk sighs. “’s no one’s fault, doll.”

You stare up at the painting for a moment longer before you let your eyes fall again. You can feel the beginnings of tears burning at the edges of your lashes.

“…I know.” you agree, tears lodged in your throat.

“It was a…” Husk breathes a sad laugh, shaking his head. “It was a fuckin’ stupid thing for him to do… but he was tryin’ to save us.”

“I know,” you repeat. “Doesn’t… doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

Tears finally break free to streak down your cheeks, a sob wracking through your throat. A sound of sympathy rumbles in Husk’s chest, and you feel his paw move to tentatively touch your shoulder. You don’t even fully register the way you turn into him at the touch, but you feel the warmth of him against you as he lets you settle against his chest, wrapping his arms awkwardly around you. Husk tucks his chin over the top of your head, one hand stroking rhythmically along your spine.

“’s okay, baby,” he murmurs gently, heedless of the way your tears soak his fur. “’s alright.”

“I thought…” you sob into his chest, struggling to steady your breathing. “I thought I was done losing people. I thought… I thought that part of my life or whatever was over. And then I go and get attached to all of you and now I’m right back to fucking hurting and I don’t… I don’t want—”

Husk hushes you softly, his other hand coming up to tilt your head back to meet his eye. He wipes a tear away from your cheek with a careful claw. “You’re not losin’ anyone else, pet.”

“You don’t know that,” you argue. “Next extermination—”

“We’ll worry ‘bout that then,” he tells you, his hand still lingering against your cheek. “Think it’s safe to say they’ll be avoidin’ the hotel, though.”

“You don’t—”

Husk stops your argument by pressing his lips to yours gently. Your eyes widen in surprise for a moment before they close, his lips tasting of the burn of whiskey and the salt of tears. His paw curls against your back, the fingers of the hand against your cheek teasing at the hair behind your ear. Your own hand rests on his chest, fingers sliding through the soft fur there. The other touches his knee, the worn fleece of his pyjamas warm under your palm.

When he pulls away it’s only by a few sparse inches, his lips pressed together. He looks embarrassed, worried, and he sighs a held breath as you lean forward to press your forehead against his.

“Did you…” you swallow shakily, biting your lip. His paws rest on your waist, curled in the plush fabric of your robe. “Did you just kiss me to distract me?”

He breathes a chuckle, his nose bumping against yours. “Depends… did it work?”

You laugh wetly, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. “Kinda.”

“Good,” he replies. He hesitates for a moment, but you can hear the soft sound of what you swear is a purr in the back of his throat. “Can I… I'd like to do it again. If you--”

You lean into him, recapturing his lips with yours.

send me a prompt and either husk or blitzø

[cowboydisaster]

I have no idea about the historical accuracy of this but imagine a reader who used to be in a pretty well off family (think like the braithwaites level in society) but she left it all and gave everything up to be with Arthur. It’s her first Christmas away from her family and she misses the Christmas tree back home. Queue Arthur cutting a tree down with his big manly man strength and dragging it back to camp to surprise her🥲

* ˚ ✦ Stardust * ˚ ✦

pairing: arthur morgan x f!reader word count: 4k a/n: margo!! This prompt was too cute. I kinda took it and RAN so I hope I did it justice! xx

cowboydisaster's christmas countdown: SEVEN days 'till christmas!

christmas countdown┊main masterlist┊rdr2 masterlist

If there's one thing you haven't gotten used to in this way of life, it's the elements. Camp is situated in Big Valley along the Upper Montana River. It's beautiful, and more open country than you've ever seen in your life. But damn, is it cold in winter. Snow drifts down from Mount Shann, creating a beautiful flurry of white around camp, albeit a freezing one. 

At this moment, though, the cold doesn't bother you. In the safety of your tent, back tucked against Arthur's chest, it's impossible for the cold to reach you. He keeps you warm. Like a furnace, that man. You'd be worried he was running a fever if you weren't so used to his toasty-warm temperature. 

You shuffle against Arthur, readjusting in the soft cotton cot. The wind whispers quietly outside, peacefully. Gone is the loud whipping ice storm that had come through a week or so ago. It's been replaced by a quiet falling of snow, the creak of nearby oaks. 

“Darlin’? What is it?” Arthur whispers, voice sleepy against your ear. The hand that's hung over your waist squeezes gently, a small act of encouragement to respond. You smirk. You can picture his face, eyes closed, or half-lifted, eyebrows knitting with worry. 

“What's wrong?” He whispers again. The hand on your waist flattens against your stomach, gently pulling you back towards him. 

Oh, your Arthur. His heart is perfectly in tune with yours, and well, when yours is sunk, he notices. A peculiar little thing you've discovered– he always notices those small details, those small fluctuations in your mood. On top of that, he always addresses them. 

Those selfless personality traits are why you left the city in the first place. Arthur is genuine, real. He's caring, and he communicates with you when you're upset. Your mamá and papá were far too concerned with selling you off to the most eligible bachelor in Saint Denis to care about your feelings. The bachelor's characteristics were of no importance, just his wealth and status in society. That life was… a load of shit, as your dear Arthur would say. 

You'd started sneaking downtown at night to get away from the chaos of your home. Your parents were always fighting and screaming. Broken dishes and ringing ears became a staple in that house. La Bastille Saloon was a short walk from your house on Flavian Street. And that's where you met Arthur. 

Despite his career, you immediately recognized him to be the first honest man that you'd ever met in your life. In a mere thirty seconds of conversation, you'd found a depth to him that your father could never scratch, a kindness that no arranged husband would show you. And so it became a habit. You'd sneak out of your window a few times a week, meeting him at La Bastille– talking, laughing, drinking. Arthur's whiskey burned far more than the French wine you'd sipped on in your life. Where you came from, drinking was for show. To sip on a glass of imported chablis was to assert class, but Arthur taught you how to drink for fun. He'd taught you how to play cards and how to cure a hangover. Your parents would be mortified at your unladylike behavior. 

Arthur showed you fun, and kindness, spontaneity and honesty in a world that you thought was without those virtues. When Arthur had asked you to join him, it was an easy yes. He laid it all out. the good, the bad and the ugly. Criminals, you'd be joining. He was afraid that you would turn away, but crime is no stranger to you. Coming from high society, you saw the rich take from the poor time and again. You saw laundering and fraud, servitude, coercion and arranged murder. 

All your family does is twist lies for their own benefit. They're all snakes, sinking their teeth into everything they come across. Gluttonous in their pursuit to expel venom. It has drowned the whole city of Saint Denis, sunk into the cobblestone roads and poisoned the entire place. 

You see more honesty in the Van der Linde's life of crime than in your family's. At least the Van der Lindes are honest about what they do, and only rob from those who rob from others. 

Leaving with Arthur was the most freeing feeling you've ever experienced. You love him with all your heart. You love the gang, and your new life, and yet even with all that you've gained, you still left so much behind. Joining Arthur; it's the best decision you've ever made, and you don't regret it for a moment, but the approaching holiday is bringing out sadness, memories of your childhood, friends that you'd left in the city. Any good memory of the city is recalled through rose tinted glasses, but still, it's beginning to sting now that it's almost Christmas.

“Darlin’?” Arthur says, the grogginess no longer evident in his voice. He pulls you back to the present like a tether. His thumb drags soothingly over your hip bone, and underneath the thick blankets, you lay your hand atop his. 

“Hmm?” You offer. 

“Where's your head at?” Arthur whispers, breath against your ear. 

“Oh, just thinking.” You smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes. It's a sad smile, bittersweet. If a candle were lit, and he could see it, Arthur would be much more worried. 

His fingertips brush your hair away from your face, gently pulling some strands behind your ear towards the braid they have escaped from. 

Arthur lifts his hand from you, adjusting the blankets as you turn over in bed. Once you're facing him, he makes sure that all of the blankets cover your frame.

“It's just that this will be my first Christmas away from home.” 

A small silence ensues. One that threatens to let tears slip down your rosy cheeks. Your nose tucks into Arthur's chest as you sniffle, hoping he hasn't taken your words with offense. This is your home now, and you wouldn't have it any other way. But old habits die hard. 

“You missin’ home?” Arthur whispers between kisses to your hair. You shake your head quickly 

“No-no. I don't want you to think-” 

“Baby, I ain't gonna give you a hard time ‘cause you're missin’ home. Hell… my childhood weren’t nothin’ but a world of pain, and sometimes I miss it.” 

You should have expected his understanding. Arthur's never made you feel foolish for your feelings. His hand traces along your hip, keeping you warm and coaxing you to settle back into the comfortable space that he’s surrounded you with. 

“I’m finding it difficult.” You whisper, “The holidays are coming up, and they’re bringing lots of memories. Fond ones, things I don’t want to forget.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Well…” You crack a small smile, eyes going far away, back to old memories long ago, “Papá would have a Christmas tree shipped from Cumberland forest, only the best for him of course.” You chuckle, and Arthur smiles for the sweet sound. 

“And we would decorate it with candles, blown glass, popcorn and cranberries. Oh, it was such a sight Arthur.” You say, a wonder in your voice. The memories are crystal clear in your head. Bright colors, laughter, songs. 

Arthur's Christmas memories don't bring much joy. Except for the year his daddy didn't come home. Still, the way your eyes have lit up– Arthur wishes he could have experienced the Christmas that you're describing. He wishes he could see you with that much joy. 

“Have you ever seen a Christmas tree?” You ask, rekindling that tether and pulling him back to you. 

“Nah, only in the papers. I ain't never lived nowhere so fancy to have a Christmas tree.” 

“It was so beautiful…” You whisper, a chill running down your spine. You hardly notice it, but Arthur pulls you closer nonetheless, his body heat wrapping around you like the warmest of blankets. 

“It seemed as if when the tree was decorated and we all sat together, maybe it was not so bad.” You murmur, and the wonder dissipates from your eyes, replaced with reality. 

Arthur waits for you to collect your thoughts. A whistle of wind breaks the silence before you do. 

“Ah, I'm sorry for this show of emotion. It's silly of me.” 

He shakes his head, forehead gently meeting yours. Your eyes marvel up at Arthur, making out the deep blue of his eyes from a stretch of moonlight that's infiltrated the room. 

“You ain't ever gotta apologize for gettin’ emotional, sweetheart. Not with me.” 

All you can do is nod, feeling again like a schoolgirl with butterflies running rampant in your stomach. His breath traces your face, noses just barely lining each other. 

His lips meet yours, soft and sweet. Your heart soars like it does every time he kisses you. It's something that you're sure you won't ever get used to. But something you're hoping to find familiarity in, because you never want to stop kissing him. 

He pulls away all too soon for your liking, placing a sweet kiss to your forehead. When he hears your small whine, he huffs. 

“I know, get back to sleep baby, I'll still be here in the mornin’.”

It doesn't take long for you to slip back into slumber, not with the soft whisper of the wind, and the cocoon of warmth around you. Arthur practically carries you across the threshold into sleep with the way his arms wrap around you. 

In the little tent, deep in the snow, Arthur begins to hatch his plan. He kisses your head, climbing over you and out of bed to light a candle. It provides just enough light to illuminate the pages of his journal. Just enough light for him to illustrate his surprise. 

He had promised you– all those months ago, when he'd packed your bags onto his horse and ridden you out of the city– that he would do anything and everything to make you happy. It's a promise that he intends to keep  

— — — 

a few days later 

“This is the one.” Arthur marvels, sparkling eyes cast upwards toward the fullest, greenest evergreen in Cumberland Forest. You deserve nothing but the best, and he’s sure that he’s found it.  

Arthur takes a short moment to pull out his journal, dusting some fallen snow from the leather cover. He sketches the tree, a way for him to remember the moment. To remember how the tree had been, perfectly untouched in nature. He takes his time, back propped against the unhitched wagon in the forest, hat covered in a thick dusting of snow. A few flakes even drop onto the page, melting and smudging his charcoal. 

When the branches are sketched to his liking, he accompanies them with a quick passage and closes the book. 

For the lady. Christmas. 1899. 

When the book snaps shut and is stuffed back into his journal, he looks up, finding a questioning look on his trusted stallion’s face. 

“What?” Arthur’s brow furrows, “I’ll plant another one.” 

The stallion sighs.  

Arthur moves around the back of the wagon, pulling an ax from the toolbox, dusting some snow off the handle with gloved hands. The ground is covered in a thick layer of white, the horses too. They press their noses together, whinnying and rumbling, entertaining each other with horse-typical play in the snow. 

“Jasper. Sugar. Quit bein’ sweet on one another, we got work to do.” Arthur calls back to the two horses. What a pair, those two.

Jasper is Arthur’s stallion. He’s well behaved. Shy. Obedient. Then there’s Sugar. She was a gift from Arthur to you. White as snow and wild as the wind. She still is, despite all of her training. 

Arthur had brought the pair of them with the wagon to pull the tree back to camp. But now, Sugar seems more interested in kicking up snow, and well– Jasper is only interested in following Sugar around, hearts practically emitting from his eyes. 

Snow falls in thick flakes,  dotting Arthur’s red flannel and melting against the thick material.  He pays it no mind. The snowfall silences the forest, save for the rhythmic whack…whack of Arthur’s ax hitting the evergreen, and the softened sound of playful hooves in the snow.

“Don’t tire yourselves out.” Arthur huffs to the horses, “Jesus.”

A few more swings of the ax, and the tree begins to fall. It hits the ground with a thud, not nearly as loud as Arthur imagined it would be. But, the snow softened the fall, he supposes. 

In a matter of minutes, the tree is in the wagon. Just a few more, and Jasper and Sugar are pulling it home. 

If everything is going according to plan, right now you should be with Marybeth, picking holly. She had taken you out, because she had “wanted to spruce up camp a bit.” Little do you know, the little adventure is a part of Arthur’s plan. With you away from camp, he was able to borrow Sugar, take Jasper, and get the tree. With you away from camp, the final touches can fall into place.

Arthur gently taps the reins over the horse’s backs, urging them into a faster canter along the beaten down snow path back towards camp.

“Hyah! C’mon, we’re pushin’ it.” He calls to the horses. The little golden bells on their harnesses jingle and ring as he pushes them towards camp, massive evergreen in tow. He checks his pocket watch, cursing quietly before putting it away.  Sadie should be done by now. 

It’s not long before the horses are pulling into camp, large puffs of white billowing out from their noses as they catch their breath. Arthur hops down from the wagon, his hand running along the expanse of it as he reaches the back. 

“Well,  I’ll be damned!” Dutch’s voice booms from across the camp. He makes his way towards the wagon, “Now this is how we celebrate Christmas!” 

The evergreen nearly overtakes the wagon, branches sticking out from all directions, billows of snow still stuck to them. Dutch has no idea how Arthur managed to get it into the wagon. An approaching Hosea is just as flabbergasted.  

“You know, I never took you to be much of a romantic, Arthur. But this might just prove me wrong.” Hosea 

“Whatever you say. Now, quit gawkin’ and help me get this big bastard up.” Arthur mumbles, grabbing the thick tree by the trunk and pulling it down. Sap sticks to his hands as he begins to drag it out of the wagon. Carrying it into the center of camp is a group effort– much easier than Arthur getting it into the wagon by himself. 

“I reckon you two can handle this. I got some other things to check up on.” Arthur steps back, sizing the tree up and down.

“Run along then and leave us the hard work.” Dutch muses, within earshot of Arthur.

“Figured it would do your old bones some good to do real work, Dutch!” Arthur hollers back over his shoulder,  chuckling to himself as he makes his way towards the circle of tents.

“Mrs. Adler?”  Arthur hollers, approaching the A-frame tent, “You in there?”

Before he can part the white canvas tent, Sadie emerges, and he backs up.

 “You get it done?” Arthur asks, cheeks tinged bright pink from the cold. Hat white instead of black. Sadie chuckles for it. 

“Did I get it done?” Sadie mocks with a huff, “A’ course I got it done.”

From her tent, she pulls out a Christmas tree garland. A string carefully woven through dried cranberries and popped corn. It's beautiful and long. It must have taken her hours to make. Arthur’s eyes go wide in small wonder as she transfers the garland to him. 

“S’perfect, Sadie. She’s gonna love this.”

A wide, bittersweet smile stretches across Sadie’s face, “Jake taught me how,” there is a pause as Arthur nods in understanding, “Now go. Go decorate it for your woman.” Sadie smirks.  

“Dear boy! Dear boy, how does it look?” Hosea calls out, and Arthur’s attention shoots towards the tree. They have it standing upright now, perfectly in the center of camp. It stands tall, a real beauty. 

“Perfect.” He gapes at it, wishing he could have done something like this when he was younger– hoping that it will live up to your memories. Arthur doesn’t have the money to buy fancy ornaments, but he’s doing everything in his power to make it special for you. 

With the help of the horses and the wagon, everyone manages to wrap the garland the whole way around the tree, even up to the top. The little trail of white and red looks beautiful against the dark green of the pine. Arthur places lit candles in holders on the branches, casting a beautiful hazy glow that lights up the tree. Camp members begin to gather, circling around the tree, watching and helping. Mrs. Grimshaw offers some holly. Karen offers some candy canes that she had bought in town, hanging them from the branches. 

The sun begins to set, and Arthur checks his watch, knowing that you’ll be back any minute. A small tug on his pants pulls his attention downwards. 

“Uncle Arthur?” Little Jack whispers, eyes sparkling with the reflection of the tree lights, “I made this for you! For you to put it on auntie's tree!” 

Arthur’s brow furrows, and he glances quickly up to Abigail, who is smiling warmly. Jack reaches into his little bag and pulls out a beautiful paper star. He has apparently put a lot of time and effort into folding and cutting the paper into a perfect little topper. Jack’s little hands extend the star up to Arthur, the smile on his face brighter than any of the tree’s candles. 

“You made this?” Arthur asks. 

“Yep, I sure did! Momma even helped me cut the paper!” 

Arthur kneels on the ground– eye level with Jack, a smirk on his lips,  “I think we better put it on the top then, don't you?”

“Oh yes! It would be perfect on top! I just hope aunt y/n likes it…” 

“She’ll love this, buddy.” 

With some more help from a very grumpy Sugar, Arthur manages to place the star perfectly on  the tree top. And just in time, apparently.

When Arthur steps back, taking in the tree for all its glory, his jaw falls slack, eyes filling up with wonder.

It's beautiful. At dusk, the candles shine brightly. The garland has attracted a few red cardinals, and they rest in the branches, comfortable in the new camp tree. Everyone looks in awe. It’s perfect.

— — — 

“No peekin’.” Arthur whispers in your ear from behind, his hands covering your eyes. He slowly walks you forwards towards… something. He hasn’t explained anything to you, just… kidnapped you right outside of camp. You’ve been walking with him, eyes covered for nearly five minutes. 

“Oh, Arthur, what is going on!?” You giggle, hands covering the length of his own, a smile plastered on your face. 

“S’a surprise, darlin’. That’s why you can’t peek.” Arthur’s voice whispers from behind you,  his chest nearly pressed against your back as he inches you forward. 

You roll your eyes. Suddenly, his footsteps are still behind you, and you stop in return. 

“Is this why I was stuck in the forest picking berries all day?” You ask. Arthur huffs. 

“Shhh. We’re here.” He shushes. 

Your heart quickens with excitement, bottom lip tight between your teeth with anticipation. As much as you try to listen for any clues, all you can hear is the munching of hay and the crackle of the campfire– typical for camp after dusk. 

“Arthur…?” You whisper, almost afraid to break the quiet. Anticipation swirls in your stomach, followed by anxiety tickling up your spine. 

His calloused hands pull away from your eyes, and your lashes flutter as you focus on the sight in front of you.

It’s… a christmas tree. Your jaw falls slack, and as unladylike as it may be, you can’t help it. A small gasp escapes your rosy lips. 

It must be twelve feet high, and it's thick with branches. Candles, and decor wrap around the tree like a dress tailored to perfection. Color and light burst from the beautiful tree, and before you can control yourself, tears are welling up in your eyes. 

“Arthur, I–” Your voice cracks, the tears almost spilling over.

“Darlin’?” Arthur’s thumb softly brushes the inside of your hand. For a moment, he worries that he’s misstepped terribly. The sight of your tears brings forth a small panic, quelled by the outburst of your smile. Tears fall freely from your eyes, but they are of joy– not sadness. 

“You got me– You got me a Christmas tree?” You smile, wiping away the tears as he envelopes you into his warm arms. You sniffle, laughs of pure joy escaping into his chest as he holds you tight.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.” Arthur whispers to you, arms wrapped around your waist. The light from the tree dances in your eyes, almost as beautiful and bright as your smile. 

“Oh, Arthur, it’s perfect.” You gasp, eyes glued to the tree, pulling away to glance into Arthur’s eyes, “How ever did you get it here?” 

“With a little help.” Arthur nods towards the horse station where Sugar and Jasper are laying in the hay, nuzzling each other sweetly. As if knowing, Sugar whinnies towards you softly, followed by a quiet neigh from Jasper.  

Your eyes wander back towards the tree in front of you, and then to Arthur once again. His hands slide down from your waist, thumbs settling into the dimples in your back. 

“It's beautiful.” You say.

“It’s all yours.” 

In all of your life, Arthur has been the first person to cater to your emotions– to care about them. Your heart fills with love, so much that it overflows and floods the earth at your feet. Soaking into the ground of the camp, touching the hearts of the others around you. 

“I love you.” You whisper, head resting on Arthur’s chest, eyes fixed on a cardinal that’s pecking at the popped corn on the tree. 

“I-” Arthur pauses, realizing. His brow furrows, eyes flickering down, “Wait, what?”

“I said I love you.” You reiterate, chin propped on his chest to look up at him. Arthur looks nearly blown away by the words. Words he’s not heard from you yet. Words that he’s nearly let slip time and again over the past few months. 

Arthur’s lips crack into a smile, crows feet wrinkling for the action. His thumb brushes your cheek before trailing down to your chin, pulling you in towards his lips. You lean on your tiptoes, brushing your lips against his, meeting him with all the love and joy that you never thought would be possible for you. He’s taken you from a bad situation, and given you everything you could have wanted and more. Your lips press against his, pink-tinged noses lining each other. Your eyes flutter shut, snowflakes catching in your thick lashes as you deepen the kiss. Your fingers tangle into the hair at the base of his neck, your tongues dance with one another. 

When you pull away to breathe, your eyes lock with his, sparkling with light. 

“I love you too.” He smirks, hands wrapping under your thighs, eliciting giggles from you as he hoists you into his arms. Fat snowflakes fall into your hair as Arthur turns towards your tent, ready to carry you to bed. 

“No- wait!” You grip his arm, stopping him in his tracks, “Please, Arthur- just five more minutes. I’d like to keep looking at the tree.” 

Arthur pauses, brushing your cold cheek, “Alright. Five more minutes.” He smiles, pressing a sweet kiss to your hair.

The tree shines bright as ever, as if god had sprinkled stardust down from the heavens, painting your tree in beautiful white light. 

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