#hand clasped so tight over his mouth that his knuckles are turning white

[ervotica]

pairing; dark!rafe cameron x crybaby!reader warnings; DARK (18+ only) use of coke (rafe & r), coercion into using drugs, mean!rafe (if y'all want a part two lemme know ! there will be smut ;)

You're holed up in the kitchen when Rafe finds you; legs bouncing, fingers flexing where you grip the cold counter. The colour bleeds from your knuckles slowly, discomfort licking up your spine from sitting on the hard surface for too long.

"Don't start," he gripes meanly before you've so much as looked at him, circling your wrist in his looped fingers and tugging you out of your seat. You shriek, steadying yourself against his hot chest- so hot that it radiates off of him in waves, ebbing and flowing. When your eyes flit upwards, looking at him through thick lashes, you see his irises have been almost entirely engulfed by blown-out pupils.

"I didn't do anything," you protest, brows drawing tight in the divot of your forehead, pushing out a crease that Rafe sighs at and smooths over with his thumb.

"You've been twitchy since we got here," he points out, turning to pile a mound of coke onto his pinky finger. His head dips and he plugs one nostril and sniffs, rubbing the burning sensation away for a few seconds after.

You cringe, shoulders rolling and hunching in on yourself as you shy away from him.

"Get over yourself, you prissy bitch," he mithers, rolling his eyes at your anxious dramatics.

You're immediately sniffling, pushing down the tears that tickle at your waterline and threaten to spill onto your balmy cheeks.

"I'm going home," you snap through the lump in your throat. "You suck."

He laughs, a harsh sound that bites at your tender heart despite his thumb plugging the tears that threaten to descend past your clogged lashline.

"Okay, okay," he concedes, barely stifling another chuckle as he clasps the back of your head and presses you to his chest. You gasp, pushing yourself into the flesh of his shoulder, whining. "C'mere, I got something' that'll make you feel better."

"What?" you gurgle as he dips his head to press a wet kiss to the crown of your head.

"Sit." His fingers curl around your ribcage and lift you back onto the granite before he's turning to fish the baggie back out of the pocket of his slacks.

"Rafe," you whine.

"Shh, shh," he murmurs, licking his pinky and dipping into the bag to coat it in the white powder. You cower as he crowds you, muscled chest pressed to yours as he uses his free hand to pry your jaw open. He rubs it slowly into your gums, massaging the muscle despite your petulant complaining.

"Rafe!" you squeal when he pulls away, a string of spit stretching and bowing between your pouting bottom lip and his finger.

His lips quirk up at the corners at your bratty fussing, tipping his head down to lick and suckle at your mouth. His saliva clings to your tongue when your lips part for him instinctually.

"Easy, kid," he purls, pearly white teeth grazing your chin when he deters from your lips. "You'll feel better in a sec."

Your pulse thrums to life beneath your skin, a faint buzzing that has your nerve endings standing straight.

"Yeah," he croons, amusement laced into his every word. "Feelin' it?"

"Mm," you hum, grappling for purchase against his button down shirt. He smacks wet lips to your jaw and hooks an arm round your middle, forcing you upright and into his side. "Let's go back out now, yeah?"

You wobble, shoulder digging into his ribcage as you walk wrapped under his tricep.

"Attagirl. I'll let you give me a blowie later 'f you're good."

[indigoflorals]

sisters keeper - r.c

rafe cameron x reader

your step brother is the only guy good enough for you

warnings: mild cnc, if this upsets you, do not read. unprotected sex, breeding kink, choking,

"Look at me,"

Rafe's cologne flooded your nostrils, overtaking your senses. It was a familiar scent, one you had grown accustomed to since your mother had married Ward Cameron. Rafe was everywhere, especially so on hot summers home from college.

Turning around, you were faced with your step brother standing in your bedroom. You placed the blouse in your hand on your bed and folded your arms, "Listen Rafe," you sighed, watching the way his eyes followed you, "I just want this summer to be normal."

The blank expression on his face turned to an almost amused one. "Normal?" He teased, "How is fucking that homeless pogue normal?"

Your brows furrowed in shock, "Don't say tha-"

"In fact," Rafe stepped forward, pinning you to step back against your dresser, "You should be grateful I'm so protective of you. Wouldn't want you falling back in with the wrong crowd."

You gasped as his hand came to your throat, testing his grip in light squeezes. "So obedient," He whispered, smirking at how fast you had melted for him, "Look so pretty." Rafe stepped froward to press his body against yours, grabbing a handful of your ass as he leaned into you. You whined as he released your throat, continuing to massage your ass.

"Tell me baby," He purred into your ear, pushing at the waistband of your shorts, "Did you fuck anyone while I was gone?" You finally felt the wetness that had been growing, and you needed attention.

You sucked in a breath as Rafe shoved your shorts and panties down, cupping your soaking pussy. "Tell me," He looked to you, eyes serious and still, "Tell me or we'll stop here."

"No!" You blurted out, desperate for his touch. You didn't care if your parents could hear. In that moment, you needed him. "Good girl," He smirked before pulling his hand away. You cried, but he shushed you, "Turn around, and bend over for me baby, ass up for me. Let me see that pretty pussy."

You spun around, hands gripping your dresser so tight you were sure your knuckles were white. Your stomach flipped in anticipation as you listed to him undo his belt from behind you."Spread your legs for me baby, nice and wide," Rafe whispered, stepping in between your legs. You could feel the heat of his cock before as pressed against your pussy, thick and heavy. "Now be a good girl and take my dick."

You felt him pull back and line himself up with your entrance. He pushed his tip in first, experimentally. You clasped a hand over your mouth, and he smirked, shoving the rest inside in one thrust. "So tight baby," He gripped your ass, rocking into you, "Good thing that pogue didnt ruin the best thing you have."

You whimpered, feeling your building pleasure despite his treatment. You slid a hand to your clit, using a finger to rub fast circles.

"Awe," Rafe panted, trying to ignore the feeling of your walls squeezing him, "Is the slut gonna cum? Gonna have to admit she likes this?"

"I do," You cried, gasping in surprise as your orgasm washed over you, "Feels so good Rafe. Love it so much." Your muscles relaxed, and Rafe wrapped an arm around your chest to hold you against his body. His pace quicken, and his rhythm was sloppier. "Gonna fill you up, get you pregnant." He kissed your neck, and slid his free hand to your clit. You felt your pussy begin to flutter again, and immediately Rafe grunted in your ear, rocking his hips. "Such a good girl. Taking all my cum."

Your pussy was warm, and your clit sore, you stood up, feeling liquid run down your thigh, "Shit." You turned for your bathroom, and Rafe slapped you on the ass.

"Come out ready for round two."

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

12 — IN SOME SAD WAY, I ALREADY KNOW

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

“A written statement from the General himself.”

You mindlessly nod, eyes unfocused and ears ringing as you sit at the conference table, Laswell at the head with the paper in hand. Her brows are furrowed, and one of her hands rests at her hip as she reads over the paper’s contents once more.

Everything feels numb. Like your entire body’s been reset, and nothing makes sense – as if your very existence has been muffled.

Price and Ghost sit at the table, too, sharing looks with each other. The Sergeants are out training rookies – and a small, minute part of you is grateful. You don’t want them to see you so…

Whatever you are. Numb, cold, unfeeling. Any adjective that fits.

“Shepherd traded her,” Price seethes, knuckles whitening on the tight grip he has around his pack of cigars. 

“But why?” Laswell asks, exasperated, pacing at the front of the conference room. The overhead beams have been left off, so the frosted window is the only source of light. It allows a soft, gentle glow from the moon to fill the room, and it helps with your racing mind.

“We need to find him,” Ghost demands, voice gruff and icy. Thinly veiled anger – you recognise the tone all too well. 

“This gives us evidence to push the search further,” Laswell cuts in, her footfalls pausing as she searches the scrawled handwriting for something. “And it opens up a new trail. Why did Graves want you? And what did Shepherd deem worthy of trading his star soldier?”

Your leg’s bouncing, the soft tap tap tap of your foot against the linoleum floor sounding more like a ticking time bomb than anything.

When you look up from the table, your eyes instantly clash with a pair of dark brown. Ghost.

He’s watching you – something hidden behind his gaze that you can’t unpack. Not now, at least, with your mind racing at a million thoughts per hour. With your body feeling as sensitive as a live wire. Every breath feels manual, a feat in and of itself.

You break your eye contact with him suddenly, weary, looking to the window instead. The moon isn’t so complicated; doesn’t hold so many layers of darkness, both in colour and soul.

There’s nothing like the feeling of moonlight against your skin, the brush of nightly breezes against your chilled skin.

“Sweetheart –” Your attention instantly goes to Price, whose hands are clasped on the table, gaze heavy where it sits on you, “Do you know anything at all that could help us. Any leads.”

You go to open your mouth, but everything feels wrong, your stomach sinking and hands trembling and vision going blurry.

Without any thought, or reason, you abruptly stand, slightly shaky on your feet. You swallow, once, a difficult movement against your barren throat. Scratchy and harsh.

“I – I’m sorry, I need a moment,” you manage to mutter out, taking a step back in a shadow of defence.

Brows furrow, a question’s asked – you don’t hear, don’t see, because all you can do is turn and bolt out of the room, shouldering the door open and heading down the hospital light-white corridor, the white burning your vision.

Your eyes sting with unshed tears, your chest heaving, the echoing sound of your boots against the floor a distant soundtrack.

“Fuck,” you mutter, palms coming up to rub harshly at your face as you slow, unsure. You just need space, a moment to yourself, a place to break apart with no one as your witness.

A slightly ajar closet to your left seems like your best bet.

Heading for it, you push in, the stale scent of cleaning products hitting your nose. It’s difficult to find any part of you that cares in the slightest.

The door closes, and you just stand, for a moment, your head resting against the wood. Every breath rattles your bones, like your core is falling apart at its seams. Another breath. Two more.

Except it’s getting harder, with every breath, to fill your lungs. They come out harried, shallow and not unlike slices of a knife against your windpipe. They tear from your mouth like coughs.

Your back hits the wall, and you slide down, until you’re sat on the floor, head sat between your bent knees as the first tears finally fall down your cheeks. Hiccups leave your chapped lips, and you squeeze your eyes shut as your shoulders shake.

You haven’t allowed yourself to break down like this in... Gods, you can’t even remember. All you know is that it hurts, at your very core, but it’s also kind of freeing.

It’s as if your world is closing in around you; your breaths doing nothing to quell that intense sense of suffocation, cruel in the grasp your fear has around your throat. Nothing makes sense – everything hurts, your tears leave lines of heat down your cheeks –

The door creaks open.

Heart stuttering in your chest, you look up from your balled up frame with blurry vision, to see who your intruder is. Did Gaz or Soap leave the rookies early? Did Price or Laswell get worried and come check on you?

“Sweetheart.”

The tall, threatening frame of the man fills out the small crack of the door in a way that has your breath catching for a whole other reason.

“Ghost?” You find yourself asking, your voice threatening a whine with the state you’re in. 

He steps in, the scent of blood and some cologne filling the space as he does. You wipe at your bloodshot eyes, curling in closer.

“If you want to kill me, this is probably your best bet,” you bite, posturing, an attempt of goading so your image isn’t completely ruined. The idea isn’t completely unfound, either – he very well could pull out his gun and shoot you clean through the head.

He shakes his head, closing the door – allowing pitch black to envelop you both.

“You’re too cheeky for your own good,” he mutters, and despite all of your notions of the man, he slides into a sitting position next to you.

If you could stabilise your breaths, you would, if for no other fact than your own embarrassment. Your body still trembles, and small hiccups still leave your lips with every shaky breath.

His presence is warm against yours, and when he moves, the fabric of his uniform brushes against your own.

“Why are you here?” You find yourself asking, a whisper under your breath. Just loud enough for him to hear, for him to hear the fragile undertone. The risk you’re taking, sitting beside him in this state. 

He looses a breath – easy, soft. Unlike everything you know about the hulking man. “I understand.”

You can’t help the uneasy chuckle that leaves your lips. “You understand? Mister been-conspiring-against-me-since-day-one?”

“I understand what it’s like to have the weight of the world on your shoulders, with no one you trust there to hold you, too.”

You look to him, but in the darkness, it’s more of an instinctual act than anything. 

“Didn’t realise you were a poet, Lieutenant,” you chide, voice breaking slightly around the syllables. He doesn’t comment; a small mercy.

He shrugs, brushing against you as he does. “Not a poet. Just a soldier.”

“And an asshole,” you hum, and you can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes you when he elbows you in the dip of your waist. You elbow him back, unthinkingly, freely.

Silence fills in the gaps, except for the background noise of your shaky, tight breathing, and the bounce of your knees.

That is, until the man beside you breaks it.

“I asked my dog what two minus two is,” Ghost says, easily. You loosen your posture, just slightly, brows furrowed when you turn your head towards him once more.

“What are you on about?” You ask, incredulous. He shrugs. Nods.

“I asked my dog what two minus two is,” he continues, despite the confusion that is surely emanating off of you. “She said nothing.”

You let out a shocked, lost bark of a laugh at that, turning your body around so you’re facing him in the enclosed space. “Was that a dad joke?”

“I found out why my dog’s such a bad dancer,” Ghost starts once more, continuing despite your elongated groan. Seems to relish in your dismay.

“And why’s that?” You entertain him, despite the anxiety in your gut, the words left unsaid burning your tongue.

“She’s got two left feet.”

You heave a sigh, shaking your head – but the corners of your lips pull into a cheesy grin, and your breaths are lighter. Easier, natural, less harsh against your dry throat. “Do you even have a dog?” You ask.

“Her name’s Riley. She’s my family,” he says, earnestly, and your heart shatters just a bit more.

“What breed is she?”

“German Shepherd. Used to work in the military, till a mission gone wrong left her too scared to work in the field. Saved ‘er from the pound.”

How can this man be the same one who threatened your life? Who – who had made it very clear how little he trusted you, and was generally such a jerk? A complete asshole, of whom you had no qualms hating?

“She’d like you,” he adds, and you blink, “Always did like girls more than guys. Strong ones, at that.”

“You think I’m strong?”

You can tell he rolls his eyes, even without being able to see it. “I’ll bring ‘er in, when this is all said and done.”

“When this is all said and done, we’ll probably never see each other again. Small mercies, hey?” Your tone takes on a joking lilt.

He doesn’t laugh.

And it hits you, then. How fragile this very situation is. How unimportant, in the real scheme of things, your relationship with the 141 is. When Graves and Shepherd have been dealt with, where do you fit in? What purpose will you have?

You don’t, can’t, truly fit in with them. They’re already so interconnected, memories spent together that you’ll never understand, connections you have no place in joining.

Oh, what a stab in the gut that is.

“I can get Johnny or Kyle if you want,” Ghost offers, but you find yourself answering just this side of too soon.

“No.”

You realise, as you sit here beside him, that he is all you need. Soap and Gaz would’ve tried to ramble or make a move on you, Price would’ve tried to embrace you. Ghost just sits, and waits, his presence speaking a thousand words. He’s your anchor, right now.

“What does a bee use to brush its hair?” Ghost breaks the quiet, once more, his words steady and grating with the low timbre of his voice.

You exhale, but go along with it anyways. “I haven’t a clue.”

“A honeycomb.”

You scoff, but the smile on your face doesn’t waver – your cheeks hurting from the way it tugs on the muscles of your tired face. “That was awful, Lt.”

“Johnny laughed at that one,” he replies, head tilted to rest his skull against the wall. His arms rest on the bends of his knees.

“That’s cause he feels bad for you,” you hum, satisfaction weighing on your words.

Ghost elbows you once more, a bit too hard, but you find the movement grounding more than harmful. Like a way for your body to come back to itself, and register the world around you. No need for self-destruction or derealisation.

“They really like you, y’know,” he murmurs, and your breath pauses in your chest. “The Sergeants. Won’t shut up about you when you’re gone.”

“Well, if you’re gonna hate me, some support is nice,” you retort, and he huffs a low breath. Pauses, like he’s thinking something over. Weighing the risk and reward of his next statement.

“I don’t,” he rolls his tongue in his mouth, “I don’t hate you.”

“You’ve had me fooled,” you retort, the cool wall against your cheek a steady reminder of the world. “The whole threatening to kill me thing, and all.”

“If it means protecting Johnny, Kyle – even Price, I’d do it. Still will,” he says, the last statement bordering on a warning. “If you’ve somehow fooled us all, then I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

You swallow. Scratch at the skin of your wrist.

“I just need to figure this shit out,” you admit, looking to the roof for answers. “Once Shadow Company’s been taken down, and Shepherd’s dealt with, everything can go back to normal. This’ll just be a blip in time.”

“The Sergeants aren’t going to let you go,” Ghost warns, an edge to his words. “What are you gonna do, anyways? Live in the countryside?”

“I don’t know,” you confess, picking at your fingernails. “I’ll figure it out when it comes to it. We’ve got bigger things on our plate.”

With his shoulder pressed against your own, you let your body relax, your breaths finally even. No tears on the verge of falling down your cheeks – and no fear lacing your veins with a thick coat of adrenaline.

However, that short-lived relief is quickly replaced with the all too familiar crash.

Your head pounds, and your limbs suddenly feel heavy. Your eyelids threaten to close, even though you don’t feel the need to sleep.

“Tired?” Ghost asks, low and soft, careful not to startle you. So at odds with the idea you had of him.

Without meaning to, you lean further against him, using his frame to hold your own up. He doesn’t comment on it. “I’m – just need a minute,” you murmur.

His hand moves to rest at the side of your head, pulling you in so your temple rests against his shoulder. It’s warm, comforting – a parallel to the man of which you thought you hated.

Rest comes easy, at the side of one of the men who wants to kill you.

*

When you come to, it’s with the feeling of fingers brushing through your hair, and the scent of cajun.

The gentle mid-morning light filters into the room, casting light through your closed eyes, the faraway sound of bullets being fired an odd comfort. Soft sizzling, too, can be heard, as well as the chopping of a knife against a board.

“That smells bloody divine, Si,” a familiar, Scottish voice calls, quietened by what you can only suspect is due to your ‘sleeping’. “Ya’d be a bonnie housewife.”

“Watch it, Johnny,” Ghost replies, stern, even with the undercurrent of humour in his voice. 

The fingers in your hair continue to card through your strands, pausing to massage at your scalp every now and then. The movements have you melting further into Soap’s lap.

“Ken the other two are goin’ at it?” Johnny chides, and even without vision, you can see the goading smile on his face.

“I ken you should shut your face,” Ghost retorts, the sound of chopping finally coming to a pause. “And, no, you’re a bloody idiot.”

“Rude.”

Fluttering your eyes open, you let out a small huff of air, stretching your tense muscles. They feel sore with lethargy, and stiff from the position you fell asleep in.

“Mornin’, Sweetheart,” Johnny smirks, looking down at where your head sits in his lap.

When you look towards the kitchen, it's to find Ghost, flipper in hand as he stands by the stove, a glass bowl filled with salad to his side. One thing in particular has you looking twice.

“A bit promiscuous, don't you think, Lieutenant?”

Ghost's eyes narrow, but Soap lets out a pleased chuckle. “Like a lad seein’ an ankle, aye?”

Instead of gloves, the pale skin of his hands is shown for the first time, patterns of ink decorating the back of his hands. The small hint of a sleeve has you desperate to see the full thing.

“You're both fuckin’ ridiculous,” Ghost scoffs, starting to swap the contents of the pan into the salad bowl.

As you move to sit up, Soap’s hands fall to your waist, pulling you so your back presses against his chest. His thumbs trace circles into the skin where your shirt rides up, but it’s more out of instinct than anything else.

“What’d you make us?” You ask, rubbing at your weary, sleepy eyes as you deflate against Soap.

“Cajun chicken ‘nd salad,” Ghost quips, serving up a plate for each of you. It smells nothing short of delicious, and you sit up straighter against the Sergeant.

“Lt and Gaz are our personal chefs,” Soap chimes, squeezing you tighter against him. “Bloody perfect at it.”

Ghost rolls his eyes, but comes over with two plates, setting them on the coffee table in front of both you and Soap. It’s a small space, next to the personal kitchen, but it’s nice. Intimate.

The first mouthful of salad is like heaven on your tongue, and you look up at Ghost with wide eyes as you swallow. “This is amazing.”

“You’d better eat it all then,” he jerks his chin towards your plate, grabbing his own before sitting on the chair to your left. Soap, still with his chest to your back, shovels his food into his mouth like a man starved.

It’s quiet, for a few moments, just the three of you enjoying your food.

“What’s the next step?” Johnny asks, around a mouthful. You elbow him in the side, and he feigns hurt. He swallows, before continuing, “Aye mean, what’re we gonna do? What lead do we follow?”

“I think,” you work your jaw around the words, thinking, “I think if we get to the root, we can bring down the whole tree.”

You scan the two men, and it’s Ghost who understands your words first.

“Shepherd. You think we should take him out first,” Ghost leans back in his seat, studying you with calculating, chocolate brown eyes. They shine in the midday light.

Nodding, you swallow around some lettuce, before continuing, looking between the two. 

“If we can find Shepherd, and learn why everything’s happened the way it has,” you rub at your face, “Then we can bring it all crumbling down. Like dominoes.”

“He’s MIA,” Soap furrows his brows, placing his empty plate on the coffee table. “We’ve tried finding the twat – he’s gone.”

You shrug, a plan forming in your mind like the final pieces of a puzzle connecting. A small, pleased smile spreads on your lips, before you’re moving off of the couch, ready to head to Price’s office.

“Where’s you going?” Ghost queries, leaning forward, elbows resting on his spread knees.

You tilt your head.

“Power in numbers, right?” Heading for the corridor, you open the door, before turning back to look at the two men one more time.

“I know two soldiers who’ve been waiting for a call.”

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee @simp-sentral @littlecellist @clear-your-mind-and-dream @browtfyoudoing @oreo-cream @fanngirl19 @infpt-zylith @marispunk @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @xvintageghostx @thigh-o-saur

[chaosheadspace]

You KNOW I’m gonna request 21 with Dreamling for the kissy prompts 🥺

🤘five-and-dimes

Hello @five-and-dimes, thank you for sending in an ask! Here you go.

At first, Dream does not really notice.

After all, he has so much to do when he finally escapes, and Hob is a welcome distraction, a haven where he shores when his duty and the voices of others become too much, too heavy. Hob is safety, Hob is respite, Hob is a breath after surfacing after diving.

Hob helps him acclimatise again, makes humanity palatable in a thousand tiny morsels. Where Dream still feels cold glass, still tastes stale air, still sees painted stars, Hob slowly but surely replaces one hundred years of solitude with little flickers of colour.

Hob feeds him, just a few bites, of every meal he eats in Dream's presence. At first, Dream is hesitant, but he owes Hob, owes him for his loyalty, and a little food cannot harm him, can it? And Dream is surprised, the first time, how hungry his body is. Not for the offered sustenance, no, but for the care with which Hob offers a forkful of his dinner.

Hob's other offerings are easier to accept.

Soft blankets, clothes, even a black plushie called, according to Hob, mothman. He wraps Dream in warm softness, encloses him in the promise of a barrier between him and the recent past.

Television, which Hob is very enthusiastic about. Shows, films, video games. It runs human emotion through Dream on an infinitesimal scale, one at a time, easy, distinct. He tastes laughter again, fear, sorrow, lust, even allows himself to dip his toes into his sister Despair’s realm, but only briefly. The emotion does not have to be his, when he is watching. It is not overwhelming. He can feel it, and let it go. It leaves him exhausted but better, small chunks of himself puzzled into the cracks the past put there.

But Hob does not touch him, not really.

He offers hugs, and cuddles, and readily lets Dream treat him as part of the sofa, putting his feet or his head or his whole self into Hob's lap. But, Dream realises, he has never really felt Hob's touch. A squeeze on his coat-clad shoulder, at most.

It puzzles him, because Hob readily offers and gives touch to other people close to him, Dream has had time to observe. Tight hugs, claps on the back, ruffled hair, clasped hands in earnest conversation, Hob always reaches for people.

But not for Dream.

He recalls countless situations where Hob changed his mind, though. Tentatively lifted his hand, just to take it away again, uncharacteristically shy. If it is shyness at all.

And so it happens that in the middle of the game show they are supposed to be watching, Dream takes one of Hob's hands, startling him.

Hob turns his head, puzzled, trying to jerk his hand away. Dream does not let him. “Wha—”

“Why do you not touch me?” Dream asks softly. He loosens his hold on Hob's hand, turns it over in his grip and gently smooths his index finger over Hob's palm.

Hob releases a trembling breath. “Dream—”

“Please,” Dream says, even quieter, not looking Hob in the eye. Instead, he watches Hob's fingers curl slightly in the flickering light from the TV, trails the mounds of Hob's fingers from index to pinkie.

Hob switches off the TV sound.

“My hands aren't pretty,” he finally says. “They're not soft. They're warrior’s hands, craftsman’s hands, and I thought—” he swallows. “I thought you've had enough roughness in your life for once.”

Dream smiles, just a little. “Tell me,” he says, taking Hob's hand in both of his, “have you not been gentle with me?”

He raises it, cradled, moon white on sun-kissed. “Will these hands not protect me?”

He places a kiss on the knuckle of Hob's thumb, and Hob takes a sharp breath.

“These hands have fed me,” Dream continues, touching his lips to the pad of Hob's index finger. “They have clothed me, garbed me in blankets to ward off the cold.”

Dream's mouth slowly continues its way, feeling out the shape of Hob's calluses and scars, breathing the words into the space between Hob's fingers.

“Your hands will not harm me,” Dream says, carefully placing Hob's hand palm first against his own cheek, “and neither will you.”

A hitching breath, almost like a sob, and then Hob reaches for him with his other hand, drawing Dream in by the back of his head, twining his fingers into Dream's hair. And Dream goes gladly, leans forward into Hob's warmth, follows the call of Hob's lips with his own, tasting care and love and fierceness all for himself.

Send me a kissy prompt or read the other ones here

[sourlemonsprout]

𝐵𝒶𝓀𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒟𝒾𝓈𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇

Alphonse x Seth x SugarBoo (gn!reader)

Word Count: 1,913

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This little town absolutely loved to throw festivals, no matter the occasion - whether it was Christmas, Beer, Halloween, Music, Summer Solstice, or Spring, the locals poured their heart and soul into it. You appreciate how much spirit and enthusiasm they can pack into a celebration. After your delicious display of baked sweets at the annual Christmas festival a few years ago, the townsfolk practically begged you to cater at every event, and this time around was no different. If you could bake the treats the morning of to ensure they were as fresh as possible, you would. Unfortunately, there was too much to do in too little time, so you settled on the night before. Everything was going smooth as buttercream until you reached the new recipe you decided to try out. You wanted to step up the game and try something fancy, and what better way to go than Canelés de Bordeau, a small French pastry with a custard center and a thick caramelized crust. You'd acquired the special copper molds years ago, yet you'd never tried to make them until tonight, and it was starting to seem like you'd bit off more than you could chew. 

"fuck fuck fuck fuck!" you yell slamming the oven door closed, hands pulling at the top of your hair as you walk in circles around the kitchen. The angered outburst and slight smell of burning sugar had caught the attention of the pink and brown-haired boys sitting in the next room over watching a movie.   

"Boo?" Alphonse called from the couch. Seth shot Al a concerned glance as he paused the TV before they gingerly crept toward the kitchen. You felt the boy's eyes on you from the doorway, but didn't look their way. Your movement stopped, jaw tight and fists clasped in a white-knuckled grip, your hands practically shaking. Al ran up beside you and rubbed the sides of your arms.

"Hey, hey! Baby! It's ok." he bent at the knees slightly to look you in the eyes. 

"Let's just breathe for a moment, yeah?" He helped guide your breathing by inhaling deeply through his mouth and out his nose until you seemed physically calmer. Seth peaked in the oven and quickly understood what the outburst was about. The custard was bubbling over their little trays, the edges starting to burn. He didn't know much about baking, but based on their state and your reaction, he knew this meant they were unsalvageable, so he turned off the oven and removed the tray. 

"Talk to us, what's goin' on?" 

"I wanted to try something special and it's completely ruined." you pout. 

"Well Sugar, you already have two fantastic-lookin' treats, I'm sure everyone would be just fine with this." Seth tried. 

"Yeah! And you know everyone is going to love whatever you hand out," Alphonse added, but it was no use you were fixated on these Canelés. 

"I always have at least three items." you protest. 

"What do you want to do?" Seth questioned, moving a little closer to you two. Your mind was consumed by anger and scattered thoughts, making it difficult to focus. Alphonse scanned your face as you thought, seeing that this wasn't helpful, he threw out an option, hoping this would alleviate decision-making stress. 

"Do you want to go to the store and pick up something pre-made to hand out tomorrow?" he proposed softly. You shot him a cold glare that could kill. 

"Ok, ok." he threw his hands up. 

"They're looking forward to my baking. They specifically requested my catering again." you expound. As you continued to mumble about the quality of store-bought goods, Alphonse looked across the kitchen. The countertop was littered with ingredients and the sink was on the brim of overflowing with dirty dishes. He glanced over at the clock, which read 10:09 pm. 

"Ok, well, it's gettin' late, do you want to try and make another batch?" he questioned. 

"I don't have enough eggs or butter to make another batch," you state.

The kitchen was uncomfortably silent for a few moments, the smell of burnt defeat loomed in the air above you three. 

"Gimme a list Sugar, I'll head out and grab whatever you need," Seth spoke up. 

"Yeah, and while he's out, I'll help clean up the kitchen!" Al said eagerly. The heavy frustration that lingered in your chest finally fizzled out, and a tired fuzziness settling in your system took its place. Your face turns into a downward smile and despite your best efforts, you can't stop the tears that are flowing down your cheeks. 

"Oh Boo," Al chuckles, scooping you into a bear hug.

"You know we're here for you," Seth joins the hug, wrapping his arms tightly around the both of you. 

"I love you guys so much," you sniffle into their chests. 

"Okok," Al says, gently pulling you away from his chest, a hand slides down to the small of your back as he tilts his head to look at your tear-stained face. 

"Why don't you go take a hot shower to relax babe, it's going to be a minute before everything is ready for you," he said placing a smooch on your forehead. 

"mmk," you sniff, handing your apron to Al before shuffling your way upstairs. 

"I still need that list..." Seth mumbled as he watched you disappear.

"That's alright man, we can look at the recipe and figure out what they need," Al said, cracking knuckles. 

Seth knew he'd have to find a convenience store to pick up all the necessary ingredients, given grocery stores would be closing at this time of the night. He finally found a 7-Eleven and pulled into the parking lot. As he stood next to his bike rubbing his hands together and blowing into them to regain warmth, he mentally reviewed the list he and Al had made. 

Fuck, why do all convenience stores have to have such bright lights? He thought as he entered the shop squinting. He made quick work and gathered everything on his checklist. Just as he was about to check out, a neon sign caught his eye toward the back of the store. He wandered over to the refrigerated display cases. I'll never understand why they enjoy this stuff, it's just battery acid in a fancy can. He thought to himself as he picked up your favorite energy drink. 

You sat on the floor of your shower, enjoying the steaming water pouring over your back as your muscles relaxed. How incredibly lucky were you to have two amazing people taking care of you? As the warm water eventually ran out, you reluctantly stepped out of the shower and wrapped yourself in a towel. You tiptoed out of the bathroom and made your way to your room to slip into some comfy clothes. You let out a sigh of relief at the feeling of the soft fabric against your skin. The mere thought of putting on jeans again made you feel suffocated and discouraged as if you were about to embark on a daunting task. As you rubbed the towel through your hair one last time, you heard the faint sound of the front door opening, followed by the crinkling of bags. Now that the red cloud of frustration wasn't blinding your every thought, you were able to reflect upon the disappointing batch of custardy treats. Descending the stairs slowly, you carefully pondered every detail before devising a new plan that you hoped would result in a perfectly crafted batch of delicious treats. As you rounded the corner back to the kitchen, which was now sparkling clean, Seth caught your eyes and held up your favorite energy drink with a big toothy grin. 

"I got this for ya since I figured you'd be stayin' up pretty late." 

This man truly knew the way to your heart. 

You walked over to where he stood and took the can before cupping the side of his face and placing a big kiss on his cheek. 

"Aw look at you tryin' to score brownie points," Al smirked. 

The evening drew on, and the boys did the best they could to stay awake with you as you baked the night away. Eventually, Al had to tap out and go to bed, not before promising to help package all the goodies the next morning. Seth was not too far behind, he was practically half-asleep at the kitchen table when you told him you had it all handled, and that he should go to bed. Exhaustion started to prick at your mind, the effects of your caffeinated beverage were wearing off as the last few minutes of the oven's timer ticked down. 

As you pulled out the tray filled with perfectly baked Canelés, a tremendous wave of relief and satisfaction washed over you. The feeling only intensified as you cautiously removed each pastry from its molds, revealing a beautiful amber caramel coating. They looked as if they had just come from a French bakery. You lazily cleaned a few items around the counter before calling it quits, there'd be time tomorrow to deal with this mess. Grateful to finally be done, you dragged yourself to bed and collapsed in between your boys, nuzzling your face in between Seth's shoulder and draping an arm over his side. Just as you were about to drift off, you felt Alphonse slide up behind you, your back now flush against his chest as he rubbed your arm sleepily. 

"m'love you Boo..." he whispered against your neck before falling back into a deep sleep. 

Hours later, you woke up and reached out, expecting to find someone by your side, but the bed was completely empty. Confused, you sat up and rubbed my eyes, trying to shake off the grogginess of sleep. Panic started to rise in your chest as you checked your phone to see that the festivities were starting in fifteen minutes. Despite your time constraint, you couldn't help but spend the extra minute to throw together a cute outfit, before running downstairs. You were slightly out of breath when you reached the festival, which was set up around the heart of town, near Al's shop. Your pace crawled to a halt as you spotted Seth standing beside a table with his back to you. The boys had chosen a charming tablecloth that complemented the decor of the foldout table. They'd packaged and arranged the three batches of baked goodies, aligning them neatly for folks to grab them and go. You snuck up behind him and slipped your arms around his waist, resting your chip on his shoulder. 

"Well hey there sleepin' beauty, or should I say baking beauty?" he chuckled at his own joke, to which you roll your eyes. You turn to the sound of another familiar voice,

"How'd you sleep Boo?" Alphonse asked, handing you an iced caramel latte, your favorite. 

"Oooo! I'm definitely gonna need this," you say happily taking the coffee from your boyfriend. 

"Look who's trying to score brownie points now," Seth mumbled sassily. 

"Honestly, I slept pretty good!" You say, taking a quick sip, 

"Seth's snoring is like the perfect white noise, it lulls me right to sleep," you giggle. 

"You guys are seriously the best," You set your latte down and then wrap your arms around each of them, pulling them close to give them a little kiss.

"I couldn't have done this without you." 

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The End <3

[didhewinkback]

a something old ode to slane

---

“Ow. Ow. Owowow - H.”

“Hmm?” He asks, peeling his eyes away from the stage for a second to look at you before focusing right back to where Mitch was about to walk out, completely oblivious to how hard he was squeezing your hand, sweaty palm holding yours in a death grip, knee nervously bouncing up and down. 

“Squeezing the shit out of my hand.”

“Oh.” he says, looking down at your hands, his knuckles having gone white in their tight grip, laughing sheepishly as he lets go, squeezing your knee before clasping his hands together tightly, leaning forward on his elbows. “Sorry. Nervous.” 

“He’s gonna be great.”

“I know he is, I just -” he shakes his head, eyes not wavering from the stage. “Just need him to get out there already.”

“Mhm.” you say, watching the way his eyes keep darting from backstage to center stage to the crowd and back. “It’s like… you know he’s gonna smash it, and that he was absolutely born for this, but still in these few moments before he walks out your brain is running through a million and two things that can go wrong, so you just need him to hit that first note so you can take the first real breath you’ve taken in the last hour?”

He freezes a moment before he shakes his head with a laugh, grin growing on his face as he looks over at you, eyes crinkling when they lock with yours.

“Been around this block a few times before, have ya?”

“Broken quite a few hands in my day.” you say as he snorts. “Roxy still insists I permanently bruised her knuckles before that first Coachella weekend.”

“That was a good show.” 

“It was. Did think I was gonna vom when you took that 45 minute run from the top of the stairs to the mic, though.” 

“Think it was more like 15 seconds.”

“According to you.” you say as he huffs a laugh.

“Couldn’t have done those shows without you, you know. Any of these shows really... Like this one is gonna be mental.” he says, shaking his head in disbelief as he looks out at the crowd before turning back towards you, soft smile on his face. “No better feeling than knowing you’re out there watching me.” 

“One of my favorite places to be.” 

“One of?” he asks indignantly. “What are your other favorite places then?”

“Quite like being with you after a show,” you say, leaning in closer, smiling as his grin grows. 

“Speaking of Coachella….” 

You smirk at each other, both instantly remembering the afterparty from the second weekend, the two of you flying high on the energy and emotions of those two weeks ending with a bang (literally) with you riding him wearing nothing but his pink vest he wore on stage hours before. 

“And Nashville. And Tokyo. And Berlin. And Buenos Aires -”

“Can’t wait to add Slane to the list.” he muses as he leans in closer. “Keep talking like this and you’re gonna rile me up.” 

“Trying to distract you, is it working?”

“Little too well I think,” he says, eyes dropping to your mouth before looking back up at you. “Wanna distract me some more after their set?”

“Don’t you have a show to get ready for?”

“Could count as my cardio warmup.” 

“Oh my god -”

“Y’know, the owners did invite me here. Bet they’d let me fuck you in the castle -” 

You honk out a laugh, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him in as he nudges his nose against your cheek.

“Planning on giving me the royal treatment, are you?”

“Yeah, love.” he says, giggling against your skin. “Something like that.”

He plants a lingering kiss to your cheek, humming before he drags his lips in a line across your jaw. He pulls back to look at you, eyes grazing over your features.

“C’mon baby.” he says, nudging his nose against yours. “Give me a kiss.” 

You scratch your nails against his scalp as his breath mingles with yours, tilting your head just so - 

The roar of the crowd makes you both freeze in place, Mitch’s movement on stage catching the corner of your eye. Harry’s eyes dart to the stage and then back to you and then back to the stage. 

“I’ll have to distract you later.” 

“‘S that a promise?” he asks and you nod, kissing him quickly before pulling away as you both turn back to face the stage. 

You can see the nerves settle back in him, his shoulders practically tensing up to his ears, laser focused once again as Mitch and Sarah get set up. You slide your hand onto his thigh, palm facing up. 

“Squeeze away, babe.” you say, “It’ll help.”

He takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before holding tight, barely breathing as his eyes are locked to where Mitch stands center stage. Beside you, you can hear him take a shaky breath and you know he’s having that once in a lifetime experience of watching someone you love stand on the biggest stage they’ve ever stood on, just them and the songs they’ve written and a microphone. 

And you get it. 

You really do.

---

[obxone]

Final Goodbye

Edited-ish. ~2.6k words

Warning: smut (do not engage if you are underage!)

It is stupid for you to be here, and you know that, but you have to see him. A final goodbye after everything that has happened. You lift your trembling hand to knock on the open camper door. At the first knock of your knuckles, Barry looks up from where he sits on a bed, and Rafe’s head lifts from where it rests against a cabinet. His jaw is bruised, and his eyes are flat and dull. He looks disheveled and tired.

“Well, look who it is,” Barry muses, his dark eyes raking over you.

“Rafe?” You ask, hands clasping in front of you. If he turned you away, then you would have to leave, but from the look on his face, you know you are staying.

He closes his eyes, hands fisting before they press against the wooden paneled wall. “Barry.”

Barry grumbles, annoyed with Rafe’s request for him to leave before he stands and shoves past you before shaking his head. “My fucking house.”

You exhale and climb the steps into the camper, staying near the door as you watch him. Rafe is a wounded animal, and he is scared. You can see it in his eyes. He moves forward and reaches past you to pull the door shut.

“Why are you here?” He asks, the length of his body still crowding yours. “It’s not safe.”

You swallow. “I had to see you.” You clear your throat before exhaling. “At least one more time.”

He nods, his fingers brushing your hand that hangs by your side. “You know?”

“I assumed Ward would not let them take you.”

His lips are in a tight line before he closes his eyes. His forehead falls to yours, breaths mixing. “I was planning so much for us.”

“I know,” you whisper, hand moving up to cup his face. “I know, Baby.”

His eyes are glassy, and his other hand fists the skirt of your dress. “I didn’t mean to do that, you know.”

“I know.”

He sniffs, and his lips brush your cheek. “I failed us.”

You nod, tears welling in your eyes before you kiss him. He hesitates, his hand fisting your skirt so tightly his knuckles are white and his breathing ragged.

“Are you sure?”

You are silent, looking at one another before you kiss him again. He kisses you back. His other hand fisting your hair as he kisses you like this is his last time to taste you. Because it is, when you leave Barry’s camper and Rafe’s arms, you will never return, and he will be gone by tomorrow, a wanted man.

He spins you to pin your body against the floor-to-ceiling wooden cabinets. Slowly Rafe’s hand trails down your neck and chest to slip beneath the skirt of your dress. His fingers brush against your skin. Goosebumps are left in the wake of his touch. You groan when his hand moves between your legs to touch you through your lace underwear.

“Please,” you gasp against his mouth. “Please, Rafe.”

He groans, burying his face in your neck to kiss and mark your skin as his fingers push your underwear to the side and he sinks two fingers into you. You moan, head falling back as he pumps in and out of you. You were drenched and desperate for him.

“Rafe!” You whine as he ghosts over you so deep that you can feel it to your toes.

“You are so fucking wet for me.”

You bite your lip, looking down to watch his hand work you as he holds your skirt up and to the side. “It feels so good, Baby.”

“Fuck!” He groans into your skin as you take a third. Your hips move with his touch, and you ache for all of him. “So fucking hot.”

“All yours,” you pant, gripping his shoulders and pushing up on your toes as his thumb circles your clit. “Rafe!”

“I know, Baby, I know.”

You bite your lip to keep from crying out as he curls his fingers inside you. Rafe shudders against you, feeling your walls squeeze him in desperation. The small confines of the camper grow hot before you orgasm from Rafe’s touch. Your body trembles, and the cry of his name from your lips nearly drives him mad. His lips are on yours, desperate as he nips your bottom lip.

“Please don’t go yet,” he begs. The hard press of him against your thigh makes you shiver.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You murmur back, cupping his face. “I’m yours, okay? All yours, forever.”

He does not call you on the lie of forever and instead hooks his hand around your thigh, pulling your hips against his. His body presses yours against the cabinets. The harsh corners of the wood biting into your skin has you crying out. He nips at your neck before he begins to lift your dress. You reach down in a messy rush to undo the ties so he can lift it over your head. The cotton material crumples on the floor, and his hands drag over your torso. You tug his striped shirt up and over his head. It joins your dress on the floor in a heap. Both of you undress before you lower yourself into the bed, and he climbs over you. His mouth is greedy for you before trialing down to your neck.

You moan, back arching, and his hands grip your hips harshly enough to leave bruises. His mouth is on your breasts, sucking and nipping at the sensitive skin, and your arms cradle his head. His blue eyes locked on your face as you pant and mewl for him, all of him.

You watch him trail his lips lower. Your skin is damp, overheated from his touch and the stale air of the camper. Rafe’s hands push you back into the bed before he shoulders his way between your legs.

“Oh god!” You cry out when he makes contact, hands shaking, and you tangle your fingers in his hair and scratch his back. Rafe works you expertly, wasting no time to have you losing yourself to him. He knows your body like the back of his hand and has you whining as he works your clit. “Rafe!”

Your legs fall apart, and your toes curl from his tongue touching you. Your nails bite into his shoulder as he dips into you over and over. He hums at the sweet taste of you. His fingers work over your clit until you orgasm again. Your eyes squeeze shut, thighs clamping around his head, and you cry out so loud anyone nearby likely hears you.

“Turn around,” he pants. “On your knees.”

You do as he says, back arching when his hand skims up the length of your back to fist in your hair, and he sinks into you. You cry out and jerk forward when he bottoms out abruptly. Your walls squeeze him while he fucks into you. The bed is unforgiving beneath your knees, the mattress thin and cheap, but the feel of Rafe touching you washes the pain from your mind.

“Fuck, you’re still so tight,” he murmurs, lips brushing the back of your neck. “My girl.”

You nod, closing your eyes and trying not to scream his name like you burn to do. His arm snakes around your waist to pull you up on your knees. His mouth attaching to your neck, and his fingers find their way between your legs again.

“Rafe… hmm- I-I’m so close.”

He smirks against your throat, nipping the skin to leave a mark, and you fall apart at the feel of his teeth on you, along with everything else. You cry out his name again, and he slowly lowers you into the bed.

You lay on your back, looking at him and gasping for air. Your body tingles, and it feels like you are on cloud nine.

“One more, Baby,” Rafe murmurs, pressing into you. You groan, head tipping back when he sinks into you. “That’s it, Baby, you’re doing so good.”

“I can’t,” you whine, hands gripping his shoulders. Nails digging into the muscle there because he ignores your whining and begins to move.

He smiles, pecking your lips. “You can. You can for me.”

His hand cups your face, thumb tracing your jaw and over your bottom lip as he rolls his hips into yours at a much slower pace. You gasp, feeling every inch of him. Your toes curl against the sheets, and you nip the pad of his thumb.

Your eyes flutter shut, and you lose yourself to Rafe.

“Eyes on me.”

Your eyes snap open, and he groans low in his chest. His hand grips your thigh, pulling your leg up around his hips, and he sinks deeper into you. Bodies pressing together until you both climax together. His face nuzzles into your neck, and he groans out your name.

Post orgasmic haze settles, and you feel tingles from your head to your toes. Your heart races, and your thoughts become muddled as he presses you against the mattress. Your lips brush before you kiss him, arm hooked around his shoulder to hold him against you.

“I’m going to be so lost without you,” you murmur against his mouth. Tears begin to slip down your cheeks, and you wish with all you might you could keep him safe and sheltered. To heal that broken boy inside of him. “I’m so sorry, Rafe. I’m sorry.”

He shushes you with kisses across your face and mouth. “We’ll be okay, Baby.”

You nod. It is a lie that brings neither of you comfort. His hands tangle with yours, and the weight of the gold ring on your hand that he had gifted you after one year makes your heart feel like it is being ripped to shreds.

You need to leave. You need to get dressed and walk away from him as you promised yourself you would. But the naked press of his body against yours and the false bubble around you two feels too good to leave.

You close your eyes, resting with the weight of him still on top of you.

“Don’t go yet, okay?” He begs, lips brushing between your breasts. His head rests on your chest, ear placed right over your heartbeat. He can hear the spiked rate as he begs you not to leave him yet. “One more, okay?”

“One more,” you agree, closing your eyes, and you cry for him and you. You love him, despite his disregard for your friends and killing Sheriff Peterkin. “One more night.”

---

You wake to Rafe pressing into you. The tip of his cock slides through your folds. His breath on your neck, no doubt littered with love bites, and he enters you. You groan, sensitive from the hours of waking up to his body around yours as he fucked into you over and over between brief periods of sleep or rest with whispers about a future that will never happen. The sun is rising. You both know this is the last time.

“Rafe,” you whisper with desperation.

“I love you, Baby.”

“I love you too,” you rush out before pulling his mouth to yours. He presses into your back, guiding you onto your stomach as he continues to lazily roll his hips.

“So fucking beautiful.” He murmurs, hands lifting your hips off the bed. The sound of his body falling against you fills the camper, and your body trembles in anticipation of another orgasm.

“More,” you plead, closing your eyes and slipping your hand between your legs. You gasp, jerking back to meet his thrusts as you touch your clit.

Rafe groans your name, and your walls squeeze him, pushing him closer to the edge of bliss.

He pulls completely out of you, and you whine, face buried in the pillows. Your body aches for him all over again.

“Roll over, Princess; I want to see your pretty face.”

You do as you are told, rolling onto your back before you pull him into you again. He presses against you and sinks back into you. Your breath mixes, faces barely an inch from the others, as you stare at one another, drinking the other in. Your hips arch and roll along with his movements. Hands clasped against the mattress.

Tears well in your eyes because the morning sun slowly illuminating the camper tells you that this is truly the last time you will feel him like this.

“Don’t cry, Baby, don’t cry.”

“I can’t help it,” you whimper before kissing him. “I love you.”

His eyes close, forehead pressed to yours. “I love you so fucking much.”

It does not take long. Both of you are so sensitive to the other. And he holds you close as you try to catch your breath together. His body is hot and sweaty against yours.

Your fingers trace his palm, feeling the lines and dips. You trace your initial against the heart of his palm.

“It is over too soon.”

He frowns, brushing his lips across your temple. A few more moments of silence and bodies pressed together pass before you both leave the mussed sheets to get dressed. Rafe steps out of the camper first, and you follow, keeping your hand clasped with his. You notice Barry emerging from the trailer porch. A smirk on his face, and you roll your eyes, turning to Rafe.

“Is he helping you?”

“Yes.”

You exhale, nuzzling your face in his chest. “Be careful with him. I don’t trust him.”

Rafe cups your face. His fingers are gentle, and his thumb skates across the apple of your cheek. “Be careful going home.”

You look at Barry when he nears, and Rafe presses his lips to your shoulder. “Take care of him.”

He nods his head once. “I will, Princess. Don’t you worry.”

“If you don’t, I will find you and kill you myself.”

Barry smirks before licking his lips. “Careful, Mrs. Country Club.”

Rafe’s head lifts, and he glowers at Barry, but he ignores it. His dark eyes fixated on you as you challenge him back. Barry shakes his head, eventually looking away, and you turn to look at Rafe. Your chest pressed to him, and you cup his face.

“Promise me that you will be careful.”

He kisses you, hands warm on your face until he ends it. A quiet moment of your both taking each other in before he answers you. “I promise.”

“If they catch you,” you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut. “Please don’t fight them. Please don’t get yourself killed.”

He is silent, holding you one last second before releasing you. He does not promise that he will not because he knows he would rather die than go to jail. You step back, exhaling to try and keep the tears at bay.

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

You turn and start to walk away; you can feel his eyes burning into your back. You glance back and immediately drop your shoulders when tears well in your eyes. You cannot do it; you cannot walk away from him. You rush back into his arms, and he clings to you. His mouth is on yours, and you sigh into him.

All too soon, he is ending the kiss, but his grip on your waist lingers. “You need to go home, Baby. Go straight home, all right?”

You nod, kissing him over and over until he gently pushes you away, but his lips chase you despite his attempt to separate you. You squeeze your eyes shut, memorizing the feel of his touch, the feel of his lips, and the burn in your heart as you say goodbye.

“Goodbye, Rafe.”

[sprnklersplashes]

Q with Jdronica 🫶🏻

Here's the thing with JD getting sick; he likes to power through it. Pretend he doesn't feel it, keep calm and carry on, insist that his immune system is as unbreakable as the rest of him,

Here's the other thing about JD being sick; Veronica sees right through it. It's been two years, after all. She knows him like the back of her hand. If he thinks he can still bullshit her when she has explored every inch of his body... he's nowhere near as smart as he thinks he is.

Especially when she comes over on Saturday morning to see him hunched over the kitchen sink with his hands clasped behind his neck. She lingers in the doorway, watching as he scrunches his face, buries his fingers in his hair. The pained breath lingers in the air, twisting Veronica's heart in ways she didn't expect.

Her steps are light as she crosses the kitchen, cushioned by the maroon rug Claire bought at a yard sale last spring. She clears her throat just before approaching him, the sound as tentative as her steps. It still makes him jump, and he turns at a speed that makes Veronica wince.

He blinks twice, swallows thickly. Then, he gives his best approximation of an "everytning's normal" smile.

"Ronnie," he says. He runs a shaky hand through his hair. "Didn't know you were coming over."

"What's up?" she asks him instead of replying. She watches as he straightens up, inhales slowly through his teeth. One hand is wrapped tightly around the kitchen counter, the knuckles white as if he's holding everything in that one hand.

"I'm f-"

"Jason, if you say 'I'm fine', I'll smack you so hard," she tells him. His mouth opens, the closes without a sound, eyes widening slightly before he leans back into the counter. Guilt prickles in her chest as she notices the pallour of his cheeks, how he doubles over slightly against the pain in his stomach. She brushes her fingers against his, silently, softly, whispering "I'm sorry" without words. It works; a tiny hint of a smile flickers on his face.

"I may or may not have food poisoning," he sighs. "That's the conclusion I've come to anyway. That or I'm pregnant."

"Oh I use a condom and you're on the pill." He barks a laugh at that, although it's quickly undermined by a pained whimper. Logic tells her that it's fine, that it's just a bad stomach and in 24 hours she'll be laughing with him about it. But another part of her, the part that's bundled up with him, feels like that's too far away.

"Okay buckaroo." She presses a kiss to his hair and grabs the glass of water on the counter. "Couch. Now."

"Veronica, I'm-"

"What did I say about the F word?" she asks. She glances him over again and grabs crackers from the cupboard. Then she turns, raises her eyebrow and gestures with the glass. "Coach. Now."

"Yes ma'am," JD mumbles. He trails Veronica into the living room, dragging his hand over his face as he goes. Despite his attempts at putting up a fight, he all but collapses onto the couch, knees pulled to his chest in an attempt to make the pain stop. As she places the water and crackers on the table beside him, she sees him biting the skin on his thumb, face tight so it doesn't show how much pain he's in.

It's a classic JD thing. Sometimes she wonders if he's aware she's doing it.

"Sorry I ruined your Saturday," he says weakly. Veronica just shrugs and curls up next to him, so close that his sock-clad feet tickle her legs.

"I didn't have anywhere else to be," she tells him. "Just remember that if you puke, do not do it on me. I like this skirt."

"I bought you that skirt."

Veronica sighs, hiding her grin in her hand. Something settles in her chest, warm and gentle and peaceful. God, she loves this boy. She's going to spend the rest of her life with this boy.

For now though, she just scratches his back and watches him sip water.

"Yeah. You did." JD chuckles, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on the couch.

"I've got good taste."

(Definitely spending the rest of her life with him)

"Yeah. You do."

tip me on ko-fi (completely optional)

[gale-dekarios]

Bouncing Baby Bloodsucker

Astarion and Tav had no reason to suspect that the undead would be able to reproduce. Turns out they were wrong. They approach Shadowheart with one question on their minds: will a baby vampire kill a human parent?

Trans Male!Tav/Astarion whoopsy-daisy into becoming dads.

Rated: M

Read me on [AO3]

“Well yes,” Shadowheart snipped, “that’s usually what happens when you have unprotected sex.”

“Between the living, yes, but the undead shouldn’t be able to-- right?” Tav asked, pitching forward in his seat. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Astarion that his hands had been held loosely over his protruding stomach ever since he began to suspect that the morning sickness, skipped periods, and extra weight was more than a rough patch in his health.

Shadowheart folded her arms, raising a brow, “I’m hardly an expert. Why didn’t you go to a normal doctor?”

“What a good idea Shadowheart! I’m sure any local doctor will act completely reasonably when they find out that a foul creature of the night left a surprise vamplet inside him. Should we break out the good torches and pitchforks?”

Despite his shortness, Astarion’s knuckles were held tight against his sides, reaching a shade of white that was truly alarming given his natural paleness, and he was pretty sure he was shaking to boot. The guilt; -- at not knowing better, at not taking precautions, of putting a bloodsucking demon with an unknown depth of hunger into his beloved partner, endangering them from the inside in a way he couldn’t begin to help with, -- wracked through his body in fresh waves as his thoughts spiralled like a madman’s.

“Shadowheart,” Tav pleaded, grabbing one of her hands in his, “We need to know what we’re dealing with here.”

She sighed, face screwing in concentration. “Fine. Hold on.”

She rose from her chair, marching across the room to pull some writing paper and an ink pen out from an old drawer, the pen scratching against the page disturbing an otherwise silent room.

Tav gave Astarion a weak smile, who in turn couldn’t muster one of his own. ‘I’m so sorry,’ Astarion mouthed to him, but it only made Tav’s brow furrow. He reached over and grabbed his hand, pulling it out of its fist, rubbing his thumb across his aching knuckles as he held it gently in his palms. The kindness of the gesture had Astarion’s stomach in uncomfortable knots. He couldn’t have told you how many people he had had sex with over the centuries, but the idea that his biology had only chosen to kick in now felt like a cruel joke the world was playing on him. Or rather, he really, really hoped his biology had only chosen to kick in now. The alternative was too ghastly to imagine.

“Alright, hopefully we’ll hear back soon.” Shadowheart broke the silence. She held the paper in clasped hands and muttered a few arcane words over it, the letter bursting into blinding divine radiance before disappearing from sight. She sat back down, levelling Tav with a sympathetic stare. “Are you alright? You look sick.” (Astarion tensed.)

“I don’t know how I am, it’s just… all so much. I’ve barely slept since we realised that I might be-- I think I’m too exhausted for it to have truly sank in yet.”

“I should take you back home,” Astarion said, his voice cracking at the end.

“You’re also free to sleep here for a while, if you like.”

Tav nodded, pulling his hand away from Astarion’s, and with it the little reassurance he had. “Thank you Shadowheart, really. I know all of this really isn’t your thing.”

“No, it’s not, but your little interloping tadpole is hardly the first daunting task we’ve dealt with together. At least this one doesn’t make a meal of your brain.” The joke fell flat as the unspoken sentiment filled a glaring hole in the conversation. A meal of his brain, perhaps not, but a vampire foetus to a living father hardly spells good news. Shadowheart sighed to herself softly, “The bedsit is through there, make yourself at home.”

Tav nodded and stood, leaning down to kiss his partner's cheek gently, before leaving the room silently, their absence haunting the chair next to Astarion. He crossed his legs, hands buried deep into the crook of his elbows as he and Shadowheart began a staring competition.

Loathe as he was to, he broke first. “Well?” He said, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Is he going to die?”

“We won’t know for certain until we hear back.” Shadowheart answered truthfully, “But it’s not looking good. He seems to have the markers of a regular pregnancy for now, but it’s likely because the thing doesn’t have teeth to bite yet.”

Astarion flinched. “We didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“But it did.” Shadowheart snapped, before tempering her rage, blowing a short breath out. “Listen, I don’t think you’d do anything to intentionally hurt him, not anymore. But the truth is that the living and the dead are incompatible. It just doesn’t work. The living are always going to end up dead, or the dead are destroyed so the living might continue.”

Astarion shook his head. “No, we’ve been through far too much now to just give up anytime there’s a bump in the road. We’ll figure this out and be more careful from now on.”

“Astarion.” Shadowheart warned. “Depending on what we hear back, there might not be a ‘from now on’, do you understand that? You spent so long luring people back for Cazador, why did it never occur to you that this could be possible?”

“Do you think I should have asked before or after torture sessions?” he snapped in return. “There was hardly a guidebook he handed out when he turned us, and the welcoming committee -- my darling siblings -- didn’t know any more than me either.”

Shadowheart straightened up, “Your siblings.”

“Yes, what about them?”

“You have six of them. And seven thousand more victims roaming the Underdark.”

“If they survived, yes.”

“Well surely you can’t be the first that this has happened to. If it’s true that Cazador never mentioned it was possible to you, they wouldn’t know either. Do you think you could find some of them? Ask around to see if anybody down there has had the same problem as you?”

Astarion’s brow creased in distaste. “Even if I could find some of them, for a lot of them I’m the last person they want to see, especially heralding a new breed of vampire.”

“This is hardly about you now is it?” Shadowheart shot back.

He grimaced. “Fine. I’ll travel to the Underdark at sundown tomorrow.”

“At this point it’s the least you could do.”

The room fell silent. Unable to retort, his wit replaced with worry, he stewed. Astarion knew he had done many terrible things in his life, and even more in his death, but he feared this might have been the worst.

A few hours passed of little note. Unmoving, his mind raced, and a cup of untouched water stood equally still on the table before him, the subject of his steady gaze. With his flawless skin and rigid posture, he could have passed for a statue. Shadowheart had left to do something earlier, Astarion wasn’t really listening, his ears roaring with stolen blood. And so he was alone. With the cup. Fuck.

It clatters against the wall violently and Astarion’s chest heaves with effort, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

A moment later, a sleep disturbed face peeks through the doorway.

“Astarion!” Tav gasped.

"I'm sorry, I woke you up. Gods. I just--" He struggled to find the words.

"Are you okay?"

“Am I okay? No, I'm not okay. I spent centuries being tortured by Cazador and the first good thing I have after getting out, of being free, I ruin it with this disgusting body of mine. I have countless victims, destroyed by this,” he spits, gesturing wildly at himself, “and yet I couldn’t be done, could I? I had to claim just one more. So no, Tav, I have to say, I am not fucking okay.”

Tav’s face paled as they swallowed visibly. “I’m not a prop."

“What?” Astarion asked incredulously.

“I said I’m not a prop, Astarion.” He put his hands on his hips, the way he did before he was about to make a point. “You didn’t do anything to me, we had sex together, and I’m not destroyed just because I have a piece of you inside of me. I don’t want you to think of me like that. I’m better than that. You’re better than that.” He gripped Astarion's forearms. “Do you understand? I don’t know what any of this means for me, for us, and I’m not going to lie to you, I am terrified. But I need you to be terrified with me, not terrified for me, and that requires us to be on the same page with this. We fucked up, we’re scared, and we’ll figure it out. Together. As equally responsible participants. Okay?”

“I just feel like I should have known.”

“As should I.”

His tears fell over. “I am scared.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I know.”

“What now?”

“We wait for Shadowheart to get back to us with more information. We know nothing, we’re just guessing based on our worst fears. When we know, we’ll know.”

“That’s incredibly unhelpful.”

“... I know.”

“What if--”

The door creaked open and Shadowheart stood in the doorframe, surveying the scene with an icy stare, something rectangular in her hands.

“You washed my walls. How kind of you both.”

“Sorry, Shadowheart.” Tav said, letting his hands drop.

“Gale got back to us,” she waved the rectangle at them.

Astarion spluttered, “It was Gale you wrote to?!”

“Yes. If you want information, who better to ask than the former wizarding prodigy without a social life to speak of?”

“Oh Gods, everyone’s going to know,” Tav moaned, rubbing his brow.

“Gale doesn’t shut up when you get him going, but he does know I can hurt him very, very badly. Excellent motivator, don’t you think?”

“What did he say?” Astarion asked reluctantly.

“See for yourself.” She handed the rectangle to Tav, which he could now make out was a loose letter tied to a dusty mauve tome.

He took it, opening the letter with shaking hands. He felt Astarion immediately press against his back, reading over his shoulder.

This should do it Shadowheart, will write you properly soon.

Dearest Tav and Astarion --

I believe some congratulations are in order! It’s no easy task to prepare for a new member of the family, but even more so with the kind you have cooking away. Should you find yourselves in need of a break, please remember Uncle Gale in his Waterdeep tower.

The good news is that the children of vampires -- known as dhampirs -- can lead a perfectly normal life. They can sustain themselves both on blood and regular food, they possess strange talents such as walking across vertical surfaces, and their physical appearances are as varied as any humanoid race, although it is likely they’ll possess some vampiric qualities--, i.e, elongated canines, red, or glowing eyes, ashen skin, the like -- but hardly the monsters their vampire parents are portrayed to be -- no offence Astarion.

I’ve sent along a tome I possess on the matter, please do take good care of it. I’ve bookmarked the relevant pages. From what I’ve read, there is no cause for alarm, although the (fascinating!) gestation period may not be as expected dear friends, so please pay close attention to Chapter 18, section 3. The bad news is that there’s no training guide on how to look after these children. You have a big challenge ahead of you both! But I’m sure between the two of you, as wonderful as you are for each other, you will figure out, like any parents, how to move forward with your new little family unit.

Please visit sometime, it would be wonderful to see you both, and I am unfortunately currently unable to disrupt my teaching schedule to make the trip to Baldur’s Gate. Perhaps with a little one on the way, one of you will accept my offer to introduce you to that fine Waterhavdian jeweller that I’ve mentioned previously?

P.S. Gale makes a fine middle name, don’t you think?

Yours Faithfully,

Prof. Gale Dekarios

“Wait a moment,” Astarion said, “Does this mean--?”

Tav whipped around to face him, eyes wide, grasping the letter like a lifeline, “We’re okay?”

“We’re okay.”

“We’re okay!”

He launched at Astarion, arms curling around the back of his neck, and he caught his waist, hauling him up into a hug.

“I can’t believe it,” Tav gasped as Astarion let him down, still in a close embrace. “We--! Oh. We have a lot to talk about. Do we want a baby?”

Astarion spluttered. “I--”

“I mean, babies are big responsibilities. And we’re hardly the most stable people in the world.” He gripped his own head. “The amount of weapons we have at home. We’d need to babyproof the blades. Can you babyproof a mace?”

“We’d need to get jobs. Real jobs, I mean. We couldn’t be on the move all the time.”

“And the cost. Babies are expensive little creatures. And the time. They need so much attention.”

“Exactly. It’s a horrible idea.”

“Terrible. We wouldn’t be able to cope. We should definitely do the responsible thing here and get rid of them.”

“Right.”

“We’re in agreement. Take that for incompatible you horrible little cleric.” Astarion sneered.

“What?”

“I didn't have to help!”

The screams pierce the house, the walls shaking as two toddlers whirled around their legs like miniature steel watchers, destroying everything in their path.

“Aren’t they precious?” Petras cooed, looking after his blond-haired son who was currently smashing his tiny fists at the wall as he tried to remember how to walk up it.

“Our little darling, perhaps, but your little demon seems to have the brains of his father,” Astarion curled his lip.

As Astarion spoke, their daughter, a bright-eyed little girl, growing more beautiful with each passing day, shoved an ink pen up her nose. He shot her a withering glare, the toddler blissfully unaware of the social disaster she had just created for him. She was lucky he thought the world of her, or he might have pinned her to the ceiling, out of the way.

“Clearly,” Petras scoffed.

“Thanks again for your help Petras, we both appreciate it. We really have no idea what we’re doing here.” Tav spoke up.

Petras nodded, “It’s a bit macabre to put such a little one into a coffin, but it really is the best way to make sure they don’t start running across the ceilings at night, and our Eric had grown out of his months ago. Do you have that soothing salve recipe I gave you?”

“Yes! Thank you.”

“She’ll be getting her fangs in soon. They’ll push out the teeth that are already there and it’ll hurt, and not only that, but when they do grow in, they’re sharp, so you’ll need to get her some caps until you can teach her to keep them out of the way. It’s not pretty, but she’ll be okay.”

“Daddy!” a little voice yelled insistently, and three heads snapped round. Their little girl ran to Astarion, “Stuck.” She pointed to her nose, the black pen protruding from the nostril.

“Oh for the love of--” Astarion hooked under her arms to pull her up onto his hip. “Okay, let’s see. Tilt your head back. Okay. One, two, three.” He pulled the pen, grimacing at the disgusting thing -- and the pen was pretty gross too. “Don’t put anything up your nose. Please?”

“Down!” She demanded.

“Darling.”

“Dooooown!!!”

He let the wriggling toddler out of his arms, placing the pen gingerly off to the side as Petras suppressed a laugh.

“I must say, fatherhood suits you Astarion.”

“Shut up,” he growled.

“Anyway, I need to go, sunrise soon. We’re teaching Eric to be diurnal, but he still seems to prefer the night. I don’t mind it, means I can spend more time with him.”

“That we can agree on,” Astarion said. “I miss her during the day.”

Tav pulled his arm through his comfortingly. “I told you we’ll figure it out.”

“I know.”

“If you do find anything out about that cure thing, send word yeah? I know a couple hundred people that’d want to get their hands on that.”

“Naturally.”

“Right. Eric!” He called, and Eric’s small eyes went wide as he heard his dad speak the dreaded words, “Time to go.”

Blink. Blink. Havoc. Screaming. A sharp nip into the meat of Petras’s arm. (‘Where are your teething caps?!')

Finally, they were alone, standing in a loose embrace as they watched their daughter roam the living room with the rapt attention of a dedicated jungle explorer.

“Why did it have to be Petras?” Astarion moaned flatly.

“We should be grateful. He does all the hard work and we steal the results. Too bad he’s an idiot.”

Astarion snorts, pressing his cheek on top of Tav’s head.

[banjjakz]

➡ Tell the truth.

Faced with the physical manifestation of your oshi in all his soggy, forlorn morbidity, you are unable to suppress the truth inside of you. The full weight of your arduous passion bursts forth, and you spill your guts, raw and bare, on the island of grimy tile which separates the two of you.

“I—I’ve waited for so long to meet you, Yuuta-san!” Eyes brimming with tears, you draw ever nearer, hands clasped underneath your chin in ill-contained glee. “It’s me – I’m ‘princess-okkotsu’! From the beginning, I’ve always cheered you on. I will always cheer you on! Until I die! Even after I die! Yuuta-san’s happiness is my only purpose in life!”

Before you can embarrass yourself with any further rambling, you fold at the waist, arms glued to your sides, eyes shut tight in some toxic mixture of mortification and arousal at your proximity.

Silence. One beat.

Two beats.

Fearfully, you peak up at him. Shouldn’t he be kicking you out by now? Or expressing gratitude at your undying devotion?

Yuuta stands there, still unmoving, but this time with something close to amusement rippling through his slight frame. His shoulders shake minutely – a detail you wouldn’t be able to identify without years of hyperfixation underneath your belt.

He is not immediately repulsed by your display, which is encouraging! In fact, his beautiful, wilted petals of his bloodless lips are parting at the seam, heralding the arrival of an eagerly-awaited-for reply—

But you will never be able to hear his response.

A large, imposing figure materializes behind Yuuta. Wide shoulders standing taller by at least a head and a half crack, muscles rippling underneath a pornographically tight black T-shirt. And somehow, somewhere, a spark of recognition ignites at the base of your skull. You feel like you’ve seen the dastardly, brutal-looking scar that spears straight through his grimly grinning mouth…

Ah! The security guard!

Oh, fuck.

“Aww. What a touching story. Wanna tell me the rest outside, sweetheart?”

It’s like he moves faster than the words fall from his lips. One moment, he’s behind Yuuta, menacingly cracking his knuckles; and the next, he’s got you locked in his iron-grip, bodily hauling you out of the dressing room. The last view you get of your beloved is the cold shock in his haunting eyes, the unusually (!) pale hue of his distressed face.

It doesn’t even occur to you to fight back… after all, you’ve said what you’ve always wanted to say. Now, Yuuta finally knows your face, your voice, the way your pupils quiver as you profess your eternal love. Even if you die – or worse, are blacklisted for future ShinShow events – imprinted in Yuuta’s brain forevermore is the memory of your passionate confession.

This revelation is enough to console you as you spend your last moments in the dark, back alley behind the venue, at the complete mercy of the unhinged security guard. Expecting to be turned loose with a stiff warning, you are horribly surprised to realize that he has no intention of letting you escape.

A sharp pain blooms in your abdomen—and then your leg, and then your other leg, and then your shoulder. The white-hot agony is so intense it forces you to your knees, a lowly criminal waiting for final execution.

As your consciousness fades into black, the transition into a weightless, bodyless space is cushioned by the memory of Yuuta’s slight amusement at your chaotic antics. I

f you had to do it all over again, you would die a hundred more deaths just to see that ghost of a smile.

[MAY YOU REST IN PEACE.]

➡ try again?

[fieldofdaisiies]

gwyn x balthazar | 2,9k words | warnings: slight NSFW content| masterlist

Gwyn's head lolls to the side, a giggle parting her lips. "Hey," she mumbles, every hair on her body standing on end, chills breaking out and wetness once again gathering between her thighs. His touch, the feel of his lips on her skin, are already so stimulating. 

"Hey," Balthazar whispers, voice breathy as his tongue flicks against her clit. A low growl rumbles through him. Just like the previous day he devours and worships his priestess, making her tumble over the edge with ease that only the males in the books she read possessed. 

But neither of them is sated after the first round this morning. 

Her hips fall open, a silent invitation for more that Balthazar happily accepts. He lines the tip of his cock up with her entrance and then grins, eyes not once leaving hers. "Your are so beautiful."

"And all yours." Gwyn lifts her hips, making him slide into her. His head falls back, eyes closing, because this feeling…he has never felt anything like that before. 

The young Illyrian thrusts into the priestess a few time, hips perfectly meeting hers every time. His hand clasps her breast, his lips trail over the exposed column of her neck until he pulls the lobe of her ear between his teeth. "Nothing has ever felt like you, Gwyneth. You are everything to me." 

It is not long after that Balthazar gathers her into his arms, sits back on his heels and lets her bounce on his hips. 

"Ride me, my little water-nymph." His voice is breathless, the command in it yet crystal clear. 

Gwyn adjusts herself a little, legs around him, hands on his broad shoulders, his hands grabbing her butt, helping her ride him. 

A low moan leaves Gwyn, her mind already entering a state of pure satisfaction. He is right — nothing feels like him. Nothing feels like this. Balthazar is everything and he is hers. And he makes her feel alive. She can breathe. Finally she can breathe and live and laugh and enjoy all the pleasures life has to offer. 

Her breasts, the sensitive peaks, brush against his chest, the fine dusting of hair in his skin oddly stimulating. She pushes harder against him, wanting to feel him everywhere. Each roll of her hips is met with one of his thrusts.

And then his majestic wings flare behind his back, revealing the thin membrane with the small veins trailing up and down the inside. 

Gwyn's attention is momentarily stolen by them, but soon returns to her lover's mouth, the words leaving him. 

"Wings—Fuck!" Balthazar throws his head back, twitching inside of her. "Touch my wings."

Gwyn is breathless, visions clouded by desire. She meets his lips in an open-mouthed kiss. "Where?" 

"The vein leading up to the talon." Balthazar can barely form a coherent sentence, his thoughts are all over the place, but he needs her to do this. Wants her to be the only female to ever touch his wings. Gwyn complies, her own desire to touch his most precious possession — his wings— so strong. 

At first she softly brushes her fingers over the thin membrane, then a little harder, until she is rubbing her fingers over it. Balthazar's growl reverberates through Gwyn and fuels some deep primal part of her that makes her see stars. She is close, release already gathering in her lower abdomen. 

They Illyrian keeps her on top of him the whole time, even when he shifts to lie back down on the bed, guiding her with him. 

Gwyn's nails dig into his chest, knuckles turning white from how tight she holds on when she comes with a cry, limps spasming when he lets her ride out her hight, following her just a moment later with a shout and a groan. "Fucking luckiest male alive," he breaths when he simultaneously folds Gwyn into his strong arm, making her lie down on his chest and brings a hand up to wipe his palm over his forehead. 

"I've hardly ever felt as safe as I feel with you." Gwyn kisses his chest. "When I am with you, I feel like I can conquer the whole world. I know you are keeping me safe, protected, alive. All my worries, my fears vanish into nothingness when you hold my hand, when you look into my eyes." 

A single salty tear falls onto Balthazar's damp skin, and he pulls the blanket over the two of them. 

"I feel like no one can ever harm me again. That whenever I feel alone, I am not alone. I know I have you. I know you are here when I need you, when I need someone to hold me."

Balthazar kisses the top of her head. He does not say anything, lets her speak. 

"I was so scared of…" Gwyn's throat constricts, drying out. She shudders but she does not let the memories take control of her happiness once again. She has grown. She is stronger now. She is in Balthazar's arms and she is safe. 

"I was so scared of males and that fear is not fully gone, I am still wary of males, but with you by my side I know I no longer have to be afraid. I no longer have to live in fear. I can enjoy and experience things now."

Tipping her head back she meets his gaze. Balthazar has been looking at her the whole time. 

"You never have to be afraid again." He holds her gaze. "But not because I am in your life. You are so strong, stronger than you think. And you are very capable of protecting yourself. No male will ever harm you again, but that not only because of me. Because you possess strength you don't know about. You are incredible." He kisses the top of her head again. "But that does not mean that I will ever leave your side. I will always be there for you, keep you safe, protected, warm."

He smiles, eyes full of warmth and affection. "And with you in my life, I feel just as empowered as you. I know that I can do it, becoming a camp lord and everything."

Gwyn rolls over, so she can place her hands on his chest, her chin resting on top of them. 

"Of course, because I have Corrian and Thena and Emerie, as my advisors." He smiles, a hint of pride in his eyes. "But also because I have you. I know you are here for me, support me with my ideas and also tell me when I am talking…complete bullshit." 

Gwyn's grin mirrors Balthazar's. "You are my smart little River-nymph and your opinion matters to me more than anyone else's."

"Balthazar." Gwyn blushes. "You and your words…."

He chuckles, the sound rich and deep, his chest rumbling. "What about them?"

"They make me feel things and get me all flustered."

Purely male pride washes over his face. "Good." His hand slides down beneath the bed sheet and he gently slaps Gwyn's backside, waiting for her reaction, not wanting to cross a line where she might not feel comfortable anymore. But the only thing flashing in her eyes is desire and she pulls her lower lip between her teeth. So, Balthazar squeezes her backside and grins. "And sometimes my words make you quite wet." He himself has to laugh at that. 

"You really do have a dirty mouth." Gwyn pushes up onto her hands and kisses his lips. "And I love it so much."

•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•

Balthazar pecks Gwyn's lips. "You are distracting me, Gwyneth." He smiles amusedly and gives his head a little shake. 

Gwyn veils her face in innocence, pouting her lips a little. "I would never," she dramatically expresses and folds a hand over her heart. And yet she rolls her hips the slightest bit, feeling the hard ridge of his arousal press into her. 

"Of course not," Balthazar mumbles and looks over her shoulder, at the paper he was currently scanning over and trying to fill out. "I need to write this down, my love."

Gwyn leans back, eyes widened a little, blocking his vision. "My love?" She grins, from one ear to the other. "I like that. I love that!" 

Her lips find his in a quick, but nevertheless deep kiss, arms wrapping around his neck when she hugs him afterwards. "And in addition…you could write on me." She presses a small kiss to his neck. "With your lips. And your tongue."

Not much writing is done in the moments, or hours after. Their bodies come together on the desk at first, then on the chair and even on the slightly dusty ground. The need and desire within their bodies enhanced by the bond that connects their souls is just too strong, too overwhelming, to not give in to it. They continue until they are partly sated, and some actual work is getting done. Balthazar wants to prepare some papers for Gwyn to bring along to Velaris. He has been a bit distracted lately, and so he hasn't done much work and that needs to be fixed and finished now. 

Gwyn is helping him, of course she is, sorting through documents, bringing them into an alphabetical order just like she does with the books in the library. From time to time, Balthazar finds himself distracted and can only admire her, the determined expression on her face, concentration shining in her eyes. She is is nibbling on her lower lip, fingers trailing over words and phrases Balthazar cannot make out written on the paper. Balthazar marvels at her beauty once again. Her beautiful teal eyes, like sunshine dancing on the ocean, her hair like spun copper, and the dusting of freckles all over her face. She is so beautiful, and she is truly his. 

Gwyn inhales deeply, lifts her head and finds Balthazar looking at her. She doesn't know what it is, but something in the way he looks at her makes her cheeks fill with warmth and colour and she smiles. "I thought we were working?"

"I am trying to, but a lovely River-nymph decided to come into my office…and she is now distracting me greatly." He can only grin. 

"I am trying to help you," Gwyn answers and fakes a pout, yet soon her own mouth turns into a smile. 

"Devlon truly noted down everything, huh?" She lifts the piece of parchment, waving it through the air before handing it to Balthazar. Written in faded ink are food rations of centuries ago. He wasn't alive back then — it was probably when Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel were young. Or even before that. 

Balthazar huffs. "I hope I can manage to run this camp like he did." He tosses the parchment away and leans back in the chair, hands crossed behind his neck, gaze directed towards the ceiling. Doubt still comes in waves, worries flowing along in the stream of uncertainty. It has all become less, mostly thanks to Gwyn, his sister and his best friend, but these thoughts still haven't vanished completely. 

"Did you like Devlon?" Gwyn gets up from her stool so she can stand in front of Balthazar. Her eyes trail over his whole body, trying to see if his body language gives him away. He sits in a sprawl, his strong thighs so inviting to sit down on top of them, but now it does not feel right in this moment. They are having a serious conversation, and she wants Balthazar to be very honest with her, and also answer the questions she is about to ask, and already did honestly. 

It is something he has to reflect on. For himself. 

Balthazar shrugs, not really knowing what to say. "I think I liked him."

Gwyn braces a hand on the table and raises a brow. "Did you really?"

Slowly, Balthazar nods, but his eyes and his demeanour give him away. He lowers his arms and braces his hands on his thighs, gaze not once leaving Gwyn. A flicker of doubt passes over his face.

"What did you think of Devlon? Do you think he was a good camp lord? Was he a good person? Or was he simply a good camp lord?"

That truly makes Balthazar ponder. He has never, not once, thought about it that way. He liked Devlon, looked up to him, but maybe he just liked his role as a leader, because he was a good leader. But was he a good person?

"He allowed wings to be clipped, didn't he?" Gwyn pushes, wanting to challenge Balthazar's thoughts a little. She is tenacious and she won't let go now. 

He shakes his head. "No, no, he did not." Balthazar swallows. 

"He was fair, and just. But he wasn't a good male. He saw women as beings meant to be servants and he did not let them train."

Gwyn nods. "You don't want to be like someone like that. You don't want to run the camp like him."

"You don't understand, Gwyneth." Balthazar leans forward, wanting to reach for Gwyn's hand but she moves it away and it sends a pang of hurt through Balthazar. "I did not mean it like that. I—"

"I know how you meant it, Balthazar." Gwyn's lips are pressed in a thin line and she takes a step closer to him. "You feel like you have to prove yourself amongst the Illyrian brutes up here. But you are no brute, you are good in your soul and heart and you are exactly what this camp needs. You will bring change, a revolution, and you will make this camp stronger than any other camp." 

She moves to stand between his thighs, hands braced on his shoulders. "You don't have to be like him to be great. You already are. And I know you doubt yourself, and this is very natural, but I know you can do this. And deep inside your heart, you know this too."

Bending down, Gwyn leans her forehead against Balthazar's. "I believe in you. Your sister does. Your best friend does. Rhysand does. Cassian. Azriel. Nesta. Emerie. We all do."

She wraps her arms around the Illyrian's shoulders and kisses the top of his head. "This camp will flourish and become the best place all the Illyrians can only hope for."

Balthazar squeezes Gwyn to him and sighs. "Once more I come to the realisation that I truly don't deserve you in my life." He kisses her cleavage and then tips his head back to look at her. 

"Thank you. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for challenging my thoughts. Thank you for all of it."

Gwyn cradles his face in her hands. "You never have to thank me for speaking the truth. But I truly believe that…you came into my life for a reason. I came into yours for a reason."

Balthazar nods, his eyes glazing. He searches her gaze. "You saved my life back then, Gwyneth. And you are still doing so, making me feel alive and good."

A tear slips out of the corner of Gwyn's eye and lands on Balthazar's face. She draws in a deep inhale, exhales and then parts her lips. "I know you keep saying that I saved you, that I was your saviour, but you are my salvation, Balthazar."

The lips meet in a teary, but passionate kiss full of hurt and love. Both their tears wet the other's tears, their lips don't part for a long time, both of them pouring every emotion and every ounce of love they feel for the other into the kiss. 

It is Mor who knocks on the door that makes them part and signals Gwyn that it is time to leave. Obviously not immediately, they still have time to say goodbye. 

"Do you really have to leave already?" Balthazar's arms wrap tighter around Gwyn and she leans down to kiss him again. "I do, I need to join the other priestesses again and you have a lot of work to do here." She kisses him again and Balthazar lets one hand slide lower, cupping her butt for a small moment. 

"But how do deal with not being with you? Alone, at night?" He raises a brow, mischief obvious in his sparkling eyes. 

"Maybe you can use your imagination…and your hand." Gwyn grins and is not at all prepared for the tall male to stand up and lift her into the desk behind her, spreading her legs so he can move in closer, kiss her deeper, his hands on her face, tongue meeting hers with every stroke, teeth clashing. "It won't feel anything like you." He nips at her jaw. "I already told you, nothing feels like you."

Parting hurts, but after many more kisses, I love yous and good byes, Gwyn truly closes the door behind her, taking one last look at Balthazar who is waving at her through the window. Then the cool air wraps around her. But she is not alone. Mor is already waiting for her, ready to winnow her back to Velaris. In all honesty, Gwyn does not know if Mor was with Emerie, or for how long she had been here, but she knows that she will question her now, on their way home, her heart already swelling with happiness about Emerie's and Mor's no longer so secret relationship. 

tag list: @a-frog-with-a-laptop @brekkershadowsinger @moonlightazriel @callmeblaire @headcanonheadcase @waternymphia @autumndreaming7 @devilsfoodcake22 @readercacau @sv0430 @bubybubsters @cyntia-ktn

[eupheme]

Like The Movies | Day 11: Movie Night

alfred pennyworth x f!reader

Rated E | 2.4k

Also part of a belated request for @fluffyprettykitty, for the prompt “would you like to go somewhere a little private”

Tags: age gap, est. relationship, voyeurism, light sub/dom, PiV, masturbation, come marking, slight possessiveness

What begins as a cozy movie night turns into both of you watching something much more intimate.

The movie flashes across the screen in the living room. It’s an old, holiday-themed classic, with soft tones of black and white, a smooth jazz soundtrack. Something he picked out from a lifetime ago.

He indulges you, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn on the floor, popped on a cast-iron skillet in the kitchen, dusted with sea salt and melted butter. A thick blanket fending off the winter chill as you lounge against him - an arm around your waist, your head tucked against the crook of his shoulder.

If you’re honest, you lost the plot of the movie a bit ago, the slow, dreamy dialogue going fuzzy in your ears - too busy concentrating on the warm hand on your waist, the lazy brush of his thumb and knuckles on the strip of skin where your shirt has ridden up.

Your head turns, a soft kiss pressed against his shoulder, collarbone, then the bare skin of his neck. He hums low in his throat, still facing the large television, but when you glance up, you see his eyes are looking at you, watching.

The blanket pools around you as you shift, carefully twisting, drawing a knee over until they map his, until you’re straddling his thighs. His hands rest high on your hips as you lean in, continuing your path.

Throat, jaw, temple.

“Tired of old classics, dove?” He asks, voice low as your lips touch his cheek, causing you to pause your journey to his mouth.

“No. I love old classics,” You smile, “But you, sir, are distracting me.”

Fingers rest on strong shoulders as you lean in, finally reaching your destination, sighing softly when his mouth meets yours.

He’s warm beneath you, in a thick knitted sweater, warm woolen trousers. Alfred’s idea of loungewear - you had checked before, and the man did not own a single pair of sweatpants or jeans.

But that made it easier for you, to press yourself close, slowly rocking your hips against his. You shift, flush against him, his hands gripping you now as your tongue brushes his lip, and this time he’s groaning.

They part, letting you to deepen the kiss as grind yourself against the bulge that is quickly stiffening beneath you, his own fingers slipping under your shirt, trailing up warm skin. The soundtrack of the movie making you lose track of time, everything going soft and slow and hazy.

It’s only when his hand cups your breast, a soft pinch to your tight nipple, the loud, needy moan that follows - that he pauses, seeming to come back to himself. Your fingers have curled their way under his sweater, tugging at an undershirt - a dull, needy throb in the soft space between your thighs.

“Perhaps,” he breathes, eyes still closed as is he is loathe to say it, “Perhaps we should go somewhere a little more private?”

You’re already leaning back in, humming as you reach skin, as you press yourself against his palm, “No one is here.”

“Even so.” He pulls back now, still reluctant.

Lips brush against the scruff of his beard, your palm flattening against his chest as you roll against him, the heat low and hot in your belly.

He stifles a groan, his look stern, “Now who’s being distracting? Be good, dove. For me.”

You unwind from his lap - he’s right of course.

Ms. Dory would never step foot in this room again if she ever found out. The blanket lies pooled and movie still runs as you make your way to his room, as you lead the way, fingers tightly clasped.

———

There’s a few detours before you make it to your destination. Pauses in the hallway, a palm on your waist as you turn, minutes lost in the slow exploration of hands, mouths as you lean against the wall, a desk - and then finally at the edge of his bed.

Layers are peeled off, discarded, your shirt getting lost on the floor so he can map bare skin, lingering there as he follows you onto the bed.

It’s an unspoken thing, how you find yourselves as before - his back against the pillows lining the headboard, your hips straddling his, the press and drag of your bare cunt against his cock.

Watching how it presses against his belly, trapped between you. How he’s seemingly unhurried with your joining, content to let you grind against him, his mouth busy as he find places on your neck that make you squirm.

It’s you who breaks first - a hand splayed flat across a broad shoulder, the other wrapping around him. That catches his attention, the tight grip of your fist - angling him so you can lift up on your knees.

Watching him watch you as you lower yourself onto him. Missing the way his lips part with a groan because your own eyes are closing as you take him, air sucked in through teeth with the pressure as he stretches you out.

Sinking until you’re flush, knees pressing into the mattress as he grips the flesh on your hips. As you start to move, as you lift up, before rocking your hips back down.

Arms wrapping around his shoulders for balance, as an arm curls around your back, his hand splayed against your spine.

Your pace staying slow as the pleasure grows, his mouth on your neck, your breasts, as you lift, and then dip. A grind of your hips sending a spark that jolts through you, your moves still leisurely.

But somewhere along the journey that began with your lips on his shoulder to now, with the shallow rocking of your hips - his patience has grown thin.

Not expecting the tight grip of his hand on your waist, the other pressing between your shoulder blades to crush you against him. The shift as his knees raise, feet pressing flat as he uses his weight against yours. Keeping himself deeply seated in you as he pushes forward - until you’re gasping in surprise as your back hits the mattress.

Until he’s the one hovering above you, the smallest curve of a smirk as he adjusts you beneath him, pleased at the turn of events. Getting you back from before - interrupting you, this time.

Hands hooking under your knees, pushing your thighs back towards your chest, and then apart, until you’re spread open wide for him. Your breath caught in your chest as he shifts his weight back onto bent knees that press into the bed.

The drag of his cock as he pulls out, almost all the way. Your breath finally coming as a sharp gasp when his hips snap, seating him back inside. Eyes drifting over the expanse of his chest, the flex of his arms as he does it again. As he watches the way you wrap around him, the slick shine of his cock before it disappears into you.

It makes your toes point and then curl, how deep he feels at this angle. Your hands reaching up toward your head, twisting and grasping at the sheets. The soft brush of his thumb against the sensitive skin by your knee as he begins to thrust.

Spearing deep into your tight heat, barely withdrawing before he does it again. With the tilt of your hips he’s rocking against a spot that has you panting, aching.

“You couldn’t wait, could you?” He all but growls, a sharp exhale of breath as your eyes fix on him, “Just had to have my attention, even though the movie wasn’t even half over.”

The words transfix you, his low voice layering with his expression - a sternness is that only surface-deep. It has you arching into him as you bite back a smile, your eyes going half-lidded and wanting.

His own eyes bright, almost slipping because he knows just how much you like it when he gets a little bossy. How he enjoys it just as much when you beg, in your own way, like you had downstairs.

But it’s not hard for him to tap into it, not really. Letting his voice drop lower, quieter, “You have it now, love.”

Hands gripping just a little tighter, a rough thrust that makes you moan.

“All of me.”

And you do - have all of him. His focus and his cock and so, so much more than that. You can see it, in the heavy gaze of his eyes, hear it in his words, feel it in his touch.

So you reach for him, hands leaving the rumpled, wrinkled sheets where they had twisted beneath your fingers. Grasping on to the backs of his hands, curling around his wrists - just wanting that extra bit of connection.

“Alfred,” You moan his name, nails biting into his skin. “Please.”

You’re not even sure what you’re asking for - your brain a loose hazy of soft affection, as the pleasure in your lower belly climbs and climbs.

He can feel the tightness in your limbs, the way you clench him. The blink of your eyes above panting, parted lips.

A hand shifts, leaving the underside of your thigh, curving around your wrist - drawing it down to your center. They map your fingers, his index and middle pressing down, lining them up against your clit.

“Give me something to watch, now.” His words are soft, but spoken so low, carefully drawn out, “I want you to show me. Show me how you rub that pretty little clit of yours, and I’ll keep fucking you. Just the way you like it.”

You make a little sound - a whimper, a moan - as he continues, “Can you do that for me, darling?”

It has you moving without thinking - your fingers moving in a small circle, the movement practiced. He expects an answer and you give it, a sighed out “yes”, as you touch yourself.

His answering moan is reverent, eyes lingering on your face, a curve of lips and flash of teeth before his eyes drop.

Watching as he slows from the sharp snap, to something softer. A steady sawing of his hips, clever eyes catching what makes you gasp, the muscles flexing in your leg.

Bringing you higher and higher together, until he’s abandoning the grip of his other hand. Leaving your thigh to catch the fingers that still tighten around him.

Lacing them, bringing your clasped hands up to rest next to your head, as he braces himself over you. Close enough now to brush his nose, his lips, along your cheek. For you to hear the sharp exhale of his breath in your ear.

You arch into him, fingers stuttering. Losing focus for just a moment, horribly distracted by his closeness, the press of his mouth against the hollow just under your ear that muffles his groan.

A soft tsk falls from his lips, the scrape of his beard against your neck.

“Keep going, dove.” He croons, his fingers tightening in yours, “Love the way you clench around me. You feel so fucking good, darling.”

Your grip on his hand is equally tight, his weight pinning your hips to the bed. It doesn’t stop the unconscious rock as you try to meet his thrusts, your eyes fluttering shut as the fingers between your thighs press a little harder, circle a little faster.

The words slide through your teeth, a breathy stream of messy thoughts, “Oh god please, I’m so close-”

His answering hum is low, almost a growl. Angling his head so he can kiss you fiercely, until you’re moaning into his mouth as your thighs jerk, tightening around his waist.

Your pulse pounding in your ears as he grinds against the spot, as the circle of your fingers sends you hurtling over the edge. A blinding pleasure stealing your words and your breath - thudding between your thighs that swells until its racing up your spine as down your limbs.

His lips against your check, pressing as he murmurs against your skin, “Christ, good girl. Just like that.”

Slowing the thrust of his hips so he can feel the tight clench of your pussy around him, the way your knees press into his waist. Fingers circling until the waves ebb, until your limbs are relaxing onto the mattress.

But his words from before, echo. Giving you ideas, your own eyes flicking down to where his barrel chest presses into yours.

“Will you let me watch, too?” You sigh, tongue peeking between your teeth as you smile at him, letting him see how your gaze slowly drags back up to meet his.

He’s still now, resting heavy in you. A rough exhale of breath as he regards your request, his own look dark and hungry.

All it takes is another “please” before he’s easing from you, shifting until his knees bracket your thighs. A hand wrapped tightly around the thick, jutting shaft of his cock, your eyes fixed on the sharp jerk of his fist.

Where he’s slick with your arousal, your release. Aiding him, as his hips flex into his grip. A groan rattling in his chest as your hand reaches to cup him, thumb stroking over the skin as you gently squeeze his sack. The other stroking his inner thigh, nails dragging over the sensitive skin.

Your name on his lips, sounding broken. Almost worshipful, as he watches you watch him. The heave of his chest as his release approaches, the flushed head of his cock disappearing beneath thick fingers.

Until he’s groaning beautifully, the sound deep and rough and loud. You eyes pulling to watch his face, the way his lips form the dirty string of curses that fall before he’s there.

Angling himself over the curve of your stomach as he comes - his release arcing to reach the underside of a breast, pooling in the valley between. Until he’s spent himself completely, until he’s marked you so thoroughly.

A look in his eye, that tells you he’s enjoyed this as much as you have. Watching, seeing you then - and then now. One that says “mine” in a way that no words are needed. You both just know.

He cleans you carefully afterwards, wiping himself from you. Lips finding yours tenderly, the words sighed out against your mouth - helplessly susceptible to your charms.

“Oh, dove. The things you do to me.”

It’s not long later, that you find yourselves back downstairs. The television dark, the last slow scrolling of the credits inching up the screen.

Considerably cozier as you fit yourself next to him, unable to help a small jest.

“You know what?” You yawn, tugging the blanket back around you again, “That might have been the best movie I’ve ever seen.”

His own long-suffering sigh, affection lacing it as his hand finds yours. Smiling, as you grab the remote.

Starting the movie over, again.

[dilfcember masterlist]

(tags: @andrewrussgarfield, @luxuryberzatto, @obiknights, @stargirlfics, @squidlywiddly87, @maskhoper, @madamepoelzig, @hiddlebatchedloki)

[moonslittlestar]

Reminiscing

“You made a pact with a Devil?!” Hunter's voice shook in anger, his fist clenched tight by his side. Wyll has never seen him so mad before, as teens both boys were fairly level headed and any anger that tried to raise in them was swiftly taken out on training dummies in the courtyard.

“I..” Wyll’s eyes drifted to the ground, his weight shifting from one leg to the other, “What else was I to do? Let that beast destroy the city?! Kill thousands of innocents?! What would you have me do?” He finally barked back.

The air around them stirred, the moon was high in the sky and the river beside the bank they sat on glistened under its light. Behind them, the distant sound of a crackling fire and muffled snores from the others that traveled with them. It was late, and the glasses of wine were almost empty.

Hunter examined Wyll's face; he'd aged, they both had… there were new scars that weren't there before, and the bags under his eyes told tales of many sleepless nights. Despite all his differences, he was still Wyll, the same Wyll he'd trained for 6 years with, fought side by side during a great many battles, the same Wyll that stood by his side when everything went to shit with his twin sister Willow and the same Wyll that he once believed could be his soulmate… “I… don't know” Hunter sighed, finally replying after a paused silence; what could Wyll have done?

“Hunter, the city was going to be torn apart. I did what I had to to keep Baldur's Gate safe” Wyll's voice was soft, calm and reassuring, “I don't regret my choices.”

“You left, for me?” Wyll asked, confused. “What of your sister?” Wyll couldn't help but feel guilty; Hunter had joined the Flaming Fists as a young boy, his dream to one day get to a place where he'd be able to help fix the system and help his sister. For so many years Wyll had watched Hunter push himself to the point of exhaustion just to become the best. They'd spar in the training grounds every night, helping each other with their swordsmanship. Those days where Hunter would collapse mid session, it was all for Willow. Leaving couldn't have been an easy choice for him to make. Wyll joined Hunter in emptying his cup in a swift swig.

Hunter gulped down the last of his arabellan dry and wiped his hand over his lips, his eyes focused on Wyll's fingers around the neck of his chalice. “I left the Fists.” His voice was flat and tired, like all emotion had been drained from him.

“But your dream? I don't understand? You were so close to becoming a Marshal?”

“After the battle… things became… weird?” Hunter paused again, “You vanished Wyll. No one would tell me if you were alive or dead!” His voice cracked. Hunter squeezed his eyes shut, forcing a tear back, “How can someone go from being so admired by everyone to suddenly no one acknowledging they ever existed?” The words were bitter in his mouth, his knuckles turned white. Wyll sat beside him unable to say anything to console his friend, instead he eyed the last of the wine in his chalice as he rocked it back and forth. “I demanded answers, that upset your father… said I was ‘overstepping’ and ‘meddling where I shouldn't’… So… I left…” Hunter unclenched his fist and wiggled his fingers before taking it in his other hand and rubbing his knuckles, “to look for you…” his voice trailed off, the tips of his pointed ears turning red.

“Shortly after you disappeared, I started hearing rumors that she'd joined the Temple of Bhaal…” Hunter's voice was small, a sadness etched into his words from the weight of guilt and failure. “I was a fool to think I could save her…” he continued, so quietly that he may as well have been talking to himself.

“You can't blame yourself for her path,” Wyll tried to reassure Hunter, placing his hand gently on Hunter's cold, clasped fingers, and squeezed. Wyll's touch was warm and welcomed; under his hand Hunter's fingers ached. “It's a little late now, I know, but for what it's worth; I am sorry. I should have taken you with me.” Wyll scanned Hunter's face, who's eyes refused to meet him. “That I do regret.” Wyll's hand still gently placed over Hunter's, “After I made the pact, I was forced to leave. I tried to explain things to my father but, well you know how stubborn he can be.” Wyll chuckled to himself, “I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree,” he smiled slightly as he rubbed one of his new found horns with his free hand. “You stopped me doing a terrible thing today,” he sighed, looking behind them to the campsite of sleeping bodies. “To think I was such a fool! Mizora said I'd be fighting demons, fiends and the heartless, not innocent Tieflings!”

“There was no way for you to know, if it wasn't for these damn tadpoles…” Hunter thought back on the vision they shared with Karlach. A moment of silence washed over them as they contemplated the outcome of the day. Karlach’s life had been spared but at a cost; Wyll's horns curved around his head, a visible reminder of his actions.

“More wine?” Hunter asked, breaking the silence that floated around them, Wyll nodded and handed Hunter his cup. “You make quite the handsome devil,” Hunter giggled as he walked back over with two topped up chalices.

“I can't tell if you're joking or being serious.” Wyll took the chalice from Hunter, their fingers softly brushing past each other as the cup was passed between them. Hunter smiled to himself and returned to his spot next to Wyll, “Have I ever lied to you?” He smirked, “Actually on second thought don't answer that!”

“I do recall a time where you insisted that the clear liquid in your flask was water… oh and that time you said that that one feral cat just happened to follow you into the dorms… and what about the time-”

“Ok, ok! Sheesh” Hunter laughed, “Do you really need to remember such trivial things?” Wyll chuckled lightly.

“It's good to see you again, would have been nicer under better circumstances though” Wyll's smile was soft and sincere.

[runekirikjartan]

Recon - John Price/FtM!Reader

Warnings/Tags: Public Sex, Fingering, Vaginal Fingering, Praise Kink, Mission Sex, Smut, Porn with feelings, porn without plot, voice kink. Pairing: John Price/Reader Readers pronouns: He/Him

Hands slid you the line of your waist, circling and gripping. They startled you from your position, and the lazy headspace you were in watching the target.

Quickly, Price shushed you, his voice rough and low as he bent down to whisper into your ear. His weight settled on the back of your thighs, straddling them. The clasps for your belt were undone with his hands wrapping around your waist, with an arousing efficiency. The weight of your gear falling off the small of your back meant  that Price had access to slide his hands over the thin fabric of your shirt.

It was just reconnaissance, Laswell said that there wouldn't be any actual firefights, yet at least.

Price is handsy with you, he runs his hands over the small of your back, caressing your waist, and then your hips, then the backs of your thighs. He squeezes and gropes, distracting you from your scope.

You turn to look at him over your shoulder.

"Focus." He commands, his voice still radiating Captain. 

His hazel eyes were dark and half-hidden underneath the brim of his bucket hat. He stared at you like a starving animal, mouth parted. You guessed that if he was an animal he'd be drooling. You didn't know that while his hands squeezed your arse that his mouth was watering with the urge to taste you. 

Neither of you would be so lucky. Price can't risk both of you being distracted, he knows for a fact that if he got his face between your thighs he'd be more interested in having you screaming on his tongue than watching the target-

So he settles for second best. 

He, despite your quiet protests, shuffles your pants down your legs, until they're just above your knee. He smiles at your brightly coloured underwear, something he knows you snuck onto base. It has doughnuts on it, brightly coloured and covered in pink, white, blue icing and sprinkles. Those get pulled down next, his hands squeezing your ass as he goes.

"Arse looks delicious, sweet boy." Price rumbles above him, somewhere along the lines of a purr. "Mind letting me at your cunt?" He asked, patting the insides of your thighs.

"John." Your complaint was borderline a whine. 

He instructed you to turn your head back to the target, you do so without complaint.

It wasn't fair that he was trying to distract you, because you so desperately wanted him to do it. It wasn't the first time that Price would come up behind you with a grope or two during a mission. Occasionally he'd corner you in an empty room after sweeping a building, or surprising you in the jeep before Gaz and the others made it back, dragging you in for a long and thorough kiss while palming the crotch of your pants or grinding his knee against you.  

You shuffle your legs apart as best as you can while Price moves his weight instead to the backs of your calves. You manage to get your legs a little further apart, boxers squeezing at your thighs as Price stares down at your exposed cunt. 

You heard him spit, and wet fingers cold from the wind around you slid between your folds to first press against your engorged cock, and then they stroked back up to press against your entrance.

"John." You repeat. This time your words actually fell into a whine as he unashamedly began fucking his fingers in, up to the second knuckle. 

"Bloody hell, you're tight aren't you sweetheart. Been a while since you had my cock or fingers, am I right?" Price croons above you, voice low and teasing. He still has that steady calmness that makes it seem like he's just reading or reciting mission reports, but it's melting your brain so that it's leaking out between your ears while your pussy leaks around his fingers.

"Y-You keep-ah-" Your voice shook, already giving away to Price that you were losing your composure. "K-keep sending m-me away!" 

Your voice hitched at his fingers rubbing firmly against your g-spot. Your thighs clenched as much as they could manage, but it only served to make you tighter on his fingers, enhancing the sensation while he worked past the second knuckle of his fingers. 

"Don't do it because I want to, love." Price scolded you gently, his other hand leaving the spotters scope for a split second so that he can caress the small of your back. "You're one of my best, and you'd despise me if I put you on the bench just to have access to your cunt 24/7."

"I w-would." You whispered, knowing he was right. For as much as you loved John, if he took away your independence, the part of you that had pride in being able to protect others, it would probably stifle your fire and passion until you suffocated.

"Eyes forward." He said gently, less of an order and more of a reminder when he catches you trying to turn around to look at him over your shoulder. "Watch the target for me, love. Be good, can you do that"

You hummed, a soft moan escaping your lips.

"You can do that for me, can't you, be a good boy and keep on the target for me. Tell me what you see." 

"Target's just..." You felt him settle and angle his fingers, trying in earnest now to show you a good time. "He's j-just doing something on his laptop, same thing he's been doing for the last hour."

"Good boy. Watch him for me." 

"Yessir." 

You hear Price's growl above you. The fingers pressing inside you crooked and angled downwards, pressing against your g-spot, reminding you that Price was the one with the power in this situation. 

"Say it again." Price ordered, voice rough with want.

"Yes sir.." You answered, louder than the first time. Price's chuckle sent shivers down your spine. 

"God, you’re good love." 

You watched as the target types away on his laptop. His attention fully focused on his work in front of him. You're certain that the man didn’t even know he was being tailed or watched. You shivered as you felt calloused fingers stroking over the curve of your ass. Price was getting handsy with you. He squeezed the whole of one ass cheek with his palm, fingers dimpling the flesh. 

Honestly the possessive gesture always turned you on. You liked knowing that you were Price's. That he could just sidle up to you and grab your ass. His hands were so fucking big, you marvelled while his hands caressed, squeezed, touched and teased. His palm smacked against the flesh of your ass with a satisfying sound. 

Price's fingers rubbed deliberately over your sweet spot, jolting you out of position. Your grip on the rifle faltered for a split second, you let out a sharp breath, your earlier heavy breathing leaving a wet sheen over the body of your rifle. It was the only proof of how much Price was affecting you, if no one looked at how drenched your lower half was around rough knuckles and long fingers carving their way through you. 

"Keep your head still." He instructed, his voice was swamped with arousal, but his tone was steady and calm. It had you clenching around his fingers as he prodded them deeper into you. "It's gonna be close." 

You didn’t know how he was managing to spot you and fuck your cunt with his fingers, you didn't care. Your eyes were on the target, your cheek resting against the body of your rifle, yet all you could think about is his heavy weight on your thighs holding you in place for him to use you as you please.

Arousal tightened in your core. If you listened over the elements that were surrounding you, you can almost hear the sound of his fingers, wet with spit, squelching obscenely inside you. Part of you craved his cock right now, no one could stop you.

There was no backup, you and Price were all alone out there, exfil site miles away. No one there to see you falling apart at Price's touch or his skin on yours. No one privy to the mess Price is making of you.

The wind howled past you, making you shiver and drawing your attention to the cooling spit on the insides of your thighs, exposed to the elements. 

"You're doing so good." You could hear the smile in his voice. He was teasing you, but his praise was genuine. You wanted to be so good for him. You nodded your cheek against the body of your rifle, metal warm from your body heat. 

"John. John. John please." His name fell from your lips in desperation. 

You wanted him to touch you.

You wanted him to give you everything.

You wanted a reward, his reward, whatever he was willing to give you. You shook where he touched. You arched back into his hands. The target was in the back of your mind, an afterthought as you focused on the Captain. You heard the obscene squelch of your cunt clenching and fluttering around Price’s fingers. You heard him grunt under his breath pretty praises that make your stomach somersault from emotion and arousal.

Your legs shook underneath him. 

The hand that wass steadying your rifle left the cold metal in favour of squeezing down underneath you, scraping your knuckles against concrete warmed by your body so you could rub your fingers sloppily over your engorged cock while Price continued to fuck you.

Arousal coiled in your belly and threatened to spill past your lips in a gasp. You felt your tongue heavy in your mouth, your fingers shaking as they rubbed over your cock with a desperate sigh. Price’s other hand continued to squeeze your ass admiringly, going so far as to smack it to watch your flesh bounce.

Price laughed from where he was rubbing his fingers almost aggressively against your g-spot, unrelentingly forcing you to squirm. Your gaze drifted from the target, eyes fluttering shut as you panted and moaned, spit dripping from your mouth where your chin was pressed into the concrete. The moment your barrel drifted off course Price corrected you with a firm hand.

“Sweetheart.” Price crooned above you. “Eyes up.”

Price was relentless as you struggled to comprehend the order for a second, his fingers crooking without restraint to abuse the spongy nub inside of you. You dragged your eyes back up to the target, trying and failing to keep them open with the first wave of your orgasm rolled over you.

You let out an unintelligible jumble of pleas and moans, clinging to your rifle for the cold metal to ground you. Your thighs shook underneath him. 

“That’s it love, give it to me.” Price groaned deeply, his fingers still buried deep in you, coaxing out the rest of your orgasm, your cunt fluttering around his fingers. He could feel it throbbing around him, felt your heartbeat.

You barely heard him over the blood rushing in your ears, heart pounding in your chest as you felt the ridges of your rifle digging into your cheek. His fingers kept going, and you felt yourself melting bonelessly into the concrete roof.

“You didn’t think we were done yet, did you?”

[sweetchcolate]

ambivalence

fandom: sugar apple fairy tale word count: 2182

A/N: slight canon divergence from cour 2 episode 11: instead of trying to get rid of Anne, Rafael decides to lock her up until she makes him the quality sculpture he wants.

I wanted to explore his character a bit after seeing his reaction to Anne giving the other fairies beautiful sugar candy. I think he does want connections, wants to be accepted, but is too consumed by his hurt and anger at humans and fairies to ever open up or allow himself to be vulnerable.

Enjoy!

——–

The sight of that slip of a girl mingling with the warrior fairies, gifting them with such delicate silver sulgar sculptures, refused to leave his mind. They haunted him. They mocked him.

How dare they.

How dare she.

Rafael dragged the human back to her room and threw her inside, slamming the door behind them. The sharp sound, like that of a blow, echoed in the empty room, the walls shook, and her little makeshift workstation rattled.

“You will make me a worthy sugar sculpture,” he ordered, voice deadly flat and even despite the swell of impatiencehurtfrustration raging inside of him like a wild beast trying to claw its way out. He clenched a fist tight, the pain grounding him, relieving some of the tension. “And you will not leave this room until you do.”

The girl gaped at him, mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. She stood slowly, posture radiating hesitation and fear — good, he already had enough of Shall disrespecting him, he wouldn’t tolerate it from a human  — before nodding.

The clink of her tools and the howling wind outside were the only sound between them as the girl kneaded, dyed, and shaped silver sugar. At some point she’d sat down, her rhythm slowing as she chanced glances at him from the corner of her eyes.

She’d thought herself subtle, but Rafael had decades of experience with humans: he could read the change in their mood or train of thought from even the most minute of gestures, and it was clear the girl’s mind was not on sugar crafting anymore.

“Out with it,” he ground out, features contorting into a scowl. This was far from how he usually acted, but something inside him wouldn’t stop moving, restless, unbalanced, a sea battered by the storm, and he didn’t have the patience or energy to pretend otherwise.

The girl jumped, not having expected him to speak. She glanced at him, curled in on herself as if she were one wrong word away from incurring his wrath.

(She was).

“I was just wondering… why you wanted fief pieces…” she said in a small voice.

He sneered. “That is none of your business.”

“But it is!” she exclaimed, looking shocked for a second at her own outburst before schooling her features into something more determinate, defiant. She gripped the front of her dress, knuckles turning white. “I can’t… how do you expect me to make a good sugar sculpture if I don’t know why it’s so important to you!”

What nonsense. Only humans would care about such sentimental and trivial things.

“It doesn’t matter. Make me a beautiful piece: nothing more, nothing less.”

“It does matter!” the girl insisted and Rafael ground his teeth, holding himself back: he wouldn’t loose patience over this slip of a human. “Hugh made those fief pieces for Noah: they meant something to him, reminded him of someone precious to him. They had a purpose and that’s why they came out so pretty!

“But those fief pieces don’t mean anything to you, so of course I can’t make them like you want! They’ll lack something!”

“Are you done.”

The girl looked taken aback at the vehemence in his tone.

“Meaning? A purpose?” He closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, looming over the girl and caging her between his body and the table. To her credit, she met him head on, mouth set in a firm line, hands clasped primly, a bead of cold sweat betraying her nervousness. He might have been impressed at her composure under other circumstances, but the lack of fight, the lack of an outlet for his pent-up feelings only made him angrier. “That’s absurd. That’s useless. I am the future fairy king, and if I require a beautiful sugar piece, then you will. make. it.”

They stared at each other in tense silence, barely breathing, the flames of the hearth flickering. It was a long while before the girl’s shoulders fell and she looked down, murmuring, “You really can’t give me anything to go by, huh?”

He did not deign her with an answer, merely straightening and watching as she started to knead silver sugar again.

Incompetent girl! How hard could it be to produce one good silver sugar sculpture, one as enticing as that viscount’s? How had she had managed to make such pretty pieces for those common fairies, yet struggled to make him one?

What did the others possess that he lacked?

No. That was a wrong way of thinking. He was the future fairy king, not some defective second-rate fairy! He would overthrow humanity, impose on them the same violence they subjected him his people to, and if the girl failed to understand his importance, his brilliance, then he had no need of her.

There were plenty of other silver sugar masters around.

Once she was gone, he’d be able to dedicate himself to winning Shall over. Without the girl around, Rafael was sure his brother would be more prone to hearing him out instead of favoring the little human, even if that process might take years. Then, Shall, their diamond sibling, and he would take the world back from mankind, a solid and undefeatable trifecta.

Until then, he’d carry the burden of their responsibility, their fate, alone.

The girl spoke up, interrupting his train of thought. “You said earlier… that you were to become fairy king, right?”

“And what of it?”

She kept on working, not even looking his way as she answered. “It’s just that I’ve never seen you hang around with the other fairies.”

Rafael scoffed, crossing his arms. As if someone of his standing would mingle with common warrior and worker fairies. “I am a unique existence.”

She stopped to look at him, brows slanted, mouth downturned, and eyes filled with a glint he couldn’t name. That wasn’t the expression of fear or respect that a future fairy king deserved, and he hated it, hated how it seemed to see through him.

“But they’re your people, aren’t they? If you’re going to lead them, shouldn’t you be with them? Learn about them?”

“Do you see your king meddling with his kind?” he retorted, sharpness on his tongue, the storm inside of him picking up in intensity once more. “I need not conform to your human standards.”

“Why keep their wings then? Lusul told me you’d fight for their freedom, but you’re the one enslaving them!”

“A human like you has no say in fairy business!” he yelled, the earlier impatiencehurtfrustration rearing its head back. It was one thing to have Shall question his reasoning and uncover his true feelings, but he would not allow this human girl to add to the injury. “As fairy king, I will rule over all fairies. I will command them, and they will follow whether they like it or not.”

“That’s just being a tyrant!”

“And what of it.” Stifled feelings were leaking out of him like steam. “Fairies and humans, they’re all the same. Self-centered worms, ready to sell you out at the slightest inconvenience. They rip out your wing, your heart, as one would pluck a flower and then use it to torture you for their own twisted pleasure!”

“That’s—”

“Untrue? Not all of them?” A dark laugh left him before he could hold it back, a bitter acid sound. “I’ve been on this earth longer than you will ever be, human girl. I’ve seen it all.”

His outburst had its intended effect: it got both the girl and the storm that had been raging inside of him, plaguing him since his talk with Shall, to keep quiet. Restless energy now spent, the strong waves of anger and frustration left way for an ache, a heaviness he had rarely experienced.

He felt drained.

“Finish your work,” Rafael said, voice flat, empty. Only he knew how close it came to cracking.

When he was sure the girl was focused on her task, he allowed himself to lean against the wall. His limbs were heavy as lead and he allowed gravity to drag him to the hard ground, head lolling back. He closed his eyes and sighed, a breathless exhale swallowed by the winter air.

Images he’d ignored in his anger and indignation flashed behind his eyelids: the girl speaking with the warrior fairies, a smile on their faces and laughter in their voice; Shall standing in front of her to protect her; Mythril Lid Pod squabbling with Shall; Noah clinging to the girl—

Again. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. Why was he thinking of this again? Why did these images refuse to leave him?

He was above such menial things, wasn’t he? He had no desire for relationships, not after humans had enslaved him and fairies shunned him. All he needed was Shall and his diamond sibling, precious stone fairies handpicked by the late king himself to keep him company.

That’s the crux of the issue, isn’t it, he thought to himself.

He needed them.

Needed someone.

But force was the only language he spoke, the only reliable method he’d found to keep people by his side, as humans had taught him. He kept Shall through blackmail and manipulation, held onto the diamond fairy’s stone waiting for the day of their birth, and owned the common fairies’ wings.

All for the sake of becoming fairy king, as foreordained by Riselva. All for the sake of control, never to be under someone’s thumb again.

And if he failed, he would have nothing.

“It’s done.”

He managed to crack an eye open despite his fatigue to glance at the silver sugar master.

“What is.”

“The sculpture you wanted me to make. It’s done.” She gestured towards the piece on the table.

Ah, right. That was how this whole mess had started, wasn’t it? Those common fairies had been worthy beautiful pieces and the girl’s kindness, while he was afforded none. Funny, how the same thought that had enraged and hurt him so now left him indifferent.

He came to stand by her, eyeing the result of her work. He first took note of the piece’s gentle glow, like that of snowflakes glittering in the sunlight, the silver sugar so clear it was almost see-through. It reminded him of the purest of ice.

It was also the best piece she’d made for him.

She’d depicted two individuals wearing a flower crown and sitting next to each other, close enough to balance the book they were reading between their thighs. In such proximity, their arms touched, hair mixing, and the relaxed line of their shoulders as well as the gentle smile on their faces spoke of intimacy and serenity.

He spun the sculpture around, only to find two long thin fairy wings protruding from one of the characters’ back.

He closed his eyes, breathing out through his nose. He didn’t have any energy left in him to be mad, to scream, to laugh his indignation. Instead, he asked “What did you depict?” and waited for the girl to explain herself.

She took a moment to answer, as if sensing that her next words needed to be carefully chosen. “A fairy and a human,” she replied at last, steady, firm, but also gentle. There was none of the fear or misery he was used to hearing from her, nor any of the reverence the other fairies addressed him with. “Spending time together. I wanted to portray a peaceful moment between them.”

“This isn’t a fief piece.”

“You asked for a worthy sugar sculpture. I think this… is the best I can come up with in this situation, knowing what little I do about you.”

This slip of a girl… she was so vexing. She knew nothing, and yet she knew too much at the same time. How had she made something that catered to her — oh, he knew she cared for those common fairies, for Shall. He knew she believed in human-fairy harmony — but to him as well?

Was he that transparent? That was the only way to explain how two different people from two different species had read his heart twice in the same day with such accuracy.

He couldn’t stand it.

Such vulnerability was terrifying.

“It will do,” he told her, sucking in a breath to even his voice. “Leave.”

The girl hesitated, casting a glance between him and the sugar sculpture, before running out. Alone, the fire in the hearth slowly dying behind him, he spent long quiet moments staring at the sugar piece, taking in its glow, the sheerness of the fairy’s wings or the tenderness in the characters’ smiles.

He considered many scenarios: breaking off one of the wings, consuming only the human figure, breaking the sculpture into a thousand pieces. Each idea flashed briefly in his mind, just as quickly cast aside. It wouldn’t do to damage a sculpture of such quality for petty reasons — no, he would keep it and draw on it when he needed to.

Rafael took the sugar piece back to his chambers.

He locked it out of sight.

[cockatrice-writers-guild]

MARRIAGE

It Is Valentine’s Day

warnings: discomfort

I stand there with my hands clasped tightly at the podium, watching the door in anticipation.

And then she appears.

My heart skips a beat when I see her in a simple white dress that trails down to the floor. She's looking down at her feet and stops moving entirely for a second as the crowd turns to take her in but when she finally raises her head to look at me, I offer her a small smile and she hesitantly smiles back.

Jeff is by her side and with a few whispered words from him, Sy, the love of my life, finally starts moving. Her eyes are fixed on me and to be honest, I can't look away from her either.

Her steps are slow and deliberate as she walks across the aisle but I can see how stiff her shoulders are and the death grip she has on poor Jeff's hand as she takes another step. But she's trying and I love her for it.

Still, the venue is velki sized and after watching her walk across the aisle for a good 5 minutes and seeing how much more aisle she had left to clear, I finally step off the alter and start walking towards the 2 of them. We probably should have booked a different venue but neither of us had read the information properly and it was small and cheap so here we are.

Luckily, we still booked accommodations for both sizes so Sy's parents, my dad and sister, and several of our friends were sitting at human sized chairs and tables set on top of the velki sized ones.

It takes me a few steps to meet them halfway and once I do, I crouch down and offer them a hand and a grin. Sy looks at me, surprised and then relieved that people aren't staring at her anymore. Jeff just looks tired from the walk though there's a hint of humor in his eyes.

Once they're both in my hand, I slowly stand up and walk back to the podium before crouching and setting them down a few steps away. I return to my position and ignore the look the priest gives me before I turn to watch as Sy, slightly flustered now, takes her hand out of Jeff's and walks up to the human platform.

The platform rises slowly and while it's still going up, I quietly reach into my pocket and send a quick text to Sy while everyone's distracted, keeping my eyes on the podium as I do.

Thaddeus: you dont gave to do tgr voes if you dont wabt to

I hit send without looking at it, hoping the message is at least readable. And a few seconds later I feel my phone vibrate and glance at it quickly before turning to the podium again.

Syren: Its ok

Thaddeus: oj

And once Sy reaches the top of the platform, I can't help but stare. She's looks beautiful. Her hair is styled with a flower clip holding back a small ponytail. The way her dress flows around her reminds me of a flower. Her cheeks are slightly red and she looks embarrassed, her eyes darting away for a few seconds before returning to meet my gaze. I can feel my own cheeks heat up at the sight and I want nothing more than to drown her in kisses or at least brush the stray hair out of her face but instead I just lean forward slightly.

"You look beautiful," I whisper and hold back a laugh as her face turns at least 5 shades redder.

We stare at each other for a few moments longer before the priest finally clears his throat and we get on with the ceremony. I recite my vows as the priest reads them out and once done, it's Sy's turn to start.

"I, Syren Jones," the priest prompts.

Silence.

Oh no.

The priest turns to look at her for a moment and I can see Sy's eyes start to glaze over in fear. Her hands are tightly clasped in front of her, grip so tight the knuckles are almost white. She doesn’t move an inch.

I want to step in but before I can,

"...I...?" Sy finally squeaks, her eyes trained directly at me. She stops for a second, struggling to swallow as her throat tightens and mouthing the next word before she continues. "...Syren Jones...," she finally gets out.

The priest opens his mouth to recite the next part of the vows but Sy isn't done.

"...take you...," her voice is uneven at first but it turns into a slightly louder monotone as she goes on, "...Thaddeus Kayne, to be my lawfully wedded husband..."

And she keeps going, her face expressionless, her voice emotionless, her body rigid and sweat starting to build as she recites each line.

And I can't help but smile.

She never really stops amazing me.

Once Sy finishes reciting her vows, the priest watches her for a moment to see if she has anything to add before he finally continues.

Sy and I exchange rings, in our case the ones Sy bought when she proposed to me. I hold out her ring and let take it from the tip of my index finger before she drags my ring over to me. I slip on my ring and Sy does the same, though she's still a little jittery from speaking.

And then finally,

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride."

And so I give Sy about half a second to process the priests words before I scoop her up and bring her to my face, cupping my hands together to hide her from view. Once she's close enough, I lean forward so it looks like I'm kissing her.

I start whispering instead.

"Sy? Are you okay?"

I can feel her heart beating fast and hard against my palms. She's still trembling but after a few seconds, I feel a faint tap on my palm.

One tap. Yes.

I smile at her. "I'm proud of you, Sy. And...I...we don't have to kiss right now if you aren't up to it but-"

Two taps. No.

I can't help but laugh at that before leaning forward to press my lips against her. And soon I feel a slight pressure as she kisses me back.

And soon I close my eyes to properly savour the moment. Sy sitting up in my palms to kiss my upper lip too, feeling her hands sink into my skin, her lips against mine, feeling her jolt back suddenly when the train of her dress accidentally catches on my wedding ring and makes her jump, her quietly whispered '...love you' when she finally pulls away to focus on freeing said dress from said ring.

I wait for her to finish before I finally speak.

"You memorized it?" I whisper to her.

Sy giggles.