#fire lighting is absolutely terrible to get a grip on

[specs-and-gloves]

An experimental doodle inspired by the wonderful "weightless, breathless, restitute! Thanzag fic by @theroyalsavage. If you haven't read it, please do, it's fantastic.

[fangswbenefits]

Backfire

Summary: The math is simple: you make Miguel jealous + push him past his breaking point = hot rough sex. Too bad Miguel doesn’t do simple.

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader

18+. Jealous and possessive Miguel. Edging. Thigh riding. Orgasm denial. Fingering. Creampie.

You should know better than to cross Miguel O’Hara.

It rarely went according to plan, and he’d always end up having the upper hand.

But that still didn’t deter you from trying to change the outcome.

With a dramatic sigh, you flopped onto the couch, swinging your legs over Miguel’s. He shot you a side-glace as the oversized shirt you were wearing, rode up your thighs, barely covering much.

Miguel didn’t mind that you would often steal his shirts, strolling around your shared apartment wearing nothing but one and just panties.

Today was one of those days.

He sprawled one large and warm hand on your knee, caressing it absentmindedly, as he flicked through his pad.

“That new recruit is interesting,” you started, inspecting your nails.

“What recruit?”

“The one from yesterday.”

Miguel’s fingers paused as they were about to trail up your thigh. “Interesting?”

“Cute.”

“Ah.”

You glanced ovet at him, expecting the beginnings of a frown to settle on his face.

Nothing.

The pads of his fingers resumed the light motion, and he kept his gaze fixed on the orange screen.

That was odd.

It usually didn’t take long to rile Miguel up with the threat of other men interacting with you. You absolutely adored teasing him with fake interest in them, knowing it would be enough to make his blood boil.

But it seemed like he wasn’t taking the bait this time.

You needed to up the intensity.

“Maybe I should show him around?”

His middle finger was drawing tiny circles on your skin, but he merely hummed in response.

“… or mentor him?”

He clicked his tongue. “You’d be a terrible mentor.”

You scowled. Deeply.

This wasn not going as planned…

Clearing your throat, you scooted closer to him, the motion causing the shirt to slide further up, now revealing your laced panties.

That caught his attention, crimson eyes darting to the side.

“Terrible mentor?” you huffed dramatically with a pout. “I think he would be better off with me than with Jessica.”

You exchanged looks, both knowing that was a ridiculous statement.

“You get too distracted,” he said, patting your thigh gently. “… and are too distracting,” he added, eyes landing on your panties.

Oh.

You smiled inwardly, tasting the sweetness of victory firing up your heart. Shoving his hand away, you shifted to straddle one of his thighs, lacing your arms behind his neck.

“He’s really attractive,” you teased once again, locking eyes with his.

Miguel set the pad aside and brought his fingers to grip your chin, staring intensely at you. “What are you doing?”

“Me? Nothing!” you feigned confusion, slightly dragging your panties across his sweatpants.

He clicked his tongue, placing the other hand on your hip and giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re too obvious.”

The feel of fabric on fabric only added to the delicious friction on your clit, and you smiled deviously. His muscles underneath you flexed ever so slightly, providing more tension.

“Maybe I should meet him tomorrow dressed like this.”

It was faint, but you spotted something crossing his eyes, his lips pressed firmly into a fine line.

There you go, Miguel, you cheered.

He let go of your chin and had the talon on his index finger protrude, grazing the collar of his shirt, before sliding down slowly, popping each button effortlessly.

You kept grinding on his thigh, feeling a gush of wetness spill into your underwear, sipping through and damping him.

Once he was done slicing off every single button you whined, sticking out your lower lip. “That was my favourite shirt!”

“It’s my shirt.”

The sudden exposure was enough to harden your nipples, earning a glance from him, as your breasts bounced softly with each sway of your hips.

You leaned in to whisper into his ear. “I’m yours, too, yet you don’t seem to mind that I hang out with other men.”

The hand on you hip slid all the way to your lower abdomen, and his fingers started teasing the hem of your panties.

“Ah. So this is what you’re doing,” he said with a nod, flexing the muscles in contact with you, earning a low gasp from your parted lips.

“Took you long enough.”

“Didn’t take me long at all, cariño,” he whispered, dipping his fingers to meet your swollen clit. “You’re not that subtle.”

You had unlace your arms around his nack and place both hands on his shoulders to keep your balance.

“You’re riding my thigh while mentioning other men,” he continued, spreading your own wetness across your folds and clit. “You want to rile me up.”

You arched your back into his touch, slowly edging yourself. “Me?”

“You want to ride something else.”

Touché.

At this point, you were too entranced in his fingers to even bother denying it. You let one of your hands drop to his lap, feeling his impressive erection straining to be set free.

One finger teased your entrance and you bucked your hips, desperate for him to slide it in.

His cock twitched under your palm and you glanced down to see a growing wet spot right where his tip was.

He slid one finger first, and soon added a second one, and you let out a strained sigh of relief.

You squeezed hard on his shoulder, holding on for the intense wave of pleasure that was about to hit you the moment you began riding him.

His other free hand snaked in between you two, cupping on of hour breasts, before brushing his thumb across your nipple.

“You’re already close.”

It wasn’t a question.

Miguel knew your body like he knew the entire layout of Nueva York. Months of fucking you had gifted with with unmatched knowledge of what made you tick and yearn for more.

You kept a steady grip on both his cock abd shoulder, trying your best to ready yourself for the impending orgasm that kept drawing closer and closer as he grazed the heel of his hand against your clit.

He growled into your ear as you pressed your face against his, breath coming out in shallow pants.

You were so close.

Your hand pulled down the waistband of his pants, and half of his cock emerged, pressed firmly against his lower abdomen, leaking strings of precum.

The wet sounds that filled the room were borderline obscene, which only served to heighten your pleasure.

Desperate rolls of your hips met his hand and you moaned out his name when he slipped a third finger.

The familiar coils of an orgasm slowly consuming your entire body had you dropping your head on his shoulder, whimpering loudly, ready to welcome your sought after high.

But as quickly as it came, it was soon over.

Miguel immediately removed his fingers from inside your squeezing pussy at once and had you pushed down flat on your stomach against the couch in no time.

“What the fuck!” you growled, the side of your face pressed into the pillow with both hands pinned behind your back.

You felt his hot breath in your hear. “You really thought I’d let you cum after that little stunt you pulled?”

Despair rained down on you as your walls clenched around nothing. “Miguel… what the fuck! Put them back!”

He was much stronger and bigger than you, so he had effectively rendered you immobile rather easily.

“I will once you promise me one thing,” his breath fanned your skin, raising goosebumps along your entire body.

You’d do anything to have him back inside you in that moment.

Anything.

“What is it?”

He gave one asscheek an almost painful squeeze. “Promise me you’ll never fuck anyone else.”

Your clit pulsed rapidly against your drenched folds and you tried to set free from his grasp, but all to no avail.

“Miguel…”

He then clipped your panties off with one talon. His hand dipped between your legs and he pressed his thumb against your entrance, causing your hips to jerk in a desperate attempt at more friction.

“Promise me.”

You bit down on your lip, frustration consuming you whole, as tears began to sting your eyes.

“Prométeme,” he growled.

Your lips parted in a sudden gasp once he slipped two fingers slowly inside, causing you to immediately clamp down around him.

“Yes… yes!” you then growled, trying your best to ride his fingers once again and pumping in and out of you at a steady pace.

He kept his other hand gripping your wrists tightly against your back, making sure you were kept in place.

“Qué maravilla,” he said lowly, but you could detect faint sarcasm dripping from his voice.

Slowly but surely, eased his pressure on you, giving your hips enough freedom to have you jerk against him, your pussy eagerly squeezing his fingers.

He eventually let go of your wrists and you brought your hands to grip the fabric of the couch, moaning loudly with each thrust.

You were getting close to the edge once more, not bothering to sound coherent anymore.

The closer you got to your orgasm, the more you frantically rode him.

“I’m… I’m…” you gasped loudly, eyes fluttering shut.

Miguel pressed a kiss to your temple. “I know.”

And his fingers were gone.

The beginning of your orgasm slipped away from you as if you were trying to catch smole with bare hands.

This time, you flipped and were ready to pounce him, frustration overtaking all your senses.

But Miguel’s reflexes were sharp as ever and he immediately caught both your wrists, pinning your back against the couch.

“Fuck you!” you spat, lips quivering from anger. “I promised!”

He settled between your squirming legs, as he pinned both your arms over your head.

“You didn’t sound convincing enough,” he said simply, rubbing your pulse point with his thumbs.

“Fuck you!”

He chuckled. “I know you want to, but I need assurances, cariño.”

You glared at him furiously, wanting nothing more than to hurt him the way he was hurting you, tears still streaming down your face.

“I promise… I won’t fuck anyone else…”

His cock bounced freely from his pants and he positioned the tip covered in precum against your clit.

“And you won’t try to make me jealous again.”

You rose your hips, hoping it would cause his to align with your entrance instead.

“I won’t. Ever,” you sobbed sheepishly.

He then pushed inside you effortlessly, glaring down at where your bodies were connected, watching in marvel as your pussy swallowed all of him in no time.

You were too overstimulated at this point to keep playing the waiting game, so you promptly rolled your hips, and squeezed tightly around his cock.

“Frustration suits you,” he mocked with a growl, allowing you to bounce on his cock freely.

“Fuck off…” you groaned, bringing your hand down to rub your clit.

He quickly shoved it away, scowling. “You don’t want me to make you cum?”

“You’ve been edging me for too long… I need to…” your voice died down as he pressed your clit flat with the pad of his thumb.

You jerked involuntarily as he repeated the motion, climbing the steep height of pleasure, hoping you’d reach its peak this time.

“Cum first,” he growled, his own hips snapping to meet yours. “I need to feel you squeezing me.”

You hated how his command was what brought you iver the edge, the initial contractions of your orgasm breaking the motion of your hips, violently enveloping in an overwhelming and blinding surge of unmatched bliss.

Miguel kept rubbing your clit, earning stronger squeezes from you. “Keep going…”

Your back arched and you felt yourself sliding along his cock until he was all the way in. He let out a strangled grunt, and that let you know he had reached his peak, too.

He tried to set a broken rhythm as he came deep inside you, but your grip on his cock was too paralysing for him to move.

As clarity began to clean your dazed mind, you watched as Miguel squeezed his eyes shut and parted his lips to reveal his fangs, drowning in intense pleasure.

He nearly lost balance and fell on top of you, but steadied himself in time, still buried deep.

“I fucking hate you,” you groaned, trying to control your breathing.

He shuddered one last time, panting heavily, but still managing to put on a mocking smile. “You love hate fucking me.”

Masterlist

[froggiewrites]

Follow Through

Pairing: Ace x Reader

NSFW

Summary: Portgas D. Ace may be a flirt, but he doesn't think he deserves more than that. You try to prove him wrong. Warnings: Smut, Self Loathing, Very Little Hurt/Lots of Comfort Word Count: 5.8k Crossposted from Ao3

His hands are warm.

That was your first thought when you met Fire Fist Ace. You quickly learned that the rest of him was warm, too, from the top of his head to the tip of his toes, from his beautiful smile to the depths of his heart. But the hands were first, calloused yet gentle, holding yours for a handshake and welcoming you aboard. You were reluctant to let go of them, barely able to muster enough willpower to pry yourself away. They were comforting, but enough to engulf your own but barely gripping, ensuring he didn’t cause you any discomfort.

The second thing you noticed was his smile, boyish and bright, and the way it made your heart flutter. There was something terribly honest about it, in a way that not many men let themselves be. He never held himself back in his joy, always busting into a wide smile and a laugh that made his whole body shake. You can’t even remember the joke you made to make him react in such a way, but you do remember your own smile falling as you just stared in awe at him. He was beautiful in a way that felt so very alive.

You couldn’t hide your feelings for him then, and you certainly can’t do it now. You’ve been with the Whitebeard Pirates for nearly six months, long enough to truly embrace your new family and friends. And they’ve wholly embraced you too, giving your life a meaning you had never had before. It felt so right to finally have a place in life, and people who accept you for who you really are. But with acceptance comes familiarity, with familiarity comes comfort, and with comfort comes the constant needling teasing that only comes from someone who truly loves you.

“Staring again? It’s getting a little sad at this point, honestly.” Thatch’s words may have a little edge to them, but his tone is light and teasing, without a hint of malice. He’s been kind to you, as he is to everyone, so you don’t take it too personally.

“Yeah, so I keep hearing.” Your eyes are still on Ace, laughing with his head thrown back without a care in the world. He’s so handsome like this, shining in the sun and absolutely bursting with joy. He’s always like this at banquets, stuffing himself full and laughing like he’s never known sorrow. He always draws your eye, but especially in moments like this. He’s surrounded by people all smiling just as widely as he is; he tends to have that effect on people.

Thatch laughs a little. “And you don’t plan on doing anything about that?”

“Not really.” The idea of it makes your chest seize. It’s terrifying, to imagine change, and even worse to imagine how it all could go wrong. As much as you’d like to, you can’t imagine any response to your confession but rejection. Some kind, some less so, but you never imagine a yes. How could you? How could such a man want you? Want anything less than the perfection he deserves?

Thatch sighs. “You both are a nightmare to deal with, do you know that?”

You finally let your eyes leave Ace to look at Thatch with confusion. “What do you mean?”

He sighs again, significantly more dramatically than the first time. “Nothing. Just…I think you should tell him, ‘s all. Nothing will change if you don’t.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“To never know if your feelings are reciprocated? Yeah, sounds pretty bad.”

“No, but–You don’t get it. Yeah, I won’t know. But I’ll get to stay by his side. I’ll get to stay his friend, his confidant. Can’t that be enough?” You don’t want to get greedy. You don’t want to demand more than you’ve earned.

“Maybe it could, I guess. But why should you settle for ‘enough’ instead of reaching for happiness?” You hate it when he makes a good point.

“Enough doesn’t hurt.”

“Neither does more than enough.” He pats your shoulder soothingly. “And a little hurt is worth it in the end. You’re stuck in limbo, right now. But if you say something? Well, who knows where that might lead.”

You had resigned yourself to limbo, back when you first saw his beautiful smile and known you were smitten. You weren’t used to getting what you wanted. But oh, to imagine a life where you did. To imagine a world where he knew your feelings and you knew he felt the same. Where you were able to see that beautiful face first thing every morning, and last thing every night. What a life that would be. You would never want for anything again. “...Maybe I could say something. Someday.”

“Maybe someday soon.” He pats your shoulder again before walking away, probably back to the kitchen to make up for the dent Ace made in the food for the feast.

Someday soon, huh? You try to imagine it. A day where you look him in the eye and tell him how deeply you care about it. You couldn’t open with telling him you love him, of course. Didn’t want to scare him away. And you couldn’t say you liked him like some teenage girl with a crush. You wanted him to know it was deeper than that, a feeling that ran to your bones, to your soul. How could you say it?

Your eyes flicked back to him, and they met his. He was grinning at you, toothy and wide, like he always did. And you returned it, like you always did. A moment you had lived a thousand times, and hoped to live a thousand more. It always made you feel so warm and fuzzy, soft at the edges. You could just melt, looking at him like this. You could fade into nothingness and not feel a moment of regret if you just got to see that smile one last time.

He waves you over, and your feet begin to move, helpless to his whims. Before you know it, you’re sitting directly next to him, his arm slung around your shoulder as he excitedly regales you with a tale of his latest adventure. Your shoulder is pressed into his chest and you try not to pay attention to how hard and strong it feels against you. His warmth radiates through your shirt, and you feel it slowly moving through your body, melting you further into him. It takes all of your concentration not to lean your head into his chest and make a home there.

“Hey, are you listening?” The arm around you jostles you a bit, bringing you back to earth. 

“Oh, I–um–”

“I know it must be distracting being so close to someone this hot, but really, you gotta keep it together.” His tone is light, and his smile full of mischief. He pulls you a little closer, and speaks quieter against your ear. “I’m trying to impress you, y’know. It doesn’t really work if you don’t listen to how cool I am.”

Your face flushes, and you scramble for a response that doesn’t show how flustered you are. “Oh, is that what you think you are? Cool?”

You can feel him smirk against your ear. “Well I guess it’d be better to call myself hot.” He blows on your ear and you shoot up, hand pressing against the side of your face as you desperately try to cover the red seeking its way up your neck. He laughs good naturedly, and puts his hands up in some form of surrender.

You skitter off, throwing yourself into the throng of people, trying to catch your breath. He teases you often, hands reaching just a little closer than appropriate to certain places where his eyes like to linger, words just a touch beyond friendly. But it doesn’t mean anything, you tell yourself.

But could it?

Maybe someday soon echoes in your head.

Maybe someday could be today. Maybe you could say something. You could be brave. His bravery is one of the things you admire most about him. You could try to imitate that, in some small way. After calming down, you seek him out, like a moth to a flame, and pull him aside. “Can I talk to you later? Once everything calms down a bit?”

He regards you with a good natured concern. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. I just need to talk to you. Nothing’s wrong or anything.”

He smiles at you fondly, though you could swear you see something in it—some sort of nervousness, unsteadiness you aren’t used to seeing in Ace. “Well, good. Yeah, we can talk later. Party’s winding down now, so we can probably sneak off soon.”

“Good. See you soon, then.” You skitter off before you lose your nerve, not seeing the way his eyes follow you across the room.

Soon turns out to be over an hour later, once half the crew has passed out drunk and the other half has dragged the first half back to their beds. You meet Ace on the deck, in the cool ocean air, and admire the way he seems to shine in what little light there is. He smiles at you, and the moon seems dim in comparison.

“Hey.” His voice is quiet and deep, and it plunges right through you.

“Hey.” You twitch nervously, hands fidgeting and eyes focused anywhere but him. “I…Sorry, I’ve been rehearsing this in my head over and over and I forgot everything I was going to say the moment I saw your face.”

You expect a reassuring smile, one that he usually gives freely when you’re nervous, but his mouth remains flat. “It’s alright, take your time.” The words are right, but the tone is wrong.

You persevere. “You’re…really special. To me.”

“Is that so?” He leans against the railing of the ship, hair blowing in the breeze, moonlight dancing in the dark strands. His energy has gone strange, unfamiliar in a way you have never known him to be.

“I really care about you, Ace.”

He isn’t looking at you. His eyes are to the sea, staring into the horizon, a million miles away. They’re devoid of their usual warmth, you realize. There is no mischievous twinkle, no crinkle at the edges indicating a smile.

“You shouldn’t.” His voice is soft, but not tender. It’s filled with resignation, with shame, with a deep seated self-loathing that startles you so badly you almost flinch.

You realize the downside of this beautiful, burning flame: he cannot see himself. He cannot see his own brilliance past the light in his eyes. He thinks himself weak and small and ugly, and you have no way to show him how wrong he is. He carries this burden silently, as he does all his burdens, because he thinks he has to. Because he thinks his only use is as a candle burning itself down to keep the rest of the world in the light.

You take his hand in yours. He jumps a little at the contact, and he looks at you with confusion, like he can’t figure out why you’re still here, why you haven’t already run from him. “But I do. And I don’t think anyone gets to decide how I should feel except for me.” You start to slowly rub your thumb over the back of his hand, and he looks at you with such a horribly lost look it makes you want to weep.

“I don’t–” Ace tries to keep his voice from cracking, choking down any sound that gives away the weakness he is so desperate to hide. “I don’t understand why you would want me.” Why anyone would want me remains unsaid, but it hangs in the air between you nonetheless. He takes in a ragged breath, still holding back tears, and the hand that isn’t holding his cautiously makes its way to his cheek, gently tracing over his freckles.

“Ace, I can say with complete and total honesty that I don’t understand how anyone wouldn’t. You’re the most wonderful, kind, and passionate man I’ve ever met, and from the first moment I saw you I knew that you were going to be important to me, even if I didn’t know how. You’re strong, brilliant, fiercely loyal, fun—You’re just…warm. Like the sun. Like surfacing out of cold water on a summer day and feeling the sunlight on your face. Like napping outside and feeling it wash over you and gently pull you back to sleep. Like seeing the first ray after a storm and knowing everything is going to be okay, even if you don’t know when.” You trail off, a bit embarrassed at going on for so long with no response, but when you see how he’s looking at you, your breath catches in your throat. He’s so vulnerable, so open, and looking at you with the sense of awe and wonder you once thought exclusive to gods and angels and Ace himself. The warmth is slowly making its way back into his eyes, softening his face and making him look younger. His mouth is slightly open, lips parted as though he was about to speak but couldn’t choose between a confession of love or a prayer.

“You–you really mean that.” His voice is little more than a whisper. It isn’t a question, just a simple statement of disbelief. “You really feel that way about me.”

“I do. And all of that still isn’t enough to really describe it. You’re…everything, Ace. Everything good and kind in this world, and then some.” He doesn’t believe you. You can see it in his face, his lack of understanding. He knows your words are sincere, that you mean everything you say, but he doesn’t understand that you’re just finally putting into words the unspoken truth of this world, the one that everyone who has ever met him understands instantly. It is one of the few things that you can rely on in this world, that you know will forever be true: the sun will rise in the morning, the world will keep spinning, and Ace will always be good.

“You’re wrong, you know. I can't–I’m not anything special. I’m not even anything decent. Every good part of me is borrowed from someone else. I’m stubborn, and angry, and–”

“So?”

He blinks. “What?”

“I never said you were perfect, Ace. I never thought you were. You’re just wonderful. That doesn’t make you flawless. It doesn’t make you inhuman. And all of the best parts of you are all you, Ace. You’re just too close to see it.” You try to let go of his hand so you can fully clasp his face, cradle him like he deserves, but he grips it tightly, pulling it to his chest. He’s frightened to let you go, like the moment your hand leaves his you’ll disappear, slipping through his fingers like so much else has.

“I don’t believe you.” His voice is soft, without much fight in it.

“I know. I wish you did, but that’s okay. I’ll tell you as many times as I have to. I will spend every day for the rest of my life telling you, if you let me.”

“That sounds like a proposal.” There’s a hint of a smile in his voice, just a small amount of his humor leaking through. There was a question in it as well, a quiet could it be? One day, when I believe you, could it be?

“Maybe it could be, someday. But I don’t want to skip any steps. I want to remember each and every little minute I have with you, every moment, no matter how small. If you let me, of course.”

You weren’t expecting him to kiss you. You weren’t expecting his lips to brush against yours so softly you almost didn’t feel them at all. You weren’t expecting the press to continue until you can feel every inch of them, chapped and cracked, against your own. The hand not holding yours rests on your cheek, pulling you closer and taking your breath away. You had imagined your first kiss with Ace many times, most of them as fiery as the man himself. But you had never pictured such tenderness, such care. He holds you like you’ll crumble beneath his fingers. The gentleness of it makes your chest ache, and you feel like maybe you really will shatter under his touch.

Even when your lips part, you stay close, breath mingling and foreheads pressed together. You open your eyes to stare directly into his, and the pure adoration in them brings tears to your eyes. The only thing you can see are his shining, beautiful eyes and the freckles dotting his cheeks, and you don’t know if you ever want to see anything else again. It’s every beautiful sight you’ve ever seen reflected back at you in a single image, in a single tight frame, and if you died right now you could rest easy knowing that you truly had seen all of the beauty and glory and grace this world had to offer.

“I would let you.” His voice is barely a whisper. “I would give you everything I had. I would let you take anything from me.”

“I’d rather share it, I think.”

He closed his eyes at that, basking in the idea, imagining a life for two. A life worth living, perhaps. “I think I’d like that.” His smile grows wider, though you cannot see it as he lifts his head and drags you forward into his chest. He presses your ear against his heart, and you can hear its beating, quick and growing quicker. He rests his chin on the top of your head, and lets out another whisper. “That’s for you. Always has been.”

You sit like that for what feels like hours, intertwined and listening to Ace’s heart. It calms to a steady beat, and soon after that he slides you down onto the deck so he can lean against the railing of the ship. You’re unsurprised when you hear snoring shortly after. His arms around you don’t loosen at all in his sleep, holding you tightly like you’ll be gone when he awakes if he even thinks about letting go. The weight should be suffocating, but instead it’s soothing, warm and heavy in the same way as a thick comforter.

When he awakens, you ask him a quiet question that has been nagging at your heart. “Ace, why did you hit on me so much? Why were you so kind to me, if you didn’t want me to care about you like this?”

When he talks you can feel it rumble through his chest. “I never said I didn’t want it. I wanted it more than anything. I couldn’t stop myself from getting closer, even when I knew I didn’t deserve it. I kept telling myself that it was fine, because you didn’t want me anyway.” He laughs a little. “Clearly I was wrong.”

You turn around in his arms to face him, your noses brushing together. “I don’t think there’s a world where I don’t fall for you, Ace. I think I’d always want you, in any way I could have you.”

“In any way?” His voice takes on a tone you’re a bit more familiar with, but even underneath the flirtatiousness there’s a vulnerability beneath it, like he’s still checking, testing if this is solid ground that won’t fall out beneath his feet.

“In any way, Ace. Any way you’d let me.” You kiss the tip of his nose, keeping it light, allowing him to make the choice here. He can pull out if he wants, pull away, and you will take whatever step he wants.

He responds by pinning you to the deck.

You let out a soft squeak, and at the sound his eyes darken a bit, though he’s still clearly holding himself back. You can see the question in his face: Is this alright? Do you want this?

You kiss him hard, and he finds his answers in your lips.

His hands are everywhere, spreading their warmth, and you feel like there’s a fire spreading in your blood. You can feel the tips of his fingers digging into you through your clothes: your hips, your breasts, your thighs. It feels like he’s everywhere, and you can barely keep up. Your own hands brush against his chest, and you cannot seem to pull them away when you hear what might be a soft whimper against your lips when your fingers make contact with his nipple.

You tweak them lightly, and he pulls back as he makes another sweet keen. “Not fair, sweetheart. You can feel so much of me, but you’re so covered up.”

“Not my fault you don’t own any shirts, Ace.” 

He laughs a little, his hands reaching for the bottom of your shirt. “May I?”

“Oh, ever the gentleman. You may.” He removes your shirt slowly, seeming to drink in every inch of skin being revealed. His fingers finally lightly brush against your bare skin, and you burn so hot you think there will be nothing left of you when this is done. When your shirt is gone, he stops all movement for a moment, just staring at you in the moonlight. His gaze bores into you, eyes filled with a mix of lust and affection that makes your stomach flutter. He adores you. He wants you. He needs you.

“God, you’re so…perfect.” His voice is thick with emotion. “You’re really here. This is really happening.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

“You’re even better than I imagined, and we haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.” He reaches back to unhook your bra, and sucks in another breath at the sight of your bare breasts. “God, I’ve never wanted anyone more.”

Before you can respond, tell him that you feel the same desperate pull toward him, his mouth is on your chest, and you let out a moan. You can feel his teeth lightly drag across your sensitive skin before his tongue reaches your nipple, his hand reaching up to roll the other between his fingers. He rolls his hips lightly against you, and you let out an even louder cry before he lifts his mouth.

“Not too loud, sweetheart. Don’t want to risk anyone hearing.”

“It—ah!—It’s probably a bit late to start worrying about that considering where we are.”

He pauses, as though he just now realized you’re entirely out in the open on the deck. He considers for a moment, before calmly picking up your shirt and bra, stuffing them haphazardly into his pocket, and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Ah! Ace!”

“You don’t need to start crying my name quite yet,” he laughs. “I don’t want anyone else to see you. I’d like to keep this sight to myself.” His hand rubs against your thigh as he says it, but the gesture strangely feels more fond and affectionate than it does lustful. He carries you to his room quickly, stumbling over bottles or other pieces of evidence from the earlier banquet but somehow ensuring you’re never jostled. He doesn’t put you down even as he locks the door behind you, even as he kicks on his heavy boots and slips off your own shoes. Only after this does he flip you gently onto the bed, pressing you lightly against the mattress and ghosting his lips against your own. “Are you ready for the main event, sunshine?”

“I’ve been dreaming of it since the day we met.” You’re breathless at your admission, but you have to let him know.

“Oh, me too. But we’re about to blow all those dreams out of the water.” His smile now is one you’re familiar with, a cocky boyish grin that fits him perfectly. “I’ll start.”

With that, his hands slip below the waist of your pants, and they slide you out of them with ease. As soon as your thighs are exposed, he’s on them, kissing you tenderly before nipping hard enough to leave marks. You know tomorrow the evidence of this will be there, something that proves what you and Ace have here together. You can’t help but be pleased this will be more than just a memory.

He makes his way up your thighs slowly, teasingly, before you feel his breath against your panties. Even before he’s made contact he’s breathing hard, chest heaving like he’s physically holding himself back. His nose makes contact and you whine, hands fisting the sheets beneath you. He licks a strip up the fabric, and he groans at the wetness seeping through. His voice is thick with want as he quietly murmurs, “Fuck.”

His hands rip your panties down before diving in. You can feel his tongue as he savors your taste, making absolutely shameless slurping noises echoing through the room. You keen sweetly, and he moans into you, hips rutting into the mattress. His lips and tongue find your clit as one of his hands leaves your thigh and one of his fingers enters you. He works it slowly, teasingly, before adding another and curling them, finding a spot that makes you whimper.

When he hits a particular sweet spot with his fingers while his tongue circles your clit you can’t help but reach a hand down to grab his hair, which makes him groan even louder, a deep sound that rumbles through his chest. At the same time his hips slam hard into the mattress, and the hand still on your thighs grips tight enough to bruise. It instantly loosens, his fingers moving gently across the spot as if apologizing. His fingers inside you start pumping faster, his tongue maintaining a steady pace, and you can’t help but scream “Ace!” as you cum onto his face.

He works you through your orgasm, fingers and tongue still moving until your thighs stop twitching. When he pulls back, you can see his face is covered in your slick, from the bridge of his nose to his chin. He pulls his fingers slowly out of you before making eye contact with you and sticking them in his mouth, sucking on them without looking away from you. When he’s done, he pops them out of his mouth and runs his fingertips against his freckles, collecting more, only to bring his hand down to you. You open your mouth without thinking, and the pads of his fingers are pressed against your tongue as you can taste yourself.

“Best meal I’ve ever had,” he mutters with a cheeky smile, before taking his fingers back and leaning in to kiss you.

“Do I get one too?” You ask it quietly, eyeing the belt buckle hiding him away from you.

He chuckles. “As much as I’d love to indulge you, I think if I don’t fuck you right now I’m gonna go insane.”

With that, he reaches a hand to his belt, unceremoniously throwing it across the room and wincing when you both hear a loud crash. He quickly recovers, sliding off his pants and boxers and setting them gently on the floor next to the bed. “Just in case,” he mutters, and you giggle.

Your eyes take in his cock, as big and beautiful as you’d imagined it, and you can’t help but let out a quiet noise of appreciation. “Like what you see?” He asks cockily, but you can see a blush working its way over his cheeks, painting him a gorgeous shade of red.

“It’s just as beautiful as the rest of you.”

“Beautiful? Not handsome? Not hot?”

“Beautiful, handsome, hot, pretty, gorgeous, all of it. They all apply.”

“Is that so? I think some of those are better applied to you, pretty girl.” He leans down to capture your lips, one hand reaching down to align himself with your entrance. He slowly rolls his hips forward, sliding in at a torturously slow pace, as you moan into his mouth. When your hips make contact you feel so stretched you might burst. He reaches both hands up and intertwines his fingers with yours, pressing you firmly but lovingly into the sheets.

His lips leave yours. “You ready for me to move, princess?”

“God, yes, please.”

He slides back slowly, before starting a steady pace hammering into you. He stares at your face, soaking in your expressions, before starting his work marking every inch of your neck as his. You cry out whenever he finds a particularly sensitive spot, and he always notices, nipping and sucking harder.

It all feels delicious, but it just isn’t enough. You buck your hips up into him, whining, “Harder, Ace, please!” You feel him smile against your neck before he pounds into you so hard you begin to see stars. You feel a coil building in your gut, tighter and tighter as you feel every bit of Ace’s warmth seeping into you, taking you over, making you his. You squeeze your eyes shut, face twisting, as you feel the edge get closer and closer.

Ace finishes his ceaseless attack on your neck, and you can feel his breath against your lips. “Want—ah—want to see your face as you cum. Want to look in your eyes. Ah—please open your eyes, sweetheart.” How could you deny such a heartfelt request? You open your eyes to see him looking at you with pure awe, like he still can’t quite believe this is happening. He looks at you like you’re a miracle, an angel, any and everything holy in this world.

With one final roll of his hips, you’re pushed over the edge, tightening around him and crying out, and you only just barely manage to keep your eyes on his as you lose yourself in your pleasure. He finds his own end just after you, and you can feel warmth as he spills into you. His hands tighten on yours, grounding you both, and as your orgasms both come to an end his head falls into your neck.

You sit in the moment for a few minutes, catching your breath, reluctant to part. Ace moves first, slowly pulling out of you, hissing from the overstimulation. He does not, however, let go of your hands. He simply pulls out before falling back on top of you, nose pressed in the crook of your neck.

You kiss the top of his head. “Ace, I think we probably need to clean up.”

“Probably,” he mutters, just barely awake. He nuzzles deeper into you.

“Ace, once we clean up we can both go to sleep.”

He looks up at you with wide, pleading eyes. “We could also go to sleep now.” The dim moonlight coming in through the window reflects on his face, making him look positively angelic.

You sigh. “We could…at least let go of my hands so I can hold you.”

He gives you a heart-stopping grin as he lets go of your hands and flips you so you’re laying on his chest. You wrap your arms around him, and he wraps his own even tighter around you. “I knew you’d see things my way.”

“I always seem to.”

He kisses the top of your head tenderly as his hands rub gentle circles onto your back. His expression is peaceful, but you can see a cloud of worry briefly pass over him. “Do you promise to still be here when I wake up?”

“I promise,” you say quietly. “You couldn’t get rid of me now even if you wanted to.”

“Good,” he mutters quietly. “I–” his words catch in his throat, but you know what he means. You can feel it in his touch, see it in his face.

“I know, Ace. I do, too.” You could say the words now, they could burst out of your chest at any moment, but you pull them back. You should say them together.

“I really care about you,” he murmurs.

“I really care about you, too.”

His snoring starts soon after, and as loud as it is you can’t help but be lulled to sleep by the sound.

[hollybell51]

If I don't have you

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Ethan Hunt x AFAB!Reader

Mission Impossible (around MI3)

Word count: 6.6K

Summary: your mind won't let go of a close call, or all the things that remain unsaid between you and Ethan.

Content: gratuitous smut, angst, light blood/wounds (canon typical), swearing, angst with a happy ending, some mildly dubious moments (ie., sneaking into people's beds), but there's explicit consent so dw about that. Friends to lovers, first kisses (like between people), oral (f receiving), handjobs, making out, missionary, unprotected sex, bit of dirty talk, sappy love confessions (I'm a sap myself, give me a break). I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything.

Notes: hey guys I'm back with another terrible title and porn nobody asked for! I've recently been consumed by Mission Impossible and was devastated by the lack of Ethan Hunt content, and I may or may not be starting down the Tom Cruise rabbit hole, so I did the natural thing and wrote some good old smut. This man makes me absolutely feral in every film (sixty fucking one and he's still got it! What the fuck!) but the long hair really gets me (you all know this already) so I chose to go with somewhere around the MI3 mark. I'm also somehow convinced that he just gets hotter with each film but that's another issue.

Mandatory disclaimer, I don't really care what Tom Cruise does in his own free time with his money and energy but I personally don't fuck with scientology, so yeah. Anyways, enjoy!

The door to the hotel room banged shut behind you, loud and sudden in the cool stillness of the evening. Your face felt hot, and not just because of the heat outside or the fact that you’d just effectively undertaken a high-speed parkour course, blood rushing in your ears, heart pounding. 

“What the hell, Ethan?” you hissed as you spun to face him, jerking your arm out of his grip. 

He ignored you, stepping closer in the narrow entryway. “Are you hurt?” 

Were you hurt? God, it never failed to amaze you just how little regard this man had for his own safety. First he’d quite literally jumped off the roof of a building (albeit a low building, and he’d slid down the tented roof of one of the market stalls first), then raced head-first into what had nearly ended up an all-out fire fight, despite you and Luther both yelling across the comms at him to stop, go around and cut them off! Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t listened. 

“That was fucking insane!” you burst. 

“Are you ok?” 

You were being pursued, first at a walk and then a run. Ethan had seen, you’d told him and Luther both over the comms, and had been receiving directions from the latter. But there were three men chasing you – working for the man you were stalking, most likely, although you weren’t sure – and the streets were unfamiliar, the heat of the evening oppressive, the crush of bodies at the market stifling and the air dusty and thick. You knew, even as your feet pounded on the uneven ground, that you were not going to outlast these men – locals, larger and more numerous than you. 

“You’re fucking insane, you know that?” 

Ethan had barrelled into you from the side just as the first gunshot had gone off, rolling with a grunt and a curse over some poor stallholder’s display and behind a wall of crates. The rush of relief his presence unfailingly conjured was short-lived as he dragged you to your feet, a quick “alright?” and that goddamn movie-star grin before he was pushing you out from behind the makeshift shelter and back into the crowd. You hadn’t even noticed the substantial tear in his shirt or the rough hatching of a graze high on his cheek until you’d been leaning against a wall, panting and a little shaky, but alive and free of your pursuers. 

You’d almost ripped him a (another) new one then and there, but then he’d shaken his head at you and held up his hand, panting, “let’s just get back,” before you could even open your mouth. So you’d held your tongue. Until you’d gotten back. 

Now, both his hands were on your shoulders, firm and warm, holding you still. “(Y/N),” he was saying, his eyes searching your face. “Are you hurt?” 

“No,” you sighed after a moment, half tempted to jerk out of his grasp again. You didn’t. “I’m fine. Are you?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He nodded, his hands sliding down to grip your arms. The graze wasn’t too bad up close, but as your eyes flicked to the cut on his arm, your anger reared its head again. God, if that had been twenty centimetres to the right…

“No you’re fuckin not,” you said, breathing deeply. It was late, and you didn’t want to disturb anyone more than you already had. “Let me see that.” 

His hands dropped from you altogether, and he stepped back. “It’s fine, (Y/N), just a graze.” 

“A bullet graze!” 

“It’s fine.” 

You shook your head, closing what little distance had opened up between you to point your finger into his chest. “Don’t ever pull shit like that again.” 

“No promises,” he shrugged.

Jesus fucking Christ! You had half a mind to grab his gun off him and finish the job right there, see how fine he’d be with his brains blown onto the wall behind him. Even then he’d brush it off as a bruise, maybe a light concussion. You swallowed. “Ethan, you could have been killed !” 

“But I wasn’t. All that matters is that you’re alright.” He’d taken your hand, folding your accusing finger back towards your palm gently – so gently it made your heart ache – and enclosing your fist in his much larger one. Your stupid, traitorous stomach did a flip to rival his acrobatics. 

“No,” you gritted, “that’s not all that matters! You fucking–” matter. You matter to me. You pressed your lips firmly together, the words boiling in the back of your throat, spiralling into a hard, painful lump. You matter, Ethan, more than any fucking mission. None of it would mean shit if you didn’t make it, if I didn’t have you. You matter and I fucking love you, you idiot!

He was looking at you oddly, you realised, the silence hanging between you so thickly you’d need a damn chainsaw to cut it. His hand still cradled yours, but as you watched, his shoulders slumped ever so slightly and the ready-for-anything gleam you were so painfully familiar with faded from his eyes. 

You both turned as someone – Luther – cleared his throat, a sharp silhouette against the glow of twilight through the window behind him. 

“Are you alright?” your friend asked, looking between the two of you. 

“Yeah,” you huffed, pulling back and running both your now-free hands through your hair. 

“Ethan?” 

“Yeah.” 

Another silence, though less tense. 

“Taking a shower,” you muttered, feeling your own body slouch as the adrenaline drained from you. You were sweaty, hot, dusty, shaky and too strung out for any more of this shit. Nobody stopped you as you trudged past first Ethan, then Luther, down the narrow hallway and into the small hotel bathroom. You thought you could hear Luther’s rumbling voice over the stream of shower water, Ethan’s higher-pitched response, but couldn’t make out any words. Maybe that was for the better.

In your dream, Ethan wasn’t fine. In your dream, he hadn’t moved as fast and wasn’t stumbling to his feet, pulling you with him. In your dream, he went down and stayed down, breath coming fast and short, and instead of a rip in his sleeve there was a dark stain spreading over his chest. 

“Ethan?” you said, watching yourself scramble across the rough dirt of the street to his side, your hands flitting uselessly over his torso. 

He cursed, taking your hand as he had so many times before, big and warm and more comforting than it had any right to be. “You alright?” he asked, teeth gritted. 

“Yeah, fine. Fuck, Ethan hold on–” 

“No, (Y/N)–” 

“Hold on , dammit!” It was amazing how viscerally you could feel the pain, sharp and hot like a gunshot wound of your own. You fumbled at your pockets with one hand, pressing down on his chest with the other, but your phone was nowhere to be found. When you shouted for an ambulance or help or anything at all, nobody was listening. The market bustled on around you, the people no more real than shadows on a wall. 

Ethan was saying your name again, his blood hot and wet against your palm. Too much, too much too fast. 

“All that matters is that you’re alright,” he was telling you, and half your mind was seeing him as he had been in the hallway – serious, sweaty, patch of pink skin over his cheekbone hatched with where the dirt had caught and cut it as he’d rolled. 

In your dream, you told the truth. The whole truth and nothing but the truth, words spilling from you in a sick waterfall. “You matter, Ethan. You matter to me, I love you, do you know how much you matter to me?” 

You’d seen people die before. It was part and parcel of your job, so you knew what it looked like. This was no different. Ethan’s eyes were hazy, unfocussed, and he was too pale. There was a light sheen of sweat beading his face and neck. His chest was soaked with his blood and your hands were slick with it. His fingers were loosening around your own. 

“Ethan?” you asked, your own grip slackening as his head lolled. “Ethan, come on, just hold on–” 

No one’s coming. 

“Hold on, Ethan. Don’t go. Don’t go, I can’t do this without you.” 

He wasn’t looking at you anymore. 

“Please, just– listen to me. You don’t know. You have no idea how much you matter to me, how much I need you. Ethan, come on, I love you!” 

In your dream, Ethan was dead and you woke shivering despite the warmth of the room. You lay stock-still, counting to ten again and again until your breathing finally slowed and your heart rate returned to normal. You wriggled down under the sheet you’d draped over yourself, curling inwards and wishing for something more substantial than the loose t-shirt – once Ethan’s – and your underwear. 

You’d watched Ethan die a thousand times, in a thousand different ways. Nobody would ever torture it out of you, but these – when he didn’t know, when it was too late before you told him – were the worst. It left you with a sick feeling in your gut, a hollow emptiness in your chest where your heart and lungs should have been, and limbs so heavy you were always surprised you managed to get up the next morning. And, of course, the inevitable wave of loathing at how fucking pathetic you were dreaming about telling your partner – friend , probably your best friend, because you were long past being coworkers – that you loved him. 

You sighed, turning over. It was close to the full moon, the open window casting a rectangle of silver over the lump that was your legs, the light breeze moving the curtains gently. You could get up and close it. You should. 

You’d been too pissed off and tired after your shower to do much more than grunt thanks to Luther when he handed you a cold doner kebab, eat it, then fall onto your bed and close your eyes. Usually, you’d have forced Ethan to take a shower too, waited until he emerged in fresh clothes and smelling like cheap soap, hair damp and curling around his ears, and patted the spot on the couch or bed or floor beside you. He’d always roll his eyes but sit anyway, and he’d stay sitting as you cleaned and dressed – sometimes stitched – whatever injuries he’d acquired with only minimal complaining. He’d give you the same treatment afterwards. 

You hadn’t done any of that before, and now you missed the little ritual. You’d been mentally cataloguing the first aid kit for antiseptic cream, bandages, wound pads, suture needles and sterile thread as soon as it had even clocked in your mind that he had more than just the graze to his cheek, the uncomfortable weight of your dream growing heavier with the realisation that you’d left it all to him. And Luther, you supposed. 

It was such a little thing, but in the moment it seemed to loom over you, blocking out the moon’s rectangle. 

You sighed again, your feet hitting the floor before you’d even fully realised that you were getting up. 2.28 AM glowed sickly green from the digital clock on the nightstand. Maybe if you hadn’t had that specific dream, you thought, you would have given this more consideration. Turned over and closed your eyes, decided to wait until morning proper, dismissed your guilt and concern as remnants of a stressful evening. But you had had that dream, and now that you’d eased the door open and were slipping down the hallway towards the room Ethan occupied, there was no way you could have turned back. 

His door was ajar, and didn’t squeal or protest when you eased it open. The set-up, like most hotel bedrooms, was exactly the same as your own. Cupboard on one wall (open, with a duffle bag resting half in and half out of it), dresser next to the door (two guns and a few spare magazines next to them), and a double bed by the window. The orientation of the room meant that the moonlight fell on the floor instead of the bed, but you could still clearly make out Ethan’s prone form, sheet wrinkled and twisted under him, one arm dangling over the side of the mattress, a few strands of hair over his face fluttering with each breath. 

You’d seen him asleep before, of course you had. There hadn’t always been hotel rooms with two bedrooms and a pull-out couch to rotate through, nice as that was. There hadn’t even always been separate beds or mattresses – or any at all. Sometimes you ended up side by side in a queen that was supposed to be two singles, slumped on top of him in the back of a van or on a rooftop, curled against his back in a sleeping bag that was only really meant for one person. You didn’t mind, not really, but seeing him like that – totally relaxed, peaceful – tugged at something deep inside you. 

You hesitated, one hand on the doorframe, shivering once more in the breeze from his open window. The curtains billowed inwards, floated suspended for a moment, then receded back to brush at the thick sill. The bed rustled as Ethan turned over, and you froze. He’d said something, you thought he’d said something that sounded like your name. Then he did it again, and you were sure. 

“(Y/N).” 

You crossed the room silently, kneeling then lying smoothly on the bed and against his back like you were made to fit there. He hummed softly as your arm slid over his ribs, your fingers splayed over his heart. Still beating, strong and even and alive. 

He sighed, shifting ever so slightly back towards you, his own hand finding yours, larger fingers lacing with your own. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathed. The dressing on his arm where the bullet had clipped him seemed to glow, taunting you. He did this himself, it said. You left, he almost took a fucking bullet for you and you didn’t even fix it for him .

The slow expansion and contraction of his torso paused for a moment. Neither of you were heavy sleepers, your job had seen to that. “(Y/N)?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What’re you sorry for?” he asked, voice thick with sleep. 

Everything. “Yelling at you. I just…” You paused, no longer cold in the shadow of your dream, but still aware of its presence. “I don’t wanna see you get hurt.” 

There was a beat of silence, then he was turning over again to face you, his hand slipping from your own to run up over your forearm, your elbow, your upper arm, catching momentarily on the sleeve of your shirt before coming to rest on your shoulder. “You’re here,” he whispered. “Thought I was dreaming…” 

You smiled, reaching out to run your fingers around the neck of his wifebeater singlet. Even just waking up, he looked good in the damn thing. “You were.” 

He frowned, the patch of rough red hashing standing out in the silvery dimness. Up this close, you could see every minute crease between his brows that hadn’t been there a minute ago, every tiny line of tension around his eyes. “What’re you doing here?” he asked. 

 You shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. I felt bad.” I couldn’t help you. I couldn’t help you and I couldn’t tell you, and you still don’t know. 

“For yelling at me?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I don’t wanna see you get hurt, either. That’s–” 

“All that matters. You said.” 

You were at a crossroads. You felt it as if someone had infused your every cell with the knowledge that you had two options, and you could only take one, and it would change things. How, you weren’t sure, but the sticky warmth of Ethan’s blood between your fingers and the rough dirt digging into your knees still made your skin tingle. 

“You’re wrong,” you continued. “That’s not all that matters.” 

The frown deepened. “Hm?” 

“You matter, Ethan. To me. If I don’t have you…” You shrugged, once again counting your breaths. How was it that you were more highly strung now than you had been while you were quite literally being chased through a market and shot at? It was so far away now, a distant memory of someone else. This, here, the gap barely wider than ten centimetres between your face and Ethan’s, the warm air and the pale moonlight, the warmer weight of his hand still on your shoulder… That was real. 

But bravery – a strange word, you realised, even as you had the thought – only went so far. “Don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you,” you finished lamely. 

He knew it wasn’t what you’d been going to say, that it barely went half way to getting across what you wanted to. But still, he just smiled and gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You won’t ever have to find out.” 

Maybe you weren’t really awake. Maybe you’d wandered into his dream instead of his room, or maybe (and more likely) he’d found his way into yours. Maybe you really had turned over and gone back to sleep instead of padding down the hall and sliding in next to him, and this was your mind’s way of apologising to you for the earlier horror show. It must be, you reasoned, because somewhere you’d ended up pressed against his front – something that hadn’t happened before; you always found yourself curled around him from behind. Your skin felt like it was on fire as his hand slid across your collar, up your neck to rest on your cheek. 

The kiss, when it came, hardly registered as something new. After all, how many times had this played out in your mind? How many times had you wondered what it would be like to move those last few centimetres, lean across that last gap, shove the two of you over that line like he’d shoved you out of the way of that bullet. It was an extension of where you were right now, of where you’d been for the last however long, of where you’d somehow known you were eventually going to end up. 

He was as gentle with you as he’d always been, soft and so painfully careful. He held you like you might break, as if you were something precious and delicate, his hand warm where he cradled your face. You felt the last sticky residue of tension and fear drain from your body as you slid the hand that had been resting on his chest down, over his ribs, around his back, pressing between his shoulder blades. 

“Ethan,” you whispered as he pulled away, still close enough that you could feel his breath on your face. You weren’t shivering anymore. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he replied, brushing a stray piece of hair away from your face. 

You smiled, every cell in your body tingling with warmth. “So’re you.” 

“Mm-mm,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Not like you. You have no idea how beautiful you are.” 

There wasn’t much your kiss-addled, Ethan-filled brain could say to that. You closed the gap once more, his mouth impossibly soft, the faint hint of his toothpaste clinging to his tongue when it slid against your own. Someone – you or him, you weren’t sure – made a tiny noise somewhere in the realm of a sigh as you shifted even closer to him, hooking your leg over his. 

He was almost on top of you now, leaning over you, suspended carefully on one arm. You’d been here before, pressed into the floor of wherever you were sparring, sweaty and determined to do whatever it took to gain the upper hand again. Secretly, though, you’d wondered what that would feel like like this, and now you wondered if he had, too. 

Just as you had all those other times, you pushed your hips up off the mattress and flipped him smoothly. He huffed as you straddled him, blinking up at you in surprise before a smile spread over his face and he sat up, kissing you once more, his hands settling on your hips. You were half aware of your body curving towards his as your hands tangled in his hair, the rapid deterioration of your kisses into something that probably wouldn’t fit the word under any stringent definition. 

“Can I?” he asked, fingers flitting around the hem of your shirt. 

You just nodded, pulling the garment over your head quicker than you ever had before and casting it aside. If Ethan recognised it, he didn’t say anything. 

“You too,” you whispered when he didn’t show any signs of copying you, pulling at the thin cotton of his own shirt. 

“Huh?” 

“Shirt, dummy,” you smiled. “It’s not fair if I’m the only one who’s naked.” 

“All’s fair in love and war.” 

Love. Your heart sped up at the word. This could be love. Or war, you supposed.

“I don’t think that’s what that means,” you said, wrinkling your nose. 

“Sure it is,” he shrugged. But his hands were at the hem of the stupid thing, and before you could say anything else he was easing it over his head – mindful of his arm – and tossing it to join yours. “Fair now?” 

“Yeah.” You’d seen him without a shirt before. Changing in the back of a van, bandaging a cracked rib or disinfecting a patch of tiny cuts where he’d rolled through broken glass (which happened far too frequently, in your opinion), passing him on his way out of the bathroom. Every time made your stomach flip over and your mind race, but you’d never been able to touch him like this before; run your hands down over his shoulders and arms, across his stomach, up again over his chest, around his ribcage, down the curve of his spine. 

He was in the same boat, you supposed, smiling as his hand slid appreciatively up your side, thumb skimming the soft underside of your breast. You moaned as he bent to kiss down the column of your throat, sucking at the flesh over your jugular and where your neck met your shoulder, teeth grazing the skin occasionally, tongue soothing the blossoming marks left behind. 

“Can I ask you something?” you sighed as he mouthed at the hollow of your collar bone. 

“Yeah.” 

“You said my name before. Were you dreaming about me?” 

Again, “Yeah.” 

You smiled. “What about me?” 

“That you were here.” He broke away from your skin, stretching to place a soft kiss on your lips. “And you were safe.” 

“Well I am.” There was more to it, you could feel it. 

“You are.” Another kiss, almost chaste in its brevity. 

“What else?” you asked. 

He paused, hesitant, then, “You had your legs around my neck.” 

Oh. Oh. 

“Fuck, Ethan,” you whispered. That image wasn’t a new one. The fact that he dreamed about you was news enough, but that… That sent a veritable deluge of heat and desire down through your body, pooling wetly between your thighs. You had to consciously stop yourself from grinding on him right then and there.  

You wouldn’t have been able to, anyway. He was pushing you backwards now, his kisses trailing down over your sternum, between your breasts – he paused here to mouth at one, kneading the other gently, making you moan again – and on to your stomach. He slowed when he reached the waistband of your underwear, kissing across the bridge between your hip bones, leaving you a belt of faint hickeys. 

“Can–” 

“Yes,” you answered.

He looked up at you from where he’d slid between your legs, one hand on your hip and the other pushing at your thigh. His hair hung over his forehead and almost into his eyes (you’d been trying to get him to let you trim it for weeks now), lips pink and kiss-swollen and so pretty. “Ok,” he smiled, pulling your underwear down over your legs shockingly easily, considering they were still wrapped around his waist. You cursed softly as he bent his head again, kissing the inside of your thigh. 

“Wondered what this’d be like,” he whispered, sucking at a spot beside it.

“Fuck, Ethan,” you gasped, your hand sliding down to rest on his head, fingers carding through his hair. 

He hummed softly into your skin. “What you’d taste like.” 

You cursed again as he licked over the mark, fingers skirting where you wanted him most, your skin on fire with every kiss.

“What you’d sound like.”

You pressed your lips together firmly, stifling any sound as he slid a finger over your wetness. You raised your head, meeting his eyes directly. “Do you wanna find out?” 

“Yes,” he breathed. His breath hitched in his chest, and there was that perfect movie-star grin. “Fuck, yes.” 

You opened your mouth to say something to that, but before the words had formed in your mind Ethan was licking up your cunt and the only thing that came out of your mouth was an embarrassingly loud moan. You felt him smile, his own soft noise of pleasure muffled against your flesh as he licked again, then sucked determinedly at your clit. 

“Oh, fuck , Ethan–” you gasped, fingers tightening in his hair, legs locked around his shoulders. 

“Hm?” 

“That’s fucking– You’re– Holy shit that’s good.” 

Ethan just grinned again, his tongue flicking over you, one finger circling your entrance. A suggestion. “Is this alright?” 

You nodded frantically, pressing your lips together as he pushed it inside you. “Yes,” you whined as he licked you again, letting yourself fall back onto the mattress as the hand not gripping his hair twisted in the sheets. He groaned softly, the sound reverberating over you as he sucked your clit, his finger working your hole. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop–” you panted, practically grinding on his face. 

A soft hum, then he was adding a second finger, lapping up everything you were giving him as you squirmed , your breath coming in ragged gasps. You could feel the orgasm coming now, coiling in your stomach like a spring, hot and tight and Ethan was the one building it up. Every curl of his fingers, every brush of his tongue and lips, every little grunt or hum, and his free hand gripping your thigh like a vice. You hoped you’d have bruises. 

“Oh, oh, Ethan, oh my God–” 

Close, you were so damn close. You were aware of your hips jutting up against his face, and the tiny part of your brain that wasn’t consumed with pleasure and want might have felt bad. 

“I’m gonna– fuck – holy shit , Ethan– Ethan I’m gonna–” 

Then everything was crashing around you and you were crying his name, your legs spasming and your spine arching, electricity fizzing through you. Ethan continued fucking you with his hand, slower and gentler now, his mouth soft on your sensitive clit. Maybe it was gradual, maybe not, but eventually your body transitioned from roiling static to a gentle buzz and your grip on his hair slackened, your legs relaxing around his shoulders. 

He sat calmly between your legs, licking his fingers. The entire lower half of his face shone silver in the moonlight with your slick, his lips pink and swollen, eyes fixed keenly on you. You thought if he looked at you like that a second longer, you were going to cum all over again. 

You smiled at him, your hand finding his where it still rested on your hip. Gently (though maybe it was because your limbs still felt so heavy and floppy), you pulled him up the bed and down on top of yourself, stretching up to kiss him hard. You could taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue when it slid into your mouth, and his hand on your skin was slightly sticky. It slid around your waist, pushing against the small of your back, pressing your chest to his. You didn’t think you’d ever be able to get enough of it.

You whispered his name against his lips, your own hands settled firmly around his shoulders, holding on for dear life. The fabric of his underwear – why the hell was he still wearing anything? – seemed to burn where it brushed over your hip, pressing hot and hard against you. 

“(Y/N),” he breathed, pulling back enough to study your face carefully, as if he were memorising every detail. 

You felt the air catch in your lungs, your heart skip a beat. “You’re so…” Pretty. Lovely. Gorgeous. Hot. Handsome. Beautiful. You’re everything, Ethan. “God, I love you.”

He froze, and it was only then that you realised you’d said it. You’d actually said the goddamn words, aloud, to him. 

“Are you serious?” he asked. Not incredulous, not judgemental, simply seeking clarification. 

And how the hell were you supposed to lie? You nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. 

“Say it again.” 

“I love you,” you repeated numbly. Then, swallowing, “Is that ok?” 

Another beat passed in silence, then he laughed. “Yes, dammit, I love you too.” 

“You… love me too.” Had you heard him right? Had you somehow wandered back to your dream, fallen into an orgasm-dulled sleep and imagined the last few minutes? But no, Ethan’s lips felt real enough when they brushed yours again, his fingers felt real enough on your back. 

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” 

“Say it again.” 

“I love you. And you love me, don’t you?” 

You nodded, an absurd bubble of laughter swelling in your chest. “Yes,” you grinned. “I love you, Ethan.”

This kiss was different. A kiss has to taste different after something like that, you supposed, and you were both still smiling. You reached down, your fingers skirting the waistband of his underwear, then further still to press your hand against his hard bulge. He moaned into your mouth, breaking the kiss to glance down, up again. 

“Off,” you whispered, already pulling at the fabric. He obliged, quickly and smoothly as he’d rid himself of his shirt, and in a moment his lips were back against your own, hot and hungry. You took his cock in your hand, your own lips moving away from his across his jaw, the hollow where it met his neck, his skin clean and smooth and tasting faintly of hotel soap. 

His dick was hot to the touch, thick and long and roped with veins. You’d wondered, sometimes, what this would feel like. You’d imagined the sound he’d make when you touched him like this (it couldn’t ever have come close to the real thing, you knew that now), how that hot weight would feel against your tongue. He groaned in earnest as you stroked your hand along his length, your thumb swiping around the leaking head. He cursed softly, your name hissing between his teeth, hips moving gently in tandem with your hand. 

“I wanted you for so long, Ethan,” you murmured into his neck. “You have no idea.” 

“Yeah?” 

You smiled. “I dream about you too, you know.” 

He faltered, just for a moment, then, “What about me?” 

You felt your smile widen and you frantically suppressed the urge to laugh again at the echo of your own earlier words. “I dream about fucking you six ways into next week,” you said simply. “Sucking your cock till I’m choking on it and making you cum in my mouth. Or in my pussy, I don’t care.”

“Oh fuck, (Y/N), Jesus,” he groaned, the sound sending another bolt of heat to your still sensitive pussy. “You think about that when we’re out there?” 

“Mhm.” This time you did laugh, nothing more than a soft exhale, not stopping your hand’s movements. “Sometimes I wonder what it’d be like to jerk you off when you’re tryna aim a gun.” 

His cock twitched in your grasp, a low moan pressed back behind his lips. “God, (Y/N) that’s–” 

“Insane?” 

“So fucking hot. You’re so fucking hot.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Wanna feel you, all of you. Can I?” 

Now it was your turn to curse. “Yes,” you breathed, wriggling to wrap your legs around his waist, your hand leaving its place to grip his shoulder, run down his arm, guide his hand to your hip. “Please, Ethan.”

“Here?” 

“Yeah. Here.” You ground your hips against his, already tingling as his cock slid against your slick centre. “I want you inside me. Need you.” 

“Shit, ok, just let me–” He broke off as he sank into you, his hum of pleasure mingling with your own breathy moan. Maybe it was the after effects of your earlier orgasm, the dream state you still weren’t entirely sure you’d broken out of, or a combination of both, but you swore that nothing would ever top this feeling. It was like he was made for you, slow and soft as he pulled out and pushed back in, did it again, then again and again. 

“Shit, Ethan,” you whispered, your hand coming up to run over the back of his head, fingers carding through his mussed-up hair as he bent his head to kiss your chest. You were glad it was still long enough for this, that you hadn’t managed to get him to cut it. He groaned against you and you smiled to yourself, stroking his scalp again and coaxing another wonderful little moan. You curled your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, lifting your hips off the mattress in time with his thrusts. His breath fanned over your neck, the muscles of his arm taut. 

“Harder?” you murmured. “Don’t have to be so gentle.” 

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” he replied, his breath warm against your skin. 

“You won’t, don’t worry. Please?” 

He raised his head, eyes searching your face. “Ok,” he said, dipping down to kiss your lips quickly and softly before he was drawing away and sitting back between your legs, lifting your hips with one hand and sliding a pillow under your lower back with the other. 

Your heart skipped a beat, butterflies swirling alongside the magma in your stomach. This time he pushed hard into you, his cock stroking every inch of your insides, the hand that had been on your hip sliding to press down on your pelvis. “Yes,” you gasped, “yes, just like that.” 

“Like this?” Another thrust, even and determined. 

“Yeah, oh fuck that’s so good.” You reached up over your head, one hand gripping the headboard of the bed as the other twisted in the sheets, eyes fixed on Ethan. He was so beautiful in the moonlight, shining as though he was cast in silver. He was a fucking masterpiece. 

“You’re so good,” he said. “You look so perfect like that, feel like Heaven, (Y/N), I swear.” 

Oh, did he know what he was doing to you? Every jolt of his hips against yours building low inside you, his barely restrained little sounds and the heaving of his chest. You weren’t going to last much longer. 

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, “ fuck, Ethan, you feel so good. Making me feel so fucking good, so good , you have no idea.” 

“Hm?” 

“So hot. You’re so goddamn hot, you know that?” 

“(Y/N)–” 

You were close. You were so fucking close, wound tight and ready to snap at any moment. You whined his name, rocking your hips to meet his thrusts, legs tight around his waist. 

“Fuck, (Y/N), I’m– I’m gonna–” He broke off, pressing his lips together, his eyes fixed on you. 

“Yeah? You gonna cum?”

“Yeah, fuck, where do I–” 

“In me.” 

“You sure?” 

Were you sure? You’d been sure for way too long now. “Yeah, dammit, wanna feel you cum in my pussy, fucking filling me up so good–” 

That did it. His thrusts stuttered and slowed as he spilled inside you, his chest heaving and his head tilted back, eyes closed, your name falling from his lips like a prayer. God, he was just too much, and you’d made him look like that. It had been you, all you, and it was you he was still buried deep inside. Your own climax rolled over you with that, your body squeezing tight and hot around him, your grip on the bed hard enough that you were sure your knuckles were white, spine arching as bliss flooded your body. You might have said his name, he might have said yours again, but it didn’t matter. 

You lay there, warm all over and shaking, watching him. After a moment, his eyes opened and he smiled at you, gingerly pulling out to flop beside you on the mattress. 

“Clean up?” he asked, already reaching over the side of the bed. 

“Yeah.” You were too heavy to do anything but let him gently run the towel he’d found between your legs, thighs and stomach twitching when the rough cotton came into contact with your oversensitive clit. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, cursorily wiping at his own crotch before tossing the piece of fabric away. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” you sighed again, wriggling off the pillow and kicking it aside. You shifted closer to him, his arm sliding around your shoulders and pulling you against his side, his heart beating strong next to your own. Your eyes were drawn to the darker, rougher patch on his cheek, and you frowned. 

“What?” he asked. 

“This.” You ran your fingers over it gently, barely even touching the skin, doing the same to the dressing on his arm. “And this. Can I have a look tomorrow?” 

“It is tomorrow.” He nodded to the clock. Right, yeah. After midnight. “I thought I did an ok job,” he went on before you could say anything. 

“Ethan, there’s nothing even on this one,” you protested. “It’s just… there.” 

He rolled his eyes. “You’re not gonna kiss it better?” 

“I never said that.” You smiled, dipping to brush the spot with your lips. Featherlight, barely there. “Better?” 

He nodded. 

“I still want to check them.” 

“Ok,” he relented, squeezing your shoulder gently.  

You shifted closer, your face inches from his own. Up this close, you could see the baby hairs stuck to his forehead with sweat, every eyelash shining iridescent white under the moon. “I meant it,” you whispered.

“What?” 

“That you matter to me. You’re the most important thing in the world to me.” 

His breath rushed through his lungs and back out again as he stretched to place a soft kiss on your forehead. “You’re the most important thing to me, too. I love you.” 

You tilted your face to his, this time meeting his lips with your own. It was slow, unhurried, relaxed and tender, and everything you adored in Ethan. “I love you, too,” you whispered into it. Then, grinning as you drew back, “And I meant all the other stuff, too.” 

He raised an eyebrow, “All of it?” 

“Yeah.” 

His chest shook with faint laughter under you, his hand stroking over your shoulder. “I didn’t know you thought like that. Didn’t know you thought about me like that.” 

“Yeah, well…” You trailed off, shrugging, your cheeks warm. “Sorry if it was a bit much.” 

“Don’t worry,” he smiled, “it wasn’t. I liked it.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“You know,” you said as you lay down, “anyone else couldn’t waterboard that out of me.” 

“Guess I’m just that special.” 

“You are, Ethan.” You weren’t shivering anymore, the only weight in you was the pleasant kind of exhaustion that came with finally being safe, being home. Ethan was alive and he knew, he knew you loved him, and he knew what he meant to you, and he loved you too. If this was a dream, it was the best one you’d ever had.

[captainsophiestark]

Slow Dancing In A Burning Room

Bill Weasley x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for my personal fic writing challenge for 2024, Sophie's Year of Fic! Featuring a new fic every Friday, all year long :)

Fandom: Harry Potter

Summary: Bill Weasley and his new wife have their wedding reception interrupted by Death Eaters and news of the Ministry falling. Things look bleak when they escape to Shell Cottage, but they find a way to keep each other going.

Word Count: 1,015

Category: Angst, Fluff

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

Weddings were supposed to be happy. They were supposed to be joyful celebrations, with all the people who mattered most. Even in the midst of a brewing war, I thought Bill and I would get that. One night of a break before returning our attention to all the terrible things going on in the world.

I guess I should've known better.

One minute, I was twirling across the dancefloor in the arms of my new husband, sharing a smile as the rest of the world faded away. In that moment, despite everything going on outside of our wedding, the world felt perfect.

The next minute, a glowing lynx had burst through the ceiling and into the middle of the dancefloor, announcing the fall of the Ministry of Magic and the death of the Minister along with it. The reception descended into chaos, people screaming and running as the protective enchantments around the giant tent fell one by one. It had been absolute chaos, and I barley remembered Bill grabbing my hand and getting us both out of there as the Death Eaters arrived.

Now, I sat on the sofa in Shell Cottage, where we were supposed to start our honeymoon. The place had glowed with warmth and coziness the first time we'd visited, but now it seemed all too dark, cold, and deserted.

"I just let my dad know we're alright," Bill said, coming back into the living room. He'd stepped outside to send a Patronus to his dad, to make sure the family wouldn't worry about us. "Hopefully we'll hear back from him soon."

I nodded, a little numbly, as my new husband crossed the room and waved his wand to start a fire in the fireplace. Once he'd finished, he came to sit next to me on the couch. We both stayed there for a few long moments, shoulder to shoulder and staring into the flames. I have no idea how long we would've stayed there on our own, but another glowing Patronus shot into the room not much later, this one the familiar shape of a weasel.

Bill's dad's voice came from the Patronus to tell us the rest of the family was safe, and that they'd be in touch when they could. A bit of the weight lifted off my chest, but a lot of it still remained. As the light of the Patronus and Arthur's voice faded, the darkness crept back in, despite the fire.

"Y/N?" I looked up to see Bill's concerned face. "Love, you're crying."

I raised a hand to my cheek to find he was right. Tears were streaming down my face, and the second I was forced to recognize it, a dam broke inside me.

I fell forward into Bill's chest as I sobbed, and he wrapped his arms around me. He held me tight, rubbing one hand soothingly up and down my back.

"It's going to be alright," he muttered into my hair, his own voice miraculously calm. I just cried harder.

"How can you say that, Bill?" I wailed. "We almost got killed at our own wedding, and now the Ministry has completely fallen. How can you possibly say that we're going to make it through this alright?"

He took a deep, shaky breath, then gently pulled me back from him enough that he could look me in the eye. His eyes shone and his eyebrows were furrowed, mirroring the distress I felt. But there was a grim set to the line of his mouth that signaled a quiet, unbreakable determination.

"We will make it through this," he promised. He gripped my shoulders a little tighter, leaning in until we were almost nose to nose. "We will get to our happy ending, no matter what."

I laughed a little through the tears, Bill's absolute conviction so ridiculous it brought a smile to my face.

"How can you be so sure?" I asked. He grinned.

"Because it's us. We just got married. That means we're a team, for the rest of our lives, against anything else the world wants to throw at us. And I happen to know that we make a fantastic team. I personally pity anyone who bets against us."

I giggled again, leaning into Bill as he leaned into me. No one else in the world could've lifted my spirits in this moment, other than the man sitting beside me. Which, of course, was no small part of the reason I'd married him.

"Come on," Bill said after a minute, standing and holding out his hand to me. "I believe we were in the middle of something before those bastards crashed our wedding."

I shook my head, still smiling anyway as I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet. Still in my wedding dress, and with Bill still in his suit, we came together in the middle of the living room in Shell Cottage to finish the slow dance that had been interrupted. His arms wrapped tightly around me and I rested my head on his chest while the last of the tears dried on my face.

"You're right," I mumbled, my voice barely loud enough for him to hear. "You're right, we will get through this. And I'll personally make sure anyone who tries to hurt us comes to regret it."

Bill huffed a laugh and tightened his arms around me.

"I have absolutely no doubts about that."

I pulled back to smile into the face of the man I loved, and after a moment, he leaned in and kissed me. We stayed like that for a long time, swaying in the middle of our living room, kissing occasionally, but mostly just enjoying the fact that we were still here, together and whole, after everything that had happened.

In the warm, flickering glow of the firelight, the darkness of the cottage started to regain its cozy feeling, and a tiny spark of joy for the thought of the future rekindled itself in my chest.

****************

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury @kmc1989

Harry Potter Taglist: @valkyriepirate

[obviouslacking]

this is wholly embarrassing but i watched h-e double hockey sticks (1999) for the first time last night and, in the midst of my jeric brainrot, it made my mind go ❣️

so i wrote a teensy, terrible ficlet. i gave it a saccharine little title. griffelkin/dave, because of course it is. what are niche fandoms for if not to practice writing bad fanfiction? anyway. this goes out to the folks on jeric twt

the sign on your heart (it's still reserved for me)

aka when hell freezes over

*******************

It was the greatest night of Dave Heinrich’s life. 

He’d just won the Stanley Cup; the girl of his dreams was on his arm and he was enjoying his hard-won victory. Only… something was wrong. Through the lights, and the confetti, and the cheers, he watched as Griffelkin melted away into the crowd. Like he was never there. Like he’d never be seen again — by Dave, anyway. The triumphant grin slipped off his lips. It was cold, suddenly, out there on the ice, in a way the exertion had masked before. Everything he’d just accomplished began to feel… hollow. The only reason he’d managed to achieve anything was because of Griffelkin, chaotic and ridiculous though he was. Because, for some godforsaken reason… he’d believed in Dave.

He’d made him a better person.

What he’d had with Anne had been good. It felt like they had grown up in the rink together. But they’d been chasing after a dead-and-buried version of the past for too long now, blindly gripping to nostalgia instead of moving forward with their lives. It was now clear to him: it was time to set them both free. 

He turned to her with regret, “I’m so sorry, I have to go.” 

She didn’t understand, “Dave, wait—”

He couldn’t. He had to get out of there or else he’d lose his chance entirely. He knew how it looked: Dave Heinrich, the golden boy, leaving the Stanley Cup celebrations — the moment he’d worked towards all his life, the pinnacle of his rising star. He didn’t care. He was proud of his team, proud of himself, but… none of it would feel right until he saw Griffelkin again. Until they got to be proud of what they’d done together. The two of them, their own team.

He had to get him back.

It took hours. He drew pentagrams in chalk on his nicely laminated flooring. He lit candles. He tried ominous chanting, tried reciting an exorcism he thought he saw in a movie once, tried everything he could think of to summon Griffelkin back to him — short of screaming at the sky in despair.

Nothing worked. He was forced to sit himself down by the absolute mess he’d made with a sigh, body still aching from the torture it had endured that day. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way Griffelkin had held onto him as he lifted him up onto the sickbay bed. Or the sight of him in his Angels uniform; wearing Dave’s number, Dave’s name. He’d been chasing after the Cup for so long, treading water with his girlfriend for so long… he’d forgotten what that felt like. To have a fire inside you, one that burned for a person. 

If Griffelkin technically counted as a person, anyways. Dave was still a little.. fuzzy on the details. If he thought about it too much, he was sure he’d lose his mind (even more so than he likely already had. Maybe he’d just taken a really hard check out on the ice one day, and this was all some kind of fever dream—)

“What the hell are you doing?”

Jesus Christ!!! Dave had sprung up and away from the sudden intruder in terror before he could even realise it was the intended object of his summonings. Here, at last. Hours after Dave had wanted him. The creature lived to spite him.

Even so, just seeing his face again… Dave needed to say his piece. “I had to talk to you. It wasn’t right, how you just… left, after everything. Why did you just leave?”

Griffelkin was uncharacteristically muted, like all the flair had been drained out of him. “You got everything you wanted. You didn’t need me anymore.”

*******************

Griffelkin was lost. 

He’d come to Earth to be wicked. To do bad deeds. To steal the ever-ripe soul of one Dave Heinrich. He’d never anticipated… everything that had happened after that. Becoming invested in the lives of actual, honest-to-God people, turning against the will of Beelzebub and everything he’d trained for to show compassion… it was entirely out of left field. Or left.. rink… (curse his sudden investment in that stupid game. It was just unnatural).

He’d never anticipated the way something about Dave was just… different. When Griffelkin was with him… he’d never felt like that before. It itched throughout his whole body; like that awful diner food, or the smell of the trees as they polluted his insides. Something horrible like… sunshine, or flowers, or the way Dave would smile breathlessly after he won a game—

Oh, hell.

Griffelkin had done it. He’d gone and fallen in — he took a moment to tamp down the nausea — love with him. The human. His former mark. What on Earth was he going to do? 

Quite literally. He definitely didn’t think Hell would take him back any time soon, and the folks upstairs… well he didn’t know WHAT was going on with them. Gabby was their earthly agent?? She made him look positively angelic by comparison — and that was saying something.

So here he was: stuck topside, having horrendously squishy feelings for someone who would never like him back. Why would he? He’d got the Stanley Cup, got the girl… he didn’t need Griffelkin anymore. Dave’s soul may have been bound to him once, but they’d essentially ripped up everything that had tied them together. Their deal was done. 

If only he’d known sooner… he’d never have got those two back together!! If he'd ensured they'd remained separated, he could have done his buddy Lewis a solid — he wouldn't have had to deal with Dave's impressive ego anymore!! Meanwhile, Griff could have swooped in at just the right moment, offering his soulmate both the shining Cup and his blackened heart on a brimstone platter……

But it was too late. They were all finally happy, at peace; everyone’s souls intact. Hurray! Griffelkin had no choice but to just fade into the background. Leave Dave be. He’d already interfered with his life enough. 

Or so he’d thought.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he was currently standing in Dave’s living room. He’d just felt drawn to the place, something that had never happened before. At least, not without some kind of demonic intervention. Somehow, he didn’t think that was at work here, despite the look of Dave’s once-glossy pad. The space seemed to be covered in… satanic paraphernalia of some kind. 

Aw, he was almost touched. Mildly offended by the amateur job (WHO taught him how to draw a pentagram? And scented candles, really?? Was that glitter over there—) but… touched, nonetheless.

Dave was sitting on the floor, hunched over, still in his jersey from the game. He looked miserable. 

Griffelkin felt that increasingly familiar tremble in his chest. He took it out back and shot it dead. “What the hell are you doing?”

Dave jumped out of his skin at the words. He was so cute when he was being existentially horrified by the forces of Griffelkin’s dark magic. Damn him. He’d failed already (typical, typical, Griff, can’t do anything right). He had to stop thinking of Dave like that, not when he wanted nothing—

“I had to talk to you….. it wasn’t right, how you just…. left. Why did you just leave?”

He… wanted Griff? 

That couldn’t be right. No matter how much it pained him, all he could think to do was be honest: “You got everything you wanted. You didn’t need me anymore.”

Dave seemed distraught, hearing this. Griffelkin had never seen him like that before. He didn’t know what to make of it. He looked… agitated, but not like he was when his hockey career was on the line; sad, but not in the same way as he’d mooned over… whatever her name was. 

He admitted, “I thought that was what I wanted. But then… you weren’t there.” 

No one had ever… cared about Griffelkin before. Was this how the Grinch had felt when his heart grew three sizes bigger? Griff might as well just sprout wings and take up harp-playing, at the notion. He’d never felt so blessed, 

“Aw, Dave, buddy, you missed me? It was my sick moves out on the ice wasn’t it? You just had to come crawling back—”

Dave kissed him. 

*******************

Dave couldn’t listen to that yapping for one more second.

So, he grabbed Griffelkin by the stupid clothes he was still wearing and kissed his stupid evil mouth. It took only a second before he melted into it like he’d been feeling the exact same feverish longing as Dave, silenced by—

Oh, he’d finally shut him up. He should have thought of doing that sooner. 

It felt like a long time coming. It felt like no time at all.

Slowly, he released Griffelkin from his desperate grasp. It took the demon several seconds to blink his eyes open, staring back at him in awe. Well, Dave would feel just terrible if he’d broken him somehow. (Though maybe it would serve him right, just a little bit.) 

Satisfied, he leant back. 

“You gonna stay now? You don’t have anywhere else to be, right? Hell, or the Underworld, or wherever it is you’re from?” He hoped he never found out all the gory details. He suspected he was going to.

Griffelkin was still stunned. His hands twitched where they stayed clinging to the back of Dave’s jersey.  “No, I… I think I’m right where I need to be.”

“Good. ‘Cause I don’t know if you know this, but I just won the Stanley Cup.” He smiled at the thought… what an insane life he was leading. Dave Heinrich: youngest player to ever earn that mythic trophy; currently falling headfirst, circle-after-circle, in love with Hell’s finest.

Griffelkin smiled back at him, a little goofy, joy glimmering in his eyes, “Oh, you did?”

“Uh huh. And I could use some help figuring out where I’m gonna go from here.”

“Right, well…” Griffelkin swallowed. “I might just know a certain devil who’s going through kind of a similar situation right now. He might just take you up on that offer.”

It felt like the proper conclusion to their little adventure: both balancing on the precipice of a new journey. One Dave wanted them to tackle together — no matter how many ridiculous escapades came about as a result. They were just better as a pair. He knew they’d make it work somehow. If there was one thing he’d learned from all this (besides the whole being a selfless team player thing) it was that he could use a little more chaos in his life.

He pretended to mull Griff’s response over. “No contracts required?”

“Actually now that you mention it, I think I might have forgotten a sub-clause back there—” 

Dave kissed him again. Man, that really did work miracles. It was about time he evened the scales a bit, in terms of which one of them was holding power over the other. He had to be careful or it just might go to his head.

They were still standing in the midst of Dave’s embarrassingly terrible pentagram. Luckily, the candles had all been long-extinguished by the time their lips had met, or they would have been facing a serious fire-safety hazard right about then. Dave had come too far to have his life cut short in that blissful moment.

His arms wrapped around the neck of his tormentor, who bound their bodies together with his own embrace in turn. 

At least they wouldn’t be able to sue him for breach of contract: Dave Heinrich’s soul belonged to the demon Griffelkin after all. 

Along with his heart, and mind, and body, and whatever else he decided he wanted along the way. Dave wasn’t fussed in the slightest.

Hell began to thaw.

[avocado-writing]

notes: LMFAO HERE WE GO. went hard into the monster fuckin with this one. this request was also done by @youhavesinnedverybigly which you can read here it's very 💕💞💓💗💝💘💖 thank u for requesting @silcosmoke!

pairing: aziraphale x reader

rating: E, minors dni

word count: 1.1k

tags: eldritch being biblically accurate angel; use of glitch text

You’re lying flat on your back, pawing up at the soft hair on his chest, and feeling absolutely ravished.

“Aziraphale,” you sigh, letting your tongue caress every syllable. You say it with deference, with rapture, like a prayer dropping from your lips. Aziraphale breathes a heady sigh at the sound of your pleasure and takes the hand you explore him with, bringing it to his face so that he might kiss its palm.

“My love. My darling,” he sighs, thrusting his hips into you a little more sharply. You groan at the feeling of him filling you, the stretch he gives you is always so gorgeous. With a devilish grin you contract your muscles and clench around his thick cock. He moans like he’s being paid by the hour, lost in the tight grip you give him.

“Good lord… you’re so… I’m… I’m…”

Your usually erudite lover becomes laconic when in the throes of lust, something which you take great pride in being the cause of. You assume he means he’s going to come so concentrate on your own orgasm, shutting your eyes and touching yourself. After a couple of moments, when you don’t hear that little sound he makes when he spends, you open them again.

And shriek.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

“Wh̴a̶t̶'̷s̶ ̸t̴h̴e̸ ̶m̸a̸t̸t̷e̵r̵ ̶m̶y̵ ̷d̵e̴a̷r̸?̷”

The voice doesn’t come from his mouth, because he no longer has one. Aziraphale has, to put it simply, begun to change. His body is no longer the soft, pink, lovely thing you’re used to; he is instead emitting such a bright light that it hurts your eyes if you’re not squinting. There’s no making out any of his features. An angelic lens flare.

“You’re… you’re glowing?!” you manage.

"A̸̓͜m̴̪͝ ̷͈́I̸̖̕?”

Somehow he’s still fucking you, hips rolling as he presses deeper inside. Your body is filled with wave after wave of pleasure as Aziraphale shifts before your eyes, his transformation not stopping his lovemaking. It’s a difficult thing to watch, in fact, you get the sense that if you try to observe it too closely at the very least you’re going to get a terrible migraine, so you turn away.

“M̴̛ͅy̶͕͌ ̶̯̔d̷̹̈a̴̙͒r̶͈̆ļ̵̑i̴̼̍n̶̼͂g̴͕̈,̴̟̀ ̴̤̿Ī̶͎'̵̼̂m̸̘̈́ ̴̗̆ŝ̷͇o̶̞͝ ̸̦͂s̴͉͂o̸͙̍r̷̰̈́r̷̟̂ȳ̸̻,̷̧̅ ̶̨̃I̶̢͠'̴̱̕l̴̡̃l̴̨̐ ̵̬͒s̵̝͐t̸͉̍ô̶̡p̶̞̄ ̵͌͜a̷͝ͅṱ̵̀ ̸̖̒o̸̺͋n̸̰͒c̵͈̾ḙ̶̀-̷̬̏-̴͔͐”

“No! No, don’t you dare. Fuck… just… tell me when you’ve finished changing…”

Your body is bathed with a warm, delicious feeling, both outside and in. Your skin feels like you’re being dipped in balmy water, every cell ignited with the feeling of rapture as your angel shifts. Where you can feel him entering you your body shudders as he presses deeper than he ever has before, filling not just your hole but every part of you, gratification swallowing you entirely. You’re aware of the feeling of being lifted into the air, but not by strong arms or a solid back, no, you’re floating.

B̴̜͇̯̼͊̈E̶̫͊̑̿̃ ̵̩̾N̴̩̯͚͉̈̈́̾̑Õ̵̢̰͕͖̎́͝T̸̛͖̳̺͈̽͂͋ ̶̧̹͎͛̄̀͘ͅA̷̛̱̅̓̉F̸̦̔͒Ŕ̴̳̯̪̐͊Ả̷̗͓͎̗͂Ī̴͕͍̠͂͋D̴̮̹̱̣͊̌,̵̨͘ ̸̼̠̬̹̿̍͠͠L̴̨̫̜͖͛̈́̐Ơ̸̡̈̀̽V̵͈͙̹̱́E̸̞̭͐.̶͍̲̆̌̃

You open your eyes when you hear him speak. No, no, hear isn’t the right word, you feel him speak directly into your mind, his voice reverberating around your body like a fucking pinball. You throb as you feel him pull out and push back in, every sense on fire in the best way.

It takes a moment for you to fathom what you’re looking at.

You’re inside him, which is a bit of a mindfuck, because he’s very much still inside you as well. But it’s easier for him because he no longer exactly has a corporeal form. Instead, Aziraphale is a series of concentric, rotating rings, each emblazoned with a thousand eyes. You know they’re your angel’s eyes, because they’re green-blue-brown, shifting in seconds the way they change whenever you’re in different kinds of sunlight. Every single one of them is focussed on you as they turn, looking at you with so much adoration you feel you very well may burst with it.

Outside the sphere in which you float, a dozen white wings beat slowly; feathers fall and turn to stardust as they go, and your body is showered with it. He engulfs you in this form. And yet you are still at his perfect centre, the apple of his eyes.

It’s fucking bizarre. And you’ve never been so turned on in your life.

“Aziraphale,” you gasp, and a hot beautiful light surrounds your body, making you glow before it begins to push at your entrance and fill you even further. You nudge your legs open and make room for the angel to pleasure you properly, your head rolling back, threatening to tip you; but he keeps you perfectly in place. “God, my god. You’re gorgeous.”

A̸̟̬͍̓̔̀͜͝S̵̪͉̄̓̌̊ ̶̳̓̄̿̀Ą̵̤͌̇̚R̵̖̬͛̆̚E̶͔̬̝̿̄̇ ̵̧̞̞̑̕Y̶̬̜̎O̸̧̦̪̙̚U̸̯̣͙͊͆̾͝ͅ,̸̡̞͈͌̇ ̸̧̗͉͒̎M̵̹̆Ȳ̸̭̠̱̑̾ͅ ̴̧̓̑D̶̝̩́̈͊A̸̫̔R̸̖̂L̷͉̆͗I̸̛̟̿̍N̴̠̞͕̖͒G̸̲̘̙̼̑.̵̡͂͆ ̵͎̾̚ͅǪ̷͉̩̓̋ͅH̴͈͚̺̱̉̑,̵̹͆̑ ̸̨̙͘H̵̲̀͛̂Ő̴̺W̸̲͈͎̖͑͋̀̑ ̸̡̭̫͒͝͝Į̶͎̠̱̆̎͂̑ ̸̧̛͉̮̊̋͜L̸̻͔̤̼͑̀Ȍ̴̝͔͙̊̀V̵̺̫̞̈́̈́͌́Ę̶̛̭̞̹̇̋͐ ̴̞̞̏̔̋͠Ỳ̵͇̔̑͜͝Ǒ̶̺̝Ŭ̷̙͕̗͎.̴̣͓̳̊̑͝ ̴̛̝I̶̼̩̊ ̴̟̿̈̎͜ͅŴ̷̛̮͝Ạ̴͚͈̇N̸̪̝̠̻͆̕T̸̺̪̮͒͝ ̷̙̣̓͊̽̽T̶̹͉͍̣̈́O̵̪̐͊͜͜͠ ̸͈̠͇͒K̶̯̉̊̓E̴̱̓͜͝E̷̖̜̥̒̏͝P̶͆̾̈́̕ͅ ̴̡̰͍͊Ý̷͍̳O̶͔͕̓̚͠Ű̵̦̫͍́͗̃ ̷͉́͆̈́̏H̴̰͖̋E̵̢͉͋́̈͊R̶̼̱̎͛E̴̪̩̦͌͐͑̚ ̷͇͓͎̥͒͗̾̓F̷̨̒̐̇Ỏ̶̘͍̞R̷͇̤̼͉̓̈́̍͋Ē̴̥V̷̢̑̍Ẻ̶̞̪̥R̸̡̮̬͓͐̈́̓̄.̴̨̞͚́͐

You feel like you’d let him. You could stay trapped inside your angel ‘til the end of time, for the rest of eternity, however long he wants to keep you there – just so long as he keeps bringing you this pleasure. Every sense drips with it, molasses-thick and saccharine. Your head swims, your hole grips.

“I’m going to come,” you gasp.

C̶̢̛̪͎͚̞̥͊̏͆̇͌O̶̠͎̍̈́̈̐̈́̄M̵̨͎͔̤̈̏̈́͝Ẹ̴̜͇̐̓ ̵̫̳̦͔̘͍̹̑̓̑͊̾͌͘F̷̛̣͉̗̮͕̦̏̀̃̅̆̕͜O̶̧͙͎̖̥̾̍̄́̾̊̚R̵̢̜̘̅̎̇̐̽ ̸̡̛̫̮͔̦͋̈́̀̕͝Ḿ̴͚̺͕̱̫̫E̷͍͗̂̇́͒͘̚.̵̡̧̡͎̝̦͑̔͛͜ ̸̛͈͊͂͒̃I̴̥̫̒ͅ ̶͖̹̻͌W̸̲̞̆̀̉̇͘Á̶̝͎̬̰̞̬̈́͛̈́̎̈̓N̵̨̖̳̞̖̪̺̐Ṫ̶̡̪͇̟͚̥̽̚ ̶̛͓̭̖̊͒Ṯ̵̡̨͖͙͇̦̊̌̏̇͗̉͠O̷̞̺̟͆̔́͆̕͝ ̵̡͍̳͍̳͖̎͜F̴̰̑̏̒̽̍̂͝Ȇ̷̝̜̈̓̽̉͐́E̶̢̨̗͖̟̯̽͒̚͘͜͝L̶͚͒̒̀͠ ̸̪̗̥̍͆͠͝Y̸̼͈̤̅̅̌O̸̹̦͑̑͆͘̚ͅÛ̸͎̃̿̇̇ ̸̲̲̼̒̓̈͘R̴͍͎̜̓̋E̷̢͂́͋̉̈̎̕L̵̼̽E̶͇̔̈̈́̓̈́̅̔À̶̪̥͇̠͆̓͘͠͝S̵̥͉̫͖̀̍Ḛ̵̢͈̗̩̇͑̂̔̔͘͝ ̵͇͖͔̗̳̙̑͌̇̕Ą̸͎̭̾͐̂̈Ś̶͕͔̦̥̈͌̽͂͒̏ ̵̢͈̹͘I̴̫̬̜̔̒̉̂̽͜ ̷͖̙̖͚̗̓F̵͇͒̎I̷̼͌̉̈̐̕͘L̶̨̥͉̝͙͊ͅL̴̛͙̂̄̓͒͛̉ ̴̛̗͓͎̭̳̋́̊̈́͗͠Ỳ̷̧̛͎̼͍̩̥̎͘O̴̢͈̮̟̜͌̈́̈̈́͠͠U̵̧͔̺̼̤͕͓̿̈̃͠.̸̛̪͎̺̱͕̼͎́̊͘

You don’t need telling twice. Your orgasm rockets through you, splitting your fucking soul in half, and you drink down every drop of gratification he gives you. He wrings your body out for every drop of satisfaction you can give him. Stars explode behind your eyes and, when he’s in this form, they may very well be real ones, your consciousness elevated into space as your angel gives you your deepest release and follows in kind.

Aziraphale glows so brightly that you have to squeeze your eyes shut so they don’t get hurt. Outside, every bulb within a hundred metres of the bedroom fucking shatters. People screech as little pops of glass scare them but you’re too lost in this moment. Aziraphale comes in stardust, littering your body with his angelic spend, and as you finally catch your breath you find you’ve been gently lowered back onto the bed.

Eventually the euphoria your body is thrumming with calms down and you’re able to open your eyes. Aziraphale is there, in his usual body, lovely and soft and perfect, smiling down at you with such adoration you feel overcome with it. He says your name like a psalm.

“There you are,” he whispers, holding you close. “Are you alright, my darling?”

“Wonderful,” is all you can manage before you kiss him, because it’s true.

if you couldn't read the glitch text:

what's the matter, my dear?

Am I?

My darling, I'm so sorry, I'll stop at once--

BE NOT AFRAID, LOVE.

AS ARE YOU, MY DARLING. OH, HOW I LOVE YOU. I WANT TO KEEP YOU HERE FOREVER.

COME FOR ME. I WANT TO FEEL YOU RELEASE AS I FILL YOU.

taglist: @angiestopit @dazed-soul @@foolishprincipalitee @smile-eywa @staygoldsquatchling02 @underratedboogeyman @cool-ontherun-world @emilynissangtr @cool-iguana @this--is--music @ilyatan @lxsm2 @clarina04 @wtfhasmy-lifecometo @mrgatotortuga @wereallbrokenangels @night-affiliate @silcosmoke @kimqueenofhell @chewbrry @bajablast23 @h3k3t

[literaila]

lean in, lean out

tasm!peter x fem!reader 

summary: in which peter invites you to a wedding. as his girlfriend. which, evidently, you are not. 

warnings: hahahaha, fake dating trope, pure fluff, peter is an idiot, reader is an idiot, we’re all idiots. 

a/n: let me know how you like it! 

*

"this is stupid." 

despite the tone of your voice, despite the absolute death grip you've got on his hand, and despite all other things—

peter looks down at you. smiles that same irritating smile. 

you know—the smile that makes your whole body feel... alive. the kind of smile that lights you on fire and doesn't apologize. no, you think. he's not sorry. 

and he's really not. 

"you're doing great," peter whispers, leaning a little bit closer to you. maybe just a little bit amused. 

or a lot. it's hard to tell with how much you hate him right now. his encouragement is not welcome.

his breath on your skin and every stupid ounce of affection and appreciation—it’s not welcome.

"why do i even have to be here?" you ask him, between gritted teeth. his hand is warm in yours. rough. "you could've said i got food poisoning, or the flu. or maybe i was ziplining and the wire broke." 

peter looks forward, but you see the little crinkle of his brows. 

"that's a terrible excuse," he tells you, "you can't just start ziplining. you have to, like, take a course." 

"because that's my biggest concern right now. the course i didn't take." 

peter snorts, but is quick to cover it up with a cough, smiling at the people who turn to stare at him. 

and at you with their evil eyes. 

with their very nice smiles and wonderful table manners. their curiosity towards the man who, at the moment, is tickling your hand with his fingertips.

you try to smile at them.

you're supposed to be keeping your mouth shut, listening to the speeches. 

you're actually supposed to be completely in love with peter. 

which, you think, in the deepest, darkest part of your mind, isn't really that big of a stretch.

"can't we just get kicked out?" you mutter to him, pretending that you're not both playing footsie under the table. that you’re a mature adult and peter is a child you’re just babysitting.

you're winning, obviously. 

"i don't think you can get kicked out of weddings..." but peter still looks around, like he's checking for a sign. 

"you can if you snuck in." 

peter looks at you again, sunken down in your seat and crossing your arms. 

which is what you'd be doing if that was a part of your elegant girlfriend role. 

instead, you're sitting up straight, pretending not to admire how the light catches his jaw--the little concave of his throat. pretending that you didn't stare at him the entire ceremony. nor that his suit has elicited an unfortunate reaction in your chest.

"luckily, we didn't sneak in." peter takes a sip of his water. he is deliberately avoiding your eyes. 

maybe it's the guilt. 

"yeah, yeah," you mutter, into your own glass—your only solace. "these people are your closest confidants. the people you'd want at your funeral, the ones who know you like no other—“

peter squeezes your hand. you can't tell if he's telling you to shut up, or thanking you. 

you honestly can't tell if it's hot in here or if you're just sweating. 

you contemplate chugging your water. 

"shh," peter whispers, but he leans in close again. just enough that you can smell his soap--some kind of spice, some kind of ridiculously addicting smell that you can never quite place. he kisses your head, smiles at someone who is looking at you. 

but you're staring at the floor. 

you're really trying to keep the dumb smile off of your face. 

there are spiders crawling into your brain and making you short-circuit.

"gotta have a wedding before a funeral. and," he says, teasing you, breaking the rules, "you're my closest confidant." 

"how romantic." 

peter moves back. it might be your tone of voice. he glances at you with a raised brow. "i thought this was stupid?" 

"it is," you're quick to answer. quick to throw yourself off of the nearest building. quick to run out of here and pretend that you got eaten alive by wolves. "i'm just saying—if you want to trick all of your family members, might as well do a good job." 

"i think we're a good couple," peter pouts like he's absolutely serious. 

the words want to send sparks down your heart. they want to hurl bowling balls down your stomach. 

but you refuse. 

"this is stupid," you repeat, but this time, your lip twitches. if only minimally. 

peter kicks your foot under the table. he opens his mouth to say something back. 

but then everyone is clapping, peter is looking over to you—you with wide eyes and far too temperamental emotions—and laughing. 

you must look shocked. 

the bride's father steps down from the stage, voice echoing as he tries to collect himself. 

peter pretends to wipe a tear away. 

when you turn away from him—thanking whatever gods there are that everyone is focused on the stage and away from your glowing eyes—you pretend that you can't feel him smirking back at you. 

*

"it's really not that big of a deal—“

you blink. you stare at him. you count to a million in your head, trying not to feel angry. or upset. 

it doesn't work. 

"you told your aunt that i was your girlfriend, and it's 'not that big of a deal?'" your poor imitation almost makes him laugh. almost. 

"she already thought we were dating anyway—“

you think about strangling him. or kicking the chair out from under his feet. "may thought that you were dating the stupid library girl?" 

"you're not stupid." 

"i was talking about the library." 

peter looks almost offended. "hey." 

you roll your eyes. drop your head into your hands. his eyes are warm on you, and you know that he's not going to look away until you say something else. 

until you agree to this stupid plan and pretend that the only reason he's okay with this is that he feels absolutely nothing for you—

it's not that big of a deal. really. 

peter places a hand on your shoulder. when you don't look up, he sighs. and then promptly pulls your hands away from your face. 

he is unbearably kind. smiling at you. 

"peter..." you say, almost relenting. almost letting him win. 

as if this was a game and you were a handy object he picked up along the way. just something to come in later. 

"hey," he says, softly, still staring at you. he's never been afraid of eye contact. "if you want me to call her back and tell her that i lied, i will. i don't want to make you uncomfortable." 

you'd like to mention that the only uncomfortable thing about any of this is how hard your heart bangs on your chest. 

your head lands back in your hands. 

peter pokes the bit of cheek he can still reach. you twitch. 

"or i can tell her we broke up. that you broke up with me. you'd get a kick out of that." he nudges your shoulder. 

you pretend that he didn't just slide his chair even closer to you.

you peek an eye at him. "i would enjoy breaking up with you."  

"ouch." but peter's smiling. "seriously," he says. "you don't have to go." 

you lean up, brows furrowed. "why don't you just find an actual date?" 

you try to say it seriously. like you're not bitter at the prospect. 

"having a first date at a wedding?" peter says, dryly. "no, thank you." 

"you could, i don't know, try actually dating someone. it doesn't have to be the first date." 

"i don't wanna date someone's," he's almost pouting. your lip twitches. 

this statement is a lie, of course, but it fills your heart with a little unnecessary glee. something a little bit like relief. you want to dig a hand into your ribcage and rip your heart out just so you can scold it a little. 

instead, you shake your head at peter. "then don't go with anyone. maybe you'll meet someone there. wedding romances are very popular this time of year.”

peter winces. "i know. it's just..." he blows a breath. runs a hand through his hair, only making it even messier. his sweater is bunched at his wrists. his glasses are hanging at the tip of his nose. 

you want to lean in close to him and push them up. 

you clench your fists. 

"it's just what?" 

"if i go alone then everyone will ask questions." 

you frown. "questions?" 

"yeah." peter sighs, avoids your eyes again. "and then they'll all give me those pitiful looks because 'poor peter he can't move on' and 'may said he was doing better.'" 

you observe his face carefully, tiny pricks of anger hitting directly at your chest. 

"it happens at every family event," peter laughs, looking back at you. "i… wanted them to see that i'm okay, for once. and you know i don't like answering questions." 

you laugh. you move a little bit closer to him, maybe subconsciously. "you don't have to go alone," you say. maybe to him. 

"i know," peter stares at you a second, smiles. "there's no one else i'd want to go with, though." 

unsure if he's poking fun at you or being serious, you choose the safe option. the smarter one. 

"i hate weddings," you declare to him, glaring. 

peter laughs, head thrown back, teeth showing. 

you feel a sense of pride. a tiny little branch growing in your chest—getting bigger. 

peter shakes his head, because he knows you're lying. he's nice enough not to say it. "plus, may already likes you. no awkward introduction." 

you raise a brow. "there wasn't any awkward introduction when i went home with you for thanksgiving."

"because she already liked you." 

"you giving me glowing reviews, parker?" 

he smiles. "no," tilts his head like he's hilarious. "may likes that you called me out on my bullshit." 

you push him, frowning. "i'm very nice to you." 

he rubs at his arm, still smiling at you. 

and then there's a moment where the two of you just stare. just look in each other's eyes like you wouldn't rather be doing anything else. 

you wouldn't. 

but you know peter is waiting. 

you take a deep breath in. 

it might be his stupid smile. or his dimples. 

it might be the way he's pleading with you--without his eyes, without even asking--like it's a secret that only you can keep. 

"okay," you tell him. "but i'm going to eat all of the cake." 

*

peter holds his hands out to you. 

it's late enough in the night that the lights are dim. that his eyes are bright, illuminated by the fluorescents above your head. his smile is soft, his hands are big. 

you frown. "what?" 

"let's dance." peter says this like it's obvious. like what else would you rather be doing right now?" 

you look down at the table, empty now. you look towards the dance floor, full. 

"yeah," you drawl. "maybe not." 

peter pouts. "you don't want to dance with me?" 

his hand is still out, still perfectly intimidating. 

"it has nothing to do with you, peter," you promise. "i don't want to dance with anyone." 

"but you're a great dancer." 

you point a finger at him. "there is no evidence of that." 

"fall semester, last year." 

"how very specific, peter." 

he smiles. he waves his hand like he's very impatient. "c'mon, it'll look weird if we don't dance." 

"you already look weird so i don't see the issue." 

his free hand goes to his chest, in mock offense. you smile at him, so adoring. 

"you dance around in my kitchen all the time." 

"not in heels." 

his face is blank. 

"not after i've just eaten a bunch of wedding cake." 

peter just stares at you. 

"peter," you whine, feeling intimidated. but mostly worried about being any clsoer to him than you have been all night. "please don't make me." 

"this is supposed to be fun." 

you cross your arms. your neck has begun to ache from looking up at him. 

"just one song," he makes a tiny little one with his finger as if that is going to convince you anymore. 

"it's never 'just' with you." 

peter crosses his heart. "scouts honor." 

"that was a cross, not a pledge. and you're not a boy scout." 

"i could've been," he sighs dreamily, looking up at the ceiling like he's got big goals. entire aspirations. 

and then he looks down at you and smiles again. 

and fine. 

maybe you dance with him. 

but it has nothing to do with his smile. you're merely trying to keep up appearances.

*

"when may calls you tomorrow and asks why your girlfriend hates you, just tell her—“ 

peter follows you as you stumble into the hotel room. 

he flicks the lights on and sets your bag down in the hallway. 

because he owes you, you just flop down on the bed. admiring how soft the sheets are. you lose track of your sentence. 

"do you want to shower?" 

"it is three in the morning, peter."

"yeah but you're all sticky." 

you sit up in bed and look at him--peter who has now removed his blazer. who is quickly undoing his tie and staring at you like he's never looked at you before. 

you look down at the sheets. rub your hands together because you're cold. 

"are you saying that you don't want to sleep next to me because i smell bad?" you ask him, scrunching your nose. 

peter slips his shoes off, laughing so quietly that you can barely hear it. he flops down next to you, looking up at the ceiling. 

"i don't remember implying that." 

you crawl closer to him, almost right above him. "it was written all over your face, parker." 

"well," he smiles at you, more amused. maybe delirious. "it's not like i haven't shared a bed with you before." 

you lay back, copying him. your hands rest at your sides, very close to his. 

you blink. the white of the ceiling looks particularly interesting. 

"it's too early to tell if that was an insult or not." 

peter snorts. his laughter shaking the entire bed. 

shaking your entire body from the inside out. 

and then he groans as he leans up, stretching. you close your eyes, refusing to look at him. 

refusing to notice how his shirt has ridden up his back and you can see an inch of soft warm skin. 

refusing to notice how the bed already smells like him. 

and the fact that you're supposed to sleep next to him, all night. 

and that maybe dancing with him left behind some spare anxiety, crawling up your skin and massaging your neck. 

you refuse anything. 

when you open your eyes again, peter is unbuttoning his shirt. 

"are you at least going to get in pajamas?" 

"peter, these are pajamas." 

he snorts. "really?" a shirt is thrown on the floor. a zipper can be heard from across the room. similar to your heart. "because i distinctly remember someone telling me that 'it was the most uncomfortable outfit ever' and 'not even satan would allow this.'" 

you sit up, moving to cross your legs. maybe you stare at him a little. "what?" you gasp. "who would say such a thing?" 

peter looks back at you and smiles. 

it's quite possibly—in the realm of possibilities and three in the morning thoughts—the prettiest thing he's ever seen. 

"here," he tosses you a shirt. a pair of sweatpants. 

how he found those in the vast depths of your suitcase, you are unsure. 

"i'm going to go brush my teeth, moisturize." 

"is that how you get that baby-smooth skin of yours?" 

peter raises an eyebrow at you. gestures down to the clothes in your lap. "change. get in bed. you look tired." 

you frown. "did my makeup smudge?" 

peter stares for a moment, surveying your face. his eyes are wide and his lips are just slightly parted. just enough for you to see a tiny bit of pink. a flash of white.

it’s a moment too long. peter clears his throat. "no," he says. "you--it, um. it looks good. you look beautiful." 

your eyes widen, if only a little bit. 

peter seems to realize this. he seems to run from you, if not literally, then figuratively. "okay. uh, you. change." he shakes his head. 

and then the bathroom door closes. 

*

you're tucked into bed when peter comes out ten minutes later. 

you don't bother to ask what took him so long. 

he smiles at you in the dark—you can see this, or, at least feel it. you're very familiar with it. 

and despite the fact that you have shared a bed with peter before, that you were miles closer to him only a couple of hours ago, you still feel a twitch of nerves as he climbs into bed next to you. 

the covers shift ever so slightly. 

and then peter turns towards you. he knows that you're still awake. 

you know that his eyes are soft. that there are circles under his eyes but he still looks just as beautiful. but he still looks like the person that you're undeniably in love with. 

whatever. 

"tired?" he whispers to you because it's dark. 

these are late-night secrets, see. 

"yes." you whisper back. "no." 

peter chuckles, so low and quiet. 

it's silent for a moment. cars passing by the room. lights shining in through the curtains. 

your heart bouncing across the walls and hoping to land in peter's hands. 

"did you have fun?" he asks, so soft. 

you almost freeze. almost completely forget yourself. "yeah. yes.  i—it wasn't as bad as i thought it would be." 

"i think the dancing really sold it." 

"oh, you mean, you stepping on my feet and me not yelling at you?" 

"uh-huh." 

"that's the testament to a good relationship, for sure." 

peter is smiling. 

you know that. 

maybe because you're also smiling. 

"you should go to bed," you say. "you're tired." 

"i'm really not," peter says. 

you want to lean in closer. something about the dark. something about spending the whole day with him. something about his eyes and his lips and his smiles—which, even now—are terrifying. 

something about the dark. 

"may wants to have breakfast with us," peter whispers to you. 

"yeah?" 

"yeah. i can tell her that you're too tired if you want." 

you clear your throat. swallow. "no. it's okay. i like hanging out with her." 

"yeah?" 

"yeah." 

peter is silent for a moment. he is so quiet that you're almost worried that he's disappeared into the dark. 

but he's there. 

your heart won't let you forget that. 

"peter?" you whisper. 

"yeah?" 

"thank you for bringing me." 

"thank you for being my girlfriend." 

the sentence weighs more than a pile of bricks on your chest. 

you think about the next ten minutes. about how this might be—this is—your last chance. this is it for peter being your boyfriend. even fake. 

it's worth something. 

but peter turns on his side, eyes shutting. 

and so you follow, pretending that you can't feel him, warm, so soft, next to you. 

you pretend that you can't hear his breathing. that all of this is meaningless. 

and you're getting used to it. pretending. 

still, you feel it, about seven minutes later. 

a couple of minutes after you're sure that peter's already fallen asleep. that he isn't plagued by these thoughts, these ideas like you are. 

it doesn't matter. 

it's seven minutes later, in the dark, so early in the morning. 

you feel peter's hand, right next to you. 

you feel him intertwine his fingers with you. 

and peter is warm and soft. rough and cold. 

he is asleep. but it means something. 

you pretend it doesn't. 

you fall asleep holding his hand. 

*

my masterlist here. 

tags:  @moonlarking-blog​ @v1ci0us​ @preciousbabypeter​ @alexxavicry​ @directioner5life​ @random_writer1021

[starsurface]

Your little Nightwolf having nightmare headcanons were so beautiful! 😭😭 Fujin is so warm and loving to his little baby 😭😭 It made me curious about what kind of nightmares the others might have though, especially regressor Fire God Liu with CG Raiden? 🥺

Warning!!!! There's a bunch of hinting to what happened in MK9, like Kung Lao's neck snap and Raiden accidentally killing Liu Kang!!!

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

CG Raiden w/ Babyspace Liu Kang MK1 Nightmare Hcs

🌩️ Oh this poor baby :(

🌟 Liu Kang doesn’t get nightmares incredibly often?

🌩️ But when he does, they’re bad

🌟 Like, really, really bad

🌩️ Mostly old or alter memories that happened throughout MK 9-11 (even some of his old reverants memories)

🌟 When he gets these memory nightmares, he usually wakes up alone, afraid, and small

🌩️ Lord Liu Kang already regressed pretty young, about 2-3, but these nightmares can make him smaller to about 1

🌟 He use to just lay there and kinda cries, laying there in the dark, desperately holding onto his blankies and pillows and whatever he can reach

🌩️ He’s too small to get up, too scared to leave his bed

🌟 And it really sucked for the long (eons long) time he didn’t have a cg

🌩️ Especially since he had a bad habit of accidently wetting himself because of the nightmares, which he usually couldn’t clean until the morning :(   (Be weary of rashes guys!!)

🌟 Luckily, Raiden came along!

🌩️ The first time he saw one of these nightmares, Liu Kang had actually been set for naptime

🌟 Raiden woke up to screams and cries, and Liu Kang was just kinda sitting there absolutely sobbing

🌩️ But this time, he wasn’t alone

🌟 Raiden scooped him up, cradling him tightly and rocking him

🌩️ Liu Kang tries really hard to babble out what was happening, what his scary dreams were about, how scary it was reliving them, how he just watched again and again and never questioned (y’all, MK9 is super screwed up if you think about it)

🌟 Liu Kang’s grip on Raiden’s shirts are usually tight but Raiden swore that if he tried to move, Liu might actually tear his shirt

🌩️ Raiden let Liu Kang sob, cry, and babble about what was wrong, gently scratching his hair and listening to the, what a baby Liu Kang can get out, terrifying story

🌟 When Liu Kang’s crying died down slightly, he’s very sleepy, sitting on Raiden’s lap with big, puffy eyes

🌩️ Raiden noticed the wet spot on Liu Kang’s pants and his sheets and feels absoluetely terrible

🌟 Liu Kang never has accidents!! Does he always have them during nightmares?

🌩️ He got Liu into a comfy diaper, changed him into a much comfier onesie, and held him while he sat in Liu Kang’s rocking chair (I just feel like he’d have one)

🌟 They read some books and watch some nice cartoons

🌩️ Liu Kang did end up falling asleep again, and Raiden couldn’t move for a good hour (not that he tried)

🌟 ^ Oh my goodness, Liu Kang felt so embarrassed when he woke up

🌩️ Apoligizing, swearing it’ll never happen again-

🌟 Not on Rai Rai’s watch, so the two had a talk

🌩️ Raiden has one of those baby monitors set up in his and Liu Kang’s rooms

🌟 It’s usually off (for privacy reasons) but Liu Kang will turn it on at night

🌩️ Raiden’s a bit of a light sleeper, and he’ll wake up to Liu Kang’s cries and rush over

🌟 Liu Kang is incredibly clingy after nightmares, especially if they’re about a certain person

🌩️ Such as Kung Lao’s neck scene in MK9, he’ll pratically beg Raiden to have Kung Lao come over so he can ‘make sure he’s okay’

🌟 Everyone gets really sad at Liu Kang’s nightmares, and doesn’t mind being his personal teddy bear during these times

🌩️ Raiden is usually to go-to though, and who Liu Kang runs to the most

🌟 He understands that Raiden’s not Dada, but this Raiden is really good and comforting too, and he wants his Rai Rai

🌩️ One time Liu Kang had a nightmare about getting zapped by his Lord Raiden (that unfortunately MK9 scene) and Raiden full on espected him to ignore him and demand someone else

🌟 But instead Liu Kang still ran to him, making Raiden promise that he wouldn’t hurt him, and telling Raiden that he wans’t Dada

🌩️ He’s also very insistent that Dada never meant to hurt him that badly, but everyone has a few words for Lord Raiden (they do understand some actions he made though)

🌟 Liu Kang gets really embarrassed about diapers

🌩️ When he’s having the nightmare, he’ll gladly accept them, mostly because he might have a second accident, not the best bladder control when he’s this tiny :(

🌟 But when he’s bigger, either out of his headspace or in his normal headspace, he gets super embarrassed because, well, it’s diapers, Rai, he’s too big for diapers 🥺

🌩️ Raiden is very gently and comforting when it comes to the poor baby, telling him that no ones too big or too small for diapers and he doens’t have to feel embarrassed at all

🌟 Liu Kang might wear diapers in his normal headspace too, but no ones allowed to say anything because he will gegin to cry 

🌩️ He also use to wear diapers in his old universe, but also only for nightmare reasons, It was his Kitana that suggested them, and unfortunately they didn’t have enough time for Liu Kang to see that it’s not anything embarrassing or to get use to them

🌟 Overall, Liu Kang’s nightmares are terrible, but luckily, he does have Raiden to help him through them <3

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

*sigh* I love giving angst to Liu Kang <3

Not but our poor baby, I'm very glad he has his friends now 🥺

[iamthecomet]

Favorite headcanon for every ghoul! Go!

Ahhh!! OK! Thank you so much for asking!? Fair warning these are going to be all over the place--and I can't just pick one, you get two for each. Aether: - Magically connected to all the ghouls in his pack--no matter how far away they are. With a little effort he can feel what they're feeling (emotionally and physically). He definitely checks in on all of them at least once a day while they're away. - Works in the infirmary. Stayed home because he found working there far more fulfilling than being on stage. Swiss: - Can use his magic to literally turn into shadow. Uses this power for good, as well as voyeuristic reasons. Gives a killer massage in that form. Loves to eavesdrop on clergy meetings. - Fire/Shadow (quintessence really, but he doesn't know any other quint ghouls who can become discorporate sooooo) hybrid. One purple eye, one yellow/amber (all hybrids have heterochromia!) Dewdrop: - Actually an introvert. Loves acting out on stage. Can be loud and obnoxious. But really thrives on time alone. Not shy. Not reserved. Just needs to be left the fuck alone every once in a while and isn't afraid to tell people when he does. -Still has a lot of water ghoul traits, but refuses to call himself a hybrid because his gills are scared over, and both of his eyes are the same color (though whether they are copper, or blue, seems to depend on the day). Cumulus: - Crafty! Knits. Crochets. Very good at both. Uses that to fill her free time on tour. Is always making something. - Oddly, doesn't like thunderstorms. It has nothing to do with the air pressure and everything to do with the lightning/thunder. Cirrus: - The biggest bookworm out of all the ghouls. Will read anything. Always has a book with her. Makes list of book recommendations for all the other ghouls. When she tells you that you'll like a book--you can take that as fact. - Hates to cook. She can cook, she isn't bad at it. But she genuinely hates it and does everything she can to avoid getting roped into it. Mountain: - Plants grow from around his horns when he's feeling strong emotions. He can grow stuff on command as well, but that takes a lot of effort. But the stuff that just sprouts when he's feeling a lot of something happens without effort and has no impact on his energy. - Resident chef. Always cooks breakfast. Knows what everyone likes and doesn't like. Makes sure everyone always is fed and happy. Aurora: - Water/Air hybrid, but has more affinity for water. Air is hard for her. Water is as easy as breathing. But she only has one set of gills (on her ribs) instead of multiple sets like full water ghouls. - Really terrible at keeping track of her human glamour. Frequently gets shoved in between two bigger ghouls when they're in public to hide the sudden appearance of her tail/horns/claws. Aeon: - Shy. So shy. But also kind of an extrovert. Wants to be around people all the time. Basically the opposite of Dew. Is nervous about talking to a stranger (or anyone), but cannot stand to be alone. - Very emotionally intuitive because of his element. It's a little like reading minds without hearing thoughts. He can absolutely tell if someone is lying to him (or themselves). You cannot get one over on Aeon. Rain: - Exhibitionist. A little like Narcissus. Really loves to look at himself too. Knows other people like to look at him. Gets off on it. (He and shadow Swiss definitely have an arrangement). - So so wet. And always cool. Hugging Rain is like hugging a person who just got done swimming in the North Atlantic. Damp, and cold. Sunshine: - Loves to garden. Not an earth ghoul, but has a strange affinity toward flowers and herbs. Spends almost as much time in the greenhouse and gardens as Mountain. She takes care of all of the plants in and around the abbey when he's gone. - Calls herself a fire/air hybrid, but has a really strange grip on light manipulation. Can absolutely redirect sunlight to blind the shit out of someone. Swiss thinks if she tried hard enough she might be able to do what he does with shadow--just with light. She is afraid to try.

[ssouhekii]

ʰᵒᵗᵉˡ ʰᵉˡˡˢᶜᵃᵖᵉ . ☆ • ° . ¤ ●

synopsis: after a terribly boring meeting you find yourself overwhelmed to the point of a breakdown. sigma is there to save you.

wc: 1.2k. comfort ☆ sigma & reader, can be read in any context

warnings: sensory overload, implied guilt over it. sigma does his best to act fast, good job sigma! 👍

You felt the intensity of thousands of waves of lightning rushing through your veins, energy bursting out of you with the speed of sound, yet all you could do was bounce your leg.

Tap, tap, tap, rapidly, as you tried your absolute hardest to focus on the meeting at hand. You felt agitated, and glanced around nervously. There was just something about this room that set you off, and mixed with everything else you felt, you could just explode.

Maybe it was the fact that the lights were too bright, or that the clock ticked too loud, or even that there was nothing in the room to focus on. A bland, beige wall molded into the tan carpet, and the brown wooden table with chairs all along its sides formed a sort of desert, and you felt your mind slipping from it, with only sand to hold onto. The droning of the people at the table about something you had no care for waned from your ears like the desert sun from the sky in winter as you tuned them out.

Of course, blocking all outside stimuli out, you were only able to think of how much energy you had, how stressed you felt having to stay still. Your isolation didn't last long, with the idle tick-tacking of the room's clock slowly fading back into your ears along with your vision. Or, more accurately, your visual processing.

Everyone was getting up while you looked around hazily, until someone's voice floated into your ears.

It took a couple tries for you to actually understand what was being said.

"Y/n?"

The feeling of a familiar hand on your shoulder pulled you off one foot and completely through the doorway back to reality again.

"Y/n, the meeting is over.."

You stopped bouncing your leg and turned around. Oh, it was Sigma.

The sight of your two-toned co-worker was a relief to you. In your distress, you'd almost forgotten he was there. Of course, you also hadn't noticed his shooting worried looks your way.

Sigma had grown quite close with you over shared work, and had begun to pick up on your habits. You'd told him about your getting overwhelmed and your bursts of energy, and he could tell that these things upset you quite a bit.

However, you'd never expected him to ever offer a helping hand.

You trailed after him out of the desert room, yet your mind stayed put. Eyes darting, you seemed to lose attention every time something new came into your sight.

Of course, leaving a room devoid of all life after a conference to enter a bustling hotel lobby was like traversing from one hell to the next.

Along with the voices of Sigma and other people you worked with, suddenly a cacophany of every other sound known to man entered your ears along with a million new bright lights and scenes.

You could hear the cries of children, the laughter of adult guests, the rolling of suitcases across the floor all around you, the dinging of the service bells, the music played on the speakers, the tapping of feet, the honks of cars, and so many other things. When you opened your eyes, you saw lights flashing into your eyes, everyone moving all around you, the fire in the fireplace, a bellhop dropping bags, the elevator door opening, everything.

And you didn't want to see everything, so you shut your eyes tight.

You hardly noticed your breathing become heavier as you gripped your arm tight and tried to ground yourself. You could feel tears stream down your cheeks, but your arms were frozen in place, unable to wipe them away.

Staying grounded didn't work at all, as you felt yourself being pulled from your space by an unknown hand. For some reason, though it terrified you, you simply let yourself be dragged.

Soon enough, cries and laughter faded out of your ears as you walked until all you could hear was muffled music and the occasional patter of footsteps.

You opened your eyes and wiped away the tears on your eyelashes with a shaky hand, staring up in front of you.

"Are you alright, y/n? What's going on, please talk to me."

It was Sigma, whos hands were pulled back against his chest, clearly wanting to reach out yet too nervous to do so.

You dug your nails into your arm and let out a small hiccup before glancing to both your sides. There was nobody else there in that hall, just you and Sigma. You remembered later on that you were right next to a vending machine. The casino manager sported a clearly worried look on his face.

"You can tell me anything, I promise. What's going on?"

His last sentence was firm, which sent a pang of guilt through you. He'd thought someone had done something, that something happened.

"I- How do I-" you gulped down unnecessary words as best you could. "It was all, you know it was just a little too much and I, it was too bright and I just couldn't handle it-"

Your voice trembled as you looked to your side, desperately sesrching for something to focus on that wasn't his eyes.

Unbeknownst to you, Sigma's eyes softened a little bit.

"Ah, I see. I'm sorry I dragged you out so quickly. I didn't, uh, know what to do."

It suddenly clicked in your brain that it was his hand that grabbed your arm in that moment.

"Oh, thank you.. it does help, it's, it's quieter, you know?"

He exhaled a little from relief that he hadn't made some heinous mistake.

"Yeah, it was really loud back there, huh?"

Your breath slowed and you finally looked back up to Sigma. You realized he was holding your clipboard and pen, too. He gently held them out to you, and you took them as best you could. The weight steadied your shaking palms slightly.

"Were you okay during the meeting? I noticed you didn't look well, but I didn't want to bother you..."

You gave him a faint smile.

"No, I just felt a little stressed. Thank you, though," you paused. "For everything."

"Is this like, what you were telling me about?"

"Yeah. Sorry you had to deal with it."

Sigma frowned, and you hiccuped before turning your eyes to the side again.

"I'm not mad at you, y/n. These things happen."

It took a moment for those words to run through your brain. You had gotten overwhelmed, and for the first time ever the person who dealt with it hadn't blamed you.

Not thinking, you launched yourself into Sigma, wrapping your arms around him. Slowly, he moved his hands up around you too.

"Woah, it's alright, I'm here for you.."

You pulled yourself back, slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, wasn't thinking."

"It's okay. If it helps you feel better, you can hug me all you like, you know..."

You almost started crying again. He pulled you in gently, giving you time to back away if you wished. Alas, you stayed put and let Sigma hold you.

Before you knew it, you were breathing normally and tears had stopped falling. You backed up and smiled at him. "Sorry about all this, really, it jus-"

Sigma rapidly cut you off.

"It's not your fault, don't apologize. No worries at all."

"Are you sure? Like, really?"

"If it happens again, you can tell me."

"Thanks."

"You can tell me anything."

He turned away and took a step before extending a hand to you.

"I'm going to go eat, if you'd like to come with me."

You took his hand and followed.

"I'd like that."

a/n: I'm still surviving with the minimal screen time! i wrote this on the aforementioned 9-year-old tablet, so apologies for mistakes. As for the one (1) request I have, it's about halfway done! I ended up writing a lot more for fyodor than i thought.

[alls-fair-in-pride-and-prejudice]

Weaving Constellations Pt 9 - A Light in the Darkness

Part 8 / Part 10 / Part 1

This is an ongoing story of short scenes of Gale and my warlock Tav building off canon. If you'd like to be added to the tag list to get notified of new parts you can go here.

A/N: Gale reflects on Mystra's command and the party enters the shadow cursed lands. We're staying with Gale for another chapter because I needed to write what I imagine going through his mind before that "I once read a book" dialogue.

Tag List: @vespaer77 @lalectricedumonde @odd-dragon @aylin-the-barrel

The orb is quiet now.

Small mercies are afforded to the soon-to-be-deceased, Gale supposes.

He had forgotten what it felt like to not have that constant nagging, insistent pull. The absence of it is equal parts relief and… a strange sort of grief.

Why in the world would he be grieving? This is the best news he has had in ages. He was always destined to die, really, he knew that all along. Now he can die with purpose. He can save the few friends he has had the pleasure to make in far too long, and have a chance to see Elysium on the other side instead of the endless gray skies of the fugue plane. He owes this to Mystra, she is offering a chance at forgiveness for his heinous actions.

This is good news!

Why does it not feel like good news?

Lyra is adamant that he will not be dying, that there is another way to stop The Absolute. She speaks with such conviction, such certainty, like he would be a fool to think that he will be meeting his end any time soon. How easily she disregards the command of a goddess, as easily as she would refute that the sky is green.

It’s that confidence, perhaps, that allowed hope to sneak past Gale’s defenses. He hoped that he would be able to cure his affliction and live.

He hopes still, despite his better judgment.

The shadow-cursed lands seem designed to sap all hope from a person.

Even with the dancing lights that Gale and Lyra cast, the torches that everyone carries, there is a heaviness that suffuses the air and seeps into their lungs. Shadowheart is the only one in truly decent spirits, unaffected by the deadly despair that permeates the land, but Karlach tries to keep everyone’s spirits light with terrible jokes.

It isn’t long before they come across the Harpers, joining together to keep close to the meager lights.

Then, the shadows attack.

It’s a fight unlike any other they have experienced before. These things that swarm them are not material, not really, but they are not ghosts either. They are whatever is left of poor souls lost to the curse, twisted into these wailing monsters desperate for company in their misery. Though they swirl like smoke, they grab and claw like ice-cold flesh. Gale favors lightning and fire spells now, desperate to bring some light to battle the darkness that presses in on all sides.

Gale is backing away from an oncoming wraith when a freezing, shadowy hand grabs his ankle and yanks, sending him face first into the dirt as it tries to drag him into the shadows. He scrambles to aim at the creature that has him, the incantation on the tip of his lips, but he cannot twist himself properly to get a proper shot. 

It almost has him outside the fragile protection of the torchlight when a bolt of sparking red strikes across his vision, striking the monster square in the center, forcing it to reel back and release its grip on Gale. He looks up, and wonders if someone has cast a slow spell upon the both of them, for time itself seems to slow when he looks at her. The image before him, though only glimpsed for half a moment, will be burned into his memory.

Lyra’s eyes are wild, burning with determination. Her hand is still outstretched and fingers still sparkling with the energy of the eldritch blast she fired off. Stray hairs that have fallen out of her careful up-do stick to her face from the sweat of her brow, and she is sporting a nasty cut across her upper arm, blood staining her robes mingling with dirt. The silver-white scales are even more like stars now, sparkling in the darkness.

Another wraith creeps up behind her, and the incantation that was just on Gale’s lips fires away easily now, sending a firebolt hurtling through the head.

She whips her head around in shock before she smiles at him, the breathless sort of smile of both “thanks” and “I’m glad you’re alive.”

Gale has never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Lyra helps him up and they move back-to-back in sync, firing off eldritch blasts and firebolts to keep the shadow monsters at bay.

This is not the time to be distracted! But her body is pressed so close he can feel her warmth, drawn to it in this place that tries to sap it away. He can feel the curve of her hips pressed up against his, and she is gorgeous and strong and damn that shadow is getting too close. “ARDE!”

Finally, the creatures retreat, and they have a safe-haven to reach as well.

As they journey to the inn, Gale struggles to keep his eyes off of Lyra. This pull he feels to her is just as strong as before, just without the added inclination to sap the magic out of her soul. What a fool he has been, to not realize sooner just how much of the draw he feels to her is pure desire of a human nature, not a magical one. 

Of course he has known all along she is an attractive woman, with a sharp wit and a kind heart, but gods, he does not have much time left and the one thing he would like to do before he dies is her. It’s a crude thought, he admits, but perhaps the thrill of saving each other in battle has him more excited than normal. 

He could actually be with her, now that the orb is no longer the same danger it was before. Except… would she accept him? He feels she is attracted to him as well, those images from their magic lesson still vibrant in his mind, but perhaps she is still loyal to her patron.

If she rejects him, he’ll have a few days at most to feel the sting of it before his demise. A last fleeting chance at love is worth the risk. As soon as they reach this inn, he will make his feelings known.

[alenseress]

"Well, fancy meeting you here."

The main hall is quiet at night. Not for long, of course, just a moment between the midnight's fall and just before the sunrise, when the room gets so eerily quiet Dushan thinks he could count the mice around the corners just by the sound of them. The fireplace is the only light inside, he squints at its gleam with slightly blurry eyes before slumping down a and finding Dorian's worried gaze.

"Fancy indeed," Dushan echoes, eyes following the slope of the mage's shoulders, buried beneath the fur — it's one of those robes he managed to salvage from home, he knows it just by the shape.

From the Trevelyan house, that is. Something about the way the fibers cling to Dorian's slightly sweat-damp skin, how he shivers barely noticeably, something about that makes Dushan's guts ache, dull and weary. He gets up from the throne with some unexpected effort and crosses the distance to the chamber's door, pulling Dorian into a hug.

"Why are you up?" his lips find the left temple, his fingers find the back of his neck, pulling the heavy head into a cautious embrace.

Dorian, unusually cold palms hidden beneath the fabric, wraps his arms around his middle in return. Stands like that for a few seconds, chest to chest, beat to beat, breathing shallow and just a bit too fast.

"Couldn't sleep without you."

There's an unspoken implication that something woke him, one of those heavy night terrors that leave him panicked and gasping for air. Dushan kisses his temple again and hears a quiet chuckle muted by the layers of fabric. "You look terrible like that, you know?"

Dushan pulls away slightly, arching a brow. "Like what?"

Dorian breaks the embrace, taking a few steps aside and slumping down on the throne — legs thrown over the armrest, arms folded over the chest. He bounces a foot in the air, eyes finding the fire Dushan was staring daggers into minutes ago. "Like this. Like a ghost of an emperor looming over his lost kingdom. Was afraid that if I look at you for too long you'll start turning green."

Dushan snorts and makes a scary face, letting the anchor shine and light his frame. Dorian rolls his eyes to that, idly bumping his heel into the golden binding. "Oh shut up."

He doesn't see the painful vince, Dushan makes sure of that, grabbing him and turning him in his seat like the mage weighs nothing. Dorian yelps, almost offended, as Dushan kneels down in front of him. A brief eye contact — the Inquisitor marvels at the sight of him against the starry skies, and then lets his own head fall, burying his face into the robe, into the tense thighs. I'm tired, he wants to confess. I'm so tired and I can't keep my eyes shut for more than mere seconds no matter how close I hold you.

Dorian doesn't really need him to spell it out, does he. Dorian runs his fingers through his thinning out hair and whispers gentle words Dushan can't yet understand.

"Amatus, come back to bed."

"Marry me."

The silence rings. Dushan doesn't lift his head, not until Dorian lifts it up for him, hands squeezing his cheeks in a deadly grip.

"Have you gone mad on me?"

They stare and stare at each other, Dorian's sheer panic against Dushan's stone calm. He palms at his forehead, grips his cheeks again, something hysterical in his posture. "No, really, you impossible bastard, have you lost your mind?"

Dushan's stoic expression turns to amusement, as he finds a wrist to kiss. "I'm on my knees already, I can beg."

Dorian huffs. Dorian puffs, one hand flying up to cover his mouth, the other pushing Dushan away with a force he doesn't really mean. The Inquisitor sits back willingly, looking up open and offering, eyes squinted in loving humour.

Dorian shakes his head. "Absolutely I will not."

And weak, awed curses follow, as he stares down at the man at his feet.

Dushan leans forward again and pulls one bare, frozen foot into his own lap. Kisses the knee, does the same with the other. There are hands in his hair, still feverishly pushing him away without any real strength to them, lips whispering something inaudible and "get up, get up before anyone sees you, matula" as they grow trembling and unsure. Dushan hugs his legs, like he's afraid Dorian will set off running, and looks up, face suddenly stern.

"I've done many things wrong and I will do much more. But I want to do this, this, right, while time remains."

The anchor burns, his eyes burn, as the hall grows green in color. His own panic rises as he speaks urgently.

"Whatever you want, however you will have me. But when the Herald dies I want him to bring your name to the grave, Dorian Pavus. I'm no Trevelyan. I'm no Inquisitor. I'm but a man devoted to you and I want to go as one."

There are tears, Dushan can't see them gleaming in the dark but Dorian chokes on his breaths like he can't find his voice or any air around them. He hits his shoulder last time, then slides down to the ground until there's nothing but his limbs and chest and the oh so familiar smell of his oils as he grips Dushan so hard that neither of them can breathe now.

Merely a whisper, "You cannot say such things. It's cruel."

Dushan nods and kisses his lips pressed together in a salty line.

"I know. I am."

"You're not," comes out as a louder cry.

"Now you're talking nonsense."

"The whole castle just heard you pledge allegiance to my father's name. Don't nonsense me."

"I did no such thing. I asked you to marry me."

"And I told you I won't."

"No trouble," Dushan says contently, leaning against the base of the throne. "I will ask you again."

[kudzuoath]

Buried and Breathing

Temperance doesn’t take the deaths of Elturel’s refugees very well. Particularly after Last Light is stormed by the Absolute’s forces.

** cw: unintentional self harm (palms), implied/referenced suicide

---

“Something is troubling you,” Gale said. “And I don’t believe it’s merely the haunted shadows that have dogged us since we set foot in this blighted landscape.”

Temperance was rarely surprised by him – he could count on one hand the times anyone had managed to get the jump on her. He’d only managed it once him self, and that had been while she was still lying to them.

Tonight she didn’t so much as flinch when he spoke and presented her with a bowl of the stew he’d made. That stillness on her was worrying.

“How clever you are, wizard,” she said. Her voice wasn’t just flat, but rather chilly too. She didn’t look at him when she spoke. And made no move to eat any of the stew. Though she did hold the bowl with both hands, as if to warm them.

Gale ignored the signs suggesting he should leave her alone and settled down beside her, knees cracking. Too close, he realized. He could feel the heat radiating out of her. While Karlach undoubtedly ran the hottest – Temperance was surely the runner up. Perhaps it was a tiefling thing.

“That’s for eating,” he said, gesturing with his own bowl. “Not glaring, nor for mutilating with various utensils. It’s already quite dead – I checked before I put everything in the pot. So, you ought to give it a try. Last Light might have been desolate in terms of actual foodstuffs, but someone had quite the collection of spices which I can assure you I have taken the full advantage of.”

Temperance still wouldn’t look at him. Though given the expression directed into her bowl perhaps that was a good thing. He wasn’t keen on discovering if a look could kill.

After several minutes of silence where she still didn’t eat or look at him, she finally spoke. “I’m not hungry.”

He turned to look her full in the face, prickles of unease creeping spider like down his spine. It was hard to tell from the angle and the ever shifting quality of light the fire provided – but her eyes seemed a little too bright.

“Temperance –” he paused after her name. Caught up in his own uncertainty. Pushing was not always the wisest course. He knew better than most how badly things could turn out if you ignored the warning signs. And she’d been… distant, since Elminster had delivered his message. He no longer knew quite where he stood with her.

One would think one's impending doom might unburden them of their anxieties.

Not so.

“I would hope you know you can tell me what burdens you,” he said eventually.

Her head bowed. Short raven locks fell around her face, hiding her eyes from him. For a moment he was certain she was going to stand and walk away. But she didn’t. She merely set aside the bowl he’d given her and clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. The scars across her knuckles stood out a bloodless white from the strength of her grip.

“Mol is probably dead by now,” she said tonelessly. There was a staring quality to her eyes he truly did not like.

“We don’t know that –”

She laughed. And it was a terrible bone scraping sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “Those things probably ate her. And if they didn’t? Oh, If they didn’t, then our Devil friend will. Though his diet is one of souls, not meat.”

A chilly hand squeezed his heart. He’d never seen her like this. Cold and manic at the same time. There was a terrible restrained violence in her. One that suggested a single push might send her for her sword, send her off into the dark hunting.

“That fucking bastard probably tugged some infernal strings and arranged the bloody fucking snatching! Why else, out of everyone in the inn would those things go for a child? They wanted Isobel. And if they were hungry they wouldn’t go for one of the smallest people there, Gale!”

She was on her feet in a too-quick jerk of motion. Pacing. Her teeth bared in a snarl, her tail whipping behind her.

“Do not ascribe certainty to chance,” he cautioned. With their luck, Raphael could be a single badly worded sentence away.

Temperance stopped short and glared at him. “You don’t know everything.”

“I have never claimed to know everything,” he said sharply. Too sharp. “All I ask is that you exercise caution before you lay the blame at that Devil’s feet. He will use it against you. And moreover, we may well need him before all’s said and done.”

She glared for a moment more, shoulders up, eyes blinking rapidly. Then turned on her heel and continued to pace. A violent energy vibrating through her limbs. Not unlike when she would make her vows in the midst of battle. Rage fueled her as surely as it did any barbarian.

Gale’s heart seized when he noticed her clenched fists were dripping.

“I was too busy protecting the damn cleric,” she hissed under her breath. “When there were all the refugees in the bloody front room. What the fuck was Jaheira doing? All of her Harpers? Why were the fucking doors to the balconies open?”

Between one circuit before the fire and the next, Gale went to stand in her path. While she might have easily avoided him, she came to an abrupt halt instead. Her head downturned, her shoulders shaking. This close he could see a muscle in her jaw jumping and hear the grind of her teeth.

His heart was in his throat. He wasn’t afraid of Temperance. She was always careful of herself and her companions in and out of battle. No matter how angry, she wasn’t the type to lash out physically. And yet fear had made itself comfortable in his lungs. Icy cold and suffocating. A burrowing creature he could not shake. His constant companion.

One mistake, he thought. Just one.

Just one, and he might find himself a walking cataclysm alone in the midst of this curse. Unable to even die properly for his goddess.

He should leave her be. Not push his luck.

But then, what wizard worth his salt was too frightened to take a risk? And what kind of man would he be to turn his back on someone he cared so deeply for when she was tearing herself to pieces in front of him?

So he took one of her fists in both his hands. Blood dripped between them. With infinite care, he coaxed her to open her hand and eyed the wounds her claws had made. Noticed the scars on her palms. As if there’d been years of barely restrained outrage carved into her.

“This is going to need bandaging.”

“I can heal it,” she said tonelessly.

“Then do so,” he commanded. “Our current locale is filthy and the last thing any of us need is an infection. Least of all those of us who must spend their days with a sword in hand. I won’t have you hurting yourself.”

That got her to stare at him. He’d been expecting another skin-melting glare. But instead her eyes were merely cold, and closed off. His heart skipped a beat.

“It was hardly my intent,” she bit out.

He sniffed. “Intent or not. Desist in your mauling of my companion immediately. Mauling is, well – Maul’s job. And I do believe you mentioned he’s promised not to. Despite the fact that we apparently smell delicious.”

Maul was what she’d dubbed their owlbear companion. Insisting with a laugh that as he was Scratch’s little brother, he ought to have a matching name. How far away that little bit of laughter seemed now.

Silently, staring at him with vitriolic intent, Temperance set one hand atop her other and cast. As always, the spell was accompanied with a sound like sighing. And even though he was not the target, Gale felt briefly as if he’d stepped into a sunbeam. It faded quicker than normal here, under the curse. Even a divine memory of the sun could not stand against Shar’s sway.

When her hands parted, Gale impulsively brushed the newly dried blood away, touch feather light. Something that seemed to cause a tremble. When he looked up, her head was bowed again, her eyes closed.

“I can’t promise you we’re going to find Mol,” he said. “But we will try. That has to be enough.”

“It’s… not just Mol,” she said after a long moment of silence. And her voice was cracked, breaking at the edges. Her free hand went to her face. “It’s all of them. All of the dead tieflings from the Grove. I – we – it didn’t even matter. That we helped them. And they don’t – they’re just laying there, still. And Rolan’s siblings… he’s right. They could have avoided all of this if I hadn’t said something…”

Temperance pulled her other hand out of his, and it joined its partner at her eyes. Each breath was harsh and came only after a long pause.

Gale put his arms around her. It was like hugging a set of armor. But then she went from stone to flesh and fell against him. Still not quite crying, but shaking, trying to gasp her way back to some semblance of control.

“Let it go,” he said, tightening his hold on her. “You can let it go. I have you.”

A moment of renewed tension, then… Temperance began to cry quietly into his shoulder.

Gale rubbed soothing circles on her back, careful not to catch himself on the surprisingly sharp points of her shoulder blades after the first time. Soon she loosened further. Dropping her hands from where they’d been curled in front of her chest and throwing them around him in a shuddering embrace.

“I don’t save people,” came her cracked whisper. “I just – give them a stay of execution. I can’t save them.”

It felt like something made of knives had taken up residence in his belly, and started tenderly shredding his internal organs.

“As someone intimately familiar with the feeling of living on borrowed time, Temperance… let me assure you that each extra day is worth it. Each minute. Just because they died –”

“Died badly,” she said.

“Even so – it was a death that they had more life to live in front of. And not all of them have passed beyond the mortal coil. You cannot bury the survivors at the inn while they’re still breathing. They won’t thank you for it.”

He both heard and felt her sigh. Felt her consign the last of her strength to him and slip a little lower in his arms. They stood like that for he didn’t know how long. His heart was pounding nearly the entire time. As if any moment now she might realize who it was she was so close to, and withdraw. He’d rebuffed her overtures often enough. Surely she would prefer someone else be the one to see her like this. To hold her.

You ought to have a medal for self centeredness, he admonished himself. She’s hurting. Stop it.

But his thoughts always did have a habit of eating themself when left unattended. Even before he’d proven himself the sort of fool one wrote songs about. Tragic songs.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” she said.

“Hm?”

As if she found herself too heavy to carry, Temperance drew back from him just far enough to look into his face. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you earlier.”

“I’m certain Lae’zel or Astarion have said worse things to me,” he said dryly. “I’m not quite the delicate flower, explosive as my potential might be.”

He caught a flicker in her expression – though he couldn’t pick out its meaning. And then she was drawing all the way back. Standing with perfect posture a step away from him. All the cold of the night seemed to rush in to fill the empty space she’d left behind.

“Good night, Gale,” she said. Distant. Expressionless – though her eyes were swollen and her face damp with tears. “Thank you for coming to check on me.”

“Temperance –”

But she was already retreating toward her tent. A forced sort of grace in her footsteps. As if nothing at all had happened between them. As if she hadn’t just been pouring her heart out to him. There was a distinct sinking feeling where his own heart ought to have been.

Too late, he understood.

The heart of the Absolute was close. So close, anyone left at Last Light would surely be caught in the crossfire.

There really was no saving any of them.

[blackjackkent]

(Jarringly, if you go straight to a long rest from Gortash, the game forgets about all the Karlach drama and she's all like "HEY! ^_^" when you go to chat with her, but then the next morning she has an exclamation mark over her head and is plot-appropriately sad again. As I mentioned in that drabble earlier, I'm just leaning into this and deciding that Karlach basically didn't come back to camp all night, wandering around the city and finding someone private to cry/process/scream at the sky. Hector, meanwhile, lies alone in their tent and has an incredibly unsettling interaction with the Emperor and his own meltdown.

So we will say this is the next morning, with a slight tweak to Karlach's opening line to reflect this.)

"Hey, Soldier. I'm back..."

The sun has barely crested the horizon when Karlach comes wandering back into camp. Hector is the only one awake, having given up on trying to get any rest an hour or so earlier; he's sitting next to the campfire with a mug of tea and staring into the flames; the raw emotion of the night before has faded and he's conscious only of a sort of empty hollow feeling in his chest.

But empty as he feels, the warmth that floods him at hearing her voice is unchanged. He looks up with an involuntary slight smile, meeting her gaze in the morning half-light, though his eyes still hold something of the haunted look that he's had for the last two days.

"I've been worried about you," he says, and his voice is ragged but steady. "Are you all right?"

She smiles slightly and walks over to sit down next to him, putting a hand gently on his knee. "Yeah," she answers. "Despite my best efforts." She manages a soft laugh; it's shaky but sends light through him anyway. "I kept trying to flop over and give up, but Karlach just wouldn't let me."

He feels a little tug of a smile at his lips in response. She really is the strongest person he's ever known by far - even when everything feels so terribly dark, even when she is so beaten down that it seems impossible to rise, she is still always looking for something to smile about, something to hope for. Even when the world hasn't deserved her good opinion of it.

He puts his hand over hers, and she shifts to interlace their fingers together; he feels the familiar steady pulse of heat through her palm and it soothes him a little in spite of all the things it implies. "Did I miss anything important?" she asks softly.

He shrugs. He wants to tell her about the Absolute's scream in his brain, about the Emperor's taunting in the Astral Plane... but what good would it do? It changes nothing and would just make her feel worse. "Not really..." he says quietly. "But I missed you." He lifts her hand and presses his lips against her knuckles.

"I missed you too." A long pause. She looks at their interlaced hands against his mouth, and her throat convulses around a sharp swallow. "You know, I wouldn't have bothered falling in love with you... if I'd known saying goodbye would be so hard." She tries to laugh but it doesn't quite come out.

He looks back into the fire, lets out a heavy breath. He knows the right thing to do would be to joke back, to show her that he is being strong, that he is ready to play this the way she wants to, no matter the cost. But he doesn't quite have the strength in him just now. "I know what you mean," he says softly. The tears are gone; he won't break, he won't cry. But the words are as empty as he feels. "I'm scared of you leaving me behind..."

She gives a sharp shake of her head, and her grip on his hand tightens abruptly. "I don't want to leave you behind," she whispers. "Not ever." A long pause. Her eyes close, squeezing out reality for a moment. "If I had my choice, we'd do it all together. Life - a long life. And then we'd slip away one night... side by side... wrinkled and grey, warm in our bed..."

The ache that rises in his chest at this mental image is almost more than he can take. He tries to take a deep breath and feels it catch in his throat. Gods... I would do anything... anything to wake up next to you for the rest of my life...

"But that's not in the stars for us, my love..." She leans sideways against him, rolls her head so her face is pressed into his neck. "Ours is a short story with a few good twists... and a banger of an ending..."

He wraps his arm around her shoulders, pulls her fiercely against his side. "Karlach..." He hesitates. He knows the answer already, before he even asks it... but he can't help himself, one last try... "Would you ever consider going back to Avernus? Just for a while, just to buy yourself more time?"

He knows why she won't say yes. He knows, even, why it's right that she not say yes. But he has to ask... just one more time...

"No," she says at once, muffled into his neck. "I can't. I'd rather die here in Faerun -- my home -- than live in service to a devil."

He nods slowly, his cheek rubbing against the top of her head. "I understand," he mutters. And he does. He wishes he didn't; he wishes he were a more selfish man, who could demand she think about him and not herself. "I just... wish there was another way..."

"So do I," she mutters. "I've done the calculus a hundred times. There's no permutation I can find that doesn't end in me dead, or wishing for death..." Her arm slips around his waist, her fingertips dusting over his hip, his arm, his upper thigh. "This is it. This is all we have. Each other, and all the moments we have left..."

He says nothing, but turns his head to press a gentle kiss into her hair. For a long few moments they sit in silence, while the sun slowly rises over the camp.

After a while, Karlach stirs and speaks again. "Speaking of which... there's something I wanted to ask you..."

He grunts softly, questioningly.

"Will you stay with me? When it's time. For me to go..." Her voice is suddenly thick, hoarse with emotion. "I think I can do anything if you're there. Even die..."

His heart twists in his chest with the stab of grief that goes through him, somehow fresher than it has ever been. He squeezes his eyes shut and his arm tightens around her, crushing her into his side.

He wants to run, to run far away from all of this, from everything she is making him feel. It's not admirable, it's in fact horribly unfair. But nothing in his life has ever prepared him for what she is asking him for now...

Gods, what if I am not strong enough?

But what can he say, other than yes? How can he be anywhere but at her side, right to the very end?

"Of course, my love..." he whispers. "Of course..."

She draws an unsteady breath, lets it out heavily. He can feel some of the tension go out of her as she sags into his side. "Thank you..." she says softly.

A long pause that seems to hang heavy with all the feelings they have no words for.

When she finally speaks again, her tone is lighter, though he can hear the effort behind it. "Now. Enough tragedy. I'm not gone yet. And our schedule is packed with important heroics, isn't it?" She laughs shakily. "Plus, if I cry any more, I'm going to run out of tears and start leaking motor oil."

She sits up, not pulling from his embrace but turning in it a little so that she can cup her palm against his cheek and kiss him-- soft, slow, lingering. "Thanks for everything, darling," she mumurs, and rests her forehead against his. "I love you. A lot."

[another-clive-blog]

wwhat if clive just. exploded. in his mobile fortress

SO !! I may have gotten a little carried away with this prompt ?? Like I know this was probably for the meme or for a semi-serious conversation but also. I love angst. Anyway I wrote a little something. I hope that's okay and thank you for the ask !! =) TW : mention of death, implied character death (and Claire can be counted as dead, so you know). Also : this is Claire's POV, it takes place right after the gang has deployed the flying Laytonmobile, there is no comfort. Word count : ~ 500 words.

Writing under the cut !!

"Aren't we going back for him ?"

Why are they all staring at her ? They know the whole story, what Clive did and what they did before him. So why is Bill looking at her like that, as if he was completely removed from any of this ?

"It's too dangerous," Hershel is the first one to answer- of course he is. Always firm in his beliefs, an unwavering beacon of light. But beyond the man she loves, Hershel is one thing : the pilot of the car-plane, and therefore the one person Claire has to win over if she wants this vehicle to turn around.

"I can go alone." She tells him, and really it makes sense. They aren't sending children back into that monstrous thing, and Bill is not an option for… obvious reasons. She is the one who should go get Clive, say and do what needs to be said and done. She knows she can do it- actually, the hardest part is convincing Hershel of this. "Please. You know he isn't the only one to blame."

Hershel hums. His hands tremble on the steering wheel, probably itching with the desire to yank on it. Claire knows he wants to, and hopes he does so soon enough.

"We've lost too much time on our escape. I am sorry Celeste, but we can't make it." What ? No, they absolutely can. She can do this- she has to.

But as she opens her mouth to say just that, Hershel half turns towards her.

His head is held high and yet, his eyes are sorrowful and his voice is quiet. "I need to make sure the children are safe." He simply says, like an apology or a goodbye.

Before she knows it, Claire is standing and gripping the car door with both hands. Luke is screaming and Flora's little hands are gripping her vest, trying to keep her- from what ? It's not like she's going to jump and fly away, and plummeting to the ground won't solve anything.

There is nothing she can do.

"Why do you want to go back for him anyway ?!" Bill yells at her. "This man is a nuisance !!"

Clive is in the wrong. She knows this. Somewhere deep down, she also knows that there is no saving him, that, even if he gets ouf ot there alive, it will only be a temporary thing. It is too late- it has been for quite some time now.

Ten years. Time really does fly by when you've been condemned from the very beginning, or when you've never actually lived any of those ten long years. Then again, it seems that no one has really moved on from that terrible day. It's almost as if they had all been transported to this present day with her, only to witness history repeating itself. The smell of fire and the screech of metal are overwhelming, and she isn't sure if the screams she hears are real or mere echoes of the past, of that experiment and the explosion and the suffering, the fear-

"I don't want him to know what dying a lonely death feels like !"

The car takes a sharp turn. The kids scream in surprise and Claire falls back down- but when she sits up again, she notices that the car has in fact not changed its trajectory.

It takes her a few seconds to come to this conclusion, because the fortress behind them is gone.

-_-_-_-

There ! I am actually upset that the first piece I've shared with Claire in it is exclusively about Clive, although the parallels were too interesting not to be exploited. I am however planning to write another piece for Claire on her own because I genuinely love her character.

Anyway that was a good ask, thank you so much anon for sending it !! <3 <3