#don’t listen to whiskers

[thatsbelievable]

[nayushikisses]

so, baby girl, good luck taking care of yourself .

ref:

[eiightysixbaby]

i love it loud

word count: 6.5k+

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

summary: you get invited to corroded coffin’s halloween party with your best friend chrissy. you don’t anticipate on having much fun, but that changes when you meet eddie…

cw: 18+ ONLY - SMUT. alcohol consumption, a rogue billy tries to hit on reader, use of petnames, use of y/n (like maybe a few times), oral (f receiving), fingering (f), unprotected p in v - he pulls out tho!, brief description of reader’s costume but no mention of body type/etc.

You didn’t want to go to this party. Not really. Your best friend had insisted you come with her, because arriving alone would, in her words, be social suicide. Being invited to Corroded Coffin’s Halloween party was a big deal, she’d said, even though you know she was only invited because she’s been going out with the drummer. Of course he’s going to invite his girlfriend.

You hadn’t even had a plan for a costume, and with only a couple day’s notice you didn’t have the time to prepare something good. The stores were all picked over as far as Halloween costumes go, and so you went with the most basic, half-assed option you could’ve possibly selected.

You’re dressed as a cat.

It feels silly, it feels low-effort and stupid and basic, but here you are with your fluffy tail and soft felt ears, black high heels and whiskers painted on your face. A pink nose to top it all off. You did think you looked good, you had to admit, but it definitely wasn’t the costume you would’ve preferred. You awkwardly adjust your stockings as you step up to the front door of the large house, feeling horrendously out of place.

You glance at Chrissy beside you, her hippie costume bright and colorful - an extreme contrast to your all black attire.

“Okay, just texted Gareth that we’re here,” she says, slipping her phone into her bag. “Don’t look so thrilled,” she says sarcastically, pouting at you.

“Sorry I’m not exactly excited to be at a party where I know no one,” you say.

“You know me and Gareth,” she replies, looking at you like she’s confused.

“I barely know Gareth. And don’t act like the two of you won’t be running off to bang the second you get a chance,” you smile at her, knocking shoulders playfully.

“Listen… his friend Eddie, the lead singer, is super hot. Maybe you’ll get more than you bargained for tonight.”

“I don’t know, Chris. There’s going to be a million girls at this party, do I really want to be another notch on some rockstar’s belt?” you ponder.

She doesn’t get the chance to respond before the front door is swinging open in front of you. The figure on the other side is… Peter Criss. More like, Gareth dressed as Peter Criss. Fully outfitted in leather and silver studs, hair spray painted black with white and black cat makeup on his face. You laugh a little as you take him in, and he shoots you a teasing glare.

“Hey ladies,” he greets, pulling Chrissy in for a quick kiss. “Y/N, I’m so glad you decided to come.”

“You know Chris always gets what she wants,” you reply with a laugh, and he laughs with you, agreeing.

He steps to the side, ushering you both into the large foyer of the house. It’s decked out in Halloween decor; bats on the walls, fake cobwebs, hairy toy spiders with light-up red eyes. There’s orange and purple string lights hung about, and you’re honestly impressed with the detail. The house is clean, aside from the stray cup or plate left behind from the current party guests, and the decorations are carefully placed.

“Holy shit, you guys really did it up for the party,” you say, eyes wandering to every corner.

“Oh yeah, that’s all Eddie. He loves Halloween. It was his idea for us to dress like KISS,” Gareth says with a playful eye roll.

“Don’t complain, you look so good in that outfit…” Chrissy says, trailing a finger down his chest.

“I’ll have to give you the official house tour,” he says to your friend. “You coming too?” he asks you, but you shake your head.

“Think I’ll get myself a drink,” you say, sticking out your thumb in the direction of the kitchen.

“Sounds good. There’s stuff on the counter and a bar out back by the pool, you can go wherever you’d like,” Gareth says with a smile, and it’s genuine. “Make yourself at home, say hey if you see the other guys around! You can’t miss ‘em, they’ll be dressed like me,” he adds, and you laugh, waving them off as Chrissy tells you to text her if you need anything at all.

You wander into the open kitchen, pleased with the selection of liquor that awaits you. If you’re going to be spending the night alone, you might as well get pleasantly drunk, you think to yourself. People are scattered throughout the room, talking with their circles of friends and acquaintances. There’s a couple different punch bowls filled with various concoctions, each one labeled with the contents. You take your pick of the poison, scooping the liquid up with a ladle and filling your cup.

You scrunch your face as you take the first sip, lips pursing as you adjust to the bite of the alcohol. You glance around the kitchen, taking note of even more decorations as you slink into a corner alone. They seem to fill the whole house, seeping into the living room and the dining room, any area that you can see. Gareth had said it was all Eddie’s doing, and you find yourself growing more curious about the man in question. You really didn’t know anything about Corroded Coffin, didn’t care much to do any research, you only knew what Chrissy told you.

You know that Grant, the rhythm guitarist, has rich parents, and that his dad bought the house for the band to live in while they’re recording their album. Chrissy always says Grant’s the nerdiest of the bunch, insanely smart and very friendly. You know that Jeff, the bassist, is apparently a sweetheart, a bit shy but would give you the shirt off of his back, and you know that Eddie…. well, you know that he’s supposedly “super hot”. Other than that, you’re drawing a blank. Chrissy hasn’t said much about him at all, now that you really consider it. Maybe he’s an introvert and doesn’t come around often, or maybe he’s a complete dick. He is a rockstar, after all. And there’s plenty of pretty women in his house right now, so… you can gather a few assumptions, to say the least.

You don’t get much more time to ponder the subject before you hear loud, raucous laughter coming in through the sliding doors to the backyard. Two figures stumble in, but in the dim light you can’t get a good look right away.

“I was made for lovin’ you baaaabyyyyyy!” a voice booms, and you don’t need more confirmation that it comes from another member of the band.

“How many times are you gonna sing that tonight?” the other voice counters, and you finally see two unfamiliar men walking towards the kitchen, dressed like other members of KISS.

The annoyed voice comes from the stand-in Gene Simmons of the evening, a frizzy black wig on his head and the signature makeup on his face, making him stand out. He sticks his tongue out obnoxiously at the other man, eliciting a laugh from him. Your eyes flit over, then, to the taller figure. Your attention is immediately grabbed — he’s intriguing right away and you aren’t quite sure why. Tall, slim, with a head of shaggy hair that diminishes his need for a wig for the costume. He’s dressed like Paul Stanley, a black star around his eye, surrounded by a face otherwise full of white makeup. He’s not wearing a shirt, at all, just a thick black studded collar around his neck and leather pants. Chunky heeled boots are on his feet, making him appear taller than just about everyone else in the room.

And if he’s dressed like the singer of KISS, then you can only assume this is Eddie. The singer of Corroded Coffin.

“Oh fuck off, Jeff. Have a little fun! It’s Hallo-fucking-ween, dude,” presumably-Eddie says, leaning into Jeff’s space.

“Sorry my idea of fun isn’t listening to your drunk ass sing KISS songs, Ed,” Jeff says, and the nickname gives you confirmation that this is, in fact, your guy.

Eddie just so happens to look up in that moment, his eyes falling upon yours unintentionally. He smiles at you, genuinely smiles at you, all while playfully rolling his eyes at Jeff’s comment. You giggle into your plastic cup, feeling like the two of you are the only people in the room for a moment. He gives you a teeny little wave, the slightest wiggle of his fingers, and you feel your heart rate increase as you return it. What is wrong with you? You were going to blame the alcohol, for the time being.

The moment is gone as soon as it came, Eddie’s attention getting redirected. You watch in fascination as they pour drinks for themselves, easily greeting the other partygoers who come up to them, eager to talk to the hosts. There’s a swarm of girls around Eddie in thirty seconds flat, and your heart deflates, much to your own dismay. Why should it bother you? He doesn’t even know you, and you don’t know him. Chrissy’s implication that you might hit it off with Eddie tonight is letting you get too in your own head, you decide, trying to shake it off.

You scoff, watching as a girl dressed like a devil leans on the counter into Eddie’s space, pressing her breasts together as much as she can. Her fake fangs are exposed as she laughs too loud at something he says, her bright red lipstick accentuating her mouth. You want to internally criticize her and her basic costume, before you’re reminded of your imitation of the most basic furry friend to ever grace Halloween.

As if on cue, someone comes up behind you and yanks on your tail, making you jump. Your drink sloshes over the rim of the cup at the sudden motion, splashing against the front of your outfit. You spin on your heel, met with the face of an unfamiliar man, which really isn’t saying much since almost every face here is unfamiliar.

“Can I help you?” you snark, flattening your lips in a straight line.

“Woah, calm down, pussy cat. Don’t have to bring the claws out,” the man says, smirking at you as if he has genuinely no clue why you’re bothered.

He reaches one arm out, flattening his palm against the wall behind you and leaning his weight on it, towering over you. He smells like cigarettes and booze, and you watch as his tongue pokes out to wet his lips.

“If you don’t mind,” you snap. “I really need to go wash the liquor out of my costume. Asshole,” you mutter the last part, ready to make your exit when the stranger grabs your arm.

“Going so soon? I thought we’d make friends,” he smiles at you, blue eyes piercing down at you as you grow wildly more uncomfortable.

“I’ll pass,” you emphasize, stomping the heel of your boot down onto his foot.

He yelps in pain, releasing your arm and allowing you to speed-walk out of the crowded kitchen. You can see various pairs of eyes on you as you scurry out, and you can hear your victim cursing you out through the bass coming through the stereo.

You high-tail it out the back door, heels clicking aggressively on pavement as you push through more people surrounding the pool. You finally stop to calm yourself down when you find a lull in the crowds, a spot where you can be relatively alone. You silently thank yourself that the stranger didn’t follow you, but what you didn’t realize is that someone else had.

You exhale, bringing your drink to your lips and taking a swig. Your now-wet top clings to your skin, aggravating you, but the last thing you want to do is wander back into the house in search of the bathroom.

“H-hey, um, are you alright?” a voice rings out directly behind you.

You jolt just slightly, not expecting company. Turning to face the other person, your eyes first land on those big, black platform boots. Eddie had followed you. Your gaze trails up his figure, leather pants and studded belt and bare torso, until you meet his eyes for the second time this evening.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I saw what happened in there and, uh, to be honest I don’t even know why we keep inviting Hargrove to these things—” Eddie rambles, as if Hargrove is a familiar name to you, as if he’s nervous to be around you — like he isn’t the star-studded host of this party.

“I’m okay,” you reply, cutting off his sentence, smirking a little. “Thanks for checking on me.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. I know these parties can get crazy, but… I always want to make sure everyone’s safe,” he says, his gaze softening as he says the last part. “I’m Eddie, by the way,” he introduces, holding out a hand for you to shake.

You immediately notice the big, silver rings adorning many of his fingers, your eyes lingering on them for maybe a second too long before you remember he’s waiting for you. You extend a hand, grasping his and shaking it.

“Y/N,” you reply. “I, uh, I’m here with Chrissy.”

“Oh, you’re Cunningham’s friend!?” he asks, lighting up at that. Excited as he says it as if you’re the celebrity here, not him.

You nod, smiling at him now.

“Damn, and she already ditched you to go screw Gareth, I’m assuming?” he jokes, and you laugh, feeling lighter by the second. Forgetting your less-than-pleasant encounter from moments ago.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” you say sarcastically, smiling wider when he snorts.

There’s a pause, you can feel him staring at you as you take another sip of alcohol. “Well, I’m a little offended she didn’t tell me that she had such a beautiful friend,” he says, and you feel your cheeks grow warm at his forwardness.

You duck your head, avoiding his eyes as your face scrunches in a shy smile. “Ah, there’s the rockstar charm,” you say, loving the sound of his laugh that comes in response.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he playfully asks, cocking his head as he leans forward to meet your gaze.

“How many other girls have you used that line on tonight?” you counter, playful but keeping a safe distance.

“Ouch, sweetheart. You really take me for that much of a player?” he stumbles back, clutching his chest as if he’s been wounded. Your eyes linger maybe too long on the tattoos littering his torso, the slight smattering of hair on his pale skin.

“Well, you are parading around your own party shirtless. Seems like a tool move to me,” you smirk, finishing off your drink with one last sip.

“Darling, you’re dressed like a cat. I don’t think you can come for my costume right now,” he flashes his perfect teeth at you, unable to contain his smile at your banter.

There’s a moment of silence, you staring out across the yard at the bright lights of the city down below, stretching vast and far. Then he speaks up again.

“I mean it. I think you’re really beautiful.”

“Thank you. You’re very pretty,” you say honestly, letting yourself give in to his flirtations.

“Is it the makeup? Am I gonna have to wear this every time I see you now?”

You giggle. “Every time? Are there going to be more times, mister rockstar?”

“I mean, I’d love to take the time to get to know you outside of a party setting, if that’s okay with you,” he smiles bashfully, and you can only assume he’s blushing under all of that makeup.

“Yeah. I think that’s okay with me,” you reply.

Conversation flows easily with Eddie, the less-than- pleasant encounter with the stranger and the spilled alcohol on your shirt long forgotten. He tells you about his life before the band started to make it big, how he always dreamed of being a rockstar. He shyly told you about how he used to parade around his home as a kid, playing his little guitar and singing songs he made up until his uncle was begging him to quiet down and go to bed.

You confess that you really didn’t know much about the band, other than things Chrissy had told you, and you apologize although he tells you it’s absolutely not necessary.

You both end up sitting in the grass side-by-side, talking so much you don’t even remember making the choice to sit, it just happened. There’s a lull in the conversation, his eyes searching yours before glancing down to your lips. He moves just slightly closer, his breath hitting your face with each exhale. You feel yours catch in your throat, anticipating his next move.

You don’t get the chance to see what that move is before the girl in the devil costume from the kitchen approaches. She instantly has her hands on Eddie, grabbing his arm with a red-gloved hand and pulling him to stand. “Eddieeee, come on! You have to come play spin the bottle with us!” she pleads, her voice too whiny to not be part of an act.

“I- uh,” he stumbles, looking at you with an emotion you can’t place.

The girl moves to stand in front of him, putting her hands on his chest now, starting to push him backwards. “Come on, it’s no fun if you don’t play,” she continues, her shrill voice grating in your ears.

You don’t like how close she’s getting, how unafraid she is to be touchy with him. Who even is she? Are they friends? Are they more than friends? She’s pushing him further away from you by the second, not once acknowledging your presence. You scoff, looking to the side, avoiding Eddie’s gaze.

Before Eddie can really do anything, he’s being shoved fully away from you. You don’t see the way he desperately looks to you for an out, simply bothered by the fact that this girl won’t leave him alone.

You wonder if you were right, if he called you beautiful just like he calls every other girl beautiful. You didn’t want to believe it, but, he’s about to go play a game with a bunch of drunk people where the whole point is to kiss each other, so. It’s not looking great for you.

You’d be lying, though, if you said your curiosity wasn’t peaked. You find yourself bored watching partygoers splash around in the pool, and you can’t shove down your internal need to find out what mister rockstar and the devil girl are up to inside. Your feet are carrying you before you can decide against it, leading you back inside, back through the kitchen where you pour yourself another drink, and then to the living room where you find a large group sat in a circle.

You hang back, just slightly, not wanting to make it too obvious that you’re watching the game, even though you aren’t the only one who came to spectate. To be completely honest, the first few spins you witness aren’t very exciting. You don’t know any of these people, so what should it matter to you if they kiss? You’re about to step away when the circle erupts with various ‘Ooooh’s and whistles.

“Come on, Eddie! You gotta do it!” a now very drunk Jeff screams.

To your absolute horror, Eddie had spun the bottle, only for it to land on the little bitch whose name you still don’t know in the devil costume. Eddie looks at the girl, who is very clearly eagerly awaiting a kiss from the singer of Corroded Coffin, but then he looks up at you.

You didn’t think he’d realized you were there, didn’t think he saw you lurking, but he looked at you too pointedly for it to have been an accident.

You swallow, suddenly feeling awkward amongst the silence of the room. Everyone’s watching Eddie, expecting him to get his kiss over with and move on. He stands finally, stepping forward. You almost want to look away, not interested in watching him lock lips with someone that isn’t you. But you can’t look away, not when he bypasses the anonymous girl and heads right for you.

“Um, I’m right here!” she says, her tone snarky and honestly annoying enough to make you want to slap her.

“Yeah, well I’m not kissing you, Tina,” Eddie says. “Spin the bottle. What are we, fourteen?” he asks, eyes still locked on you as he stands merely a step away now.

Your heart thumps in your chest, every bit of your nervous system attuned to him. Your mouth hangs slightly open, not knowing what to do or what to say.

He steps even closer, closing the distance between you. “I want to kiss you, that okay?” he murmurs, letting one hand rest so gently on your waist.

You want to laugh in Tina’s face. You want to point and laugh and rub it in, but that wouldn’t be the appropriate response here. You need to kiss Eddie, sooner rather than later.

You just nod, a smile playing on your lips. He leans his face closer to yours, hovering by your ear to whisper, “I’m sorry, about her. She’s… a friend of a friend who always ends up at our parties. Trust me, I have no interest there.”

The reassurance really isn’t necessary, you barely know Eddie after all, but it’s extremely appreciated. You feel your heart flutter a little, smug and satisfied all in one. And then his lips are on yours, not giving a damn who’s watching, not a care in the world for what anyone might say.

His lips are soft, warm against yours and the way he cradles the back of your head in his hands makes you weak at the knees. Your noses brush before you pull away, and the two of you giggle in unison like you just shared some exciting secret with each other.

Tina is dumbfounded where she sits on the carpet, watching you. You swear steam would be coming out of her ears if this was a cartoon. You give her a little wave and an all-too-fake smile before Eddie grabs your hand to lead you away.

Not a single word is spoken as he pulls you out of the living room, you’re silent until you reach the stairs to go up to the second floor.

“So you really don’t have history with Tina?” you playfully ask, pressing the issue just to be a pain, and he groans.

“Ugh, god, no. Like I said, she always ends up at these things and she’s all over me. But the funny part is, we went to high school together. She bullied the crap outta me,” he explains, and you can’t help but laugh. “Spread some nasty rumors on social media…” he shakes his head, smirking at the thought now.

“Of course,” you roll your eyes, “Now where are you taking me, rockstar?” you grab his waist once you’ve reached the top of the stairs, pulling him closer to you.

“To my room, because there’s no way I can handle any more interruptions tonight,” he says, his hands finding your hips, pressing his forehead to yours for a moment.

Another kiss is ghosted over your lips, open-mouthed and teasing, leaving you chasing after him when he pulls away and starts to walk down the hallway. He opens the dark wood door, gesturing for you to enter first.

The second he’s inside with you, his mouth is on yours, your back pressed to the wall as his hands grip your waist. He fumbles with the light switch behind you, providing a dim glow throughout the room. He wastes no time slipping his tongue past your lips, licking inside of your mouth and groaning when your tongue meets his. Your noses brush and you’re sure his makeup is getting smeared on your face, or vice-versa, and the thought makes you smile into the kiss. His lips work their way down to your jaw, nipping and mouthing at the skin before residing on your neck, sucking till it stings.

You hiss, arching your back into him, hands grabbing at his bare shoulders as your nails dig into the skin.

“Shit, sweetheart,” Eddie breathes, hands grabbing your face as he brings you in for another heated kiss.

He starts to walk backwards, guiding you with him towards his bed. His boots are kicked off of his feet carelessly, and you toe off your heels in tandem. He reaches the mattress, falling back onto it and scooting backwards until he’s fully on the bed. You follow his lead, straddling his lap and letting your hands roam his bare chest. He watches you like you’re an ethereal being, eyes big and round and completely full of desire. His hands wrap around to grab your ass beneath the fabric of your skirt, filling his open palms with the soft flesh and squeezing.

Your hands waste no time in finding their way to the zipper of his pants, tugging it down after undoing the button.

“Need these off, Ed,” you say, sounding more whiny than you’d wanted. Your face gets hot at the smirk he gives you in return.

“Oh, so we’re desperate now, huh?” he says, the cocky rockstar demeanor coming out in full-swing. It makes you embarrassingly flustered, your cunt throbbing for him.

All you can do is nod, your hand trailing over the bulge that waits for you beneath fabric.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, starting to shimmy his pants down his thighs.

You remove yourself from his lap, letting him undress — your mouth practically watering when his cock springs free and smacks against his stomach. He’s fully naked for you now, given that he already wasn’t wearing a shirt. All that’s left is the studded choker around his neck, and it makes you drool.

“Like what you see, baby?” he asks, a smug little grin on his face as he watches the way you take in his entire body.

You already noticed the tattoos on his chest and arms, but now you’re noticing the ones on his thighs. He’s unreal, so unfairly gorgeous and captivating. He’s perfectly sculpted, a sharp V carved into his pelvis that simply leads your eyes down a path to his perfect cock. It’s big — long and not too thick, veiny with a pink, leaking tip. He must catch your intrigued expression, because he laughs, a devious little sound that tells you he can’t have any pure intentions.

“Why don’t you lay down so I can get you ready to take this cock?” he purrs, slender fingers stroking up and down one side of your body.

You shudder at his touch, moving to lay down on his bed. You pull your shirt off before you do, leaving your black, lacy bra on display for the man beside you. Your tits rest perfectly in it, and Eddie’s sure to get an eyeful. His hands gently hold your hips once you’re situated comfortably, partially laying down with your back propped against his many fluffy pillows. He leans down, letting his lips graze over your jaw, your cheek, your nose, before finally pressing to your mouth. He brings one hand up, pulling your cat-ear headband off of your head, deciding it can’t be very comfortable to have on for hours at a time. It makes you breathe a little laugh into the kiss, remembering how silly you must look with your painted on whiskers and nose.

He doesn’t give you much time to dwell on it, his mouth pulling off of yours and starting to travel down your neck. He kisses your shoulders, your collarbone, sucking on the most sensitive bits of skin and making you whine as you wriggle beneath him. He finds his way down to your breasts, hands sliding your bra straps down your shoulders as you arch your back for him, giving him room to unhook the clasp that sits at your spine. His lips immediately attach to one of your pert nipples, sucking and swirling his tongue around the small bud. One of his large hands cups your other breast, the cold silver of the rings on his fingers a sharp contrast to your searing skin.

He switches after a moment, sucking the opposite nipple into his warm, wet mouth. Something akin to a growl leaves his mouth when your fingers tangle in his hair and tug, and it spurs you on to keep going. His lips unlatch themselves from your breast, his mouth moving down down down, trailing kisses everywhere it goes. Your cunt throbs when his mouth approaches the waistband of your tight little skirt, his eager hands hooking beneath the fabric and beginning to yank it down, along with your underwear.

He peppers kisses lower and lower on your body, his mouth following close behind the clothes that he pulls off of you, covering every inch of skin as it’s exposed to him. He discards everything onto the floor, definitely tearing your stockings in the process of ripping them off of you. Your mind is a blur as he hastily attaches his lips to your clit, slipping one finger inside of you with complete ease. You weren’t expecting all of the stimulation so suddenly, your body writhing on the mattress as he sucks your sensitive clit into his mouth.

“More, Eddie, need more,” you pant, knowing you’re probably being greedy but knowing all the same that he won’t deny you what you want.

He hums against your cunt, immediately adding a second finger inside of you. He curls the digits, collecting your sticky wetness and groaning at the filthy noises that his movements make. Your hands tug harder on his hair as you throw your head back onto the pillows, cursing at how good he feels. Going in, you had no idea how tonight would play out, but you certainly didn’t expect to be hooking up with the frontman of Corroded Coffin. Your head spins at the thought of how many other people would probably die to be in your position right now, and it only makes you more turned on.

“Want one more, baby? Need to make sure you can take my fingers before you take my cock,” he purrs, smirking up at you.

“Yeah, please, I can take it,” you reassure him, and he slips a third finger in.

His fingers are thick, no doubt about it, and they stretch you so deliciously you feel like you could cry. The silk sheets beneath you feel cold against your skin, easing the heat that floods your entire body. You grip them with one hand, the other still in Eddie’s hair as he flicks his tongue back and forth over your clit in the perfect rhythm. He doesn’t dare change his pace, not with the way you’re moaning his name like a siren song, drawing him more and more into you.

You’re rapidly approaching your release, that much he knows, and he wants to send you free-falling over that edge. The way you suck his fingers right in practically makes him drool, he can’t get enough. Loud, shrill moans of his name leave your mouth as he curls his fingers into that perfect soft spot inside of you, and Eddie couldn’t care less if the whole damn house can hear you.

“Gonna cum, Eddie, ohmygod—” you’re cut off mid-sentence, the air stolen from your lungs as you come undone for him.

You squeeze around his fingers, soaking him as your body trembles. He pulls them out of you, slowly bringing them to his lips, making sure your eyes are on him. He sucks the digits clean of your juices, humming contently around them. You ache for him, your body desperate to have him even though it’s only been seconds since he’d been pleasuring you.

He moves to hover over you, reattaching his lips to yours in a heated kiss. It’s somehow gentle and rough at the same time, a weird but enticing juxtaposition. He tastes like you and it drives you crazy as your mouths clash together, all teeth and tongues.

“Fuck, baby, hold on. Let me get a condom,” Eddie says, nearly breathless as he pulls away.

“No— want you to fuck me raw,” you mewl, reaching out to stop him as he goes to stand.

“Baby…” he says, looking at you with uncertainty. He never goes without a condom, and certainly doesn’t want you to feel pressured to forgo one.

“Please, Eddie. Just pull out,” you plead with him, and you honestly can’t believe your nerve right now. Begging the famous rockstar you just met to fuck you raw, as if you have all of this power over him. What you don’t know is that Eddie already wants to give you anything you ask for.

“Okay, alright, sweetheart. Whatever you want,” he says, leaning down to kiss your forehead before positioning himself on top of you.

He lines his cock up with your entrance, and you can feel the way you throb for him. You know you’re even more soaked than before, and you hardly worry about whether or not he’ll fit.

“You ready?” he asks sincerely. Big brown eyes searching yours for your approval.

“Mhm,” you hum, letting your eyes flutter closed when you feel him start to press in.

Moans leave each of your mouths in unison as he sinks inside inch by inch. Your nails dig in to the skin on his back, dragging down when he bottoms out inside of you. He hisses, breathing heavy as he tries to gain some composure. You feel so good around him, too good, and it takes all of his focus to not bust immediately.

“Please move, need you to move,” you whine, looking up at him with your big, pleading eyes.

He nods, “Okay, baby. Gonna give it to you so good, yeah?”

He starts thrusting, slowly at first, dragging his cock almost fully out of you before rutting back in. The air is forced from your lungs, your mouth open in a silent moan. His movements stay slow like that for a little while, giving you the friction you need but still teasing. Moans leave your lips as he slowly pushes himself all the way in, letting you fully feel the way he stretches your walls to fit him.

He starts to speed up then, setting a steady pace as he fucks into you harder. He does it so well, filling you to the brim and making you clench around him. You can feel every vein and ridge on his cock, the pleasure making your body erupt in goosebumps.

“Shit, feel so fucking good, sweetheart,” Eddie pants, his hips smacking against yours roughly. “Wanna try something different?” he asks, waiting for your approval which comes without hesitation.

He pulls out of you, making you wince slightly. He stands at the side of the bed, coaxing you to move towards him. You oblige, scooting right to the edge of the mattress. Strong hands grip your legs, hoisting your feet up onto his shoulders, exposing you perfectly to him. You feel more vulnerable like this, and it makes you antsy as you wait for him to slide back in. When he does, you see stars. The angle is perfect, his cock hitting spots it couldn’t before. You watch as he throws his head back, the muscles in his neck prominent as he clenches his jaw, a guttural groan escaping him.

“You’re so damn beautiful, so fucking gorgeous,” he says, looking back down at you with sincere eyes. “How’d I get the most perfect girl on the planet?”

And then he bends down, your legs still hooked over his shoulders, your body practically folded in half now. You nearly scream out his name, the lewd sounds of his balls slapping against your skin filling the space. He leans down to kiss you, his lips and firm against yours, muffling your pretty noises. He pulls away, letting out a smug little chuckle at the way you instantly moan for him, noticing the tears pricking in the corner of your eyes.

“Gonna cry for me, baby? My cock feels so good you’re gonna cry about it?” he teases, watching your brow furrow in concentration as you get closer and closer to release.

“You’re very — fuck — very fucking modest,” you choke out, trying and failing to bite back your whimpers.

He laughs again, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You know you fucking love it,” he murmurs, teeth biting at your earlobe before he pulls away. “I can tell you love it, cause you’re suckin’ me in like you were made for me.”

You let out a whine at his words, pinching your eyes shut in pure ecstasy as he continues to split you open. “Fuck, Eddie, don’t stop,” you plead, your body jolting with every harsh thrust he gives you.

He grunts as he fucks you faster, watching in awe as your tits bounce on your chest. He can feel how soaked you are for him, can see your cream pooling around the base of him when he sheathes himself fully inside.

“You gonna cum for me again, sweetheart?” he rasps, leaning down to kiss along your jawline.

All you can get out is a wobbly “Uh-huh,” nodding your head to the best of your ability. His fingers dig in to the meat of your thighs, a dull ache from his harsh grip barely noticeable in the back of your mind. One hand moves from its spot on your leg to reach down and play with your clit, the pad of his thumb rubbing quick circles over it.

Your back arches off the mattress, your legs shaking as you cry out his name. A few more deep thrusts and you’re plummeting over the edge for the second time tonight, your cunt tensing up around him over and over. The way your walls flutter around his cock brings him dangerously close to release, and he pulls his cock out quickly before he’s pumping it in his fist. All it takes is a few strokes before ropes of his cum are covering your body, splattering over your bare chest and stomach.

You let your legs drop from his shoulders, aching as you stretch them out. You feel like you’re made of rubber, limbs wobbly as your feet drop to the floor.

“Holy shit,” is all you can say, staring up at his ceiling as he chuckles at you from the side of the bed.

“You’re so damn perfect,” he says, shaking his head with a sweet little smile. He stretches, muscles flexing as he raises his arms to the ceiling, cocking an eyebrow at you when he catches you staring.

“Says you…” you reply, pulling the sheets up to hide your face, suddenly shy.

“Let me get you cleaned up, yeah?” he asks, holding out his arm for you, pulling you up when you take his hand.

When you step out of the shower with him, after your body has been cleaned and every inch of your skin has been kissed by his soft mouth, he gives you his big clothes to put on. You change and brush your hair, letting his hands hold your waist as he tries to invade your space to kiss you even more. You can’t help but admire his face, even more gorgeous now that his Halloween makeup is washed down the drain.

You both shuffle out of the bedroom carefully afterwards, trying to gauge how much the party has died down, only to be met with a laugh from the opposite end of the hallway.

Your head shoots up, seeing Gareth and Chrissy stepping out of his room, looking wildly similar to you and Eddie; costumes off, makeup off, a few extra hickeys on Gareth’s neck. Chrissy’s mouth hangs open, her eyes flitting from you to Eddie and back again.

“I told you!!” she shouts, giggling before Gareth takes her hand, pulling her down the stairs with him.

You try to bite back a smile, heat creeping up to your face.

“What exactly did she tell you, sweetheart?” Eddie smirks down at you, pulling your body to his. His cocky expression gives you the hint that he already has an idea.

“Shut up, rockstar.”

[fan-a-tink]

Buckle up, this is about Charles’s jealousy of Monty. Because there’s one interaction which makes it so so so so obvious…  In episode 2, when Edwin is banging the cat king bracelet against the wall trying to get it off, they have the following interaction: 

Edwin: You are not the one going back to Hell if we get caught. You just move on.  Charles: Oi, we don’t know what my afterlife looks like. And also, I’m not going anywhere without you. And no one’s going anywhere until that thing is off. What else did Whiskers say?  Edwin: Nothing. I told you, it was quick. [and after the ghost postman arrives in that scene] Edwin: You don’t need to bring the agency mail here. We’re not staying long. Charles: Chin up, mate. It’ll only take a second for our reputation to catch up over here in Port Townsend.  Edwin: We do not have to catch on in this town. Again, we are not staying. 

Edwin is the one wanting to leave, while Charles reassures him that I’m not going anywhere without you. And no one’s going anywhere until that thing is off. He seems to be perfectly happy to stay in Port Townsend and set up their office there until further notice.  Then in episode 4, literally the first scene between Charles and Edwin after they’ve both met Monty, they have this conversation: 

Charles: You’ve been spending a lot of time with that one, haven’t you? Monty. You.  Edwin: Mmm. Charles: Spending a lot of time?  Edwin: Hmm?  Charles:  Edwin: Merely swapping books, is all.  Charles: You were dead keen to get that bracelet off, count cats, the whole shebang, and now it’s all skipping around and reading astrology.  Edwin: Charles, I’ve never skipped.  Charles: No, listen. You’re in a good mood, and I think that’s brills. Let’s just.. try not to forget that we’re trying to leave. 

So, suddenly Charles reminds Edwin that they want to leave town, when he’s never mentioned wanting that before. Like, leaving town was not at all a priority and all he ever said was that he’s not going anywhere without Edwin. The only thing that has changed now is that Monty is suddenly taking up space in Edwin’s life, flirting with him, befriending him, and suddenly Charles makes sure to remind Edwin that we’re trying to leave!

This boy has never had to share Edwin’s attention and affection with anyone until Crystal and Niko and Monty came along. And Crystal and Niko don’t cause any jealousy for Charles, because their relationship to Edwin is simply platonic. But Monty is clearly interested in Edwin romantically, obviously flirting with him and all. And this is when Charles starts to feel jealous, when he wants to get back to London, away from Port Townsend, when he is clearly unhappy about Edwin making space in his life for a potential romantic relationship. 

So I guess my point is: Charles may be too deep in denial to realize it, but it is the possibility of Edwin forming a romantic relationship with someone else that triggers his jealousy. He is so in love with his best mate. And I can’t wait for the day when Charles finally realizes this too. 

[hier--soir]

heart to heart

john price x f!reader

rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: john takes you away for the weekend, and nestled in a cottage on the countryside, you show him just how much you've been missing him. warnings/tags: long term boyfriend!john, john price never finishes his cigars, explicit smut, a little body worship, oral [m receiving], fingering [f], unprotected piv sex, multiple orgasms [m], some overstim [m], come eating x2, brief cock warming, idiots in love, porn with minimal plot. word count: 4.4k masterlist a/n: this was born out of me being physically unable to stop thinking about that middle picture being john price, so here we go follow @hier--soirupdates if you’d like to be notified when i share my writing

It hasn’t rained in six days.

Late autumn spins the countryside in its grasp; a warm cloak that sends the leaves golden and the grass dewy. In a small, unfamiliar kitchen you drop teabags into mugs and gaze out the window. Admire the vast acreage that surrounds the cottage, and the marshland beyond that.

The early morning rays are bright and cool, turning the cabinets a washy yellow colour around you as you wait for the kettle to boil.

Everything is quiet, calm. If you listen closely, past the sound of birds chirping and water bubbling, you can hear John’s heavy snores down the hall; still catching up on sleep after a long few weeks away.

When he came through the front door two nights ago, you’d been quietly surprised to see him home so soon. After not hearing much for almost a month, you’d resigned yourself to getting on with things in his absence. A fairly covert operation, you knew, so you’d spent your days waking to an empty house. Working and eating and showering alone and never exceeding the appropriate number of messages you could send him in one day without stirring worry. Little Angus with his long orange tail and his soft whiskers your only company in John’s stead.

Home at last, he’d wrestled out of his heavy boots and draped himself over where you lay on the couch. Soap opera long forgotten on the tele, he’d slipped an arm around the back of your head, held you to his chest and said, Let me take you somewhere.

The kettle whistles and you pluck it from the stove, still smiling at the memory. Douse the teabags in boiled water and watch as the windows cloud with steam. You leave his black, just the way he likes it, but soften your own with sugar and milk. Your toes are numb against the cool tile, and you rub them against your calf in search of warmth. Inside, your body is at sleepy old war with itself. One half longing to be back in bed, or perhaps to have not gotten up at all yet; the other half taking great pleasure in the mundanity of doing things like this for him again, after so long of not. Tap tap tap of an impatient finger against the counter until his tea turns the perfect colour, and then you’re on your way back to the room.

Leant amongst paisley patterned pillows and white linens, John looks a little out of place knuckling sleep from the corner of his eyes. A little too rough around the edges, too big, too hardened for such soft surroundings. In your brief absence, he’s drawn the curtains and nudged the window beside the bed open a crack. A long arm stretches out toward the sill, ashing a cigar onto the small dish he’s balanced there.

Naked as the day he was born, he lifts the cigar to his lips and blinks drowsily at you. Stretches his legs out, the muscles in his thighs straining, curled toes skimming the end of the bed. Eyes wandering, you kick the door shut with your foot and slink to the end of the bed, holding out his mug.

“’Morning,” he murmurs, voice still thick with sleep. Accepts the tea with a soft smile, the skin beside his eyes crinkling as he watches you crawl in beside him. Hands full, he twists an ankle around yours, face pulling up at the feel of your cold skin against his. “Jesus, you’re like ice. I’ll shut the window.”

“Don’t move,” you hush, nestling your head against his shoulder. “You’re right where I want you.”

John laughs softly, warm body vibrating against yours. “Is that right, sweetheart?”

“Mhm.” You watch him tap his cigar against the dish, sipping your tea and trailing fingers through the dark hairs on his stomach. Enjoy the way his body draws tense beneath your cool touch, goose flesh sprouting across his skin. “Middle of nowhere… unfamiliar town… no one will ever find you. You’re all mine out here, Price.”  

“M’all yours everywhere,” he says, abandoning his cigar in the dish so he can tug on the neckline of your—his—t-shirt. “This proves it, yeah?”

“I suppose,” you smile, lifting your mug to hide behind a sip. He watches you move, calculating and quiet as he sips his own tea. You fidget beneath the intensity of his stare, painfully aware of how well he knows you. That your want, your need, must be painted across every inch of your face.

“Love you in my clothes, sweetheart, I do.” John’s fingers curl beneath the hem of the shirt then, rough callouses tickling over your collarbones. “But you’re makin’ me feel awful naked.”

Heat flares in the base of your stomach and you chuckle, matching smirks splashed across your faces as you sit up and drag the shirt over your head. He watches as you flick it to the floor, gaze darkening as he looks over your body, focusing on the thin grey panties that cover the skin between your thighs. A thick arm curls around your waist, tugging you back onto him, and as you settle there his fingers slip down to fiddle with the band of your underwear.

“Cute,” he comments airily, middle finger dropping under the band to caress the skin beneath it.

Mug discarded off the side of the bed, you put both hands to his stomach now. Tickling his soft skin, playing with the hair there as you lean in and press a kiss to the centre of his chest. And then another, and another, with John simply humming, palm flattening against the small of your back to hold you against his side.

Your lips part, tongue dancing lazily against his nipple. Soft strokes until the flesh is stiffening and you’re practically purring against his skin, drifting across to the other one. You hear the soft clink of his mug hitting the side table, and then John’s hand falls against the back of your head. Thick fingers twist through your hair, playing as you kiss and lick over his collarbones, and the little tugs he gives have a low throb starting up between your legs.

“Feelin’ needy this mornin’, hey lovey?” John asks. His fingers come to the front of your face, cupping your jaw and forcing you to look up at him. Big blue eyes watch you pout, cheeks squished between his fingers as you nod.

“I missed you,” you say, turning to press your nose into his palm and inhale the smell of him.

His eyes soften, and all sense of teasing seems to slip out the window. “I know, sweetheart, m’sorry. Come here’n give us a kiss.”

His lips are soft against yours. Warm, and familiar, with a hint of Darjeeling. Pulling you up to straddle his waist, he coaxes your chest down against his and huffs into your mouth at the feel of your nipples against his skin, teeth sneaking out to smart at your bottom lip.

“Thought about you every day,” he mumbles against your lips. “Missed you every second, love, always do.”

You feel something hot and sharp spark behind your eyelids at those words, and flick your tongue against the seam of his lips, pushing it away, not now not now. You go soft and pliant against him; let him guide you through the kiss, coaxing your mouth open with his long tongue as his fingers dance down your spine. When his hand reaches the round of your ass he grips your flesh there, kneading it between his fingers and pushing down so your clothed cunt comes flush with his cock.

“Feel that?” John says, pulling away an inch to nose at your cheek. His cock is heavy between your legs, thick and stiff where it presses against the gusset of your panties. You gasp as he rocks his hips up, grinding against you until the damp fabric slips between your slick folds and rubs over your clit. “That’s how much I missed you, sweetheart.”

As he talks, the hairs on his moustache prickle against your lips, and you find yourself opening your mouth. Breathy moans spill as you roll your hips against his, lathing hot opened mouthed kisses over his jaw.

“Looked at your picture every night,” he continues raggedly, breath hitching as you suck at the hollow of his throat. His cock twitches against you, the slide only getting smoother as more slick spills into your panties. “Thought about comin’ home ‘n’ never leavin’ again, just so I could play with this pretty little cunt whenever I like.”

Your hips stutter into his and you whine, a tiny glimpse of an orgasm fluttering through you just from those words.

“S’yours,” you whisper against his skin, the words he spoke moments before dancing through your mind. “All yours everywhere.”

Faster than he can stop you, you’re slipping off his lap and settling beside him on the bed. Continuing the onslaught, you lick hot, messy kisses over the skin of his neck, across the broad span of his shoulders.

“My big man,” you say tenderly, fingers itching their way across his chest. You skirt your teeth down the middle of his sternum, squeaking a little when he murmurs in enjoyment and presses a hand to your ass again. “I missed your body so much.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Yeah.”

“Show me then,” he goads lightly, grunting around a smirk when you sink your teeth into the soft flesh over his ribs in response.

His fingers toy with the material of your panties as you drag your tongue over the dip of his belly button, and when you kiss the soft curve of his lower stomach, nose buried in the dark hairs above it, you feel him grip the fabric tight. You can see his cock in your peripheral vision. Swollen and heavy against his hip now. The tip has turned a pretty shade of dark pink, accented by little streaks of white where pre-come oozes from his slit and glides down his throbbing shaft. With your mouth on his belly, you reach out and wrap your fingers around him.

“Fuck,” John grunts, head lolling back against the pillows.

You smile, stroking him slowly as you drag your nose through his thick happy trail, all the way down to nuzzle against the dark thatch of curls above his base. Insistent now, his fingers push beneath the edge of your panties and drag through your slick seam.

You whimper, forehead resting heavily against his skin as he slides two fingers through the wet mess of you. Lewd sounds of your arousal fill the room as John traces featherlight circles around your clit, and your face heats against his stomach, fingers returning to their lazy pace around his length.

The throb between your legs has become a second heartbeat now, so strong that you’re sure he must feel it beneath his fingertips. If he does, he just sighs softly. Lets the thrumming of your cunt sync with the pulse in his fingertips, heart to heart, and murmurs low encouragements as you tilt your head to the side and begin mouthing at his cock.

“Missed my cock.” Your voice is low and unfamiliar in your ears, mouth overrun with desire and spilling your guts before you can stop it. “So pretty, John…”

Circling your entrance with a thick finger, he just says, “I know, love, s’yours. Go on.”

As slow as you can bring yourself to be, you lay gentle kisses down the entire length of him. Wetting your lips and gliding them over his warm, silken skin, before dipping lower and sucking his balls between your lips. A harsh grunt sounds behind you, and, as if in retaliation, he sinks two thick fingers inside you. You moan around his sensitive skin, holding his balls in your mouth and jerking him off until he’s trembling beneath you, broad thighs straining as he tries to hold himself together.

“That’s good, love,” he murmurs softly, almost speaking to himself as he curls his fingers inside you, humming when you grind into his hand. “Need ta get my fuckin’ mouth on you.”

But you just shake your head. Let his balls slip from your mouth with a soft pop before sticking out your tongue and guiding the weeping tip of his cock towards your mouth. Hasty, too needy for your own good, you slip your lips around him and try to take him deep on the first pass. Out of practice after weeks away, your throat constricts and you choke a little around him. So big, so overbearing, you’re too eager to be filled by him that you push and push until you’re gagging and sputtering. Cheeks hot and eyes downturned, you draw back, skin prickling as you hear him say something past the rushing in your ears. Take a moment to catch your breath and ground yourself, fingers tight on his thigh as your tongue swirls around his tip.

“This what you missed then?” he’s saying, collecting your hair in his fist to keep it off your face. “Hm, missed bein’ all full of me?”

“Mhm,” you hum around him, pulling back with a gasp only to press his head against your cheek. Eyes closed, you rub his ruddy tip against your chin, your lips, painting your skin with his precome. Feel the weight of him warm your skin and sigh in quiet delight. And when he groans, exhaling a heavy, ragged breath, you press your mouth around him again, desperate to hear him make that sound over and over again.

“Easy, darlin’, lemme see you,” John chokes out, thumbing sliding over the apple of your cheek. “So pretty with your lips around my cock.”

Heat floods your chest, and you drool around him. The words seem to trigger something in your mind, some insatiable desire to please, to make him feel good, because you’re relaxing, sinking your mouth down further on him. A low, drawn-out curse falls from his lips, fingers curling in the hair behind your ear.

Gaudy sounds of sucking and slurping fill your ears, and you would be self-conscious if it weren’t for the way John’s growls met them in the air. Wordlessly, he slips a third digit inside and the stretch brings a dull burn that has your mouth slowing against him.

Your eyelids flutter as his thick fingers stroke at your walls, searching for the spot that makes you spill every time, but your wanton cries of desperation are muffled by the heavy weight of him on your tongue. In slow, measured movements, he begins to shift his hips in time with your head. Feeding his cock to you and grunting when he feels your throat go soft and easy around him, letting him slip further in until your nose buries in the hair at his base.

John watches you, the blue in his eyes almost entirely swallowed by desire fattened pupils. Rakes his gaze over the way your lips stretch around his thick cock, tears dancing on your lashes as you take him in your throat. The heady taste of him is intoxicating, and you can only hold his gaze for so long before your eyes are rolling back, stomach pulling tight as you swallow around him.

Stuffed to the brim with John, John, John. He’s everywhere, filling your mouth, your aching cunt; it sends your heart racing, thighs trembling as your orgasm begins to crest.

Molten heats swims in the base of your stomach, curling and bubbling there as he you ride his long fingers, moaning his name around his cock. But just as you feel everything begin to go tight and tingly, John’s pulling on your hair and dragging you off him.

A thin strand of spit dangles between his tip and your mouth and he snarls at the sight, swiping his thumb across your bottom lip.

“Fuck, c’mere,” he huffs, squeezing insistently at your shoulders. “Wanna feel you on my cock when you come for me, yeah?”

Mind a hazy blur, you let the weight of him fall from your mouth, the hinge of your jaw still burning as you peel your underwear down your legs and spread yourself over his lap. John doesn’t pull his hand away though. No, he keeps his fingers between your legs, pumping them in and out, slowly, as you hover over his cock.

“My girl,” he says, eyes focusing on where the puffy lips of your cunt almost touch his cock. “My filthy, sweet girl.”

“John,” you puff his name, abdomen tensing when he rubs his thumb against your clit. Balanced on your knees and the tips of your toes, your legs shake a bit. Fingers dance forward to touch his shoulder, desperate for an anchor.

You frown a little, swollen lips parted in a torturous mix of desire and confusion, but he just offers a filthy grin and says, “Tell me you missed me again.”   

“Oh, fuck off,” you smart instinctually, lips twitching when he barks a laugh and slips his fingers from your wet clutch, grasp drifting to your waist. “Please.”  

“There she is,” he rumbles, jaw tensing as you glide his tip through your folds, coating him in your slick. A heavy rush of air spills from his nose. “My impatient girl.”

Once he’s got you on his cock, it doesn’t take long for you to fall apart.  

He lets you keep having it your way for a bit. Watches, gaze heavy, as you bounce on his cock, hands gripping his shoulders for leverage. You squirm on him, face twisted up as you adjust to the thick stretch of him after so long. It burns and aches between your thighs, but you can’t help but keep coming back for more, sinking down on his length faster each time. He tilts his head forward to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, moaning against the plush of your breast when you arch your back, crying out at the feeling of his teeth on the sensitive bud.

After a while he slots his greedy lips against yours. Presses hot, sucking kisses to your mouth, swallowing down every gasp and moan that crawls its way up your chest. The bristles of his facial hair scratch at your cheeks, your nose, and you love it. Have desperately missed the way it warms your skin as he presses his tongue inside your mouth and tastes behind your teeth.

Using his hold on your hips, he rolls you against his lap. Meets you thrust for thrust until you start to soak his length, jaw going slack as he growls into your open mouth.

“Fuckin’ hell, love, that’s it,” John groans, fingers tightening on your waist as your cunt pulls tight and hot around him. Thighs shaking, you let your forehead fall against his chest and ride out the flood of your orgasm. “I know, darlin’, I know, I’ve got you.”

Fingers fly up to grip the back of your neck, his other arm snaking around your waist as he continues fucking up into you. His cock presses hot and heavy into that soft, gushy spot deep inside you and you shudder against him, helpless little moans slipping from your parted lips. Face smushed against his hairy chest, you drool a little. Feel it pool between his pecs and smear across your cheek as your eyes roll back, dopamine pounding in your veins as he pushes you relentlessly through the high.

“Gonna let me fill you up?” he’s panting, feet planted on the bed now as he bucks into you, hips stuttering as he sinks closer and closer to his end. “Fuck, I’m gonna make a right mess of you, darlin’. That’s it, lovey, show me that pretty face.”

“John,” you mewl, toes curling against the sheets. “Shit, oh shit.”   

“Christ,” he grunts when you meet his eyes, jaw pulled tight. “So tight, m’ gonna come—”

“Wait,” you mumble suddenly, senses sharpening despite the way your thighs still shake against his hips. John stills immediately, grip tightening on your waist. “In my mouth, I want you in my mouth.”

His face crumples at that, a guttural noise sputtering from his lips as you lift off him and slip down to rest between his legs. He nods, brushing hair back off your face as you sink your mouth down on him, slick tongue hungry on the underside of his pulsing cock. He mutters your name, tells you how perfect you feel as he rocks his hips forward, tip nudging the back of your throat with every careful thrust.

“My sweet girl, doing so good for me,” he breathes, a coy grin on his face and a firm hand at the base of your skull. He holds your head in place as he fucks your mouth with slow, steady strokes. Groans every time you swallow, warm wet throat drawing tight around his swollen head.

“Look at me, let me see those eyes,” he mutters urgently, tugging on your hair until you’re blinking, focusing blurry eyes on his face. He thumbs at the teary streaks on your cheeks and gives a rough, prolonged groan as he begins to spill down your throat. “Fuck, fuck.”

You bob your head as his cock twitches and jerks against your tongue, sucking until he’s filled your mouth with warm come and it starts seeping from the corner of your mouth, dribbling down his shaft. You catch the spill with your fingers, swallowing his thick spend down and then licking what’s left from your trembling hands.

John watches on, chest heaving, and tuts fondly when you whimper, head spinning with the salty taste of him on your tongue.

“Bloody hell,” he exhales after a moment, dragging his knuckles over his face. “We’re never goin’ home.”  

You laugh, drowsily nuzzling your cheek against the inside of his thigh as his cock softens against his stomach. John cards his fingers through your hair absentmindedly, legs still twitching and eyes drifting closed as he tries to catch his breath. Lips slick with spit and come, you lay soft pecks along his sweaty skin. Smile when he shudders, fingers tightening against your scalp, but doesn’t pull you off.

There’s a hot flush of red splashed across the skin of his neck, his cheekbones, and his stomach is still warm to the touch when you reach out to graze his soft flesh. Sated and sleepy, he wets his lips and continues to play with your hair. Lovingly curls strands of it around his fingers and tugs gently before letting go, only to pick a new strand and do it again.

Overcome with emotion, and unable to stop yourself, you lean forward and take his soft cock back into your mouth.

John hisses through his teeth in surprise, eyes flashing open.

You don’t do anything crazy yet. Just let him feel the warmth of your mouth around him, the soft glide of your tongue against the ridge around his head. When he doesn’t pull you off after a second, you give him a little suck. Not hard—just enough to make his hips flinch down into the mattress and his legs pull tight at your sides.  

“Fuck,” he exhales, face pinched. His hand trembles against your head. “Fu—hang on, fuckin’ hell, love.”

You peer up past his stomach to where his mouth hangs open and his eyes are shiny and wide. His nails scratch against your scalp. Needy little nudges that blur the line between too much and not enough. You hum in pleasure around him when a choked sound falls from his mouth. Feeling a little mean, though, you pull back, licking your lips and smiling apologetically.

“Sorry,” you murmur, face hot as you squeeze his thigh. “Just want to love on you a little longer, that’s all.”

He hums deep in his chest, brow creasing a little as he brings his big hands to cup your face. His thumb swipes at your chin, smearing the saliva there, and you part your lips for him. He makes a sort of pained sound as he slots the digit into your mouth and watches you hollow out your cheeks out around it, swirling your tongue and sucking like you’d done to his cock just moments ago.

“Christ,” John breathes. Something needy and desperate glints in his eye, and he slips his finger from your mouth. Grips the back of your neck and gives a short nod. “Gonna be the death of me, ain’tcha?”

Guided by his hand, you take him back in your mouth and sigh in relief. Your eyelids flutter closed, and you rest your face against his hip, taking deep breaths through your nose and just holding him like that for a while. You can hear the way his breathing goes haggard above your head; short sharp bursts of air huffing from his nostrils. Sensitive as he must be, John lets you have your fun, shivering and spiting low curses as your touches get increasingly needier. And when you begin to suck softly at his length again, he seems unable to help the way his strong legs writhe against the mattress.

He says your name, rough and urgent, when you pull back only to snake your tongue out against his slit. Eyes fluttering open, you look up at him as you lathe your tongue down his length, smiling at how red his face has gotten, at how he seems to be holding his breath. John’s cock starts to swell and stiffen beneath your touch.  

“D’you want me to stop?” you whisper, tracing the blue vein that pulses down the side of his length with your tongue.

“No,” he pants, head lolling from side to side. “Fuck no, gorgeous. Just go easy on me, yeah? It’s ohh—” he winces “—s’a lot.”

You nod understandingly and press a kiss to his tip, smearing the fresh pearl of precome there against your lips. He’s fully hard now, throbbing when you wrap your fingers around his thick base and wrap your lips around his head. A guttural sound rips from his chest and he’s tugging at your hair. For a moment you pause, unsure, but then he’s pushing a little on you. Nudging you closer, further, so you take him deeper and deeper until his tip is nudging against your throat.

“Fuck,” John gasps, hips stuttering against your palms, sensitive cock twitching against your tongue. “S’too much, love, it’s—oh fuck.”

With a ragged grunt his cock pulses in your mouth, and a little spurt of come dribbles from his head. You moan, eyes closed, and swallow tight around him, milking every last drop of spend from his cock until he’s winded and clumsily pushing you off of him.

Breathless, you fall flat on the mattress beside him, feet dangling off the end of the bed. John’s broad palm cradles the back of your head still, a comforting weight as you wipe your face against the sheets.

Ears pricking, you realise it’s begun to rain outside. Soft patters of liquid that knock against the window, thin rivulets that drip down to splash and splutter against the sill. Long forgotten, his cigar sizzles and dies beneath the spray.

“Another tea?” you murmur finally, pushing up onto your elbows.

But with a soft, startled laugh, you find that John’s eyes are closed, chest rising with steady breaths; already back to sleep. Shaking your head a little, you smile fondly at his lax form, and consider closing the window. You settle instead for pulling the duvet from the corner of the bed. Curled against his thick side, you settle the blanket over the two of you and lay an arm over his stomach, content to have a proper lie in after such a busy morning.

thanks for reading, i'd love to hear what you thought x

[hazbinshusk]

“Y’know, I’m startin’ to think the Princess was right about puttin’ in a limit on the drinks,” Husk’s smooth baritone had a humorous lilt to it as he breaks the silence in the bar. His speaking brings you back to the right side of the line of consciousness you’ve been see-sawing for the last twenty minutes, and you frown as you tilt your head back to meet his eye. “You good?”

You groan quietly, leaning an elbow on the bar and dropping your cheek heavily into your hand. You’re aware that you’ve been less than good company the last few hours, but Husk hasn’t really seemed to mind. In fact, you could almost swear that he was… content with you, even maybe happy to just experience the quiet with you sitting on the other side of the bar. Still, you straighten, raising an eyebrow at him teasingly. “Why’re you asking? Don’t I look good?”

He blinks at you before a rueful smirk touches your features. “Get enough bourbon into you and you start takin’ a page right outta Angel’s playbook, huh?”

You smile crookedly back up at him. “Is that a ‘no’?”

You swear that Husk’s eyes dip down over your figure for a moment. You could also swear that his gaze lingers for a second longer on your chest and that his cheeks pinken slightly as he meets your eye again. “Pleadin’ the fifth, sweets.”

Smile widening into something sweeter, you straighten in your seat, leaning towards him on your elbows. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

He gives you a small, almost bashful smile of his own, slinging the bar rag over his shoulder. “You wanna talk ‘bout whatever’s got you down?”

You shrug a shoulder, running a finger around the rim of your empty glass. “Don’t you ever get sick of listening to everyone else’s problems?”

“Every damn day,” he smirks, and you giggle. The expression warms his face further at the sound, his ears flicking forward as though to catch every part of it. “It’s a hazard of the job. But I’ve been holdin’ the title of resident lush here for a while now, and I’m worried you’re gonna go and dethrone me."

You laugh again, pushing your glass towards him hopefully. “Speaking of…?”

Husk’s golden eyes study you for a moment, taking in the almost playful pout you give him before he gives a relenting sigh. “One more. But only if you chase it with water.”

“You drive a hard bargain, bartender.” you reply. “But I’m a fancy gal – I’m gonna need a lemon wedge.”

He chuckles, rolling his eyes good-naturedly as he turns to reach for the bourbon bottle. You rest your chin back in your hand, admiring the sleekness of his wings idly, the shine in his fur and the muscles in his shoulders. He catches you staring as he returns to pour you a fresh glass, raising an eyebrow at your expression.

“Anyone ever tell you how pretty you are?”

Husk makes a soft cattish noise of surprise in the back of his throat. That pink in his cheeks reappears before he scoffs, sliding your drink back towards himself again. “Well, now you’re cut off.”

“No!” you pout as he swallows down the two fingers he’d poured you and sets the glass back on the bar. “But I’m serious!”

“You’re drunk.”

“I can be both,” you shoot back petulantly, and he gives you a sidelong, almost tired look. He’s leaning on the bar now, the position bringing the two of you closer together. You study the greying whiskers around his muzzle, the sweet little hearts above his brows, and your tone softens. “D’you think I would lie to you?”

“This is hell, doll,” he replies softly, a self-deprecating tilt to his lips. “Everybody lies.”

Your brow furrows, and maybe it’s the bourbon that makes you do it, or maybe it’s the soft warmth in his eyes, or the way they burn into yours. Maybe it’s way he’s kept you company without complaint all night. Or maybe it’s just… him, but you lean forward over the bar and press your lips to his cheek in a soft, chaste kiss.

Husk lets out a quiet mrrp! at the touch, and you exhale your nerves shakily as you withdraw slowly. “Believe me now?”

You meet Husk’s wide, surprised eyes for a second before you suddenly feel his hand on the back of your neck and you’re pulled into a crushing kiss.

[kyletogaz]

sergeant whiskers [part three] pairing: simon riley x gn!reader summary: whiskey goes missing (not really) part two | masterlist

“simon, i can’t find whiskey.”

simon is on his feet and ducking out of the room the moment he hears the panic in your voice. “where did you last see her?” he asks into the phone. he’s hoping the calmness in his tone will help ease your anxiety.

it doesn’t. he has no idea that you’ve gotten yourself worked up a long time ago, and the only thing that’ll work is locating sergeant whiskers.

“she was in the kitchen with me earlier when i gave her some fresh water and fixed myself a snack,” he hears you explain. your voice is full of worry as you try to remember where your baby was before you lost sight of her.

“and after that?” he asks softly.

“living room, but then i don’t know where she went after that.” there’s silence on the other end, then he hears you sigh and say, “i can’t believe i lost her.”

simon coos at you, hoping you’ll settle. “you didn’t lose her. she’s just hidin’, sweetheart.”

he thinks sarge is probably watching you lose your mind over her disappearance.

“but she’s so small and i’ve looked everywhere!”

simon leans against the wall just outside of the room where his team is in the middle of a debrief. he really wishes he was home with you and the cat instead. unfortunately, he’ll be stuck on base for the rest of the week. so he gives you a list of sergeant whiskers’ possible hiding spots, to which you tell him you’ve already searched those places.

“check again, love. she’s in there somewhere. if she’d snuck outside, you would know.”

she would have been yowling and scratching at the door immediately after her escape. the little rascal hates the outdoors.

simon listens in amusement as you huff, but you do as you’re told. you apologize for calling him while he’s at work, but he just tells you that it’s okay. simon gives you a soft i love you and bids you farewell after you promise to text him when whiskey is found.

back at home, you’re still riddled with worry. you haven’t seen your little furball since she attacked your feet while you were lounging on the couch. you’d searched all over the house, but she was nowhere to be found. and if it wasn’t for simon, you’d still be panicking right now.

you sat your phone down on the counter with a sigh, before leaving the kitchen in search of the cat. you check every inch of the house, calling out to sergeant whiskers as you went. she wasn’t in your office, and nor was she in the sun room. you check the closets and the spare bedroom you’ve been using for storage, but come up with nothing.

you make your way upstairs to search the guest bedroom. you get down on your knees to look under the bed. no whiskey, but you do find one of her favorite noisy balls.

when you enter your bedroom, you give the ball an experimental shake, before shaking it with a purpose and belting out the cat’s name. and it’s like a siren’s call when you hear a soft meow coming from the closet. your eyebrows shoot up at the sound in disbelief because there is absolutely no way she’s been in simon’s closet this entire time and you didn’t know. that was one of the very first places you’d checked.

with an exasperated huff, you inch towards the closet and flick the light on just to see sergeant whiskers crawling from where she’d been tucked in the corner of the closet behind simon’s shoes.

“whiskey!” you gasp, while watching her stretch as she sinks her claws into the carpet.

big green eyes shift from the ball in your hand and up to you. sergeant whiskers gives you another soft meow and a slow blink, before you move to scoop her up into your arms, the ball completely forgotten as it slips from your hand and hits the floor. you hold the cat away from your body with your brows raised. “i’ve been looking all over for you, little girl!”

she makes a noise as if to say ‘really?’, before she starts purring.

“you had me worried sick, you know. i even called daddy in a panic while he was at work,” you say softly as you carry her out of the closet and over to the bed, where you set her down before getting comfortable yourself.

sergeant whiskers let out a cute little chitter, before she rubbing up against your side affectionately, her tail thumping softly against your body. you laugh at the way she goes limp when you stroke a hand down her spine. she presses her wet nose against your hand when you draw back a little.

“i’ll give you more love later. it’s time for dinner, baby.”

you snort when she doesn’t acknowledge you at all. she hops right off the bed and prances out of the room. there is no doubt in your mind about where the little furball is off to. one mention of food and she’s not even worried about you anymore.

after you feed sergeant whiskers, you get yourself fed and text simon like you promised. you do your usual routine of washing the dishes and finding something on the tv for you and the cat to watch. you pick her favorite wildlife channel of course.

the memory of sergeant whiskers’ very first interaction with the tv was comical. at the time, you thought simon was going to have a heart attack when the cat climbed onto the tv stand and started batting her paw at a bird she saw on the screen.

“she’s just curious, si.” you’d told him, while stifling your laughter when he started hissing for the cat to get off of his precious tv. you’d laughed outright when she paid him no mind.

simon had grumbled of course. but he relaxed eventually, when the cat hopped down and sat on the floor in front in front of the tv, her big green eyes staring at the screen in wonder.

sergeant whiskers became a big fan of nature and wildlife channels fairly quickly. simon had been surprised one day when he slipped out of the room, then came back to see the cat still watching tv in the same spot he’d left her in.

you shift your gaze to the cat from where she lay next to you on the couch, and sure enough, the tv has her undivided attention. she doesn’t even react when you reach out to gently poke her in the side.

“you’re just like daddy when he watches his sports,” you mutter, before turning towards the tv.

after your mention of simon, your mind drifts. you wonder how your husband is faring without you and sergeant whiskers.

you don’t have to wonder long though. the week goes by quickly. you keep yourself occupied by doing errands and working in the garden. you also work on coaxing the cat out into the backyard. sergeant whiskers wasn’t having any of it though. so you don’t even put up a fuss when she chooses to sit at the door instead.

simon comes home sunday afternoon. he’s barely in the door when the cat attaches herself to him. she’s meowing loudly and circling his legs when you reach the foyer.

“how are my sweethearts doin’?” your husband croons as soon as he sees you.

you bend down to pick the cat up so simon can pull both of you into his arms. he presses a kiss to your forehead, then shares a nuzzle with sergeant whiskers, before he sets her down onto the floor.

“we’re fine. we’ve missed you, si,” you reply, a pretty smile gracing your lips when simon grins.

“oh yeah? how much?” amber eyes drink you in while he slides his big hands over your hips.

you let out a breathless laugh when he tugs you closer and dips his head, gasping when his soft lips presses against yours. the kiss makes you a little dizzy.

“missed you,” simon murmurs softly before pressing his forehead against yours. “couldn’t wait to get home.”

the moment ends when the cat lets out a soft yowl, making both of you look down at her. she stares up at the both of you innocently, but you know she just wants your attention.

she meows softly, then purrs when you pick her back up and cradle her little furry body in your arms.

“heard you’d gone missin’,” simon tells her with a look of amusement, while he scratches her behind the ears. “you never told me how you found her.”

“i shook one of the balls i found,” you explain dryly, before rolling your eyes when he laughs.

“well that’s one way to do it, love.”

-

a/n: sorry for the abrupt ending, this was barely edited. hope you enjoyed it

[heartchoi]

[7:08 pm] ㅡ c.sb

pairing: soobin x gn!reader

warnings: mild swearing, reader is shorter than soobin, established relationship, tooth rotting fluff

wc: 839

a/n: im back so i had to write about my boyfriend!!! also this is inspired by those tiktok slideshows of those random manhwas LMAOO

“Come on, why are you giving me the cold shoulder?” Soobin pouts, nudging your arm with his. You don’t give a reaction to his antics, walking away from him, almost speed walking away. Soobin shouts your name, desperate for your attention.

“Hey! Just tell me~” He drawls, catching up to you. Once more, you ignore him, scoffing a little.

The scoff was not appreciated.

Soobin gently grabs your shoulders before spinning you around, forcing you to look at him. He even bends down a little for the eye contact. (Is this embarrassing? He’s tall, everyone knows that, but damn, he didn’t have to bend down. Makes you truly realize the height difference here.)

“My love. My life. Sweetheart. Honey. Baby. Please, just tell me what I did wrong. I don’t deserve to be ignored by the love of my life like this.” He accentuates his pout further, his bottom lip fully jutted out. “Pretty please?” Soobin adds, sweetening his tone.

You sigh. You can’t escape him forever, it seems. “I didn’t appreciate how you almost let that girl make cat whiskers on your face.”

Soobin’s confusion is evident on his face — His brows furrow, lips pucker. It’s almost comical how confused he looks. “What?” He says, almost in disbelief.

You quickly rush to defend yourself (It’s kind of embarrassing now that you say it out loud. You can’t go back now, though. You have to stick to it.) “Listen! I just don’t think you should be letting other people touch your face. I mean, we’re dating right? I was right next to you, too! Also, you have a skincare routine, foreign germs would have made you break out.” You ramble. You’re starting to pull random reasons out of your ass to defend yourself. Perhaps you should look into becoming a lawyer.

Soobin giggles a little. “You’re so cute. But, don’t you kiss me all over my face all the time? What about that?” He counters. You’re starting to become really frustrated with him.

“That doesn’t count! Your face germs are probably used to me by now, so I wouldn’t be a foreign invader. Also, you’re basically invalidating my feelings right now. That’s so rude.” You cross your arms around your chest. It’s getting serious now.

Soobin is visibly trying to hold it together and not laugh. He lets go of your shoulders as he takes a deep breath. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry, baby. But… I’m not close to that girl. You shouldn’t have to worry.” You hum in reply, happy by his answer.

“What about you, though?”

What?

Soobin begins to elaborate. “You’re close with Yeonjun-hyung and Taehyunie… does that mean I should worry about them?” One of his fingers tap his chin in thought.

You stutter. “N-no! Aren’t you close with Choi Yewon?” Soobin nods. “Yeah.” “Then you too! Besides, Yeonjun and Taehyun don’t like me like that.” You look away, suddenly your shoes are more interesting than the boy basically hovering over you.

Soobin doesn’t take his eyes off you. “But I like you.” He says, voice smooth and flirty. You can tell he’s grinning at you right now. You can also feel your face heat up at his words. Damn, are you really that easy?

“Oh my god, shut up.” You mutter. You don’t dare to look up at him. Soobin would tease you to no end if he saw how warm your face was right now. “Mmmh, why? I love seeing my baby so flustered.” He coos, brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

You can’t take it anymore.

“That’s enough from you.” You say, covering his mouth with your palm. Soobin stares at the hand covering his mouth quizzically.

“Are you… are you really silencing your boyfriend right now?” His words are muffled, but the shock in his tone is unmistakable. You nod proudly, extremely pleased with yourself.

The gears turn in his head as he thinks about what he should do next.

You might have done it. You might have finally stopped Soobin from being a flirt. “Ha! You’ve finally shut up. God, if I knew it was this easy—“

“Then… can you block this?” Soobin takes your palm off his mouth before he swoops in, tilting his head perfectly so he can slot his lips in yours. It takes you by surprise, slapping your hand over his mouth moments before his lips meet yours.

You don’t even realize your eyes are closed until Soobin’s muffled voice filters through the air.

“You must really like me too if your eyes are closed.” Your eyes quickly shoot open to see him staring at you. Even with his mouth covered you can tell he’s sporting a shit-eating grin right now. Warmth has now covered every inch of your face and you hate it.

“You… you are so fucking annoy-“

Soobin licks your palm, causing you to reel your arm back in disgust. Soobin laughs before sprinting away, leaving you alone with saliva on your palm and a shocked expression on your face.

[flurry-of-stars]

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝐻𝑜𝓁𝓁𝑜𝓌 𝐻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓈-𝕴𝓥

⋆｡°✩𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓵𝔂⋆｡°✩ 𝕺𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖛𝖎𝖊𝖜 - 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴- 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴𝕴- 𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝕴𝕴𝕴

⋆｡°✩𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕴𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖝 ⋆｡°✩ Slow burn romance, female reader, small age gap (Fyodor is thirty, the reader is in her early twenties.) No Abilities AU, fluff, light angst. 𝒲𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 8k 𝓐𝓾𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓻'𝓼 𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: So sorry for the delay! Thank you all for your patience! (ಥ﹏ಥ) I would've had this out on Monday, but I just wanted to spend some extra time editing it. I hope you all enjoy ✧ദ്ദി( ˶^ᗜ^˶ ) 𝕽𝖊𝖇𝖑𝖔𝖌𝖘 𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖞 𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖎𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖉 ♡

The warmth caresses the side of your face, stirring you from your slumber. Tossing and turning in the comfortable confines of the bed you’re in, you murmur sleepily. It’s so soft, so warm.

You’re almost tempted to go back to sleep, if it didn’t feel like someone was watching you right now with tiny daggers in their eyes. Suddenly, something soft slaps your cheek, causing you to gasp as your eyes snap open in surprise. "Ah-!" You turn to the other side and are astonished to find the old tabby cat sitting on the bed, his paw raised as if ready to slap you again.

"Tolstoy..! Ah… what was that for?" you ask, while touching your cheek where his furry paw made contact.

You wonder what you did to offend the feline when he huffs at you, his whiskers twitching, preparing to hit you on the cheek again. You sit up quickly, satisfying the old cat. His meow is low as he goes about grooming his paw as if he didn’t just slap you with it. You groan at him, rubbing your cheek a little, grumbling, “Geez…just when I thought we were becoming friends…” You blink a few times as realisation hits you, “Wait…Tolstoy? What are you doing at my apartment?” The cat gives you an audacious side eye, his tongue rasping over his paw as you slowly look around, eyes darting about like a hummingbird. It’s a small room. Cozy though. Old mahogany desk. Blackout curtains. Smells of old books. An actually comfortable bed that doesn’t leave you with an aching back. A grumpy old cat.

Wait a minute..is this…? ‘Fyodor’s room?’ Your mind races, trying to put together why you’re here. It takes you a few moments to remember yesterday, the excursion out to the forest and the nap Fyodor had taken on your shoulder.  The way you’d watched over the beautiful pink flora before feeling quite exhausted yourself, your head drifting onto his shoulder–

Your skin burns with embarrassment.

Fyodor must’ve woken up and brought you here. That was the only conclusion you could come to. You don’t remember him doing so but you were probably too tired to realize at the time. You stretch, listening to a few of your bones pop before you rise out of bed. Now that you’re up, you watch the brown tabby saunter into your place, yawning and curling up.

“Old man. You just wanted the bed,” you grumble, fixing your clothes from the previous day. You watch the feline settle into the warm spot you left on the bed before turning your attention to the mahogany desk.

You know you shouldn’t snoop around. This is Fyodor’s private space. He trusted you enough to let you sleep in here. You shouldn’t go through his things.

But there’s no harm in looking at his desk, right?

Your eyes roam the desk, noting just how messy it is. There’s a few books scattered about, creating messy piles on his desk, some thicker than others. Some whose covers catch your eye quicker. You’re tempted to reach out and grab one to inspect it closer, but you stop yourself, hand pausing midway across the desk.

‘Let’s just look,” you remind yourself to not betray the trust Fyodor has shown you by allowing you into his room as your gaze continues it’s search. There’s a melted candle on one side of the desk. Looks like he forgot to place it on a holder. But as your gaze drifts beyond the candle, you notice a vintage photo frame hidden under some books.

You frown as you attempt to get a better look at it, hidden in the darkness provided by the book covering it from above. Humming in thought, your hand slides into your pocket, grabbing your phone.

It was almost dead and you had a few missed calls and texts from Trixie but you ignore them for now.

Turning on the flash, you guide the light towards the frame, uncovering the old photo. The frame is corroded and the glass is shattered, splintering outwards from one corner like a glass spiderweb. And yet despite having some minor sun damage, the photo inside is almost in perfect condition.

It seems to be a group photo taken at a restaurant of some kind. You recognize Fyodor almost immediately. Though it’s surprising to see him without those heavy black lines under his eyes. His expression is one you know well; calm, reserved. Mysterious. But the presence of his smile indicates that he isn’t uncomfortable with his current situation.

To his left is a man with hair as white as fresh snow, a grey and white scarf around his neck and a white overcoat over his shoulders. His smile is wide with an arm wrapped around Fyodor’s shoulders, tugging him in close, his free hand putting up a peace sign over his scarred left eye.

Next to the white-haired man sat a calmer man. Under his hands was a book, the title reading as ‘The Precipice’ when you translated it. His eyes were closed, despite the pleased look that was on his face. On Fyodor’s right was a slightly bulkier man with messy blonde hair and a cigarette in his mouth.  He was smirking at the camera like a cat who’d gotten the cream, holding up a glass of some kind of alcohol as if giving cheers to the camera. The final man was the one who seemed to be trying to fit into the frame, despite being the cameraman. You couldn’t get a good look at him, but you could see his big glasses and dishevelled light brown hair. Judging from his face- or what you could see of it- you assumed he was the youngest of the group. You look over each man in the photo, smiling softly. These had to be the acquaintances Fyodor mentioned yesterday. It was rather nice to see Fyodor surrounded by people who appeared to be enjoying his company and him, theirs.

As you tuck your phone away, you wonder how long ago the photo was taken. They seemed to be celebrating something, but it didn’t strike you as being for a birthday or marriage announcement or anything like that. Were they celebrating something related to their careers maybe?

You hum, gently resting your elbow on your wrist to softly press your knuckles against your lips. Maybe one of them had signed a contract? Perhaps finished a manuscript they’d been working on for years? Maybe it was for– “Ah, you are awake.” You almost squeal in surprise as you hear Fyodor’s voice, your thoughts shattering instantly.

You spin around, staring in absolute surprise at an amused Fyodor as he chuckles softly at your expression, “My apologies Огонёк. I thought Tolstoy had allowed you to sleep in.” His eyes wander towards his bed where the old cat is curled up, nuzzling into the warm sheets. “Good morning, Mr. Dostoyevsky,” you reply, feeling a faint warmth forming in your cheeks, your skin tingling with embarrassment for a second time this morning. You run a hand through your hair as you look towards Tolstoy, mumbling, “Yeah, you didn’t tell me your cat was pushy like that. He almost managed to get two slaps in.” Soft chuckles further escape Fyodor as he approaches you. His hand cups your cheek, a small sound escaping you as his slender finger touches your cheek.

His hands are surprisingly soft but quite cold. The tips of his fingers, however, are a tad rough. It also feels like there are a few small abrasions on his fingertips, closer to his nails. He hums, his fingertip caressing both of your cheeks before he nods, a teasing edge to his voice, “No scratches or bites. I think you’ll survive.” A soft huff escapes you as he pulls his hands back, a small chuckle on his lips as he turns away, motioning for you to come with him, “Come. Breakfast is waiting for you. You have a lot of work to do today, so you best not waste any time.” Lifting a hand, you touch your cheek slightly. His touch felt oddly nice. You don’t dwell on it for too long before you hurry after Fyodor, the scent of a freshly made meal hitting you the moment you step out of his bedroom.

Eyes wandering towards the table, you’re surprised to see a full spread for breakfast. A variety of smells flood your senses. The pleasant aroma of camomile tea. The rich smell of eggs, fried in butter. The whispering, sweet smell of blini... For a heartbeat, you wonder if you’re still in the land of dreams. Just for a moment, until you see the mountain of white paper, with more sprawled across half the dining table. Your eyes widen; Fyodor has never handed you off that many pages before. You stand there, frozen in disbelief, “M-Mr. Dostoyevsky…what is that?” Your voice falters slightly, betraying your utter astonishment at the sight before you. Taking his place at the table, a calm smirk lifts onto Fyodor’s face as he fills his cup, “That, my dear Огонёк, is the next six chapters for you to translate.”

You turn your shocked gaze to him, his teacup lifting to his lips as he takes a sip before adding, “I decided to make up for lost time yesterday. I was quite inspired after our little walk.” Six chapters. That was double what Fyodor usually gave you. Not to mention, because of your little forest walk yesterday, you still had two and a half chapters to translate meaning–

“Eight whole chapters…” you mumble quietly, shaking your head slowly as you approach the stack with caution. It was as though the pile of new chapters was like a taunting monster, teasing you of all the long hours ahead. Your wrist already ached just touching the first page for chapter ten. It looks like you were going to have to break out the old brace sooner than you expected.

Taking your seat at the table, you decide to focus on breakfast for the moment before you would inevitably be stuck sitting at this table working for the next ten hours with only a break for lunch. Just as you begin to reach over to grasp at the teapot’s handle, Fyodor speaks up. His voice is soft, though you can hear the tiredness in his voice, “Thank you for your company yesterday, Огонёк. I was…” He pauses, seeming to be thinking over his next words carefully, “In desperate need of that small moment of respite.” “You let me sleep over last night,” you reply, filling your cup with chamomile tea. You smile warmly at Fyodor, shrugging a little, “You sacrificed your bed for me. You can consider us even, Mr. Dostoyevsky. Oh and thank you for that by the way.”

Placing the teapot down with a gentle thud, you move on to filling your plate with eggs, some cold cuts and some blini, which you promptly smother with honey. “It is quite alright,” he replies, his eyes watching you carefully while you serve yourself breakfast. Once you’ve settled in and begun eating, he looks away, raising his cup to his lips and taking a sip.

A pleasant silence falls over you both as you work your way through breakfast and Fyodor seems to alternate between savouring each sip and jotting down more notes. It was nice. You wouldn’t mind sharing more mornings like this with the novelist. Something about it just feels right.

As you swallow the last bite of egg, you speak up, “I’ll cook breakfast tomorrow.” His violet eyes turn up, one of his brows raising in mild surprise. You return it with a smile, “It’s the least I can do after you spent all morning on this spread for us.” “Hmm..” He hums softly, tapping his pen against the table for a few seconds. As his pen stills, he nods, “If that is what you wish to do, then go ahead. But I will still watch over you while you cook. I do not need my assistant to lose a finger chopping up fruits for breakfast.” “Hey, I’m more careful now!” “That’s debatable.” “Wha–!” You scoff at Fyodor, glaring at him. He flashes you an amused smirk, tapping your half-full plate. “Come now, Огонёк. You shouldn’t let Olya’s cooking go to waste.” You pause. Then– “You didn’t even make breakfast?” “Did I ever insinuate otherwise?” “I was going to cook tomorrow because you cooked today!” “And I said if you wanted to cook, you could. I never once confirmed that I made this meal.” You pause again, thinking back over your conversation. You watch as Fyodor’s smirk grows, becoming more playful to your eye. You huff again, picking up your fork to stab at a blini, “Fine. Then you’re cooking with me tomorrow.” He gives you one last smirk as he raises his teacup to his lips, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” ︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

Tenderly, you rub your aching wrist, eyes scanning over the translations you’ve done so far, assuring everything is correct and concise. You feel like your pen is practically dropping out of your hand as you reread one paragraph multiple times over. Your eyes droop a few times, causing you to shake your head, trying to regain your focus. You felt like you made next to no progress this week and the chapters keep piling up. After giving you those extra six chapters to translate, Fyodor added an additional four chapters throughout the week alone. You’d been confident when finishing translations for the second half of chapter seven, along with finishing chapters eight and nine, but once you moved on to the new chapters, Fyodor’s writing became more intense, more intricate, challenging you and pushing you to your limits. Even a more skilled translator would struggle. So far, through chapters one to nine, his longest chapter was forty-two pages long before you began translating.

But now the pages were multiplying like rabbits, his tenth chapter leaving you to translate almost one hundred pages. It was currently early into the night on the weekend. You’d finally finished translating it now. You had to admit, his story was becoming more interesting. You were losing yourself in the evolving narrative that had slowly grown from the story of young man, a lonely, solitary wanderer, into a budding romance. With every turn of the page, Fyodor's writing captures your imagination and intrigue.

You were hooked. As the story progresses, you've noticed the male lead's unusual ways of dealing with his feelings of friendship and now, love. Rather than expressing those feelings, he was finding odd ways to win her companionship and affection. It was peculiar, but that was what made it so fascinating to read. It was strange. Especially when the male lead had spent the past five chapters believing that the female lead understood his habit of always making her a cup of tea when she visited came from a deeper place than just accommodating a guest. But the leads have such wonderful chemistry. Great, One down. Another nine to go. ‘I have to get all these done before the writer’s convention.’ You sigh heavily, gripping your pen as your wrist throbs in pain, making your finger flinch faintly. You curse under your breath as you hold your wrist, frustration bubbling up inside of you.

You'd been unable to locate your wrist brace yet, and with another paycheck spent on ensuring both you and Fyodor had enough for meals for the fortnight, you had no money to spare on ibuprofen or a new brace, the remainder being tied up in bus fares and rent.

Settling your black and gold pen to the side, your tired, weary fingers massage your aching wrist. The pain pulses, pounding like a heartbeat.

A bitter hiss escapes your lips, "Damn it." Even from a distance, the shadow of your past still clings to you, your pounding wrist a vivid reminder of memories you've long tried to forget. A shiver runs down your spine as you reflect on the reason for your current condition. A part of you can't help but wonder if your condition is something that isn't just physical. A knock at your apartment door rouses you from your thoughts. You jolt, looking up from your spot in the darkened apartment, the only light source coming from the small television in the small open-plan dining area, propped up on a buffet table.

You groan as you stand, stretching as you call out, “One second!” You listen to your bones pop before you leave the table, moving towards your apartment door. Your apartment is a small, run down space that bears heavy traces of the previous tenants. The walls are yellowing, the air heavy with the thick scent of old cigarette smoke that was caked into the peeling wallpaper. The unmistakable musty scent of mould hangs in the air, along with the suffocating acidic tang of the vinegar you'd used to try and treat it. You were surprised mushrooms hadn't started sprouting through the floorboards. The apartment door opens into the cramped open-plan kitchen and dining room, one single lightbulb hanging over the dining room table. To your right, a small narrow hallway leads to your room and the bathroom, both hidden away in this secret, dark corner of the apartment.

Living in this apartment caused you so many struggles on the daily. Sometimes you didn’t even have enough hot water for a full shower, which was agonizing during harsh Winters.

And only one of your stove burners worked. And you couldn't use your wardrobe due to the fact it was overrun with mould. It was far from ideal. But beggars can't be choosers. This apartment had it's list of problems, but it's all you could afford. And besides, you'd lived in apartments in worse conditions that this one. Lifting your non-dominant hand, you prepare to move the small chain out of the way before twisting the door lock to the unlocked position. After all, you already had an inkling about who would be visiting you. Sure enough– “Hey! We were supposed to have a movie night tonight, remember?” Trixie stands before you, a warm smile lighting up her face. Chestnut curls cascade over her shoulders, framing her gentle face.

Dressed in a ruffled blouse and a teal-colored skirt, she manages to combine fashionable and casual, exuding a cute, chic charm with a matching ribbon tied delicately around her neck. In her left hand, she holds two boxes of pizzas, the smell of melted cheese and tantalizing toppings causing your mouth to water instantly. In her other, she carries a small plastic bag containing a bottle of your favorite wine and likely dessert to complete the meal. Her smile falters the moment she takes in your appearance, “Are you okay, bookworm? You aren’t looking too good…” You smile tiredly, stepping aside to let Trixie in. She walks in, heading to the dining room to place everything down. That’s when she comes face to face with your workspace. “Dear goodness. Is this–” “Mr. Dostoyevsky’s latest chapters,” you answer as you follow her, yawning softly. You move past her, heading to grab the only two wine glasses you own, “I’ve been up since…maybe three working on them?” “In the afternoon? Well, I’m glad you took the morning to rest.” “Ah…no…three in the morning…” The wine glasses clink gently as you slide them out of the cabinet you keep them stored in. Trixie sighs heavily, concern laced in her voice, “Darling–” “It’s not a big deal,” you insist, moving back into the dining room. You place the two glasses down before you go about packing away the accumulated pages covering the entire dining table, “I have to get all these chapters done in two weeks. Well…I guess one and a half weeks now. Mr Dostoyevsky’s agent wants us to go to the writer’s convention together.” You can hear the sadness in Trixie’s voice as she replies, “You mean the one that…? Oh, darling…” “No, no, no! I’m thrilled!” Excitement bubbles inside you as you scoop up the large stack of papers, grunting a little before flashing her a beaming smile. Her light blue eyes gaze back at you, reflecting sympathy and grief. You slip the papers onto the counter, pushing aside her melancholy, her eyes trained solely on your dream, "You know it’s always been a dream of mine to go.” “But are you sure you’re ready?” Your smile widens at the mere thought of the convention, “I’ve been ready to go since I was a child. Though do you think it would be weird if I asked Mr. Dostoyevsky if I could show off one of my dad’s books to the other authors? I could even just show it off to his friends- though he called them acquaintances, I saw the photo on his–” “Bookworm.” Trixie’s slightly stern voice catches you off guard. You snap out of your excited ramblings as she sighs. She moves closer to you, placing a hand on your shoulder, flashing you a sympathetic smile, “Dear…I think you may be jumping the gun a little. You're accompanying Dostoyevsky to the convention for work, yes?” You nod but before you can speak, she gently shushes you, “Bookworm, you’re going there for work. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to mix something personal with something work-related.” She tries to offer a kind smile, noticing as you bow your head a little, “You…could always still ask but remember, you’re going to this convention for your boss. Not for yourself.”

You frown deeply. You suppose you did lose sight of the real reason why you were attending this convention. But even still– You look up, your frown quirking back up into a confident smile, “I know, I know. But I want to at least ask. If he says no, I swear I’ll accept it.” Trixie’s eyes scan yours for a few more seconds before she relents. With a sigh, her smile becomes a little more genuine, her hand moving off your shoulder, “Alright…if you say so.”

Pulling back, she takes a deep breath before she speaks once more, “Now how about we enjoy our evening? I didn’t bring all this food for you to sit around and translate the night away. What movie are we watching?” Feeling a bit lighter, you sit down at the dining table, grabbing your remote and switching off the classical cello music you'd had playing on mute for the past hour. Trixie joins you, her presence adding warmth to the room as she cracks open the bottle of wine and fills the two glasses, “Well I thought we could watch–” “Twin Peaks? Again? You know that movie weirds me out!” Trixie groans, passing you a glass of wine. You giggle, sipping your wine as you flick through the other movies you had in mind. “Then how about–” “Jacob’s Ladder?? You know what?” She playfully snatches the remote from you, causing you to giggle playfully. She mischievously grins at you, flicking through the movies until she finds one to settle on. You whine playfully, making a half-hearted attempt to snatch the remote back. Though in truth, you were more than content to let her choose the movie. You were happy just enjoying your best friend's company. The movie plays as you and Trixie share your dinner, dessert and plenty of wine. You end up drinking more than she does, the wine adding to the cozy atmosphere of the evening.

As the movie nears the end, you lean your head against her shoulder, finding comfort in her presence despite the dining room chairs not exactly providing the most comfortable watching experience. Your exhaustion finally catches up with you, your eyes fluttering closed towards the end of the movie. You might have fallen asleep, were you and Trixie not left to squirm in your seats for the last twenty minutes of the film. Eventually, however, Trixie seems to get fed up. She flicks the movie off, leaving the television on to use it as a light. She groans, helping you up, your eyes fluttering open, “Alright…come darling. It’s time for bed.” “Nooo…” You whine, slowly standing up. You felt a little tipsy, your feet a tad unstable under you. Trixie’s arm snakes around your waist, helping guide you towards the bedroom as you groan and whine. “I have all my translations to do. I can’t sleep…” “I don’t want to hear it, Miss ‘Up since 3 am.’” Using her hip, she bumps open your bedroom door, carefully walking you towards the bed, “You’re going to bed and sleeping in until lunchtime. I’m sure Mr Grumpy–” A small smile tugs at her lips as she hears you giggling, “--won’t mind if the translations aren’t done before the convention.” “But he will.” You drag your words out, whining as Trixie finally gets you onto your bed. As she goes about pulling the blanket back for you and organising your pillows, you flop back onto your bed, groaning, “He’s gonna get mad at me again and scold me in Russian…” As your whines grow, you grunt as the blanket is tossed over your body, making you squirm a little. As you wiggle your way out from under the blanket, Trixie giggles at you, “You’re still not over that? That was, what, almost a month ago at this point?” “He’s gonna do it again!” You insist, continuing to whine. Trixie keeps laughing at you. In your exhausted, tipsy mind, you didn’t seem to comprehend how childish you were behaving. It was a big reason why you usually didn’t drink more than a glass at social gatherings. “Is he?” As you give a loud ‘mhm!’ in return, she shakes her head, moving over to your bedside table to pick up your phone. You sit up, sleepily rubbing your eyes as she speaks to you in a teasing, yet confident tone, “Well then I’m going to call him and give him a piece of my mind!” You snort. There was no way Trixie would actually call your boss, but it was amusing to watch as she unlocks your phone, pretending to actually be phoning Fyodor.

She giggles deviously as she holds the phone up, showing the caller ID; ‘Mr. Dostoy’ for short is what you have him saved under, along with a photo of Tolstoy curled up on some of your translations. You’re half giggling, half huffing out laughs at this point as she presses the phone to her face, sauntering around your room as she huffs into the phone, even taking fake pauses here and there to add to her performance, “Hello, Mr. Grumpy? This is Trixie and I’m the best friend of the best translator you’ve ever met this side of the globe!” You snort, laughing in amusement as she sways her hips, walking about quite dramatically as she adds, “I’m calling to tell you she isn’t going to finish translating that Mount Everest-sized pile of chapters before the writer’s convention next week and that you better just give her more time!” “My darling is over here, waking up at three in the morning, exhausting her poor tired body just to translate the chapters of your book, and I think you and I can both agree that she needs a rest!” She holds up the phone to you, covering her mouth with her hand as she speaks in what you assume to be her best attempt at a Russian accent. Unfortunately, her attempt at adopting a Russian accent sounds more like a mishmash of various accents, which just makes you laugh harder, “Why yes! Of course my…my…” She looks at you, a wide, amused grin on her face as she asks, “Psst, what’s he always calling you?”

You struggle to speak. You hold onto your sides as you laugh and wheeze, “I-I can’t–” “‘I can’t?’ That’s not a very good nickname.” She hums playfully, seeming to shrug as she sits on the edge of the bed, stopping you from rolling off in your laughter fit. “My assistant can sleep for the whole week! I want her wrapped in her favourite blanket in five minutes or I’m firing her!” “H-he would never say that–!” The image alone sends you into another eruption of giggles. “He just did though!” She grins at you, standing to put your phone back before she guides you, laughter hushing into giggles into your bed. You sigh, taking a deep breath to relax after all that laughter as she covers you with your blanket. “But you do seriously need to get some sleep, bookworm.” “Mm..” You yawn softly, watching Trixie as she moves from your side, coming to lay beside you. You roll onto your side, gazing up into the familiar light blue of her eyes, a soft hum escaping you, “Maybe I will ask him.” Trixie huffs softly, a small smile appearing on her face as she runs a hand through your hair soothingly. You close your eyes, relaxing under her touch, “I suppose it doesn’t hurt to…but are you really sure about this?” You give a soft hum of approval as you teeter between that fine line of awake and asleep. “I have to do it, Trix…his books meant the world to him.” Your heart clenches tightly in your chest. As though she can feel it, Trixie wraps an arm around you, pulling you in for a hug. “I…I have to do it…” She doesn’t give a reply. Instead, her fingers continue to run soothingly through your hair as you drift to sleep, your hands reaching up to clutch gently at her ruffled blouse. Amidst the myriad of intense smells, her expensive perfume permeates the air, its scent enveloping you in familiarity and warmth. ︵‿︵‿୨✩୧‿︵‿︵

A shudder ripples down Fyodor's spine, encouraging him to tug his cloak tighter around his body. His eyes drift towards the leaden sky, taking notice of the eerie silence surrounding them. He hadn't anticipated sitting outside today, but you had been very insistent.

The usual symphony of sparrows chirping and fluttering around the area was suspiciously absent, replaced with a sense of stillness that had his nerves on edge.

Even Tolstoy, usually eager to explore and hunt despite his old age, had refused to leave the cottage this morning. Fyodor's grip on his cloak tightens, his keen violet eyes continuing to scan the area as a chilling breeze gusts past you both. “It’s quite cold today, huh?” You remark, suddenly shattering the silence. Fyodor snaps his attention towards you, his gaze lingering on the subtle changes to your attire- a light brown scarf wrapped warmly around your neck, black fingerless gloves adorning your delicate hands. His eyes narrow thoughtfully as they settle on the brace hidden under your sleeve, wrapped tight around your wrist. He'd thought you were taking more frequent breaks compared to usual as well. “Hmm,” he murmurs, his tone soft yet laced with concern. Meeting your gaze, he holds it for a few heartbeats. With a nod, he raises his teacup to his lips, “Winter is upon us it seems.” He mumbles cryptically, his expression unreadable as he takes a sip. Today’s tea of choice was vanilla bean. It was part of the selection you had given him. What a shame the tea had gone cold. He can tell from the way you’re hesitating with your pen that something is wrong. Judging by the brace around your wrist, your carpel tunnel must be giving you some grief. With how many pages you’d translated and likely thanks to the colder weather, it was no surprise. You had even started taking chapters home to work on, so he doubted you were really giving yourself a proper break. With a sigh, he reaches over, hand gently placing over your dominant hand. He watches your eyes flutter up to meet his own as he speaks in a soft voice, “That’s enough for today, Огонёк.” You blink up at him and he watches as a mixture of shock and what almost seems to be worry crosses your features. He notices the glimmer of stubbornness in your eyes and in your tone as you reply, “But it’s early morning. There’s still another three hours until lunch.” He gives a soft shake of his head, “It doesn’t matter. You need to rest your wrist, Огонёк.” He frowns, concern etching into his features. He moves his hand, gripping the pen in yours. He can feel the tightness in your grip. Despite your pain, you don’t want to stop. “Остановись," his voice is laced with concern. He doesn’t let go of the pen as he feels your grip tightening, "Я высоко ценю твоё стремление и преданность, но это не повод становиться мученицей. Твоё здоровье для меня гораздо важнее. Не работай в ущерб себе — это не принесёт пользы ни тебе, ни мне.” He feels your grip tightening further, the pen trembling in his grip. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself to be a little more stern with you.

But then, you let the pen go. He flashes you a grateful smile, putting the pen aside to touch your jacket sleeve, over where the brace is. “I apologize, but you need to rest,” he says, voice soft and laced with care for you. “I’m sure you understand what could happen if you keep pushing your wrist like this.” “I do know,” you mumble, your eyes glued to his hand as his fingertips caress the sleeve of your coat. “But…I…” He watches you purse your lips, silencing yourself. Fyodor frowns. “Yes?” He encourages, his hand stilling over your wrist. You inhale deeply, eyes flickering between your own teacup and his hand for a moment before your eyes lift, meeting his once more. “I wanted to get all these chapters translated before the convention next week.” Fyodor blinks a few times. Slowly, a heavy sigh escapes him, “Я советую тебе притормозить. Не хочу тебя огорчать, но качество твоей работы снизилось.” He reaches across the table, picking up the latest page you’re working on, “ Для такого профессионала, как ты, это должно быть достаточным поводом осознать серьёзность последствий.” His brow furrows, his eyes reread the page a few times over. He gives a sigh, eyes turning back up to you, “Я нанял тебя, чтобы ты точно передала мою душу словами, что неродные моим устам . Так не дай моей душе потеряться в беспощадной гонке со временем.” “Like here, Огонёк. I merely described this lady as being dressed provocatively, not…well…” He grimaces a little, shaking his head in displeasure. He passes the paper back to you, noticing the faint pink hue on your cheeks.

He adds, his voice slightly more teasing now, “I’m sure a lot of readers would be displeased if I referred to her like that.” Observing your furrowed brow and anxious demeanour, Fyodor sighs inwardly, realizing quickly that his words didn't have the intended effect. With a gentle yet firm touch, his hand reaches across the table, finding yours once more as he offers a reassuring smile. “Do you understand now? I value precision over haste in your translations," he explains, his voice tender yet resolute. His fingers brush against your pained wrist, a silent reminder of the importance of your well-being.

He keeps his voice gentle, but stern, his hand gently grasping at your aching wrist. “You’ll be unable to achieve either if you need surgery for your wrist.” "Neither speed nor quality can be achieved if you jeopardize your health in the process." He watches as your eyes turn downcast towards his hand. He sees your chest expand as you take a deep, almost defeated breath, a cool breeze teasing the locks of your hair and the tassels of your scarf, “I know, I know–” “Something is troubling you,” he notes softly, eyes scanning you closely. You look up, steadily meeting his eyes.

He hums thoughtfully as he leans forward, staring perhaps a little too deeply into your eyes, judging by how you pull back a little. His hand moves, now lying over yours as he gives it a tender squeeze, “What’s weighing on your heart?” You huff softly, looking up at him. He watches your lips quirk into a soft smile, a tint of amusement around the edges, “You read the other translations I wrote on that page too, huh?” He flashes you a small smile, confirming your theory. He listens to your soft giggle for a moment before you grow more serious. 

“Can I ask you something, Mr. Dostoyevsky?” He gives a little nod, encouraging you to continue. He can hear the slightly strained tone of your voice. Your drumming fingers of your free hand against the outdoor table. The way your brow is furrowing. The way you take a few soft, deep breaths before finally speaking once more. “The writer’s convention is next week. And I…” You roll your head, eyes scanning upwards before darting to your left. You’re struggling to get the words out.

“Look, I understand completely that this is for your work as an author. Vivian wants us to go on business. It’s like your first big step as a no longer anonymous author, or…something!” He huffs softly, slightly amused by how you’re phrasing it right now. You continue, eyes darting towards the lake now as you tilt your head in that direction as well, “But this writer’s convention…well..it could be my last chance to…well…” When you finally meet his eyes once more, he feels his heart skip a beat, his eyes widening slightly. It’s the first time he’s seen your eyes gleam like this. He’s seen the stubborn hardness to them before. The gentle amusement. The twinkle of pure excitement. Even the whisper of worry. There’s a burning in your eyes. Yet, this isn't merely a flame; it's an inferno—a fervent forest fire blazing deep within the recesses of your being. It crackles with an unyielding ache, an insatiable burning desire, visible in the fervour that blazes forth from your eyes, igniting the world around you with its intensity. Fyodor feels breathless simply gazing into your fire, his mind reeling back to the venture into the hidden grotto just last week. The way your voice shook with genuine raw emotion.

The bitter anger that bit at the edges of your words, the simmering resentment towards those few who had denied someone their dream, crushing it as though it meant as little as the dirt beneath their feet. ‘They mean everything to me.’ “You want to bring one of your father’s storybooks,” Fyodor deduces, his voice breathless as he stares at you, your passionate fire almost engulfing him. It falters for a moment as you blink in surprise. It looks like you’d underestimated just how attentive Fyodor could be. He watches your gaze turn away, that fire engulfed in waves of sudden bashfulness that make him want to chuckle.

But he holds his tongue, listening to your soft tone, “Yes…I know, I know, the convention is for work reasons–” You’re starting to ramble again. Fyodor felt his lips tugging upwards. You were cute when you were like this. “--But I just want to bring the last book he wrote. I just….it feels like…” You groan, lifting your hand from his, running both of your hands through your hair as you struggle to fully express yourself.

A soft hiss escapes you, the pain of your carpel tunnel pausing your motions. “Easy, Огонёк, easy…” He reaches up, gently grasping your sore wrist in the palm of his hand, using his other to rub soothing circles around the brace. He sighs, gazing understandingly at you, “Sometimes the heart screams words of such fierce passion, your mind cannot find a way to convey them through speech properly. It is alright…” He keeps rubbing soothing circles on your wrist, humming softly before he continues, “I understand. It would mean a great deal to you if you could present one of his stories to the authors that will be present…”

He frowns a little, his eyes lingering on your brace, his fingers gently caressing it. “However, we will be attending with other authors. Well-known names around these parts and good…” He pauses for a heartbeat. “Acquaintances of mine. Vivian will be expecting us to stay with them for the duration of the event.”

He frowns a little as you look down, reminding him of a sad puppy before he adds. “But–” His heart sparks as you lift your gaze, eyes full of hopefulness as he speaks, “--I will ask Vivian if it will be alright for you to pitch it to a few authors at the end of the convention.”

A small smile graces his lips as he sees the joy lighting up your face, "I don’t think it would be appropriate to show it to my acquaintances. It could create a conflict of interest. But there will be many other fantastic authors you can pitch it to." A surprised sound escapes Fyodor as he feels your hand slipping from his. He watches in astonishment as you spring up from your seat, moving fast as you bound over to him like a rabbit. Your arms envelop him in a tight hug, catching him off-guard. For a moment, Fyodor freezes, his eyes widening as he inhales the soft floral scent of your perfume. He feels the warmth of your gratitude radiating from your embrace, a sense that goes beyond just physical warmth. As your arms tighten slightly, he feels that familiar spark igniting in him, a flicker of something unfamiliar yet undeniable. It stirs the waves of emotion in his heart, leaving him momentarily breathless. “Thank you, Mr. Dostoyevsky.” You whisper, your voice trembling with emotion. “Thank you so, so much…” He swallows hard around the lump forming in his throat as he struggles to find the right words. His hand trembles faintly as he reaches out, giving you a few soft pats on the shoulder.

Sensing his desire for space, you pull back to smile rather awkwardly at him. He notices the tears glistening in your eyes, a silent testament to the depth of your gratitude before you swipe them away. “It is fine,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he takes a moment to collect himself. His throat feels constricted as he tries to swallow down that heavy lump wedged inside.

The ember of warmth in his heart burns with renewed intensity, threatening to ignite into a powerful flame. With shaky breaths, he attempts to quell the rising flames, to extinguish that familiar warmth before it consumes his heart. Closing his eyes, he focuses on each breath he takes, willing the flames to subside. “Mr. Dostoyevsky? Are you–?” He lifts a hand, halting your inquiry. Silently, he battles the storm of emotions raging within him; gradually, the ember dwindles, leaving behind only a faint flicker nestled deep in his heart. Opening his eyes, he offers you a small, apologetic smile. You’re looking at him with those worried eyes once more, just as he expected. “I apologize for causing you concern, Огонёк,” he says, his voice steady despite the lingering turmoil within. “I simply needed a moment to compose myself. I am well now." “Are you certain?” You move closer towards him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. In response, he rises abruptly, stepping away from your touch. His cloak billows in the breeze, creating a physical barrier between you. “Yes. Although I think it is time we moved our work inside. I believe it's about to–” “--Snow.” Your awed tone catches Fyodor’s attention; his violet eyes turn towards you swiftly, then it darts towards the sky, eyes wide as his heart clenches tightly, noticing the delicate flakes as they gracefully descend. You watch the first flakes drift quietly to the ground, reaching out a hand to catch one. It lands daintily on your glove, instantly melting into the soft cotton, disappearing as if it hadn’t existed to start with. You’re about to reach for another when you hear quick footfalls behind you.

You spin around, your eyes falling on Fyodor as he hurries towards the garden table,  “Come,” he says to you, his voice quiet and calm. He begins gathering the chapter you’re translating and the finished pages, scooping them close to his chest. He turns, hurrying towards his cottage with fast steps. “H-hey, Mr. Dostoyevsky–!” You watch as he disappears inside, a frown forming on your lips as flakes of pure white fall around you. They cascade down, twirling like tiny dancers as they make their journey to the earth but you barely notice them. Carefully picking up the teapot with your good hand, along with the teacups, you quickly scurry after Fyodor, heading into the cottage. You squeak, Fyodor almost running into you as he quickly heads out of the living area towards the kitchen. You follow him, listening to the sound of curtains being yanked shut. As you step into the kitchen, you set down the teapot and cups with a gentle clink. The murmurs of Fyodor reach your ears, his words too faint to understand. Your gaze lifts, noticing the way he shakes and shifts the curtain, making sure it’s completely obscuring the window. This was unusual behavior for Fyodor. While he always closes the curtains when it is overcast, he's never displayed such agitation about it before. His muttering and meticulous attention to the curtain's exact placement is a new, unsettling trait. “Mr. Dostoyevsky?” You carefully break the silence, your voice tinged with concern. At the sound of your voice, his muttering subsides. With care, you approach him, gently cradling your braced wrist. “Are you alright? You seem a little…stressed.” He doesn’t turn to face you immediately, his shoulders rigid with tension. His breath comes in shallow, uneven intervals, causing his chest to rise and fall in a staccato rhythm. Slowly, he turns to face you, violet irises lingering on your face for a few seconds too long before he finally speaks. “Yes, everything is fine.” His voice is strained as he moves towards the table, picking up the teapot, his facade of calmness already faltering. As he does so, you glance at his hands, noticing that they’re trembling slightly. You catch a glimpse of his face, noticing that he's clenching his jaw tightly as well.

He moves towards the kettle, preparing to reheat the tea still inside the pot. He lifts the lid, the sweet aroma wafting through the kitchen. “You’re shaking…” You point out, taking a small step towards him as the window rattles behind the closed curtain as the wind begins to whistle, its mournful tone sneakily creeping inside through cracks in the window frame. It looks like the wind is picking up, “If something is bothering you, you can talk to me.” You reach out to him as the kettle bubbles softly, steam rising from the white jug. Your hand lightly rests on his shoulder, “I’m here to listen.” Suddenly, Fyodor jolts away from your touch, his dark eyes staring down at you. Your stomach twists in knots as he gives you a stern look, the coldness in his eyes rivalling that of the falling snowflakes outside, “I said I am fine. You are needlessly worrying over nothing.” Your throat tightens faintly as you draw your hand back. You frown, watching quietly as he refills the teapot before turning his eyes to you once more. His tone is less stern now, “Go and sit in the living room. I’ll light the fireplace shortly.” With a heavy heart, you obey Fyodor's command, retreating to the living room. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of the unspoken tension hanging in the air. You settle into the window seat, wrapping your orange coat tighter around your body, its warmth failing to dispel the lingering chill in your heart, leaving you to ponder what had gotten into Fyodor. The silence between you echoes louder than any words that could be spoken, leaving a lingering sense of uncertainty in your heart. Fyodor sighs, lifting a hand to rub his temple a few times. Great. Just great.

𝓣𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓼𝓵𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷𝓼 1. Stop. I appreciate your drive and dedication, but that is not a reason to become a martyr. Your health is much more important to me. Don't work to your detriment - it won't benefit either you or me. 2. I advise you to slow down. I don't want to upset you, but the quality of your work has decreased. For a professional like you, this should be enough reason to realize the seriousness of the consequences. I hired you to accurately convey my soul with words that are not native to my lips. So don't let my soul get lost in a merciless race against time. ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

@tecchoussuperlady @hearts4heidi @lovestruckbook @wixxlemuff @twinkaesop @livelaughyo @yonseibananamilk @honeyangelsblog @soggyoreoinmilk @verminthorr @cherridove Dividers by @/Saradika

[sillyrabbit81]

Cold

Prompt: Slow & Romantic, Cock Warming from @florxdexcerezo (x) Thank you so much for sending the prompt in. Sorry its taken so long.

Pairing: August Walker x Female Reader

Word Count: Approx. 600

Warnings: Smut, cock warming, p in v sex

Authors Note: I wrote this a few weeks ago, but wasn't feeling up to posting it. I'm still on semi-hiatus, going to be a couple of months more at least, but here is a thingy I did. Hope you like it. Thanks to @nashibirne for reading.

Edited by me, there will be errors

Dividers by me.

Masterlist

Celebration Masterlist

Your eyes fly open. A heady rush of adrenaline pumps through your veins as your hand slips under the pillow on the empty side of the bed and curls around cold steel. You keep your breath slow and even as if you're still asleep and listen carefully.

But you’re too late.

A firm hand covers yours and a heavy, hard body traps you beneath it.

“Don’t scream,” he says, “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

You loosen your grip on the pistol and allow the hand to take it away. In the dark, you hear the thunk of the gun being placed on the nightstand.

“You could knock,” you point out.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“And yet, here we are.”

The weight on top of you shifts and you think you can just make out a small smile on his moustached face. You reach for the lamp, but he stops you.

“Leave it off,” he says.

“August, please,” you whisper. Your hands cover his whiskered cheeks briefly before he shakes you off.

“Leave it.”

He stands. You vaguely see his outline as he removes his clothes. He’s moving stiffly, slowly and breathing in soft grunts and rough exhales.

“How badly are you hurt?” you ask.

“Nothing so bad that a good night's sleep won’t heal,” he says, dismissively. Sometimes it scares you how easily and smoothly he lies to you.

“Then why are you here?” you ask with a rueful laugh. “The last thing you ever do here is sleep.”

You see his shape pause. You stare at where you assume his eyes would be, he needs to know you aren’t stupid; that you know this thing between you won’t result in a ring on your finger or a pretty white dress.

The longer he stands there unmoving, the harder it is to keep looking into the darkness. What is he thinking? You open your mouth to ask, but close it with a small shake of your head. It's not like he’d be honest anyway.

He starts to undress again. You lay back in bed. Does it really matter if he’s here to fuck you or sleep next to you? You’ll give him what he wants, you always do. You can’t help yourself.

He slips into bed, curling himself around your naked form. His hands begin a long exploration along your hip to your ribs and back again while his face is buried into your neck. You can hear him draw rough, ragged breaths, his mouth is so close to your ear, his lips graze along its edge.

Driven by a primal instinct, you arch your back, lean against him and open your legs in an invitation that needs no explanation. He doesn’t hesitate and quickly you feel the smooth, warm head of his cock sliding over your folds, gathering your wetness before sinking deep inside.

By the same instinct, you begin to roll your hips, relishing the feel of his length as your pussy glides over him. But his hand clasps your hip and holds you still, your ass and back pressed firmly against his chest.

“When I’m gone, I dream of this,” August whispers, “of being inside you.”

“Then please move.”

“No,” he growls, “I need to be inside you. All night.”

You moan and he throbs deep within you. His nose presses into your hair, his arms wrap around your chest, holding you tighter and tighter until you think he’ll crush you. 

“You’re so warm,” he whispers as he softens his hold on you. “I need you to keep me warm. I’m so fucking cold without you.”

[hazelfoureyes]

The most important question of all: What type of drunk is everyone in the hotel?

Deeply held personal beliefs here lmao

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹ Alastor

𖦹Alastor loves being the center of attention and he drops his need for an air of mystery when he’s a few fingers deep into the rye. He grabs unwilling participants by the wrists and swing dances with them, despite their clear lack of understanding on how to swing.

𖦹He hums and sings under his breath while sitting in a comfy chair.

𖦹Loqacious! Vaggie would like him to shut the fuck up, Charlie is alarmed because he always reminisces about his real life murders like discussing a loving partner long gone. He is a talkative drunk through and through.

𖦹 Next day: No shame the next morning. Everyone’s annoyed and he might be a little sheepish, but ultimately he doesn’t care.

𖦹Smutty: Never lets you top, but once he’s had a few and has relaxed, will happily lie back and let you take care of yourself with his body while he watches you. Rarely vocal during sex, he’s suddenly talkative and showering you in groans and moans.

Lucifer 𖦹Lucifer doesn’t drink. He really doesn’t. Oh geez, okay well if Charlie is asking so sweetly and everyone else is what’s the harm in-

𖦹Shirt unbuttoned halfway, everything he says sounds like a double entendre even if it isn’t. Cannot stop flirting, even accidentally. The flirty drunk has arrived.

𖦹He stays put, picks a chair or stool and just hunkers down, watching happily over the gathering.

𖦹Pet names for everyone. CharChar, Magpie, Legs, Whiskers, Bambi… Niffty is just Niffty. Even drunk he is a little scared of her.

𖦹Next day: No hangover, excitedly and nervously listening to all the stories of things he did. “Yeah that sounds like me hahaha”

𖦹Smutty: Slow love making, takes his time and moves over you like molasses. Doesn’t care about finishing, just likes the feeling of being close to you and hearing the sounds you make. 50/50 you fall asleep together with him still in you.

Angel Dust

𖦹Angel handles his liquor like he’s handles his men; with an open throat and a smile. It’s genuinely hard to tell if he’s drunk unless he’s so gone his pitch of voice has changed. 𖦹With a little inebriation, he’s leaning into his friends and talking really openly about his feelings and problems in life. 𖦹Drunk? Like— drunk drunk? He’s loud and hanging on everyone for stability. Every grin borders on sleazy, but if the wrong person made a move they’d get four hands to the face pushing them away. Alastor thinks he is the life of the party; Angel is the party.

𖦹Next day: Angel has no memory of what happened the night before and even if he does he will just pull his sunglasses down and pretend he doesn’t.

𖦹Smutty: Angel likes drunk sex, because he can feel his body disconnect from his mind. His eyes would be unfocused, and no matter the lover his gaze would always be at the ceiling. His attention purely on the sensations his body was offering him. He’d be quiet, just enjoying himself.

Husker

𖦹Husk is usually ornery, but when drunk he becomes the wise old man who wont stop talking to you like a kid. Husk, I’m a grown ass adult? Ha, in my day you would still be in diapers. That doesn’t make any sense Husk. Sense? Your lot don’t know shit about sense.

𖦹When he isn’t pretending to be everyone’s drunk Gandalf, compliments flow like booze from a tipped bottle. You’re real pretty when you smile. Wish I saw more of it. — That’s what I like about you, you always get back up.

𖦹Husk is always topping up everyone’s glass, and even when drunk he’s the one who registers when someone’s had enough. On many occasions he has replaced Angel’s drink with just orange juice and soda water when he wasnt looking, too drunk to notice.

𖦹Next day: Yesterday didn’t happen, order a drink or get the fuck out of the bar.

𖦹Smutty: Husk doesn’t like sex when he’s drunk, he doesn’t like the implication anyone may not be fully aware of what’s happening. He’ll cuddle, caress, kiss, but no sex unless you’re relatively sober or you had explicitly made plans to enjoy a drunken romp. In which case, he relishes in changing positions often to find new ways to make you gasp out his name. Tipsy or not, his hands are always steady.

Charlie

𖦹Charlie is the happiest drunk to exist. Her confidence sores with a little liquid courage. She’ll clamor onto the bar and declare she is going to redeem all of Hell, making the Pride ring a glorified bus stop between death and the pearly gates.

𖦹Clumsy. She talks with her hands and spills her drink everywhere. Constantly running into things with her hips and feet. She will trip over nothing, and apologize to the air for the misstep.

𖦹Charlie oscillates between talking nonstop to being dead silent, big doe eyes watching intently as you speak. She’s hanging on every word.

𖦹Tells everyone she loves them, then cries about how much she loves them.

𖦹Next day: Hungover, doesn’t understand why people drink so often, this sucks. Slightly embarrassed about getting up on the bar but otherwise has no issues knowing she doted on everyone.

𖦹Smutty: The Morningstars are similar in that they take their time. They need to hear every little gasp, every held breath. Charlie would spend hours exploring the places she could make bring you pleasure. Little giggles from between your legs as she gives herself mental pats on the back.

Vaggie

𖦹Drunk Vaggie is similar to Sober Vaggie. Serious but caring, and relatively quiet. She wouldn’t become overly showy or loud. Your only indication she’s been drinking is the slight slur to her words and the way her hands tip her drink a little too much when talking.

𖦹Goes on full rants about heaven if the topic comes up. Just bashes the hypocrisy and curses her fellow angels.

𖦹Slips more into Spanish, her words dipping between the two languages.

𖦹Little more handsy, resting her chin on her darling’s shoulder and letting her hands come around their waist while they are talking to people.

𖦹Next day: Needs everyone to shut the fuck up and turn the lights off. She swears she’s never letting Angel mix her drinks again. Mortified to hear she was necking in the lobby.

𖦹Smutty: Drunk Vaggie just wants to kiss and hold you, enjoying the way the room spins a little around you both as you lose track of time. She’s down for more, but only if you’re taking the lead.

Niffty

𖦹Please stop handing her drinks.

𖦹Fuck, she’s drinking other people’s drinks when they aren’t looking.

𖦹She’s dusting the ceiling, she’s vacuuming the sofa, dear God she’s scrubbing Angel’s hands with pure bleach shrieking, “Diiiiirty.”

𖦹Unhinged. More so. Somehow. Makes everyone a crown of trash.

𖦹Next day: is she still drunk? No? This is just her natural state of being?!

𖦹Smutty: Bad boys welcome, everyone else can get shanked.

༻Masterlist༺

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum , @alitaar , @maddiemouse-1226 , @christineblood , @zombiesnips-blog , @readergirlstuff

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot

[aeoncss]

…some of my personal movie!mike schmidt hcs <3

disclaimer: you dont have to agree, just don’t be an ass. thanks!

tw: parent/sibling death, mentions of insecurity, nightmares, trauma flashbacks, some nsfw (18+!), could be ooc?? idk?? don’t quote me on it

he’s a soft snorer. like the faintest sound comes through at night, and it’s usually when he’s laying on his back. when he’s sick, however, he snores so loud that abby has definitely thrown something at him to be quiet.

used to smoke cigarettes quite heavily. started in high school, then it turned into muscle memory that escalated into a harsh nicotine addiction. the second abby complained about the smell, mike stopped cold turkey, and hasn’t picked up a pack since.

does, occasionally, smoke weed though. usually in his car or in his garage late at night. spends extra time cleaning around and getting the smell out, including doing an extra load of laundry so his clothes don’t reek. it helps him sleep, although doesn’t do much for the nightmares.

mike has one of those huge CD books shoved underneath his passenger seat (it won’t fit in the glove box). it’s filled with many broken disks that are heavily scratched from use, and a lot of them belonged to his father.

he’s so bad at folding. so bad. he either hangs it up super sloppily or straight up just throws his clothes into his closet.

he prefers dogs over cats — although he takes the time to feed one of the neighborhood stray cats that abby has named ‘mr. whiskers’ because that’s gonna become his pet goddamn it

listens to a lot of korn, foo fighters, deftones, and the offspring. mike kinda refuses to play that kind of music in the car with abby around, so he might have grown to subconsciously love spice girls and a*teens as well…

grows insecure when he finds himself in a relationship, feeling like he equally can’t be enough or that he’s doing too much. mike has such a fear of pushing away good things from him, so it takes a lot of reassurance for him to finally understand that he isn’t doing anything wrong.

falls asleep during horror and romance movies. physically just can’t do it.

he can’t ever listen to the romantics ever again. if he hears even a snippet of ‘talking in your sleep’, his body straight up shuts down and mike goes into automatic panic mode.

service switch — really, he just wants to please his partner in any way. he doesn’t have a preference for anything sexually related, but he definitely gets a kick out of how good he can make his lover feel. he might have studied one too many playboys.

he doesn’t really realize how much he craves affection until after he gets into a relationship. whenever his partner leaves for the night, he feels like a piece of him is somehow lost, and he nonstop thinks about how nice it was to just be in their arms — even if it was just for a short moment.

besides the reoccurring nightmare of garrett, mike developed a new one after the events at the pizzeria. he can’t save abby in time, the sound of spring locks echoing deep inside his brain that he wakes up so physically ill. he has to go check in on her to get himself to calm down.

has a few really shitty stick n’ poke tattoos that one of his old high school buddies did while drunk together. he has a little stick figure on the inside of his left wrist, and a horribly disproportionate star on his right.

he’s a moaner. not a loud one, but there has been times where he’s either had to cover up his mouth by a pillow or even by his partners hand. it’s not overtly obnoxious or dramatic, more hushed pants and quick whimpers that escape deep from his throat. when he’s close, that’s when he gets a bit louder, the sound almost guttural.

he really gets a kick out of seeing his partner in his clothes or just doing something in his house. sitting on the couch just TV surfing? he’s hiding behind the doorway to the kitchen just so he can try and get his hard-on to go away.

mike was the type of kid in high school that genuinely did try to pass with good grades, but he just barely managed to scrape by without getting held back from graduation. it’s a regret of his, but understands what was going on during that time.

nicknamed his honda accord ‘marvin’.

really into making out, sometimes preferring it over sex. he likes the closeness and just enjoys the action of kissing — plus, it’s really nice foreplay.

[anzynai]

Only You

Husk x Angel (Hazbin Hotel)

a/n: hello sorry i couldn’t resist writing for them. ive been a fan for years and have been obsessed with the new series so. anyways, yes is them. also, for some reason, i kinda struggled writing for them so sorry if theyre ooc😭😭 still, i hope u enjoy!

summary: angel dust and husk are having another late night talking session when husk learns that angel is ticklish.

word count: 1.2k

warnings: tickling, implied huskerdust, gets a little angsty?? but it gets better

——

It was a normal night. And by normal night, everyone else was asleep, save for Husk, when Angel cracked open the front door, attempting to be silent. Husk was wiping down the glasses when he saw the other. He looked.. rough, and though it hurt Husk to see him like that, he knew he couldn’t do much about it besides offer comfort.

And so followed their usual routine. Angel would ask for a drink and Husk would give him one, but recent developments had them talking late at night. Conversations that would be rare if it were a random Tuesday afternoon, allowing each other to learn more about the other, making them laugh or even cry. Husk wouldn’t admit it but it was secretly becoming an important part of his day and his fondness for the spider was growing.

Today wasn’t much different. After pouring himself and Angel a drink, he went to sit next to Angel. Talking the night away, casually, and when Angel began to tease him about whatever, he poked Angel in the side.

“Ha—!” Angel jumped before he hurriedly tried to change the conversation, but Husk was intrigued.

“You’re ticklish?” Husk asked, almost incredulously but amused nonetheless. He didn’t know why he was so surprised.

“Eh.. I guess so..” Angel muttered, averting his eyes. Husk was almost shocked. He expected Angel to say something more… flirtatious, but he decided not to ponder on it too much.

That was his first mistake. He reached over to give the other a few squeezes on the other’s side when..

“NO!” Angel shouted, fearful and panicked, as he pushed Husk's hands from him. He lost his balance off the small barstool, and met the ground with a loud thump. Husk could feel his heart sinking to the pit of his stomach at the look on Angel’s face. He got off the stool, crouching in front of the spider.

“Angel..?” He whispered, gently, reaching a hand towards him, but not quite touching, in case Angel didn’t want to be touched. He scolded himself, inwardly. He had been swept by Angel’s usual flirtatious persona and assumed that he was always fine with being touched, but perhaps he wasn’t correct with that thinking? Angel seemed surprise by his own reaction because he shook his head and forced a smile to Husk.

“Sorry about that, Whiskers. Guess I’m still feeling a bit jittery.” He laughed, nervous and timid.

“What’s wrong? Talk to me.” Husk asked. He didn’t want to make Angel think he had to pretend to be fine. He wanted Angel to be true to his feelings and know that he can confide in the cat. Angel looked down at the ground.

“Sorry.” Angel muttered, repositioning himself, loosely hugging his knees. His lower set of hands rubbed against each other.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” Husk reassured, moving to sit by Angel, who looked incredibly guilty. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You— you didn’t. I just.. I don’t know.” Angel faltered, seemingly struggling on his words. Husk tried to smile at him, but Angel didn’t seem to see it.

“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t need to explain. I won’t try to tickle you again.” Husk told him and Angel finally looked up at him.

The spider paused for a moment, as if thinking. He seemed.. embarrassed.

He opened his mouth but nothing came out before he averted his eyes. Husk listened. “You can tickle me,” The bartender’s eyes widened in disbelief. From his reaction, he wouldn’t have thought Angel would have given him permission to tickle him. “.. If you want.”

“Huh? I thought you didn’t want me to.”

“I didn’t say that.” Angel admitted.

“You want me to?” Husk jaw was nearly on the floor at this point.

“I’d always love your hands on me~” Angel purred, trying to lighten the mood.

“Angel.” Husk said, almost sternly, but mostly because he didn’t want to cross the actor’s boundaries.

“Fine. Yeah. I want you to. Happy?” Angel rolled his eyes, but there was a bit of redness on his cheeks. “Only you.”

Husk could feel his heart flutter in ways he did not want to address anytime soon and he tried to will away the blush that he could feel making its way to his face. He didn’t say anything, but he slowly lifted his hands to Angel, giving a gentle squeeze, as if testing the waters.

Angel giggled quietly, but he didn’t push him away. Feeling more confident, he scooted closer and lightly kneaded his hands on the spider’s body, occasionally scratching at his tummy.

“Hehehe… Huhuhusk..” Angel laughed, a genuine smile appearing on his face. Husk decided that he wouldn’t do too much with the tickling. Angel deserved gentleness and that’s what he wanted to give him tonight.

“Ticklish?” Husk cooed, teasing.

“Youhuhu knohow I a-ahaham!”

“Well, I do now.” Husk agreed, going to Angel’s tummy for real this time. He clawed at the thin fabric that very evidently outlined Angel’s frame. Angel was thin, he noticed. He worried that Angel may have been on a diet, as he knew many actors tended to be, but he decided not to ask. He wanted to cheer Angel up, not interrogate him.

His stomach seemed to be a sensitive spot, kicking up a bigger reaction than his sides.

“Hahahha! Nohohot thehehere!”

“Oh? Then where?”

“I dohohon’t knohohow!”

“Aren’t you hopeless?” The bartender chucked, lighthearted, but as per Angel’s wishes, he moved spots. Instead, he began to poke and prod in between Angel’s ribs. Less sensitive than the stomach. Still, about the same as his sides.

“Wahahahaha!” As soft laughter continued to spill from the actor’s lips, not once had he asked Husk to stop. Angel must not mind being tickled.

“How do you get anything done, being so ticklish?” Husk joked, but he reached a hand to boop Angel’s nose.

“People dohohon’t reheheheally tihihickle me!” Angel tried to speak, as if it were a normal conversation and not just Husk teasing him.

“Really? It’s adorable.” Husk said, before he could stop it. Angel blushed slightly at that, but didn’t respond. Husk smiled at him, fondly. It wasn’t as though he was lying. Angel did look quite cute like this, so genuine and so sweet.

He let it go on for only a few minutes before Angel finally asked him to stop. He did, but he stayed close to Angel. Angel leaned his head on his shoulder and the both fell silent, only the sound of Angel breathing and catching his breath could be heard.

“That was fun.” Angel admitted, after a while. “I’m used to people touching me because they want my body. So when you touched me.. I panicked.”

“I’m sorry. I should have asked first.” Husk murmured, feeling guilty.

“No! You did nothing wrong.” Angel rushed to say. “I don’t mind you touching me. And you were so gentle, even when I didn’t ask you to be… it was.. nice.”

“I liked it too.” Husk whispered, feeling embarrassed. That’s when Angel looked up at him, looking in his eyes that made Husk feel flustered.

“Wouldn’t mind if we did that more often. Maybe, next time you should be on the receiving side, though~” Husk gulped.

“Don’t bother trying. I ain’t ticklish.”

“Oh? That so, Kitty? Wanna put it to the test?” Angel smirked, as he wiggled his fingers at Husk. And there it was. Typical Angel.

Still, Husk wondered why he wasn’t so bothered by his flirting this time. He did not have any time to think any more on that before Angel decided he was going to prove that Husk’s statement of “not being ticklish” was, in fact, a lie. Ha.

[anniebeemine]

It Takes A Village- Part Two

Age: 5-12

Part One

Spencer and Naomi Reid became a powerful duo. Unless he was fighting crime somewhere in America, he had his daughter everywhere he went. Thick as thieves, two peas in a pod, however you decided to phrase it, that’s who they were. 

It worked partly through his ability to adapt and build his life around her, partly through her easy going nature, and mostly to Mrs. Patterson who lived across the hall. The elderly woman who had become like a mother and grandmother to the duo. 

Mrs. Patterson, with her silver hair neatly pinned back and a warm smile that seemed to always be ready, had taken to Naomi as if she were her own granddaughter. The bond between them was immediate and effortless, almost as if fate had placed them in each other's paths.

Spencer's work often demanded odd hours and sudden trips, leaving little time to worry about the day-to-day logistics of parenting. Mrs. Patterson stepped in without hesitation, her apartment door always open for Naomi. She was a source of comfort and stability, offering after-school snacks, helping with homework, or simply being a listening ear when Naomi wanted to share stories about her day. Her presence allowed Spencer to focus on his work, knowing that his daughter was in safe, loving hands.

For Naomi, Mrs. Patterson became a confidante and a mentor. She would often tell Naomi stories from her own childhood, tales of a different time that captured Naomi's vivid imagination. They would bake cookies together, Mrs. Patterson guiding Naomi's small hands as they rolled out the dough, or they would sit in the cozy living room, reading books aloud. Naomi loved these moments, finding in Mrs. Patterson a kindred spirit who seemed to understand her in ways that were both surprising and comforting.

The relationship between Spencer and Mrs. Patterson also grew. He was initially hesitant to accept so much help, but over time, he saw how much Naomi thrived under her care. He found himself stopping by Mrs. Patterson's apartment more often, just to chat or to thank her for being there. Their conversations, which started with discussions about Naomi's day or a new recipe Mrs. Patterson had tried, eventually deepened into talks about life, loss, and the challenges of single parenting.

Spencer's respect and gratitude for Mrs. Patterson grew with each passing day. She had become more than just a neighbor; she was family. And in many ways, she filled the gaps in Naomi's life that Spencer worried he couldn't cover alone.

One Saturday afternoon, Spencer and Naomi were returning home from a day filled with laughter and face painting at the local park's annual fair. Naomi had insisted they both get their faces painted—hers as a lion, fierce and proud, while Spencer had been transformed into a tiger. The two of them had drawn smiles and chuckles as they wandered through the fair, Spencer trying his best to match Naomi’s enthusiasm as she led him from one booth to another.

As they approached their apartment building, still riding the high of their day out, they noticed a woman standing outside the entrance. She was older, with graying hair and a kind face, but there was an unmistakable air of sadness about her. Naomi, ever curious, bounced ahead, her lion’s mane of painted whiskers and golden fur still intact. Spencer quickly recognized the woman as Mrs. Patterson’s daughter, a person he had only met briefly before.

“Naomi, why don’t you head inside and grab your coloring book?” Spencer suggested gently, sensing that the conversation ahead might not be one for young ears. Naomi hesitated, looking up at her father with a small frown, but he gave her a reassuring nod. Reluctantly, she agreed and skipped inside, leaving Spencer to face Mrs. Patterson’s daughter alone.

“Hello,” Spencer greeted, trying to keep his tone neutral, though his stomach was already tightening with a sense of foreboding. “Is everything okay?”

The woman smiled softly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Hello, Dr. Reid. I’m sorry to just show up like this, but I wanted to speak with you before anyone else did.” She paused, glancing at the door where Naomi had disappeared. “My mother… Mrs. Patterson… she’s moving out. We’re relocating her to live closer to me and my family. It’s not something we planned, but… her health isn’t what it used to be.”

The news hit Spencer harder than he expected. Mrs. Patterson had been a constant in their lives, a stable presence that made both his and Naomi’s world feel a little more secure. The thought of losing her, even just as a neighbor, was unsettling. “I see,” he said quietly, trying to mask his concern. “Does she know yet?”

The woman nodded. “She does. And she wanted to tell you herself, but she’s having a hard time with the idea of leaving. I thought it might be easier if you heard it from me first.”

Spencer took a deep breath, trying to process the implications. Mrs. Patterson’s departure would be a significant change, especially for Naomi, who had grown so close to her. “I appreciate you telling me,” he finally said. “Naomi… she’s going to take this hard.”

“I know,” the woman replied sympathetically. “But you’ll have some time to prepare her. We’re not moving for another week or so. My mother would love to spend some time with Naomi before she goes.”

Spencer nodded, his mind already racing with thoughts of how to explain this to his daughter. “Of course. We’ll make sure to do that.”

They exchanged a few more words before the woman left, and Spencer stood there for a moment, staring at the door, trying to gather himself. He knew Naomi would be waiting inside, likely coloring away, her mind still full of the fun they’d had at the fair. It pained him to think about how that joy would soon be shadowed by the news he had to deliver.

When he finally went inside, Naomi was sprawled on the living room floor, her coloring book open to a page full of animals. She looked up as he entered, a bright smile on her face, her lion makeup still mostly intact. “Did you talk to her, Daddy?”

Spencer forced a smile and sat down beside her, ruffling her hair gently. “I did, sweetheart. Mrs. Patterson’s daughter was just letting me know something important.”

Naomi blinked up at him, her eyes curious. “What’s important?”

Spencer hesitated, unsure of how to put it in a way that would be gentle but honest. “Mrs. Patterson is going to move to live closer to her daughter. She won’t be living next door anymore.”

Naomi’s smile faltered, and she sat up straighter, her brow furrowing. “Why does she have to go? I don’t want her to leave.”

Spencer pulled her into his lap, holding her close as he felt the weight of her words. “I know, Naomi. It’s hard. But sometimes, people have to move for different reasons. Mrs. Patterson isn’t feeling as strong as she used to, and her daughter wants to take care of her. It’s because she loves her, just like I love you.”

Naomi was quiet for a moment, her head resting against his chest. “Will I still see her?”

Spencer swallowed the lump in his throat. “We can visit her when we can. And she’ll want to see you before she moves, to spend some special time together.”

Naomi nodded slowly, but Spencer could feel the tension in her small body, the beginning of an understanding that things were changing. He held her close, wishing he could protect her from every difficult moment life would throw their way, but knowing he couldn’t. All he could do was be there, as steady as he could be, for her.

The week passed quickly, with Mrs. Patterson and Naomi spending as much time together as possible. They baked cookies, watched movies, and shared stories, creating memories that Spencer hoped would last in Naomi’s heart for years to come. On the day Mrs. Patterson finally moved out, Naomi hugged her tightly, tears streaming down her cheeks, and Spencer felt his own heart breaking at the sight.

Naomi didn’t sleep well for the next few nights. Each night, Spencer would tuck her in, read her a story, and kiss her goodnight, but within an hour, she would quietly appear in the doorway of his room. Her small figure, framed by the nightlight in the hallway, seemed even tinier in those moments.

“Daddy,” she would whisper, her voice soft and hesitant. “Can I sleep in your bed?”

And each time, Spencer’s heart would squeeze with a mix of love and concern. He never hesitated in his response. “Of course, sweetheart,” he’d say, lifting the covers and making room for her beside him.

Naomi would climb into the bed, curling up next to him, her little body pressed close as if seeking the reassurance that everything would be okay. Spencer would drape an arm around her, feeling the rapid beat of her heart slowly calm as she settled in. Sometimes she would drift off quickly, her breathing evening out as she fell into a deeper sleep, but other times, she would lie awake, her eyes open in the dim light, staring at nothing in particular.

Spencer knew that she was processing the change in her own way, grappling with the unfamiliar feeling of loss. He considered taking her to get professional help, a child therapist who could help her through her complex feelings in a way he couldn’t. He knew that as much as he loved his daughter, there were things she might not be able to express to him, no matter how close they were. A professional could give her tools to understand and cope with the sadness she was feeling. He decided to give her one more week to adjust. He kept a close eye on her, watching for any signs that she might need more help than he could provide. Each night, when she appeared in his doorway, he welcomed her into his bed without hesitation, knowing that for now, she just needed to feel safe and close to him. By day five, he noticed changes. Naomi started sleeping better, staying in her own bed at night. She seemed less on edge and started to laugh more. 

Then, she started school. Preschool had worked wonders for Naomi. The structured environment, the new friends, and the variety of activities gave her a sense of excitement and independence. She quickly adapted to the routines, eagerly learning her letters and numbers, proudly bringing home scribbled drawings and art projects that she insisted be displayed on the refrigerator.

Naomi thrived in the classroom, her natural curiosity and easygoing nature making her a favorite among the teachers. She loved storytime, where she could listen to new tales and sometimes make up her own endings. Spencer would often find her sitting cross-legged on the floor, a picture book spread out in front of her, her little finger tracing the illustrations as she quietly narrated the story to herself.

Socially, Naomi blossomed. She made friends easily, her friendly demeanor drawing others to her. She was often at the center of playtime, whether it was building block towers, playing dress-up, or creating elaborate games of pretend. The other children gravitated toward her, and she quickly formed close bonds with a few of her classmates. Spencer was grateful for this, knowing how important it was for her to build these early relationships.

At home, Naomi’s confidence grew as she shared stories about her day, recounting who she played with and what she learned. Spencer would listen intently, asking questions and marveling at how much she was growing, both intellectually and socially. He could see that preschool had given her a new sense of independence, a budding confidence that she carried with her outside the classroom.

Of course, there were challenges too. There were mornings when Naomi would cling to Spencer’s leg, reluctant to let go, tears welling in her eyes as she pleaded to stay home. Those moments tugged at his heart, but he knew it was all part of the process. He would kneel down, reassuring her that she would have a great day and that he would be there to pick her up afterward. With a final hug, she would eventually let go, waving goodbye with a hesitant smile.

As the school year progressed, these tearful goodbyes became less frequent. Naomi began to eagerly look forward to her days at school, excited about the new things she would learn and the fun she would have with her friends. She began to take pride in her accomplishments, beaming when she showed Spencer the stars and smiley faces her teacher had drawn on her work.

 Naomi’s fifth birthday arrived with the first blush of summer, a time of warmth and endless possibilities. The days were getting longer, and the air was filled with the scent of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass. For Naomi, the excitement of turning five was magnified by the fact that she was in the middle of a full-blown cowboy phase. For weeks now, everything had revolved around the wild, wild West—she wore her cowboy hat everywhere, demanded bedtime stories about outlaws and sheriffs, and insisted on calling Spencer "Pa." It was a phase that Spencer found both amusing and endearing, even if it meant listening to the twang of a pretend Southern drawl over breakfast every morning.

Spencer had thrown himself into planning the perfect cowboy-themed party, wanting to make this birthday one she would remember. He’d spent hours researching decorations, games, and the best places to find a cake that looked like a cowboy hat. When the big day finally arrived, he could see the excitement bubbling in Naomi, her eyes wide with anticipation as they pulled up to Rossi’s house. The party was set to take place in Rossi's spacious backyard, an ideal setting for the little cowboys and cowgirls who would soon be running around.

The backyard had been transformed into a miniature Old West, with hay bales scattered around, a cardboard saloon, and a “Wanted” poster with Naomi’s face on it that read “Wanted: For Being the Best Birthday Girl.” Rossi, ever the gracious host, had drawn the curtains inside his house, declaring the backyard off-limits until all the guests had arrived. Naomi could hardly contain her excitement, bouncing on the balls of her feet as each friend and family member trickled in.

When the party was in full swing, the kids quickly took to the games Spencer had set up. "Pin the Tail on the Donkey" was a hit, the children giggling as they took turns being spun around, trying to find the poster with the wobbly donkey. Derek, who had arrived early, had presented Naomi with a pair of fake spurs as soon as she walked through the door. She adored them immediately, strapping them to her little boots and parading around with a newfound swagger.

As the afternoon wore on, the children’s laughter filled the yard, blending with the sounds of country music playing softly in the background. Spencer watched Naomi closely, a smile tugging at his lips as he saw her glowing with happiness. This was her day, and he was determined to make every moment special.

When it was time for cake, the children gathered around the picnic table, eagerly eyeing the cake that had been crafted to look like a cowboy hat, complete with a bandana. Naomi’s face lit up as everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” her cheeks flushed with excitement. She blew out the candles with one big puff, and the cake was quickly devoured by a crowd of sticky, happy children.

After the cake was gone, it was time for presents. Naomi tore into them with enthusiasm, her eyes wide with wonder at each new gift. Dolls, books, and more cowboy-themed toys piled up around her. But just when she thought the surprises were over, Rossi stood up and cleared his throat.

“There’s one more thing, Naomi,” Rossi announced, his voice carrying over the excited chatter. He extended his hand to her, and together, they walked toward the back gate. The rest of the guests followed, curiosity piqued. Spencer stayed behind, watching with anticipation. Suddenly, a high-pitched scream of excitement echoed through the yard. Naomi came running back, her eyes shining with delight.

Rossi had outdone himself. Standing in the backyard, just beyond the gate, was a small, gentle pony, perfectly sized for the young cowboys and cowgirls at the party. The children erupted into cheers, rushing forward to get a closer look. Naomi was speechless, her hands covering her mouth as she stared in awe at the pony.

“She doesn’t have a name,” Rossi explained, handing Naomi a brush. “You get to name her, Naomi.”

For a moment, Naomi was struck silent, her mind clearly racing as she considered the possibilities. The adults around her exchanged knowing smiles, sensing the weight of this important decision. Finally, Naomi looked up, a smile spreading across her face. “Earl,” she declared with confidence. “Her name is Earl.”

The party guests couldn’t help but chuckle at the unexpected name, and even Spencer laughed, shaking his head in amused disbelief. Naomi, however, was completely serious, already brushing Earl’s mane with the utmost care.

The children took turns riding Earl, their faces lit with joy as they experienced the thrill of sitting atop the pony. Even those who were a little nervous at first quickly warmed up, the pony’s calm demeanor putting them at ease. After the rides, they fed her bits of apple and carrot, giggling as the pony’s lips tickled their hands. Naomi was in her element, the center of attention, her cowboy hat firmly in place as she showed off her newfound skills as a horsewoman.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the yard, the party began to wind down. The children were reluctant to leave, still buzzing with the excitement of the day. Naomi, however, was content, a wide smile on her face as she leaned against Spencer’s leg, her cowboy hat tilted jauntily to one side.

That night, after the last guest had left and the backyard had been returned to its usual state, Naomi asked Spencer the question he had been expecting. “Pa, can I have a pet horse?”

Spencer couldn’t help but smile at her earnestness, even as he gently explained the logistics. “We’ll think about it, sweetheart,” he said, knowing full well that their apartment wasn’t exactly horse-friendly. Naomi accepted this with a nod, her eyes already drooping with exhaustion.

As he tucked her into bed that night, Spencer couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. Today had been perfect—Naomi had been the happiest he’d ever seen her. He bent down to kiss her forehead, whispering a soft goodnight before quietly leaving the room.

The house was silent as Spencer retreated to the living room, the events of the day still playing in his mind. He poured himself a cup of coffee, staring out the window as the city lights twinkled in the distance. He thought of how much Naomi had grown in the past year, how she had embraced her cowboy phase with the same enthusiasm she brought to everything in life. She was becoming her own person, with her own likes, dislikes, and quirks.

Spencer knew that he couldn’t be prouder of the young girl Naomi was becoming. She was brave, kind, and full of life, and he was grateful every day that he got to be her father.

As the golden days of summer gradually faded into the crisp mornings of autumn, the time came for Naomi to start elementary school. The transition from the carefree days of her cowboy adventures to the structured world of school was met with a mix of nerves and excitement. Naomi, with her backpack almost as big as she was, eagerly looked forward to the new experiences that awaited her, though a small part of her still clung to the familiar comforts of home.

Spencer could see the anticipation in her wide eyes as they pulled up to the school for the open house. The halls were filled with the chatter of parents and children, the air buzzing with the energy of new beginnings. As they made their way to Naomi’s classroom, Spencer felt a twinge of nostalgia. His little girl was growing up, stepping into a world that, while exciting, would slowly begin to shape her in ways beyond his control.

They were greeted by Mrs. Stevens, Naomi’s kindergarten teacher, who immediately knelt down to Naomi’s level with a warm smile. Mrs. Stevens had a gentle demeanor that put both of them at ease. She spoke softly to Naomi, asking about her favorite colors and what she liked to do for fun. Naomi, ever the social butterfly, answered confidently, her nerves slowly melting away. Spencer watched with a quiet pride, though a small part of him still worried about how she would fare in this new environment.

As they toured the classroom, Spencer found himself getting caught up in the small details—the tiny chairs and desks, the colorful alphabet letters lining the walls, the cubbies where each child’s belongings would be stored. It was a new world, one that Naomi would navigate without him by her side every day. And as he listened to her chatter excitedly about the books in the reading corner and the art supplies on the shelves, he couldn’t help but notice that she called him "Dad" instead of "Pa."

It was a small change, one that had crept up on him without notice, but it hit him with a surprising pang of sadness. The cowboy phase had faded away, along with the endearing nickname she’d used so proudly. Spencer knew that these things came and went, part of the natural process of growing up, but it still felt like a loss. He cherished every phase, every quirk and habit that made Naomi who she was, and the thought of her leaving any part of that behind was bittersweet.

The first day of school arrived quickly, and Spencer found himself lingering a little longer than necessary as he dropped Naomi off. She was eager to join her classmates, her backpack bouncing as she ran towards the playground, but she still turned back to give him one last wave before disappearing into the crowd. Spencer stood there for a moment, feeling the weight of the moment. His little girl was no longer so little, and the world she was stepping into was one she would increasingly navigate on her own.

As the months passed, Naomi adjusted to school life with ease. She made friends quickly, her outgoing nature and bright smile winning over her classmates and teachers alike. Spencer would often hear her animated retellings of the day’s events over dinner, her enthusiasm infectious. And while he missed the days when she would curl up in his lap with a storybook, he couldn’t deny how proud he was of the person she was becoming.

Then came the day that would mark the beginning of a new chapter in Naomi’s life—her introduction to swimming. It all started when she was invited to a birthday party at the local community pool. The day had been a whirlwind of laughter and splashing, and Naomi had taken to the water like she was born for it. Spencer watched from the sidelines, his heart swelling with pride as she fearlessly dove under the water, her small form cutting through the waves with surprising agility.

That evening, as they drove home, Naomi’s excitement was palpable. “Dad,” she had said, her voice full of determination, “I want to join a swim team.”

Spencer had looked at her, surprised by the sudden request, but he could see the seriousness in her eyes. This wasn’t just a fleeting interest—Naomi was genuinely passionate about swimming. He thought back to his own childhood, remembering the importance of having something to be passionate about, something that gave you a sense of purpose. How could he say no?

And so, at the age of seven, Naomi joined the local swim team. From that moment on, Spencer’s schedule became filled with early morning practices and weekend meets. He became well-acquainted with the smell of chlorine and the sound of splashing water echoing off the walls of the pool. Every practice, he was there, driving her to and from the pool, cheering her on from the bleachers.

The first time Naomi competed in a swim meet, Spencer almost didn’t make it in time. He had been caught up at work, the clock ticking down faster than he anticipated. By the time he arrived, the meet had already begun, and his heart sank as he imagined Naomi searching for him in the crowd, only to find an empty spot where he should have been.

But as he burst through the doors and ran to the pool, he caught sight of her just as she was about to dive in. He held his breath as she leaped into the water, her form sleek and determined. She moved with grace, her strokes powerful for someone so small. Spencer’s eyes followed her every move, his heart pounding with a mix of pride and regret.

When she finally surfaced at the end of her race, Spencer could see the moment her eyes scanned the crowd, searching for him. He felt a sharp pang of guilt as her expression faltered when she didn’t immediately spot him. But then, their eyes met, and her face lit up with relief. He stood there, waving frantically, and as she climbed out of the pool, he rushed to her side, pulling her into a proud hug despite her protests about being soaked.

“I don’t care,” he had said, his voice full of love and pride. “You were amazing.”

And she was. Spencer couldn’t have been prouder of his daughter. From cowboy-themed birthday parties to school achievements, and now to swimming competitions, Naomi was growing up in front of his eyes, becoming someone strong, passionate, and resilient. Watching her interact with Henry and Jack, hiding her Uno cards with a mischievous grin, Spencer couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride—and, yes, a little bit of ego—as he realized that he was doing something right. Naomi was turning into a remarkable young person, and he was there, every step of the way, watching her become the best version of herself.

Spencer knew most of this was because of his village. His friends picked up his reports so he could make it swim meets and parent teacher conferences. JJ had been there from the very beginning, guiding Spencer through the early years with the wisdom that only a mother could provide. She was always ready with advice, whether it was about choosing the right preschool or dealing with the sleepless nights that came with teething. Naomi adored JJ, often referring to her as "Aunt JJ" with a smile that mirrored JJ's own. JJ was the one who introduced Naomi to the joys of baking, spending countless afternoons in Spencer's kitchen, teaching her how to measure flour and crack eggs. Spencer would often return from work to find the two of them covered in flour, with a batch of cookies cooling on the counter and Naomi proudly holding up her latest creation for him to taste.

Emily was the cool, adventurous aunt who always seemed to know exactly what Naomi needed. When Naomi went through a phase of feeling out of place at school, it was Emily who took her on "girls' days out," reminding her of her own strength and uniqueness. Emily encouraged Naomi to embrace her individuality, whether it was through trying new sports, like fencing or rock climbing, or simply teaching her to stand up for herself when she felt unsure. Spencer admired how Emily could always bring a sense of adventure and confidence into Naomi's life, helping her see the world as a place full of possibilities.

Penelope Garcia, with her vibrant personality and endless creativity, was a beacon of light in Naomi's life. She introduced Naomi to the world of arts and crafts, helping her channel her emotions into colorful creations that filled their home. Penelope's office at the BAU became a second home for Naomi, a place where she could express herself freely with paints, markers, and glitter. It was Penelope who designed the invitations for Naomi's birthday parties, complete with animated animals and vibrant fonts that perfectly captured the joy of childhood. Spencer knew that Penelope’s influence had nurtured Naomi’s creative spirit, and he was grateful for the countless hours she spent fostering that side of his daughter.

Derek Morgan was the one who taught Naomi about physical strength and perseverance. He would often take her to the park, where they would spend hours playing games that involved running, climbing, and testing her physical limits. Derek also had a way of making Naomi laugh, often lifting her spirits when she was feeling down. He was the one who encouraged her to join the swim team, telling her that with hard work and determination, she could achieve anything. Spencer knew that Derek was teaching Naomi the importance of resilience and that she was learning valuable life lessons from him.

Rossi was the wise, grandfatherly figure in Naomi’s life. He offered Spencer guidance on parenting with a gentle hand, sharing stories from his own experiences as a father and grandfather. Rossi's home became a place of comfort for Naomi, where she could enjoy a meal with "Uncle Dave" and listen to his stories about Italy, family, and life. Rossi also instilled in Naomi a love for history and culture, often taking her to museums and introducing her to books that expanded her understanding of the world. Spencer appreciated how Rossi provided Naomi with a sense of stability and tradition, enriching her life with experiences that she would carry with her forever.

And then there was Hotch, whose quiet strength and unwavering support made him a rock in Spencer’s life. Hotch understood the challenges of balancing work and fatherhood better than anyone, having been a single father himself. He was always there to offer Spencer advice on how to manage the demands of both roles, and he never hesitated to adjust Spencer's work schedule when Naomi needed him. Hotch also had a special bond with Naomi, often spending time with her while Spencer was in the field. Naomi looked up to Hotch, admiring his calm demeanor and strong sense of justice. Spencer knew that Hotch was helping to shape Naomi’s understanding of right and wrong, and he was grateful for the moral compass that Hotch provided.

Together, this village of team members helped Spencer raise Naomi, each contributing in their own unique way to her growth and development. They were there for the big moments, like her first day of school and her swim meets, and the small ones, like helping her with homework or cheering her up after a tough day. They shared in the joys and challenges of parenthood, making sure that neither Spencer nor Naomi ever felt alone.

As Naomi grew older, Spencer began to notice the subtle and not-so-subtle physical changes that marked her transition from a little girl into a young woman. It was a bittersweet realization for him, watching her grow up so quickly, but it also filled him with pride.

One of the first things Spencer noticed was how tall Naomi was becoming. It seemed like every few months she would shoot up another inch, her legs growing longer and her posture more confident. By the time she was seven or eight, it was clear that she would be tall, likely taking after him in that regard. Spencer often found himself marveling at how she had gone from the tiny toddler who used to cling to his leg to a tall, graceful girl who moved with a natural ease.

Swimming played a significant role in Naomi's physical development. The hours she spent in the pool, practicing her strokes and building her endurance, began to shape her body in ways that were both powerful and beautiful. Spencer could see the definition in her shoulders and arms, the way her muscles had grown strong and lean from the rigorous training. Her core became more toned, and her legs—already long—grew stronger, propelling her through the water with increasing speed and agility.

He also noticed how swimming affected Naomi’s eating habits. With guidance from Derek, who was no stranger to maintaining a healthy physique, and JJ, who was always mindful of nutrition, Spencer made sure that Naomi was eating well to support her growing body. They emphasized the importance of balanced meals, rich in the nutrients that would fuel her swimming and her everyday activities. Spencer took to packing her lunches with care, including a variety of fruits, vegetables, and proteins that would give her the energy she needed. He even started cooking more at home, experimenting with new recipes that were both healthy and delicious, making mealtime something they could both enjoy.

Despite these changes, there were aspects of Naomi that remained constant, like her dark hair. It was still the same deep shade, a trait she had inherited from her mother, and Spencer often found himself running his fingers through it as he used to when she was a baby. Sometimes, when Naomi was lost in thought or concentrating on something, she would make a particular expression that looked so much like her mother that it would catch Spencer off guard. It was in the way her brows furrowed slightly, or the way her lips pressed together in a small, determined line. These moments were both a comfort and a reminder of the woman they had lost, and they often made Spencer pause, his heart tugging at the memory.

As Naomi grew older, questions about her mother became more frequent, surfacing at different stages of her young life. They were questions Spencer knew would come eventually, but each time they did, they still felt like a punch to the gut.

One of the first instances occurred when Naomi was in kindergarten. It was an innocent enough setting, the children were playing during free time, and Spencer had been hopeful that Naomi would have a good day. But when she came home that afternoon, there was a noticeable shift in her mood. She was quieter than usual, her usual bubbly chatter absent as she trudged through the front door. Spencer had tried to get her to talk, but she had simply shrugged and retreated to her room.

Later that evening, after some gentle coaxing, Naomi finally admitted what had happened. One of the other kids had asked her if she was an orphan, a term Naomi had only heard in passing from a movie. The word had felt heavy on her small shoulders, and even though she didn’t fully understand its meaning, she knew it was something negative. Spencer had reassured her that she wasn’t an orphan, that she had him, and he would always be there for her. But the incident left a lingering sadness in Naomi, and it planted a seed of curiosity about the mother she had never known.

As she progressed through elementary school, the questions became more pointed. By the time she reached third grade, Naomi had developed a deeper understanding of the concept of family. She knew that most of her friends had both a mom and a dad, and she couldn’t help but notice the absence of a mother in her own life. Occasionally, she would ask Spencer about her mom, her questions tentative, as if she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answers. Spencer would always do his best to explain that her mother had loved her very much, but it was complicated, and it took a lot to be a mom. Naomi would usually accept his answers, though sometimes with a lingering sadness that broke his heart.

The situation came to a head one year in the third grade, just after Mother’s Day. Naomi had been excited to give Spencer the little craft she’d made at school—a hand-drawn card and a macaroni necklace. But the day after Mother’s Day was the annual Mother’s Day lunch at her school, a tradition where each child would invite their mother to share a special meal with them in the cafeteria. It was a celebration that most of the kids looked forward to, but for Naomi, it was a source of dread.

That morning, Naomi had woken up in a foul mood. She was sullen during breakfast, picking at her cereal, and when Spencer gently reminded her to get ready for school, she exploded in a rare tantrum. She screamed and cried, demanding to stay home, insisting that she didn’t want to go to school that day. Spencer was taken aback by the intensity of her reaction, and after a few minutes of trying to calm her down, Naomi finally revealed the reason for her distress.

“I don’t want to go because there’s a blank space next to my name!” she had cried, her small hands balled into fists. “All the other kids have their mom’s name, but mine is empty! I don’t want to go! Everyone’s going to see it!”

Spencer’s heart broke as he realized what Naomi was going through. He had known about the Mother’s Day lunch, of course, but it hadn’t occurred to him how it would affect Naomi so deeply. The thought of his little girl sitting alone in a room full of kids and their moms, with a blank space next to her name, was almost too much to bear.

In that moment, Spencer wanted nothing more than to protect Naomi from the pain she was feeling. He knelt down beside her, pulling her into a tight hug as she sobbed into his shoulder. He assured her that it was okay to feel sad and that she didn’t have to go if she didn’t want to. Naomi had eventually calmed down, but the hurt lingered in her eyes.

That day, Spencer kept Naomi home from school. They spent the day together, taking a walk through the park and getting ice cream, but the shadow of the blank space next to her name hung over them both. Spencer wished he could erase that hurt from Naomi’s life, but he knew that it was something she would have to face as she grew older. It was a painful reminder of the complexities of their situation, and it left him feeling helpless in a way he hadn’t experienced since becoming a father.

As Naomi grew and continued to navigate life without a mother, Spencer did his best to fill the void. He knew he could never be both parents, but he tried to make sure Naomi always felt loved, supported, and cherished. Yet, despite his best efforts, there were times when he felt like he was failing her. Seeing her struggle with questions about her mother, watching her face the reality of that blank space beside her name, made Spencer acutely aware of the challenges that lay ahead.

The transition into middle school was a milestone that loomed large for Naomi. As summer gave way to the crisp air of September, Spencer and Naomi embarked on their annual back-to-school shopping trip. In previous years, Spencer had managed the supplies with little fuss—choosing notebooks, pencils, and backpacks with the efficiency of a seasoned pro. But this year was different. Naomi was entering middle school, a new chapter marked by a burgeoning sense of independence and a desire for self-expression.

The school supplies aisle was a labyrinth of choices and colors. Naomi wandered through it with a thoughtful frown, carefully selecting folders in her favorite shades and perusing the myriad options for notebooks. Spencer watched her with a mix of admiration and impatience. The aisles seemed endless, and every item she picked up was scrutinized with the seriousness of a major life decision. Spencer tried to be patient, but his boredom mounted as Naomi took hours to pick out the perfect supplies. Every decision was weighed and reconsidered, from the design of her binder to the type of markers she wanted.

He could see that Naomi was in the midst of a transition, trying to define her own style and make choices that reflected her growing identity. He understood the importance of this, even if it tested his patience. After all, the supplies she chose weren’t just tools for learning—they were symbols of her new independence.

On the first day of school, Naomi was both excited and nervous. She had spent weeks preparing, picking out her clothes with care, and organizing her backpack. Spencer had hoped for a smooth morning, but as they got ready to leave, the clock seemed to tick away faster than usual. They were engrossed in the last-minute preparations, and time slipped away. Naomi’s nerves heightened as they realized they were running late.

Spencer hurriedly dropped her off at the school entrance, offering quick reassurances as he pulled away. He watched her run up the steps, her backpack bouncing with each hurried step. He wished her well and hoped that she would find her footing in this new environment.

The day started off well enough for Naomi. She navigated the new environment, meeting her teachers and finding her way to her classes with a mix of eagerness and trepidation. The initial excitement, however, was tempered by the realization of how much she missed about her previous school. It was a fresh start, but it came with its own set of challenges.

By fourth period, Naomi was feeling confident. She had settled into her routine and was starting to feel comfortable with her new surroundings. That was until she realized that she had forgotten her colored pencils. She had intended to use them for her art class, a subject she had always enjoyed. Panic set in as she remembered that the art teacher would be expecting the supplies.

Deciding to make a quick stop at her locker, Naomi found herself facing a new problem—the locker was jammed. She tugged and twisted the combination dial, but it wouldn’t budge. Frustration began to bubble up, and she felt the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. She didn’t want to be late for class, and the last thing she wanted was to be unprepared.

Just then, a girl with a friendly smile approached. Her name was Hannah, and she had been watching Naomi struggle with the locker. “Need some help?” she offered, her tone warm and sincere.

Naomi looked up, relief washing over her. “Yes, please. I can’t seem to get it open.”

Hannah nodded and expertly worked on the locker’s combination. “I’m Hannah, by the way. I think I saw you in a few of my classes today.”

Naomi introduced herself, and within a few moments, Hannah had managed to open the locker. Naomi’s colored pencils were still inside, and she quickly grabbed them. “Thanks so much,” Naomi said, feeling a bit more at ease.

“No problem at all,” Hannah replied.

As Naomi’s twelfth birthday approached, Spencer had hoped to make it special despite the complications of his demanding job. Unfortunately, the day of her actual birthday coincided with a case for the BAU, and Spencer found himself miles away from home, chasing down leads and solving crimes. It was a bittersweet day for him—proud of the work he was doing but longing to be there for Naomi’s special day.

In a gesture that spoke volumes about how much they cared, the team decided to surprise Naomi with a belated birthday dinner once they returned. They managed to pull off the surprise with a mix of stealth and careful planning. The team, along with Spencer, orchestrated a dinner party at a local restaurant. They decorated with balloons and streamers, and Spencer even managed to get Naomi’s favorite cake, a chocolate creation with a bright pink frosting.

When Spencer and the team arrived at the restaurant, Naomi was already there, her excitement palpable despite the disappointment of not having her birthday on the actual day. Her eyes lit up as she saw the surprise party, and her smile was a radiant testament to her happiness.

As they settled into their seats, Naomi turned to Spencer with a thoughtful expression. “Dad, can I invite Hannah to the party?” she asked, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

Spencer was taken aback but quickly smiled. He had noticed a different air about Naomi lately—more self-assured, more comfortable in her own skin. It was clear that Hannah had become an important part of her life, and he was happy to see her forming such meaningful friendships. “Of course,” he said warmly. “I’ll give her a call and make sure she can come.”

Hannah arrived shortly thereafter, her presence a welcome addition to the celebration. Naomi’s face lit up even more as she introduced her friend to the team. Throughout the evening, Naomi was a picture of grace and confidence. She ordered for herself with a sense of maturity, hugged each person in attendance, and thanked them for coming with a heartfelt sincerity that touched everyone present.

The dinner was filled with laughter and joy as Spencer and his colleagues celebrated Naomi’s milestone. The team, now her extended family, couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride and affection for her. As the night drew to a close, Spencer drove Hannah home, taking a moment to reflect on how much Naomi had grown.

When he returned home, he found Naomi waiting in her pajamas, her face glowing with contentment. She had stayed up just for him, a gesture that tugged at his heart. Spencer could see the remnants of the birthday celebration in her eyes—the sparkle of joy, the satisfaction of a day well spent.

Before heading to bed, Naomi quietly knocked on Spencer’s bedroom door and peered in. “Is everything okay?” Spencer asked, noticing the slight hesitation in her stance.

Naomi simply shook her head and moved towards him. “I just… want a hug,” she said softly.

Spencer opened his arms, and Naomi climbed into his lap, wrapping her arms around him. He held her close, feeling the warmth of her small frame against his chest. As they sat there together, he could sense the depth of her emotions—happiness, gratitude, and a quiet, underlying comfort that he had always strived to provide.

In that moment, Spencer knew that despite the challenges, the moments of doubt, and the relentless demands of his job, he had succeeded in creating a loving and supportive environment for Naomi. She was growing up, changing, and becoming her own person, but she still found solace in the simple act of being held close by her father.

Part Three

[routeless-writer]

hello, i hope your day is going well! i'd like to request some cuddles with lilia and any other characters you'd like to add. just simple cuddles, maybe some playful moments, pure fluff, if that's okay!

Oh what I wouldn't give to pull Lilia into a several hour long cuddle sesh. Sevens know that poor man needs it, with how busy he is and how much he's gone through. I'm more than happy to give you some fluffy headcanons with the bat hubby, hun, and I hope your day/night is also going well! I stuck with just Lilsy for time's sake, but I'd be happy to do this with any of the others in the future.

MC pronouns: none, GN/implied they/them

CW: reader having hair mention, Lilia liking to spook the reader awake (just a little)

Listening to: Galactic Bloom (Bee and Puppycat OST)

Lilia’s very flexible when it comes to love languages, but physical touch is probably up there near the top of his list

He’s a clingy little fucker, and once he’s comfortable with you, he’ll hang off of you a lot. It’s something he does to everyone he cares about–the kids, his friends, and now you!

He’ll even start to initiate snuggles in public, nuzzling into your side and wrapping his arms around you. He’s quick to pull off when he needs to, though not without a huff or a couple complaints. When y’all get home, on the other hand…

He’s so goddamn domestic. He’s on you like whiskers on a cat and he just will. Not. Let. Go. We’re talking following you to the kitchen, round the house/dorm, and back while his face is pressed up against your back.

The second you sit down he’s jumping on you and shoving his head into the crook of your neck, wrapping his arms and legs around you, and making soft purring noises. (Bats can and will purr btw. I love bats and I love him <3)

He’s down for you to nap while he cuddles you, if you want. As a fae, and a nocturnal one at that, he doesn’t need much sleep, so he’s more than likely awake while you cuddle. If you’re also awake, he may poke you or boop your nose. 

He likes to talk while you chill, but if you’re not in much of a talking mood and just want to be in his presence, he’ll read, dm you memes, or rest his eyes. He may also simply make little clicking or squeak sounds at you as a form of nonverbal interaction. (He’ll do this throughout the day anyways. If you squeak back he’ll fall in love all over again. He also does it across the room/house/dorm to get your attention.)

He looooves running his fingers through your hair or having you touch his. He might give you a few playful kisses or nips at your cheeks, lips, and neck.

If you have to get up, he’ll totally complain about it.

“But darling, you’re so warm. Don’t leave me…”

He’s SUCH a pouty baby about it. Don’t worry, he’ll get his revenge by surprise cuddling you later. Sometimes, if you’re asleep in bed, he’ll hover above you and wake you up while hanging upside down to freak you out, and while you’re distracted, tackle hug you.

And then keep you there for hours, once again. Quite a bit of your relationship is spent on cutesy, domestic things like this. Laying in bed all day on your off days, making meals for him while he’s stuck to you (do NOT let him help), cleaning together, shopping together, reading on opposite sides of the couch and looking up every ten minutes to smile at each other…

He’s a busy guy! As a student, Malleus’ caretaker, and more importantly, the boys’ parent, he’s got a lot on his plate, so he likes to spend as much downtime as he can with you. So, if that means trying to convince you with puppy dog eyes to snuggle up with him for another hour or so, then so be it. <3

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[amandacanwrite]

The Violet Thread of Fate Part One:

The Reclusive Wizard and the Cheeky Upstart

Part One || Part Two || Part Three || Part Four || Part Five || Part Six || Part Seven || Part Eight || Join Taglist

POV || Third Person, dual POV Gale Dekarios and Elinna Inklynn (Tav)

Pairing || Elinna Inklynn (Half-drow tav) and Gale Dekarios

Length || 5,500 Words

Scenario || In an alternative timeline for the events of BG3 Elinna Inklynn, an orphan from the Moonshae Islands seeks out the tutelage of accomplished wizard Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep. She has a knack with the Weave, but no money or connections to actually learn how to harness it. She has heard the wizard is a gentleman and a schollar, and hopes she can appeal to him to take her on as his apprentice in exchange for her help around his tower, with his research, and in running errands in Waterdeep. Unfortunately for her, Gale Dekarios does not take on apprentices.

Warnings || Age gap (Perhaps about 10ish years), depiction of depression and heart ache, description of very, very mild body horror.

A/n || I hope you all enjoy this very indulgent little fic I'm starting. I am already having entirely too much fun with it. Please keep in mind that while this fic will have a good amount of characters and scenarios from the canon events of BG3 I am planning on taking a lot of creative liberties and may leave out certain situations/characters for the sake of flow!

If you like this, you may also like my original works! I have a writing taglist that you can sign up for simply by commenting or reblogging and letting me know you'd like to be added. OR you can fill out this form if you'd like to be specific about which works you'd like to be tagged in.

Tag list || @softvampirewhump @horizonstride @thoughts-of-bear @mymybirdie @tiedyedghoulette @drabblesandimagines @madwomansapologist @hijirikaww @tryingtowritestuff24 @laserlope @auroraesmeraldarose @puckprimrose @dont-try-pesticide

A Reclusive Wizard

“Mr. Dekarios, if you would just consider it–” Tara suggested as she fluttered alongside her charge. 

“Tara, no,” Gale said. “We are not dropping the wards and we’re not taking visitors. The orb is too volatile.”

“But, Mr. Dekarios–I’ve told you this isolation of yours–” 

“Tara–enough,” Gale shouted, exasperated. “You are my friend. You’re not my mother. I’m a grown man, who has done quite well for himself, might I add, and I don’t need your–your incessant fussing.”

“Mr. Dekarios!” Tara tutted, her whiskers perking forward with her disapproval. “My incessant fussing is what helped you figure out how to stabilize the orb in the first place, may I remind you. And if you so tire of my incessant fussing, allow me to divest of its burden! I may not be your mother, but your mother is a friend to me and will happily put me up.”

“Tara,” Gale said. “Wait–I didn’t mean you should leave–”

“I know that. But I am also quite aware that my willingness to fetch magical items and act as your little familiar has proven to only enable your reclusive habits,” she retorted. “Perhaps you will not listen to me, but when you run out of biscuits for your tea, perhaps you’ll see the reason in getting a little bit of fresh air…and perhaps a bath…and for the sake of the gods a shave.”

Tara flitted her way up to one of the high windows in the tower, pausing on the sill before leaving.

“Tara, don’t go,” Gale said, his eyes taking on a sort of sorry, piteous quality. “Please, just stay here.”

“Mr. Dekarios, those big glittering eyes won’t work on me any longer,” Tara said. “I’ve known you too long to be bewitched by your pouting. If you so wish me to return, you can come fetch me at your childhood home. The walk will do you well.”

And with that, she soared right out of the window, leaving Gale of Waterdeep entirely and utterly alone. 

Gale scowled up at the window she’d escaped from before sighing and smearing a hand down his face. He cupped his hand over his mouth and heaved out a low grumble, lost in thought as he often was these days. 

Perhaps Tara was right…maybe it was time to leave the tower. To engage in the ease of camaraderie at The Yawning Portal, reach out to the colleagues that had tried to pay him a visit in the year since his relationship with Mystra had come to an end–since this tangle of Netherese magic made a home of his chest cavity. 

But it wasn’t just the volatile nature of the orb that worried him. It wasn’t as if he thought a raucous night with his friends would trigger an explosion to level the city he called home. Even with the constant peril of the orb in his chest being destabilized by a too-strong emotion, there was a deeper fear inspiring the reluctance.

Gale Dekarios was used to being an outlier. Unfortunately, it was the otherside of the coin of being a particularly gifted wizard. As a child, it had been a source of ostracization. As an adolescent it made him the subject of many an ill-begotten rivalry. As a young man he had begun to learn how to minimize the isolation by compensating for the inevitable inferiority complex he inspired in others by learning to be charming and funny–to couch his corrections in complimentary language so that he could have some measure of friendship.

It wasn’t often that he could find people that could keep up with him or converse with him on his level–at least, not where the subject of magic came into play. But he’d learned to accept that and enjoy the company of other wizards–even non-wizards–in different ways. 

A game of lanceboard, the critical analysis of a book, a spirited debate on the merits of the shadow arts when applied to the correct endeavors. Now, as a man in his late 30’s with questionable knees, he felt nicely secure in his ability to play nice with others. 

But this new sense of separation–this insurmountable mountain between himself and the other–had been so very devastating to the life he had carefully cultivated. 

How could he listen to other people lament about their sordid love affairs, the politics at the academy–anything– with any measure of understanding or empathy? How could he confide in the people who he used to call his friends? 

He was alone in the tower, but he wasn’t certain he could face the profound isolation of trying to connect with someone about his condition, only to find them staring back at him in utter befuddlement. Or worse, with soulless platitudes and what he could only describe as foolish optimism.

Who could possibly make him feel better when there was no way he could ever feel better? How could he listen to the woes of friends and earnestly care about them when he had been forsaken by the goddess of the only thing he held sacred in his life?

He couldn’t. That was a the truth of it. And that was why he didn’t want visitors. He didn’t want to subject his friends to the poor quality of his care; didn’t want to expose them to this unique brand of selfishness and bitterness. 

He’d had enough of destroying things. 

But he also knew he needed Tara–not just because of the artifacts, but because she was his oldest and longest standing friendship. And because the tower, in her absence, had already become unbearably quiet.

And he supposed it had been a while since he last saw his mother…

He sighed and turned away from his mess of a study, climbing up the two flights of stairs to his bedchambers. Once there, he conjured himself a bath as he undressed, leaving his house robes in a pile on the floor before stepping into the steaming water. 

It smelled of bay laurel and lavender–an old combination that Mystra loved to use when they’d shared baths together. His mind drifted to the thought of his goddess cradled against his body, how small she felt even with her considerable power, the feeling of her silky hair catching on his skin as he kissed the hollow of her neck and…

“Don’t take that path in your mind, Gale. She’s the last person you should be thinking about right now,” he told himself as he gave his cheek a couple firm, bracing pats with his hand. He let his head drop back in the water and sighed. 

The water filled his ears, quieting the ambient sounds in the room around him and creating an echochamber of his head. He heard the airy sound of his breaths coming and going in and out of his lungs; heard the gentle trickling sounds of his fingers creating tiny currents under the water; heard the sound of his heart still beating in his over-crowded chest. 

He was still alive. 

There could be hope for him yet. 

Unlikely, sure, but there could be. 

After washing up with some simple soap, he got out of the bath and toweled off. 

He walked over to the small wardrobe where he kept his things and slapped a couple lazy splashes of a fragranced suspension he’d made onto his neck, favoring his pulse points as he used to when he’d go out for a night at The Yawning Portal. He trimmed his beard as a small concession to Tara (he would not be shaving it completely, thank you very much,) and got dressed. 

He decided he would wear one of his nicer sets of robes. It’d been a while since he’d properly dressed himself in something other than simple tunics and roughspun practice robes. He started with some leather trousers and his under shirt, layering the criss-crossed front with car and fastening it with the ties at his waist to create a slender, tapered silhouette. Then he slipped the robe on, and paused as he caught a glance of himself in the mirror. 

He’d not really been thinking when he selected the robe, but this was one of Mystra’s favorites on him. Various shades of violet with a wine-colored sash. 

Violet, of course, was the color of the weave. Mystra’s color. 

Would she want him to eliminate the color from his wardrobe altogether? Now that she’d left him to his devices? Surely a goddess couldn’t bar him from wearing a color. Hopefully not, considering more than half of his wardrobe was some shade of lilac, lavender or morning glory.

Whatever the case, he fastened the buckles and straightened the sash the wine colored sash, trying once again to put Mystra out of his mind. He did a flick of his hands to lace up the sleeves and then slid on some leather bracers for good measure. 

It wasn’t as if he had any intention of doing any fighting or shooting any arrows, but he liked how they looked. And it had been so long since he’d looked in the mirror and thought to himself my, look at that handsome devil.

Finally he looked at the mop of his hair. It’d also been too long since he’d gotten a cut…now his messy curls fell past his shoulders when he usually preferred to keep it short enough to comb back with a bit of emollient or pomade. He was certain his mother would gripe about it and then he would have to deal with incessant fussing two fold between his mother and Tara. Still, it was dark outside–long past the time any salons would be open, so he gathered half of it up, bundling it as neatly as he could manage around his two forefingers and secured it with a two-pronged hairpin. 

He looked at the earring on his wardrobe and hedged for a moment. 

He’d been given the earring as a gift from Mystra when he’d first encountered her as a boy. He’d only stopped wearing it in the last year. Something had felt off about keeping it on–like a widower still wearing his wedding band. But it also felt wrong to leave his tower without it. It felt like a part of his identity. 

“You’re ridiculous,” he said to himself in the mirror before turning from it and striding out of his bedroom. 

…He returned not two seconds later and slipped the earring into his left ear. Damn it all. He couldn’t help what he was. A sentimental, heartbroken fool.

On his way out the door, he grabbed a hooded cloak and draped it over his shoulders. He lifted the hood, obscuring his face in shadow, hoping it would be enough to keep him from having to interact with anyone who wasn’t Tara of his mother. He considered, for a moment, casting an invisibility charm on himself…alas the concentration such a thing would require left him feeling exhausted at the thought of it. The cloak had worked for rogues and criminals for centuries. Suely it could work for him as well. 

Finally, he left the safety and control his tower afforded him and walked out into the cold, Waterdhavian night. 

A Cheeky Upstart

“Okay Elinna. Just…ring the doorbell. You’ve traveled all the way here. So just ring it,” a young woman told herself as she stood outside the wrought iron gates. “You sailed all the way from the Moonshae Islands, left every book behind, dealt with some of the worst sea sickness in all of the realms just to be here.”

Despite telling herself this, she had to shake out some of the numbness in her fingers from clenching her fists too tight. Or maybe it was just the nip in the air from the coastal evening. She couldn’t truly be sure. 

As she stood there, her green eyes caught a streak of movement in the sky–some winged creature departing from a high window of the tower. She couldn’t quite make out what it was. Maybe a gargoyle? Or a mephit? An imp?

Something churned in her gut at the thought of Gale of Waterdeep cavorting with the infernal. Perhaps that was why no one had seen him in such a long time–maybe he’d made a pact with a devil and lost some of his humanity in the exchange. Maybe she ought to just turn on her shabby heels and book passage back home. 

“You can’t do that, Elinna,” she told herself. “You already spent everything you have just to get here. You’re all in, now.”

But that was precisely why she couldn’t bring herself to tug on the chain to ring the doorbell. Who was she to show up at the door of one of the best wizards–a proper prodigy of composing strings of the weave; the apprentice of the famous Elminster, no less?

Well she knew the answer to that. 

She was desperate. That’s what she was. 

She’d been left at the Scribe’s Nest by her mother with nothing but a note and an old locket she couldn’t get open; drow craftsmanship. The note detailed her lineage as a half-drow, but begged the clerics of the temple to take her in and raise her. According to the note left in her swaddle, Elinna would be shunned and excluded by because of her impure blood. 

A shame for both her mother and Elinna herself that the Scribe’s Nest had simply moved into an old Temple of Ilmater. The inhabitants inside were nothing but glorified librarians. They may have had access to all of the books in the world, but not a single one of her guardians actually knew how to use the information inside. 

No. Instead, they tried to raise her to love cataloging the written word, but deny herself the joy of actually using anything she learned from the old dusty tomes in the temple. Even when she’d shown a natural knack for small magics, she had been discouraged from using them, leaving her with no choice but to practice in the wee hours of the night. 

She knew she hadn’t much to use as a benchmark for her growth as a burgeoning young wizard, but she thought for all of the effort she’d put in she made a half-decent self-taught magician. All she needed was some proper tutelage to become something truly magnificent. Something worthy of the tales of great wizards that she’d read. 

Which brought her here–to the first and only plan she had to seek out that higher learning. And now her future hung in the balance of whether or not her knock at the door–or rather the ring of the doorbell–would be answered. 

Her heart pounded in her chest, at her temples. He leather fingerless gloves squeaked as she flexed and clenched her fists. 

“Gah!” she cried, turning away from the gate, pacing across the narrow cobbled street, then pacing right back. She gasped in a few preparatory breaths and hopped from one soft-soled foot to the other. “Just do it, just DO it, Elinna. Just–”

The door of the tower opened, it’s underutilized hinges creaking as the man opening the door grunted. 

“Damnable–old door–why did I make you out of iron,” grumbled the voice. 

Elinna went entirely still, eyes going wide. 

Perhaps it was habit from how many times she’d had to sneak tomes away from the restricted areas of the Scribe’s Nest, but she ducked behind the stone columns holding up the wrought iron gate and watched as the cloaked figure made his way to the gate and slipped outside of it with a wave of his hand. 

She remained hidden as he looked down the road in her direction, his eyes looking too distantly to catch her small frame tucked away in the dark. 

She’d seen sketches of the Gale Dekarios before, but she couldn’t help but feel they did him no justice. The etchings seemed to have emphasized the wizened qualities of his features; the lines around his eyes, the creases around his lips. They made him look sagely and–well–old. 

But the real man, the one now standing in the flesh just a few feet from her was something different entirely. 

He showed signs of age, of course. He was a middle-aged man, after all. But his lips were fuller, his beard a little more tidy, and his eyes…

His eyes were what made him look the most youthful. There was a sort of shimmer to them that she couldn’t quite describe, a sort of weight to his brow that made him look as if he was always curious, always observing.

She watched as he pulled his cloak a little tighter around him and turned the opposite direction, walking down the narrow street. 

Wait, she thought. What am I doing?!

She hesitated for only one more moment before quickly hurrying after him. She searched her mind for all of the speeches she’d practiced for this introduction, but she was left wanting. She should have written it down so that she wouldn’t forget–or would it have been even more strange for read her introduction off the pages of a notebook? 

It was all strange, of course; a girl crossing the ocean to show up on the doorstep of a stranger several years her senior. Asking for an apprenticeship when she hadn’t so much as sent him a letter of introduction or even had anything to offer in exchange except for chores, errands and meal preparations. Seeking tutelage from one of the most accomplished young wizards when she was still struggling with even the most basic of incantations…

But what else could she do? 

The life of a Scribe Nest Archiver was not a luxurious one. She’d had to sneak out of the old Nest to sing songs at the local tavern to scrape what little money she could together to book passage to even get here. 

Blackstaff wasn’t exactly inexpensive–and even if it was, she couldn’t hope to get in. Not with how poorly she handled the weave. 

But Gale–she had read transcripts of his lectures, heard tales of how magnanimous and warm he could be. She even once met one of his friends at the tavern who was visiting the islands for this or that purpose–she couldn’t remember. She only remembered the tales of his kindness and generosity. Of his gentleman’s nature. 

He seemed like her only real chance at ever mastering this art that sang to her like a harpy at roost in the bay.

God’s he was walking fast though. Perhaps it was just because she was so short in comparison to him, but she was almost having to run to catch up to him. 

“E-excuse me,” she finally said when she was within earshot.

She saw the briefest glance back at her, the quickest flash of a startled expression, before he focused forward and quickened his pace.  

“No, thank you,” Dekarios replied. “I’ve already a subscription to the Waterdhavian times.”

“Uhm, no–that’s not–” she stammered. “Wait, could you please stop walking so fast!”

“I’m in a dreadful hurry, good night to you,” he said dismissively, walking even faster as he pulled his cloak further to guard his face. 

“Mr. Dekarios! I’ve come here to talk to you!” She shouted, a little crack of desperation coming out with it. “Mr. Dekarios I–”

He whirled on her, suddenly encroaching into her space. He was so quick that she almost stumbled backward and fell. Before she could, though, he seized her arm with one strong hand, stablizing her quickly before clasping his other hand over her mouth.

She stared up at him with wide eyes, bright irises flicking around his face as if she were prey caught in his snare.

“Shhhh,” he hissed before looking around, as if to see if anyone heard her. “Mystra’s Elbow, you’d think my reputation as a newly initiated recluse would have gotten around by now.”

Elinna swallowed dryly, critically aware of the feeling of his calloused fingertips on the soft swells of her freckled cheeks. She blinked up at him, unsure what to do. His hand felt warm through the roughspun, puffed sleeves of her Scribe’s Nest garments.  Her feet were sort of turned in awkwardly after he’s caught her mid fall. 

She wondered if it would have looked like she was being accosted by a thief to a wandering bystander. She supposed it didn’t matter because no one else was here. She knew she should have been afraid. That she was a young woman alone with an older man; that he’d rendered her silent and could easily do much worse. But she also knew that was likely the experiences at the tavern thinking for her. 

Gale was supposed to be a gentleman. That’s what she’d always heard. And…

And his hands smelled like…like tea and old parchment and sage. There was a somewhat sharp quality to the fragrance–perhaps a suspension alchemized in alcohol of some sort. He must have made it himself. 

“Now. This behavior of mine, admittedly, is abhorrent for a gentleman with a young lady. I will have to ask you to forgive my bad manners and to give me the grace of your understanding because I simply did not want to be greeted by anyone aside from my mother and my cat. Now. I am going to take my hand away from your mouth; apologies again for the rough handling. But I’m going to then need you to let me walk away. And perhaps most importantly, I need you to leave me alone,” Gale said quietly. “Do we have an accord?”

Elinna’s pale ginger brow furrowed and he tutted quietly. 

“No, no. No crinkles of the brow, no narrowing of the eyes, miss,” he scolded. “It is by mere coincidence you’ve even caught me out of my tower. By all accounts this is an anomaly of the highest order and therefore…uhm…does not count. You should just forget this ever happened. In fact, I could help you do so if you like!”

Doesn’t count? What kind of logic–that was school-boy logic! And what did he mean help her forget?! She jerked her arm away from him and, perhaps in a moment of panic he tightened his grip.

“Alright, alright! I’m going to let you go–just– remember our deal, please,” he said, releasing her arm.

He winced slightly as he hesitated to remove his other hand from her mouth. She thought he had the same expression one might have if they were about to remove a cork from a vial of smelling salts.

He released his other hand, drawing it away from her mouth. 

“Mr. Dekarios, I’ve come to ask you to take me on as an apprentice,” Elinna blurted out. “I know you have never met me, and that you have no notion of my ability or skill. And that showing up outside of a strangers house and asking them for a place to live–”

“I’m sorry, a place to live?” He interjected with an incredulous tone

“--and a comprehensive education in the arcane arts–” she continued.

“I assure you I do not have the time, and it certainly wouldn’t be proper for an older man to bring a young woman into his home to–” he interjected again. 

“ But I have nowhere else to turn and…And I’m afraid I can’t take no for an answer.”

His brows shot up as she finally stopped speaking. She didn’t know what to make of that expression, nor the silence that followed. Elinna could feel her face beginning to warm and she knew from  that her face was already starting to color with her own nerves. It felt the same way it did when a tavern patron made a bawdy joke at her expense–or about her body. 

The silence was the most unbearable part, though. So she started to fill it, her face getting warmer by the moment.

“You’re silent,” she said. “Uh–right. Names. I’m Elinna Inklyn. I hail from the Moonshae Islands. I grew up under the care of the Scribe’s Nest Archivists and–”

“Elinna. Elinna,” he said, his tone almost pitying. “I’m going to stop you right there.”

She felt her heart sink as he pinched the bridge of his nose and tilted his head back, looking toward the sky. “Look, Miss Inklyn. I’m sorry that you came all this way, but. I am afraid you must take no as an answer. I cannot take on an apprentice, even if I wanted to.” He winced and almost half shrugged. “And frankly, I really do not want to. Even if I could do it, I wouldn’t want to do it.”

“But–if you’d let me explain–” she protested. 

“No–no buts. Again, I am dreadfully sorry for the trouble you went through to get here. But…considering that you sought me out and addressed me by name, you must know who I am.” he said. 

“Yes,” she answered. 

“So, then you know that I am particularly gifted with manipulating the weave,” he said. “That’s why you’ve sought me out.”

“Yes,” she said yet again. “Well part of the reason but also because–”

“So, then I’m sure you could understand why I find the inadequacies of unskilled wizards irksome, correct? That if I were to take on an apprentice, it would be someone with a certain level of innate talent?”

Her brow furrowed again and she inhaled to speak, but before another word could fall out of her mouth a huge boom of sound tore out from the sky above them. She clapped her gloved hands over her ears and yelped.

“What was that?” she shouted. 

The two looked up at the source of the sound only to see the sky split open like it’d been torn by a dull blade. Out of the opening flew a giant aircraft with writhing tentacles slicing through the air as if it were a squid traversing deep sea waters. The two wizards–one novice and one adept–balked at the appearance of the spelljammer, the size of it practically the size of Gale’s tower if you laid it on its side.

“A nautiloid?” They both said at the same time. 

They met eyes briefly before Gale gritted his teeth and grasped onto her arm, almost flinging her away from him

“Get out of here, Elinna. And whatever you do don’t let the tentacles touch you,” he shouted. 

She stumbled, almost falling on her face, looking back at him. 

“What about you?!” she cried. 

“I’m a wizard,” he said before turning and casting a bolts of ice at two of the tentacles that swatted out toward them. 

“It’s a spelljammer!”

“I’m a very, very good wizard!” he said. 

Elinna’s sense of self preservation won out over her worry for the man she’d come here to meet. If he thought he could take on a nautiloid, who was she to deny that? She turned and sprinted down the narrow street before dodging down an alleyway in hopes of getting cover from the massive tentacles that now swept down toward the ground like great, giant whips. 

She chanced a single look back to see Gale running just behind her, and the spelljammer that was traveling far too quickly and far too low to the ground for comfort. He followed her down the alleyway, calling ahead. “Not that way! To the east–”

“I don’t know which way east is!” she shouted back. 

“Are you kiddi–Eugh–LEFT,” he said. “LEFT, LEFT! Go LEFT!”

“Alright, I heard you!” she said. “No need to shout!”

“I will shout if I want to, now–Elinna, look out!”

She looked ahead just in time to see a brick wall and slipped on her worn soles as she tried to come to a screeching halt. 

She slammed into the wall, but thankfully not with enough force to knock her out.  She managed to clumsily tumble toward the left, dropping onto her fingertips just a moment before lurching back upright. Gale caught up to her and cast some spell–gust, she assumed– because a strong wind caught in the fabric of her clothes like a breeze in the sails of a galeon and made her feel like she was running on air. 

He fought off another tentacle and she screamed as one almost tagged her, but smashed an old fish barrel to bits instead.

“Keep going. We’ll lose it on the main road,” Gale yelled.  

They spilled out onto a wider street and she immediately regretted listening to the Waterdhavian native. It’d seemed a sound plan at first. But only if the goal of the ship was to find them specifically. When they made it to the street, Elinna realized that was not the drive of the nautiloid at all. 

The main road was chaos. There were carts toppled over and people lying trampled on the ground. People ran and screamed, some of them were swatted by the terrifying power of the tentacles only to vanish into dust before they could make impact with the wall of a building or the floor below them.

Elinna froze in terror, realizing finally that her plight had gone from one of trying to secure a teacher of her own to one of simply trying to survive her first night on the mainland. It suddenly dawned on her that she might actually die here. She might die within moments. 

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t move.

It was a mistake to stop, but she realized it too late. A horse cried out desperately and tore away from the frightening vessel. It tore straight toward her, its eyes wild, his nose gusting tufts of steam into the air like a machine. It pulled a market cart along with it, full of heavy barrels of meat and wine. She braced herself, squeezing her eyes shut and thinking about the magic she’d read about. Misty step–misty step, what was the incantation for misty step?

“I-Inveniam Viam!!” she shouted, the words sailing on waves of the weave and almost…echoing. There was the sweet taste of something on her tongue–the after effect of using the weave if her reading was any indication. She’d only tasted that once or twice before, but chasing that sweet, comforting experience was what brought her here. It’s what made her so desperately want to learn how to wield this magic.

When she opened her eyes, the horse was gone.

Unfortunately for her, so was the ground beneath her feet. 

She’d somehow teleported into midair and, as if the weave was just as shocked as she was, she’d wound up suspended there for just the briefest moment, cradled by the strands of the weave she’d managed to manipulate. Seconds felt like minutes as he copper hair floate away from her face as she experienced true weightlessness for just moments. Then she felt the sickening churn in her stomach as she started to fall. 

The floor just far enough to be lethal but not far enough to give her adequate time to figure out another spell. Her mind went blank with terror. In a moment of desperation, she found Gale in the crowd, a stationary man in a sea of fleeing people. 

He looked at her in abject horror as she dropped like a dagger out of the sky. He looked utterly, woefully helpless.

She screamed, wrapping her arms around her as if she could brace her own fall, as if holding herself would hold her together.

Then, just as she was about to splat on the cobblestones into a puddle of bone and blood, a searing heat bloomed from the center of her back. She screamed again as she felt herself dissolve from the inside out, her innards liquifying into a primordial soup. 

Her body went miserably hot, and then impossibly cold. No. Not cold–she realized–absent. She was vanishing from the center of her body. She watched in uncomprehending horror as her middle vanished, watched as her body evaporated like steam off a teacup. 

Her guttural scream sounded from her and died in the air. 

The last thing she saw before her vision went black was Gale still staring at her as he too succumbed to the nautiloid’s attack.